Sheri Cobb South (5 page)

  After performing the mundane tasks of brushing her teeth and washing her face, Frankie arranged her brown hair in rows of S-shaped waves , then applied cosmetics in just the right amount to enhance her complexion without making her look “fast
.
” Remembering Mama’s admonitions, she tiptoed back into her room to fetch a pair of short white gloves and a wide-brimmed picture hat before going downstairs to call for a taxi. Mitch had offered to pick her up, and a quick consultation with her handbag—much lighter now than it had been when she had left Atlanta—almost made her wish she had taken him up on the offer. Still, she was uncomfortably aware that she stood in his debt already. It was bad enough that she should have him to thank for landing her first job, without also having to depend on him to deliver her to the set.

At last the taxi drew up beside the curb.

“Monumental Pictures,” Frankie told the driver as she climbed into the back seat. “And can you hurry? I’m running a little late.”

She soon lived to regret this request. The driver, taking her at her word, floored the pedal and swerved out into the traffic with tires squealing. Palm trees and power lines passed by in a blur, and by the time the cab slammed to a stop at the front gate, Frankie’s face was as white as her knuckles.

“You’ll have to get out here, sister,” the cabbie informed her. “Security guard won’t let me through.”

Frankie followed the direction of his gaze and saw a uniformed security guard observing their arrival from a glass-enclosed booth. Had he not been isolated in this manner, she might have fallen on his neck in gratitude. Instead, she paid her fare and exited the cab on wobbly legs. As the cabbie drove away, she approached the guard in his booth.

“Good morning, I’m Frances Foster. Can you tell me how to get to the back lot?”

He jerked his thumb in the direction of the road beyond the gate, then added as a caveat, “Before I let you in, though, I’ll have to ask you to state your business.”

Frankie lifted her chin in a gesture half confident, half defiant. “I’m going to be working as an extra. Mr. Cohen himself told me to report to the back lot.”

At the mention of the producer’s name, the gates swung open as if by magic. “In you go, then, Miss Foster, and good luck to you.”

“Thank you. I’m sure I’ll need it,” she confessed sheepishly. “It’s my first real acting job, you know.”

“I never would have guessed it,” declared the guard with less than perfect truth. “It’s quite a walk to the back lot, though. I could call a studio taxi for you—”

“No, no, that’s quite all right
.
” Frankie had had her fill of taxi rides for one day. “I don’t mind walking, really.”

She set out down the main road into the heart of the studio, even though she had only the vaguest idea where she was going. Beyond the Spanish adobe and clay tiles of the front building, the architecture was strictly utilitarian. In truth, Frankie found it a bit disappointing; the large windowless white buildings marked “Soundstage A” and “Soundstage B” looked more like warehouses than the sort of place where one might expect to see movie magic being created.

The studio property was larger than Frankie had expected, and the morning sun was beginning to grow warm. She began to wish she’d worn shoes with lower heels. One or two cars passed by, and a few pedestrians cast curious glances in her direction, but no one offered her a ride, much less a job. She was beginning to wonder if she would even recognize the back lot if she saw it when she rounded the corner of yet another nondescript white building and gasped in amazement
.
A Wild West streetscape rubbed shoulders with an exotic tropical village, which abutted a modern American residential suburb. In the distance rose the ruddy brick towers of an ancient Tudor castle. Dozens of people milled around it, all dressed in the stiff brocade skirts and starched neck ruffs of Elizabethan England.

For a long moment, Frankie just stood there staring in awe. Eventually, however, her aching feet demanding that she take action. As she drew nearer, she realized her first impressions had not been entirely accurate. Queen Elizabeth’s castle, she was disappointed to discover, was nothing more than a backdrop of plywood painted to resemble bricks. As for the Elizabethan hordes, not only were they talking twentieth-century slang to each other in distinctly American accents, there were also scattered amongst them a number of people wearing modern street clothes.

The foremost of these appeared to be a man seated apart from all the rest in a canvas folding chair, who surveyed the scene with a critical eye and occasionally barked out commands through a megaphone. Frankie started in his direction, but was waylaid by a good-looking young man in a blue and scarlet doublet and hose.

“Sorry, miss, but it’s a closed set,” he said, his smile taking the sting from his words. “No visitors allowed.”

Frankie responded with a smile of her own. “Oh, I wouldn’t think of intruding! But I need to speak to the person in charge of casting extras. Mr. Cohen wants him to give me a role.”

In fact, Mr. Cohen had promised nothing beyond an anonymous spot in a crowd scene, but, as Frankie’s father had occasionally pontificated over dinner, the difference between truth and falsehood was often no more than a matter of degrees.

“So you’re Artie’s latest discovery, eh?”

It seemed to Frankie that the young man’s smile, which had appeared so open and friendly, now seemed a bit knowing, and his admiring gaze had grown, if no less admiring, certainly more calculating. Frankie resented the suggestion—which had certainly been implied, although not directly stated—that Mr. Cohen’s interest in her was somehow amorous in nature. Still, it was even more galling to admit that she owed her big break to a chance-met stranger on a train. She gritted her teeth and forced a smile.

“If you’ll just point me in the direction of the casting director—”

“Oh, right! You’ll want Mr. Harrison. Over there, in the checkered lid.”

Frankie trained her gaze in the direction he indicated and finally identified a short, wiry man dressed in gray plus-fours, a v-necked sweater vest over rolled-up shirt sleeves, and a soft plaid cap. She thanked her medieval swain, and set out in pursuit of her new quarry.

“Artie sent you, eh?” observed Harrison, after hearing her story. “Well, looks like you’re in luck. We’ll be shooting the tavern scene after lunch, and one of the serving wenches is out sick. Go to the costume trailer—the one on the end, there—and see what they can do for you.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Harrison!” Frankie seized his hand and pumped it vigorously. “You won’t regret it, I promise! I’ll be the best serving wench you’ve ever seen, cross my heart!”

* * * *

“Tavern wench, eh?” The costume woman, on her knees making last-minute adjustments to someone’s hem, muttered around a mouthful of pins. “Gimme a sec, and I’ll see what I can do.”

The woman made a few stitches, then broke off the thread with her teeth. “There you go, Alice, but try not to get your skirt caught in those heels. Sheesh! Whoever heard of a medieval maiden in high heels?”

“I’m not medieval, I’m Elizabethan,” Alice retorted as she opened the trailer door and tottered down the steps. “Besides, I
need
the high heels, remember? Mr. Cohen wants me to be tall enough that William can bend down and kiss me without falling off his horse.”

“Well, that’s done, anyway,” the costume mistress pronounced, rising to her feet and studying Frankie with a critical eye. “How do you do? You can call me Rose. And you are?”

“Frank—Frances,” Frankie said. “Frances Foster.”

“So, Frances Foster, we’re supposed to turn you into a serving wench, are we? Let’s see if your hair is long enough to do without a wig.”

Before Frankie knew what was happening, Rose had seized a brush and yanked out all the curls she had so carefully styled. But this was the least of the indignities she was obliged to endure for the sake of stardom. By the time she beheld her reflection in the mirror a half-hour later, her own mother would not have recognized her—or, worse, would have fallen over in a faint if she had. Gone was the demure floral frock, replaced by a long brown skirt and a full white blouse topped with a laced bodice that pushed Frankie’s previously unremarkable bosom upward and outward.

Frankie, observing this unexpected development with equal parts mortification and awe, protested feebly, “I can’t go out there looking like this!”

Rose had already turned away and was engaged in putting away the tools of her trade, but at Frankie’s outburst she looked back. “If you want to make it in show biz, honey, you can and will.” Seeing the young actress was not convinced, she added, “Most of the guys out there were here before the Hays Code. They’ve seen a lot worse, believe me.”

 Modesty warred with ambition as Frankie pirouetted to and fro in front of the mirror, studying her reflection with a critical eye. Mama would be shocked at the expanse of bare white bosom exposed above the scooped neckline of her blouse; still, there was something about the costume that projected a certain earthy allure that her demure white debutante gown had utterly failed to capture. Besides, in this costume she actually
looked
like an actress; if she only intended to accept roles in which she would look and dress exactly like Frances Foster, Georgia belle, she might as well have stayed home. Someday she would laugh as she told the
Variety
reporter all about how she got her start as a serving wench in
The Virgin Queen
. Her mind made up, Frankie squared her shoulders (an act which did nothing to detract from the startling effect of her costume), opened the door, and stepped out of the trailer and into her new career.

Just as Rose had predicted, no one seemed to notice her décolletage, or even pay much attention to her at all; everyone’s efforts seemed to be focused on the task of hoisting a farthingale-clad woman atop a prancing white horse.

“Is that Queen Elizabeth?” Frankie asked a fellow serving wench.

“No, it’s her stunt double. Can’t risk a big star’s safety by putting her on a skittish horse. Matter of fact, Queen Elizabeth hasn’t even been cast yet, and production is way behind schedule. So we shoot the scenes we can, and save the queen’s close-ups for last.”

 Frankie knew from reading
Variety
magazine that scenes were not shot in chronological order. On a practical level, this meant Frankie had no idea what the plot of the movie was about and could bring nothing to her role more creative than mindless obedience. When the time came to film the crowd scene outside the castle, Frankie was herded with the other extras into the wide open area in front of the massive façade. Here they were instructed to wave their arms in the air and shout “rhubarb, rhubarb” to simulate crowd noise while Queen Elizabeth (or her stunt double) and her entourage rode through on their caparisoned horses.

“Why ‘rhubarb?’ ” Frankie asked the elderly village woman standing next to her.

The woman shrugged her homespun-clad shoulders. “Why not? It doesn’t really matter what you say, as long as the words can’t be understood. Over at Paramount they use ‘carrots and peas,’ while at Columbia it’s ‘watermelon cantaloupe.’ I don’t know why it always seems to be food; maybe everyone’s just thinking about lunch.”

Occasionally Frankie caught a glimpse of Arthur Cohen standing on the edge of the carefully orchestrated chaos, sometimes beaming with paternal pride, sometimes scowling in displeasure. Unfortunately, it was necessary to shoot the scene several times, with long delays in between, during which an unglamorous but invaluable crew member called a “grip” hosed down the cloud of dust raised by the horses’ hooves, while another less fortunate grip was given the unenviable task of shoveling horse manure from the set.

By the time the cast and crew finally broke for lunch, Frankie’s arms ached from waving, and her voice was hoarse from shouting enthusiastic vegetable greetings to the fake queen. She joined the throng of cast and crew heading for the commissary, and soon discovered one of the less pleasant realities of Hollywood: extras ate last. The stars, of course, had dismounted their horses as soon as filming was completed, and were whisked away from the back lot in studio cars. Frankie hadn’t expected to join their number, but she hadn’t thought to be outranked by the lowliest crew members. Even the grip who had shoveled the horse manure would get to eat before she did.

“Hey, nice outfit.”

At the sound of Mitch’s voice, Frankie felt a sudden urge to grab the scooped neckline of her blouse and pull it up to her chin. She searched his face for some sign of lasciviousness, and when she didn’t find any, wasn’t quite sure whether to feel relieved or insulted.

“Thanks
.
” She forced herself to relax the hands that had instinctively clenched. “Where have you been keeping yourself? I didn’t see you on the set.”

“I’ve been on the soundstage, rigging up the wiring.” His grin was slow and somehow sinful. “Don’t tell me you missed me!”

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” retorted Frankie with a toss of her head. She would have walked away, but Mitch grabbed her arm.

“Hey, don’t be sore. To tell you the truth, it’s a relief to see a friendly face—or a familiar one, even if it’s not very friendly,” he amended hastily. “Have lunch with me? My treat.”

Frankie could not have said whether it was the commissary full of strangers or her rapidly dwindling cash supply, but whatever the reason, she found herself taking a seat at the small table Mitch indicated. He disappeared into the mob crowding around the counter and returned minutes later with two cheese sandwiches and two small glass bottles of milk. Frankie supposed she shouldn’t wonder at his being back so quickly; as best man, or whatever his new title was, he would take precedence over the mere extras.

“So, how’s show biz?” asked Mitch around a mouthful of sandwich.

“It’s okay.”

“Just ‘okay’? This from the girl who was going to be the next Tallulah Bankhead?”

“I’m learning a lot about the business
.
” Frankie dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “Like the fact that the scenes aren’t filmed in order. Oh, and did you know we’re shooting scenes with stunt doubles when some of the real stars haven’t even been cast yet? But I don’t know, somehow I thought it would be more—more—”