Starstruck (33 page)

“J
esus!” The champagne cork popped out of the bottle with such a ferocious bang that Amanda Farraday actually ducked for cover. “That has to be the loudest cork I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh yeah.” Harry grinned as they watched a waiter upend the fizzy contents of the bottle over a towering pyramid of champagne saucers, letting the golden liquid run in rivulets down the sides to fill the goblets below. “They’re bringing out the heavy artillery tonight.”

“I guess so,” Amanda said, accepting the glass Harry handed her from the top of the stack. Principal photography had ended on
The Nine Days’ Queen
only two days before, but from the look of things, Leo Karp—or rather, the small army of housekeepers and butlers and cooks and maids to whom Leo Karp entrusted the care and feeding of his palatial estate—had been planning this party for months. The grounds of the
Spanish-style mansion had been transformed into a picture-perfect stretch of English countryside, complete with wild roses, climbing ivy, and a carpet of real bluebells, which had been carted in by the boatload all the way from Kent. On a shimmering lily pond that may or may not have been dug especially for the occasion floated a pair of pure white swans wearing tiny gold crowns, tiny cloaks of ermine, and admirably, Amanda thought, not the slightest expression of humiliation. Apart from the multitiered champagne fountains on every surface, there were endless silver trays of the most delectable tidbits—fresh California dates wrapped in bacon, paper-thin
blini
spread thickly with sour cream and caviar, tiny china eggcups filled with the famous Olympus chicken soup—all served to the assembled crowd of Hollywood’s good and great by a small battalion of waiters costumed in livery distinguishable from that of the court of Henry VIII only by the Olympus insignia, a lightning bolt piercing a crown of laurels, which replaced the Tudor rose. “If this is the wrap party, I can’t imagine what he’s going to do for the premiere. Fly in the king himself?”

“Well, they can probably get the one who quit, at least,” Harry said darkly. “That is, if they can tear him away from Berchtesgaden.” Amanda shook her head with a rueful smile. In Harry’s eyes, and in Amanda’s, for that matter, the former Edward VIII was never going to live down that chummy little post-abdication visit to his buddy Adolf Hitler. “But you have to understand,” Harry continued, “this isn’t exactly your run-of-the-mill wrap party.”

“Oh no?”

“No.” Harry’s eyes twinkled. “What this is here is nothing short of a resurrection.”

Amanda laughed. “And you’re Jesus Christ, I suppose.”

“Depends on who you ask,” Harry said. “I mean, every Jewish mother thinks her son is the Messiah.” Amanda laughed. “But no. I’m no expert on the New Testament, but I was thinking more along the lines of Lazarus. One day, he’s lying there dead as a doornail, then some guy in sandals shows up, says the magic words, and boom! He’s up on his feet, back to work the next morning. Isn’t that how the story goes?”

“Something like that.” What would those old busybody church ladies back in Oklahoma say if they could see her now, getting a lecture on the Bible from a radical New York Jew in the house of the highest-paid man in America? “Does that mean Margo Sterling is Jesus?”

“Well, I never said it was a perfect metaphor.” Harry followed her eyes across the room to where Margo Sterling stood, being shown off by an ebullient Mr. Karp to a bunch of older men in double-breasted tuxedos—investors, probably, or moneymen from New York. Margo looked as sleek and beautiful as ever in her fluttery lavender beaded gown—clearly a Rex Mandalay original—but even from some distance Amanda could see the listlessness of her manner, the tightness of her practiced smile.
She doesn’t look happy
, Amanda thought.
She looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here
. “Hey,” Harry said brightly. “Have I told you how gorgeous you look tonight?”

Amanda flushed. “Do you think so?” She was wearing the blush-colored gown Harry had given her at the Chateau Marmont. The dress fit like a glove, showing off her narrow waist and pale shoulders to their best advantage, but after all that black, she felt a little shy in something so frothy, so feminine, so
pink
.

“Absolutely.” Harry gave a wolf whistle. “Pink is your color, sugar. I’ve got great taste, if I do say so myself.”

Amanda giggled. “I feel like such a girl.”

“You
are
a girl.” Harry turned again toward Margo, now stiffly holding court with yet another group of well-wishers. “And next year, that’s going to be you over there with the big shots fawning all over you. This time next year, you’re going to be a star.”

Amanda looked back at Margo’s sad eyes, her fixed smile.

She looked back at Harry. Next year couldn’t come too slowly.

It should have been a perfect night.

The Nine Days’ Queen
had finished shooting. The picture everyone had once thought was dead had somehow been made. The raw footage, according to the handful of executives, press agents, and general studio yes-men who had seen it, promised a feat of epic moviemaking equal to anything Olympus’s rivals had yet produced. Most miraculously of all, it had somehow come in under budget, which meant that as far as the studio was concerned, Raoul Kurtzman was the greatest leader of men since Alexander the Great, Harry Gordon was the next Shakespeare, and Margo was the belle of the ball.

Claudette Colbert, Errol Flynn, Olivia de Havilland—stars who just six months before had been little more to Margo than faces in magazine clippings pasted to her bedroom wall—were practically waiting in line to congratulate her and, in the case of Errol Flynn, to lean forward and whisper a deliciously unspeakable suggestion in her ear. Gabby, in a puffy blue dress
that made her look like a giant hydrangea, had squealed with joy, clinging to Margo’s neck as though she’d just come home from a war, and Larry Julius, who could make a grown man cry just by looking at him, was near tears himself, telling her how proud he was of her, how he knew she had it in her all along. She even met Clark Gable, who had laughed his famous uproarious laugh and immediately scribbled “To My Best Girl, Emmeline, with Lots of Love from Clark Gable” on a cocktail napkin when Margo told him the housekeeper’s single condition for her help all those months ago.

And then there was Leo Karp himself, parading her around on his arm like a trophy, telling her over and over again that she could have anything she wanted. Did she want something to eat? Why not, the filming was finished, she could eat an entire chocolate cake if she wanted, he’d feed it to her himself. Something to drink? He’d crush the grapes, distill the juniper berries, chip the ice. Did she want to go for a ride? She could go down to the garage, pick out whichever of the twenty-nine cars there she wanted, he’d give her the papers, it was hers.

But the one thing Margo wanted was the one thing she couldn’t have.

Dane.

The last few days of shooting had been torture. In their final few scenes together he’d been loving, gallant, heartbreaking—everything Lord Guildford Dudley was supposed to be—until Kurtzman called “Cut!” and it was as if a brick wall had descended between them. He didn’t speak to her between takes, he didn’t praise her at the end of the day, he gave not the slightest indication that what had transpired between them in her bungalow that night would ever be repeated or discussed, or
that it had even happened at all. It was as though he had simply willed himself not to see her, which made his tenderness toward her in their scenes together all the more maddening.
Who can go back and forth like this?
Margo thought wildly. Veering between these two extremes, on camera and off, not knowing what was real and what wasn’t—it was positively schizophrenic.
No wonder actors go crazy
. If she didn’t talk to him soon, she was going to lose her mind for good.

He was standing alone at one of the bars, blending in among the sea of tuxedos, downing what she was fairly sure was meant to be one of many tumblers of Glenfiddich. Margo waited to slip away until Mr. Karp was deeply immersed in an intensely boring conversation about box-office returns with a couple of managing officers. Nervously, she grabbed a saucer off the top of one of the champagne fountains and downed it in one gulp; she grabbed a second one for good measure and drank that too. Fortified, she sidled up to Dane at the bar and very gently laid a hand on his sleeve.

“Hello, Margo.” Dane was funny when he drank, she’d noticed. He didn’t get slurry or vague or cloudy-eyed the way other people did; in fact, he somehow seemed sharper. As though an invisible camera had trained its lens on him and thrown everyone around him into an indistinct blur. “You look nice,” he said quietly.

The faintest hint of a smile on his face gave Margo the strength to continue. “I’ve been looking for you all night,” she said urgently.

“Really.” He drained the Scotch from his glass. “I don’t remember hiding behind Clark Gable.”

“Dane, please. We need to talk.”

Dane frowned. “Do we?”

“Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t think this is really the time or place.”

“Then
when is
?” She tried to keep her voice down, but she knew her desperation was written all over her face. “You won’t talk to me here, you won’t talk to me on set, you don’t return my phone calls. Why are you doing this to me? What did I do to make you treat me this way?”

Dane’s voice softened. “Margo—”

“Here they are! My two stars!” Leo Karp came barreling over to them, clapping a surprisingly strong hand on each of their shoulders.
Showing us who’s boss
, Margo thought bitterly as he pushed both of them insistently toward his companion, like a couple of cheap souvenirs he was trying to get the man to buy. “Now, Dane Forrest, of course, you’ve met before,” Karp was saying, “but this is Margo Sterling. Our newest star.” Mr. Karp beamed with pride. “Margo, darling, this is my partner and dear, dear friend, Mr. Hunter Payne.”

So this is the notorious Hunter Payne
, Margo thought. Up close, he looked much younger than when she had seen him coming out of Mr. Karp’s office. Naturally, the prematurely silver hair aged him a bit, but his face was unlined and his hazel eyes sparkled with youthful mischief. He was easily young enough to be Mr. Karp’s son.

“Margo Sterling, I’m enchanted,” Hunter Payne said, leaning forward to brush his lips lazily against her outstretched hand. Beside her, she felt Dane’s entire body stiffen.
Good
, she thought. Let him see another man be interested in her for once. Let him be jealous and afraid and uncertain.
Give him a taste of his own medicine for a change
.

“Enchanted?” Leo Karp crowed. “Dane, I’m telling you, you should have heard him just now. All night, it’s ‘Leo, tell me, who is that girl? When will you introduce me to that girl?’ ”

Hunter Payne laughed. “I’m afraid I was an awful nuisance.”

“Who can blame him?” Karp chortled. “Who isn’t smitten with our little Margo?”

“Well, Mr. Payne,” Margo said, in her sweetest finishing school voice, the kind of voice F. Scott Fitzgerald must have had in mind when he’d written that Daisy Buchanan sounded like money. “I’m sure I’m terribly flattered.” Satisfyingly, she saw a muscle in Dane’s jaw jump.

“Call me Hunter. All my friends do.”

“And what about your enemies?” Dane’s voice was cold as ice.

“Dane, there you are!” Larry Julius suddenly materialized at their side, as though he’d been conjured out of thin air. “So sorry to interrupt. That woman from
Picture Palace
has been asking for an interview all night. If we don’t oblige her, God knows what kind of poison she’ll write.”

“Well—”

“I’ll come with you,” Mr. Karp said. “A star and a studio boss. Some scoop for the old bag, huh?”

It all happened so quickly, so smoothly, that Margo was sure it had all been worked out in advance. Larry must have been hovering on the sidelines the entire time, ready to whisk Dane away at the first sign of trouble. But how did Larry know there would be trouble between Dane and Hunter?

Hunter was smiling at her—the expectant smile of a man who was used to being entertained.
I have to say something
. “Mr. Payne—” she began.

“Please.” He cut her off. “Hunter.”

“Hunter,” she said shyly, glancing up at him through her eyelashes. He wasn’t as handsome as Dane, but he had a confidence, a kind of calm authority, that made him seem better-looking than he was. “I do hope you’ll excuse Mr. Forrest—”

Hunter cheerfully interrupted her again. “Why are you apologizing for him?”

That’s a good question
, Margo thought. When had Dane ever stuck up for her? When had Dane ever done anything but jerk her around? Throw her a crumb when it suited him, just enough that she never knew if she was coming or going, and then make it somehow seem as though it were all mysteriously her fault? “I suppose I just don’t want him to be in any trouble,” she said.

“Well, that’s very noble.” Hunter chuckled. “But I wouldn’t worry if I were you. I may be a staid New York moneyman, but I know how moody these creative types can be. Besides, we’d better give Mr. Forrest the benefit of the doubt. This must be a difficult night for him.”

Margo drew her breath in sharply. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, it’s never easy for an old star when another one ascends, is it?” His hazel eyes danced. “Sure, the old one might flame out in a glorious supernova, but the new one gets to stay and reflect all the light.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about
you
, Margo.” With one smooth motion, he swept two full champagne flutes from the silver tray of a passing waiter without ever taking his eyes off her face.
How on earth did he do that?
“Here. Now drink that down like a good girl and forget all about the fantastic Mr. Forrest. At least for one dance.”

Margo smiled. It was impossible not to. Robert Taylor and
William Powell and even Dane might all playact different versions of the urbane gentleman, but Hunter Payne was the real deal. “One dance would be lovely,” she said. In reply, he presented her with another glass of champagne.