Fancy Pants (9 page)
* * *
Dallie could feel the Dread Mondays descending on him, even though itwas Saturday and he'd shot a spectacular 64 the day before playing
eighteen holes with some good ol' boys outside Tuscaloosa. Dread
Mondays was the name he'd given the black moods that seized him more
frequently than he wanted to let on, sinking sharp teeth right into him
and sucking out all the juice, In general, the Dread Mondays screwed up
a hell of a lot more than his long irons.
He hunched over his Howard Johnson's coffee and stared out the front
window of the restaurant into the parking lot. The sun wasn't up all
the way and other than some sleepy-eyed truckers the restaurant was
nearly empty. He tried to reason away his lousy mood. It hadn't been a
bad season, he reminded himself. He'd won a few tournaments, and he and
PGA Commissioner Deane Beman hadn't chatted more than two or three
times on the commissioner's favorite subject—conduct unbecoming to a
professional golfer.
"What'll it be?" asked the waitress who came up next to his table, an
orange and blue hankie tucked in her pocket. She was one of those
squeaky-clean fat women with sprayed hair and good makeup, the kind who
took care of herself and made you say that she had a nice face
underneath all that fat.
"Steak and home fries," he said, handing her the menu. "Two eggs over
easy, and another gallon of coffee."
"You want it in a cup or should I shoot it straight into your veins?"
He chuckled. "You just keep it coming, honey, and I'll figure out where
to put it." Damn, he loved waitresses. They were the best women in the
world. They were street smart and sassy, and every one of them had a
story.
This particular waitress took a few moments to look at him before she
moved away, studying his pretty face, he figured. It happened all the
time, and he generally didn't mind unless they also gave him that
half-hungry look that told him they wanted something from him he damn
well couldn't give.
The Dread Mondays came back in full force. Just this morning, right
after he had crawled out of bed, he had been standing in the shower
trying to get his two bloodshot eyes to stay open when the Bear had
come right up next to him and whispered in his ear.
It's almost Halloween, Beaudine.
Where are you going to hide yourself
this year?
Dallie had turned on the cold water faucet as far as it would go, but
the Bear kept at him.
Just what the hell does a worthless
no-account like you think you're
doing living on the very same planet with me?
Dallie shook away the memory as the food arrived along with Skeet, who
slid into the booth. Dallie shoved the breakfast plate across the table
and looked away while Skeet picked up his fork and sank it into the
bloody steak.
"How you feelin' today, Dallie?"
"Can't complain."
"You were drinkin' pretty heavy last night."
Dallie shrugged. "I ran a few miles this morning. Did some push-ups.
Sweated it off."
Skeet looked up, knife and fork poised in his hands. "Uh-huh."
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"
"Don't mean nothin', Dallie, except I think the Dread Mondays been
gettin' to you again."
He took a sip from his coffee cap. "It's natural to feel depressed
toward the end of the season—too many motels, too much time on the
road."
"Especially when you didn't come within kissin' distance of any of the
majors."
"A tournament is a tournament."
"Horse manure." Skeet returned to the steak. A few minutes of silence
passed between them.
Dallie finally spoke. "I wonder if Nicklaus ever gets the Dread
Mondays?"
Skeet slammed down his fork. "Now, don't start thinkin' about Nicklaus
again! Every time you start thinkin' about him, your game goes straight
to hell."
Dallie pushed back his coffee cup and picked up the check. "Give me a
couple of uppers, will you?"
"Shoot, Dallie, I thought you was going to lay off that stuff."
"You want me to stay in the running today or not?" " 'Course I want you
to stay in the runnin', but I don't like the way you been doin' it
lately." "Just lay off, will you, and give me the fucking pills!" Skeet
shook his head and did as he was told, reaching into his pocket and
pushing the black capsules across the table. Dallie snatched them up.
As he swallowed them, it didn't slip past him that there was a halfway
humorous contradiction between the care he took of his athlete's body
and the abuse he subjected it to in the form of late nights, drinking,
and that street-corner pharmacy he made Skeet carry around in his
pockets. Still, it didn't really matter. Dallie stared down at the
money he'd thrown on the table. When you were born a Beaudine, it was
pretty much predestined that you wouldn't die of old age.
* * *
"This dress is hideous!"Francesca studied her reflection in the long mirror set up at the end
of the trailer that was serving as a makeshift costume shop. Her eyes
had been enlarged for the screen with amber shadow and a thick set
of
eyelashes, and her hair was parted at the center, pulled smooth over
her temples, and gathered into ringlets that fell over her ears. The
period hairstyle was both charming and flattering, so she had no
quarrel with the man who had just finished arranging it for her, but
the dress was another story. To her fashion-conscious eye, the insipid
pink taffeta with its layers of ruffled white lace flounces encircling
the skirt looked like an overly sweet strawberry cream puff. The bodice
fit so tightly she could barely breathe, and the boning pushed up her
breasts until everything except her nipples spilled out over the top.
The gown managed to look both saccharine and vulgar, certainly nothing
like the costumes Marisa Berenson had worn in Barry Lyndon.
"It's not at all what I had in mind, and I can't possibly wear it," she
said firmly. "You'll have to do something."
Sally Calaverra bit off a length of pink thread with more force than
necessary. "This is the costume that was designed for the
part."
Francesca chided herself for not having paid more attention to the gown
yesterday when Sally was fitting her. But she'd been so distracted by
her exhaustion and the fact that Lloyd Byron had proved so unreasonably
stubborn when she'd complained to him about her awful living
arrangements that she'd barely looked at the costume. Now she had less
than an hour before she was supposed to report to the
set to film the
first of her three scenes. At least the men in the company had been
helpful, finding a more comfortable room for her with a private bath,
bringing her a meal tray along with that lovely gin and quinine she'd
been dreaming about. Even though the "chicken coop," with its small
windows and blond veneer furniture, was an abomination, she'd slept
like the dead and actually felt a small spurt of anticipation when
she'd awakened that morning—at least until she'd taken a second look at
her costume.
After turning to view the back of the gown, she decided to appeal to
Sally's sense of fair play. "Surely
you have something else. I
absolutely never wear pink."
"This is the costume Lord Byron approved, and there's nothing I can do
about it." Sally fastened the last of the hooks that held the back
closed, pulling the fabric together more roughly than necessary.
Francesca sucked in her breath at the uncomfortable constriction. "Why
do you keep calling him that ridiculous name—Lord Byron?"
"If you have to ask the question, you must not know him very well."
Francesca refused to let either the wardrobe mistress or the costume
continue to dampen her spirits.
After all, poor Sally had to work in
this dreadful trailer all day. That would make anyone cross. Francesca
reminded herself that she had been given a role in a prestigious film.
Besides, her looks were striking enough to overcome any costume, even
this one. Still, she absolutely had to do something about getting a
hotel room. She had no intention of spending another night in a place
that didn't offer maid service.
The French heels of her slippers crunched in the gravel as she crossed
the drive and headed for the plantation house, her great hoopskirt
swaying from side to side. This time she wasn't
going to make the mistake she had made yesterday of trying to negotiate
with lackeys. This time she was going straight to the producer with her
list of complaints. Yesterday Lloyd Byron had told her he wanted the
cast and
crew lodged together to develop a spirit of ensemble, but she
suspected he was just being cheap. As far
as she was concerned,
appearing in a prestigious film didn't make up for having to live like
a barbarian.
After several inquiries, she finally located Lew Steiner, the producer
of
Delta Blood
. He was
standing in the hallway of the Wentworth
mansion, just outside the drawing room where her scene was being set up
for shooting. His sleazy appearance shocked her. Pudgy and unshaven,
with a gold ankh hanging inside the open collar of his Hawaiian shirt,
he looked as if he belonged on a Soho street corner selling stolen
watches. She stepped over the electrical cables that curled across the
hallway carpet and introduced herself. As he looked up from his
clipboard, she launched into her litany of complaints while managing
to
keep a smile in her voice.
". . . So you see, Mr. Steiner, I absolutely can't spend another night
in that dreadful place; I'm sure you understand. I need a hotel room
before nightfall." She gazed at him winningly. "It's so difficult to
sleep when one is worried about being devoured by cockroaches."
He devoted a few moments to ogling her elevated breasts, then pulled a
folding chair away from the wall and sat down in it, spreading his legs
so wide that the khaki fabric strained over his thighs. "Lord Byron
told me you was a real looker, but I didn't believe him. Shows how
smart I am." He made an unpleasant clicking noise with the corner of
his mouth. "Only the male and female leads have hotel rooms, sweetie,
and that's because it's in their contracts. The rest of the peasants
have to rough it."
" 'Peasants' is the operative word, isn't it?" she snapped, all efforts
at being conciliatory forgotten. Were all film people this sordid? She
felt a flash of irritation at Miranda Gwynwyck. Had Miranda known how
unpleasant the conditions would be here?
"You don't want the job," Lew Steiner said with a shrug,
"I got a dozen bimbos I can have here by this afternoon to take your
place. His Lordship was the one who hired you—not me."
Bimbos!
Francesca could feel a
red haze gathering behind her eyelids,
but just as she opened her mouth to explode, a hand cupped her shoulder.
"Francesca!" Lloyd Byron exclaimed, turning her toward him and kissing
her cheek, distracting her from her anger. "You look absolutely
ravishing! Isn't she wonderful, Lew? Those green cat's eyes! That
incredible mouth! Didn't I tell you how perfect she'd be for Lucinda,
worth every penny it took to bring her over here."
Francesca started to remind him that she was the one who'd paid those
pennies and that she wanted every one of them back, but before she
could say anything, Lloyd Byron went on. "The dress is brilliant.
Innocently childish, yet sensual. I love your hair. This is Francesca
Day, everyone!"
Francesca acknowledged the introduction, and then Byron drew her aside,
pulling a pale yellow hankie from the pocket of his tailored vanilla
walking shorts and gently pressing it to his forehead. "We'll be
shooting your scenes today and tomorrow, and my camera is going to be
in absolute raptures. You don't have any lines, so there's no reason to
be nervous."
"I'm hardly nervous," she declared. Good gracious, she'd gone out with
the Prince of Wales. How could anyone think something like this would
make her nervous? "Lloyd, this dress—"
"Scrumptious, isn't it?" He led her toward the drawing room, steering
her between two cameras and a forest of lights to the front of the set,
which had been furnished with Hepplewhite chairs, a damask-covered
settee, and fresh flowers in old silver urns. "You'll be standing in
front of those windows in the first shot. I'm going to backlight you,
so all you have to do is move forward when I tell you to and let that
marvelous face of yours come slowly into focus."
His reference to her marvelous face eased some of the resentment she
was feeling over her treatment,
and she looked at him more kindly.
"Think 'life force,'" he urged. "You've seen Fellini's work with silent
characters. Even though Lucinda never speaks a word, her presence must
reach out from the screen and grab the audience
by the throat. She's a symbol of the unattainable. Vitality, radiance,
magic!" He pursed his lips. "God, I hope this isn't going to be so
esoteric that the cretins in the audience will miss the point."
For the next hour Francesca stood still for light readings and then
concentrated on a walk-through rehearsal while final adjustments were
made. She was introduced to Fletcher Hall, a dark, rather
sinister-looking actor in morning coat and trousers who was playing the
male lead. Although she kept abreast of movie star gossip, she had
never heard of him, and once again she found herself assailed by
misgivings. Why didn't she recognize any of these people's names? Maybe
she'd made a mistake by not finding out more about the production
before she'd jumped so blindly into it. Perhaps she should have asked
to see a script. . . . But she'd looked through her contract yesterday,
she reminded her-seif, and everything seemed in order.
Her misgivings gradually faded away as she shot the first setup easily,
standing in front of the window and following Lloyd's instructions.
"Beautiful!" he kept calling out. "Marvelous! You're a natural,
Francesca." The compliments soothed her, and despite the increasingly
uncomfortable constriction of the dress, she was able to relax between
shots and flirt with some of the male crew members who'd been so
attentive to her the night before.
Lloyd shot her walking across the room, making a deep curtsy to
Fletcher Hall, and reacting to his dialogue by gazing wistfully into
his face. By lunchtime, when she was unlaced from her costume for an
hour, she discovered she was actually having fun. After the break,
Lloyd positioned her at various points in the drawing room where he
shot close-ups from every conceivable angle. "You're beautiful,
darling!" he called out. "God, that heart-shaped face and those
wonderful eyes are just perfect. Loosen her hair! Beautiful!
Beautiful!" When he announced a break, Francesca stretched, rather like
a cat who had just had its back well scratched.
By late afternoon her feeling of well-being had succumbed to the
stifling heat from the weather and the carbon arc lights. The fans
scattered about the set did little to cool the air, especially since
they had to be turned off every time the cameras
rolled. The heavy corset and multiple layers of petticoats beneath her
gown trapped the heat next to her skin until she thought she would
faint.
"I absolutely can't do any more today," she finally declared, while the
makeup man dabbed at the tiny pearls of perspiration that had begun to
form near her hairline in the most disgusting fashion. "I'm simply
expiring from the heat, Lloyd."
"Only one more scene, darling. Just one more. Look at the angle of the
light through the window. Your skin will positively glow. Please,
Francesca, you've been such a princess. My exquisite, flawless
princess!"
Put like that, how could she refuse?
Lloyd directed her toward a mark that had been placed on the floor not
far from the fireplace. The beginning of the film, she had gathered,
centered on the arrival of a young English schoolgirl at a Mississippi
plantation where she was to become the bride of its reclusive owner, a
man Francesca assumed was intended to resemble Jane Eyre's Rochester,
although Fletcher Hall seemed a bit too oily to her to be a romantic
hero. Unfortunately for the schoolgirl, but fortunately for Francesca,
Lucinda was to die a tragic death the same day. Francesca could already
envision a splendid death scene, which she intended to play with the
proper amount of restrained passion. She had yet to discover exactly
what Lucinda and the plantation owner had to do with the main body of
the story, which was set in the present time and seemed to involve a
large number of female cast members, but since she wouldn't be
appearing in that part of the film, it didn't seem to matter.
Lloyd wiped his brow with a fresh handkerchief and went over to
Fletcher Hall. "I want you to come up behind Francesca, put your hands
on her shoulders, and then lift up her hair on the side so you can kiss
her neck. Francesca, remember that you've been very sheltered all your
life. His touch shocks you, but it pleases you, too. Do you understand?"
She felt a trickle of perspiration slide down between her breasts. "Of
course I understand," she replied grouchily. A makeup man walked over
and powdered her neck. She made him hold up a
mirror so she could check his work.
"Remember, Fletcher," Lloyd went on, "I don't want you to actually kiss
her neck—just anticipate the kiss. All right, then; let's walk it
through."
Francesca took her place, only to suffer through another interminable
delay while more lighting adjustments were made. Then someone noticed a
damp patch on the back of Fletcher's morning coat where he had sweat
through, and Sally had to bring a substitute coat from the costume
trailer.
Francesca stamped her foot. "How much longer do you expect to keep me
standing here? I won't put up with it! I'll give you exactly five more
minutes, Lloyd, and then I'm leaving!"
He gave her a chilly glare. "Now, Francesca, we have to be
professional. All these other people are tired, too."
"All these other people aren't wearing ten pounds of costume. I'd like
to see how professional they'd be
if they were bloody well suffocating
to death!"
"Just a few more minutes," he said placatingly, and then he clutched
his hands into fists and pulled them dramatically toward his chest.
"Use the tension you're feeling, Francesca. Use the tension in your
scene. Pass your tension on to Lucinda—a young girl sent to a new land
to marry a man who is a stranger. Everyone quiet. Quiet, quiet, quiet.
Let Francesca feel her tension."
The boom man, who'd been preoccupied with Francesca's cantilevered
breasts for the better part of the day, leaned toward the cameraman.
"I'd like to feel her tension."
"Stand in line, bro."
Finally the new morning coat arrived and the scene was shot. "Don't
move!" Lloyd called out as soon they were done. "All we need is one
close-up of Fletcher kissing Francesca's neck and we'll wrap for
the
day. It'll only take a second. Everybody ready?"
Francesca groaned, but she held her position. She'd suffered this
long—a few more minutes wouldn't matter. Fletcher put his hands on her
shoulders and picked up her hair. She hated having him touch her. He
was definitely common, not her sort of man at all.
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