Starstruck (12 page)

“Not going great, huh?” Dane said.

“What?”

“The screen test.”

She gasped. “How did you know?”

“Well, I know what going great looks like, and believe me, this isn’t it. Unless you’re one of those Method actors from New York and you’re just gearing yourself up for the big waterworks by reliving the day your beloved goldfish died.”

“Not that.” Margaret smiled in spite of herself. “I meant the screen test.”

“Well, you’re on stage fourteen, aren’t you?” Dane gave her one of his famous grins and gestured toward the number on the wall of the soundstage. “Screen tests are about the only time they get this old ruin up and running. And the dress, well …” He grinned again. “Let’s just say that’s a very screen test dress.”

“It’s awful, isn’t it?” Margaret looked at the soaking handkerchief, streaked with sooty smudges of mascara. “I must look awful.”

“You think I would have stopped if you did?”

“You’re teasing me.”

“Would that I were so clever. But actually, it’s just dumb luck my handkerchief and I managed to happen by. I drove in this morning from Malibu, clearheaded, lines learned, only to find out the shooting schedule on my latest desert epic has run into a bit of a sandstorm, if you will.”

“Not
The Pharaoh’s Serpent
?” Margaret had read all about
Dane’s new movie in
Picture Palace
. He was supposed to play an archaeologist who uncovered a jeweled serpent that sent him back to the time of the ancient Egyptians.

“That’s right. Please don’t tell me you’re some kind of Hollywood insider.”

“I just read the trades, that’s all,” Margaret said proudly.

“And you seemed like such a nice girl.” Dane shook his head. The soft forelock of hair fell into his eyes, and Margaret had to fight the urge to smooth it back with her fingers. “Well, what the trades won’t tell you,” Dane continued, “is that von Steinbach decided to hold up the next three days of production on account of the slave girl costumes weren’t up to snuff. Although if you ask me, I think the problem was the slave girls themselves. No prospects for old Steinbach there.”

“You mean they were … unattractive?”

Dane grinned. “Oh, much worse. Married.”

Margaret flushed. “You’re not serious.”

“Aren’t I? Anyway, you can imagine how relieved I was to run into you and think that all that gasoline might not have burned in vain. It’s not every day a fellow gets to play Good Samaritan, especially when the Samaritee is as pretty as you. Say, who’ve they got running the show for you, anyway?”

“Mr. Kurtzman.”

Dane raised his eyebrows. “Raoul Kurtzman?”

“Don’t tell me he’s ‘very screen test’ too.”

“No.” Dane’s tone was suddenly grave. “Quite the opposite, actually. What scene are they having you play?”

“Oh, Lady Olivia, and, um—”

“Lord Gregory? And you’re visiting him in his cell, just moments before his unjust execution?”

“You know it?”

“Know it? I
played
Lord Gregory.”

“But that’s impossible!” Margaret exclaimed, before she had time to think better of it. “I’d never seen it before, and I’ve seen every single one of your films.”

Dane rolled his eyes. “What a disappointment. From the looks of you, I should have hoped you’d have better taste. But you haven’t seen this one.
Love’s Last Song
. Boy, was it. The screenwriter had a nervous breakdown; the director was so sozzled he had to check himself into a sanatorium halfway through shooting.”

“And nobody ever saw the finished film?” Margaret was fascinated.

“There never
was
a finished film. Some of the battle scenes were recut and turned up in
Field of Honor
, I think. The rest?” He made a scissors-like gesture with his fingers. “On the scrap heap.”

“Does that really happen?”

Dane shrugged. “All the time. They try to make the best of it, but in this business, you win some, you lose some.”

“I was so excited when I came in.” Margaret looked down at her lap, twisting Dane’s handkerchief in her hands. “But then I get the scene, and with all the lights around, and Elmer …”

“You got Elmer?” Dane let out a low whistle. “That is a tough break. But you’ll be all right. You just need an idea, that’s all.”

“An idea? What do you mean?”

“See, the thing about acting is you’ve got to make it seem like something that’s happened to you.”

Margaret frowned. “But I’ve never had a lover beheaded before.”

Dane laughed. “Of course not, dimwit. That doesn’t matter.
The point is Lady Olivia wants Lord Gregory to live, more than she wants anything in the world. And that’s what you’ve got to identify with. Surely there must be something
you
want. Something you want terribly. Your truest heart’s desire.”

His face suddenly felt very close to hers. She could almost feel the heat radiating from his lips on her own. “Yes,” Margaret breathed. “Yes, of course.”

“And so you can imagine how it might feel to have it suddenly taken away.” His clear green eyes were clouded with pain. He looked very far away. She felt an impulse to reach out for him.

Instead, she blurted out abruptly, “I wish you could play the scene with me.”

Dane’s eyes snapped back into focus. “Me?”

Oh God
. Margaret flushed.
What have I just done?
“I’m so sorry. Of course not. I was just being silly—”

“You know what?” Dane looked at her for a long moment. She felt herself twisting in the intensity of his gaze. “Come on.”

“Oh no!” Flooded with horror, Margaret dashed after him as he strode across the lawn toward the soundstage. “Really, it isn’t necessary! Please! Mr. Forrest … 
Mr. Forrest!
”

Raoul Kurtzman was bent over a camera lens muttering something to the operator when he saw Dane. “Forrest! Who invited you onto my set? Kindly get lost at once.”

Dane clapped the older man fondly on the back. “Always good to see you too, Raoul.”

“What the hell are you doing here? I thought you were over making some sort of desert abomination with the Hun.”

“You mean the
other
Hun? He’s running behind.”

Kurtzman scoffed. “Disgraceful. And he calls himself a German.”

“Well, God bless him, he unexpectedly left me with the morning free. So when I happened upon my good friend, Miss …”

“Margaret,” Margaret whispered in terror.
This is crazy
, she thought.

“… Margo here, I thought I’d see if I might be permitted to put my admittedly limited talents at her disposal.”

“Interesting. Very interesting.” Kurtzman gave Margaret a penetrating stare, as though he were only now seeing her properly.

“So whaddya say?” Dane asked. “Feel like taking a chance on an unknown kid?”

For the first time all day, the shadow of a smile seemed to touch the corners of Kurtzman’s narrow mouth. “You want to play the scene, Forrest? Okay. You play the scene.” He pointed at Margaret. “You. It seems I have underestimated you. We shoot.” He raised his megaphone. “Places, everyone!”

“It’s Margaret,” she whispered to Dane as the guy with the slate ducked in front of them to announce the final take for the camera. “My name is Margaret.”

“Lights!” Kurtzman bellowed.

Dane shook his head. “Margo’s better. More unusual. People will remember it better.”

“Margo.”
Like when I was a little girl
.

“Camera!”

“Oh! Just one question,” Margaret put in hurriedly, whispering over the fresh whirr of the camera.

“Shoot.”

“Who was Lady Olivia? When you played Lord Gregory, I mean.”

“Oh.” Dane looked straight ahead into the camera, his expression unreadable. “Diana, of course.”
Of course
.

“And … 
action!
”

“Gregory! My darling!” Lady Olivia rushed down the steps and into her lover’s open arms. A delicious surge of electric warmth pulsed through her body as he embraced her, pressing his cheek against hers.

“Olivia, angel! What in heaven’s name are you doing here?”

“My own love,” Lady Olivia intoned, “my dearest own. As long as there is breath in my body, I will always come to you.”

“But it’s far too dangerous, my love. Your father’s guards surround the castle. If they should catch you …”

“Run away with me, Gregory.” He was still holding her, and his breath on her neck made her shiver. “I’ve a horse downstairs and gold enough to bribe the warden. We’ll away to Bournemouth, and then across the channel to France, and freedom.”

“Olivia, Olivia,” Lord Gregory moaned. “And does your father not have eyes in Bournemouth and even ears in France? His spies are everywhere. It’s impossible, my darling one. I must go tomorrow to my death.”

“Then there is nothing left to hope for.” A perfect glistening tear trickled down Lady Olivia’s pale cheek. “There is nothing left to hope for. Nothing left to live for.”

“No, my darling.” Lord Gregory brushed away the tear of his beloved with tender fingers. “There is one place where they’ll never find us. Where our love will always be free.”

“Where, my darling? Tell me?”

The tiny part of Lady Olivia that was not, in fact, Lady Olivia knew that Lord Gregory’s next line was laughably overwrought, but the intensity of his green gaze made her feel as though he could see all the way into the darkest recesses of her soul. “Here, my love.” Tenderly, he placed his hand over her breastbone. “Carry me in your heart. And know that my own, for as long as it beat, beat for you.”

The tears were falling again. “My love … is there nothing more I can do?”

“Kiss me,” Lord Gregory murmured. “Kiss me for the last time.”

He searched her face for an endless moment. Then he brought his mouth to hers, and …

“Cut!”
Raoul Kurtzman’s megaphone boomed through the soundstage. “And print! That’s a wrap!”

T
he famous commissary on the Olympus lot was more than just a place to eat. As any of its patrons would tell you, from the great star holding court to the lowly second electrician grabbing a quick bite between takes, it was the heart and soul of the studio lot.

The leather booths were so cozy and deep you could practically sleep in them. A team of chefs stood by, prepared to whip up nearly anything that happened to catch your fancy. Elaborate decorations changed with every season, and throughout the month of December, carolers in Dickensian costume roamed the tables serenading the diners, artificial snow fell from the ceiling on the hour, and every meal was accompanied by a small wrapped surprise, which might be anything from a ten-cent yoyo to a hundred-dollar bill folded meticulously into an origami rose. On Christmas Day, the commissary was the
scene of a lavish party attended by interested members of the press—which naturally was all of them—and virtually all of Olympus’s major stars, several of whom would inevitably take their turn performing at the garland-festooned piano placed for maximum photogenic effect beneath the twinkling thirty-foot-tall Norwegian pine. The yuletide festivities were presided over by none other than Leo F. Karp himself, who one year furnished
Picture Palace
with one of his extremely rare on-the-record remarks when an impudent reporter asked him why his employees weren’t at home with their families. “They
are
with their family,” he had said imperiously. “Olympus is their family.”

Yet for all the “one big happy family” talk, the commissary was also a place of intrigue. If Schwab’s Pharmacy was the unofficial headquarters of Hollywood’s chronically overhopeful and underemployed, this was the nerve center of the insiders. Somewhere in the ambient din, deals were made, confidences shared, illicit liaisons formed, and secret assignations arranged. The fates of countless men and women were decided within its walls by tables of suited executives as they jovially slurped down jiggers of Scotch and plates of Yankee bean soup. Stars were made—and destroyed—in the protective shelter of those high-backed booths. The commissary was a hearth, but it was also a hideout, a courtroom, and, on very bad days, a gallows.

To Margaret, it felt like a hostile school cafeteria. She was the new girl, and no one wanted to sit with her.

With Dane Forrest/Lord Gregory’s kiss still buzzing warmly on her lips, she had been changing back into her street clothes—which had miraculously been sponged and pressed and returned to her, the gold-and-pearl pin fastened a bit higher on the collar, where Sadie claimed it would cast a more
flattering glow on her face when it caught the light—when a bespectacled assistant burst into the dressing room and offered to either validate her parking or give her a voucher for lunch, whichever she preferred. Considering she didn’t have a car, it wasn’t much of a choice. Besides, she was dying to see the inside of Olympus’s famous commissary. She’d do a little stargazing, have a quick bite, and catch the 2:25 streetcar back to Pasadena before anyone had time to miss her.

Besides
, she thought with a little shiver of excitement,
maybe Dane will be in the commissary
. They’d hustled her into the dressing room so fast she hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye. Perhaps she’d see him sitting at a table, smoking one of his cigarettes and drinking … coffee? No, Scotch. He’d be drinking a Scotch, like a sophisticated gentleman, while he read the newspaper. In her chic blue suit with the newly light-reflecting brooch, she’d slowly slink up to his table, his eyes on her all the way, like when Diana Chesterfield slunk across the ballroom to him in
That Kensington Woman
. And in her throatiest, sexiest voice, Margaret would say: “Dane Forrest. Fancy meeting you here.” Then he’d laugh and rise to his feet and invite her to sit down and tell her how beautiful she looked when she wasn’t dressed like a nineteenth-century banana. They’d get to talking and he’d tell her how he and Diana, whatever the rumors, had only ever been just good friends, and in fact, Diana was getting married to someone else, someone impossibly glamorous … who would it be? Clark Gable. Diana was getting married to Clark Gable and the wedding was top-secret, naturally, and that was the reason she hadn’t been seen in public for almost two months. Perfectly reasonable, when you thought about it; nothing unsavory about it, and certainly nothing that
had to do with Dane. But now that he’d met Margaret, he knew that she and Diana would be just the best of friends and that she absolutely had to be his guest at their lavish star-studded wedding, which would be in … New York? No, Paris. And she’d say, “Of course, but only if you’ll consider being my escort to my coming-out party.” And he’d say the same thing he’d said to Diana in that same ballroom scene, when she asked him if he waltzed: “My dear, now that I know you exist, I couldn’t possibly think of doing anything else.”