The Slow Rise of Clara Daniels

by Christy English

  Clara smiled as she stepped under the hot lights. Only the noon sun in the desert was brighter. She felt at home immediately, and the tension ran out of her shoulders like water. The second lead nodded to her, giving her a surreptitious smile. Clara nodded back, careful not to look at the lead. The star of the production was a teenager who had worked in film and TV all her life. She had a starring role in a popular sitcom, and she was aware of her high status on the set. She hated Clara for no reason that she could understand. The girl felt inferior, which struck Clara as odd since she had never had more than two weeks’ worth of work on any project, while this kid had cut her teeth on an Oscar.

  Clara smiled to herself, careful to keep her eyes on the director and off the star. She should know by now not to speculate on other people’s motives.

  She listened as the director described what he wanted, speaking mostly to the star who stood brooding, her lower lip stuck out. The girl had been difficult all day, Clara gathered from the surface of the director’s mind. She repressed a sigh. It looked like a simple scene was going to turn into a four-hour extravaganza.

  Clara shrugged one shoulder. The more time it took, the more she learned. She caught the eye of the second lead and winked.

  They didn’t finish filming until 8:30 that night. Clara knew the production had lost money while waiting for the lead to get ready to work, and she shook her head, bemused. It was a miracle any movie got made with the rampant incompetence and waste that went on.

  Clara walked off the set, shrugging off the long day. She saw Pete waiting for her by the curb, and she slid into his Toyota.

  “Hey, you.” He smiled at her, and she leaned over and kissed him. “How’d it go?”

  “Not bad,” she said.

  Clara never gossiped about what went on during production, though Pete often asked pointed questions. Once she was off the lot, she didn’t want to talk about movies.

  “Where are we heading?” she asked him.

  “I thought we’d meet the guys over on Ventura, pick up a pizza, and just hang out.”

  “OK.” Clara leaned back against the seat and relaxed.

  Her shoulders ached. She would have to get him to give her a massage later.

  They ate pizza in Pete’s favorite restaurant, surrounded by his tech buddies, most of whom were grips and best boys. None of them were working at the moment, but they all had productions coming up, so they were relaxed and good-humored. Clara ate her pizza and sipped the tepid beer. She should have ordered soda. American beer was swill.

  One best boy was gossiping about some big star who’d thrown a temper tantrum on the set. Clara didn’t comment but watched him tell the tale. She glanced around the restaurant. Lucky for him, no one there was in the industry. She wondered why he was so careless to tell such gossip where he could be heard. Did he not know that talk like that could get him blackballed?

  Clara watched as the others joined in with stories of their own, some about the same star, some about others. When Pete opened his mouth to tell one of his own, Clara laid her hand gently on his arm. She pitched her voice low, leaning over to whisper in his ear.

  “Would you get me a coke, Pete?”

  Pete’s eyes widened behind his glasses. He could not remember the last time Clara had asked him for anything. He rose, his story forgotten. When he came back to the table, Clara had steered the conversation in the direction of union wages, which was a safer topic.

  Pete joined in the fray enthusiastically, and they didn’t leave the restaurant until midnight. They all left happy, a little drunk, and content that they’d single-handedly solved all the industry’s problems. Clara took the car keys from Pete, and he knew her well enough by now not to protest.

  “That was fun.” He sighed, leaning back into the bucket seat.

  Clara smiled. “It was. Just don’t tell too many stories the way they did.”

  “Stories?”

  “About stunts famous people pull on closed sets. There’s a reason the sets are closed, Pete.”

  Pete frowned, sitting up straight. “But the stories are funny. Why shouldn’t I tell them?”

  Clara sighed. She knew she shouldn’t get involved in his life this deeply, but she would feel guilty if she didn’t at least warn him of the obvious. Guilt wasn’t an emotion she’d a lot of experience with, but she genuinely liked him.

  She watched him push his glasses further up his nose.

  “All I’m saying, Pete, is that people talk. Wait until you want to retire, then write a tell-all book if you want. Just don’t talk while you’re still in the industry.”

  Pete laughed, his deep brown eyes sparkling. “Clara, you’re being paranoid. We don’t live in old school Communist Russia or something.”

  Clara shrugged one shoulder. “OK, Pete. Whatever you say.”

  She noticed that after that, whenever they were together in public, he didn’t bad-mouth anyone. He saved all his stories until they were in bed. Clara was a good audience.

  15

  Los Angeles, 2015

  Clara adjusted the straps of her red silk dress until they lay smooth against her shoulders. She turned to check her reflection in the full-length mirror. Her curves were lush under the smooth silk of the dress. She smiled at herself. She would have no trouble getting Willoughby’s attention.

  Robert Willoughby, Vice President of Development at Barnett Studios, was a married man who didn’t fool around. He was the only married man Clara knew who didn’t. That was part of the reason she’d chosen him to take her career up the next step of the ladder. He was a good man. And an honest one.

  There was a knock at Clara’s door, and she moved to open it. Pete stood there, holding a single red rose, smiling at her.

  She grinned back at him. “Hi, Pete. Merry Christmas.”

  “It would be merry if you’d just say yes.”

  Clara laughed at him, the low, throaty laugh that within a year would be famous. She accepted the rose he offered and turned to the kitchen to put it in water.

  Pete followed her into her studio apartment. She had furniture now, and he threw himself down on the daybed that also served as her couch. She didn’t want to flaunt her money in front of the people she knew in the industry. She wanted to make her first million in films, then she could flaunt her inherited wealth. She wanted to look like she had earned it. If standing in front of a camera could be called earning it.

  “Pete, we’ve been through this.”

  He was a first assistant director now, with more confidence than when she’d met him on the set of Flaming Arrows. He had stopped drinking, and he didn’t sleep with as many women as before, hoping she would also stop sleeping with other men. She never did.

  “I know we’ve been through it, Clara, but I want to go through it again.”

  His brown eyes stared back at her from behind his horn-rimmed glasses, and suddenly he reminded her of a math teacher she had lusted after at her girls’ school years ago, before her mother had died. Clara smoothed his bangs back from his eyes and leaned down to kiss him.

  “I’m not the marrying kind, Pete. I’ve told you that.”

  “Clara…” He breathed in the scent of her perfume, and as always, he found himself distracted from his train of thought.

  Clara slid her hands down his shirt front and started to unfasten his jeans.

  “Clara, we’ll be late.” His voice was hoarse, and his breath came fast.

  “It’s fashionable to be late in Hollywood. Haven’t you heard?”

  Her lips were on his, or he would have said that only the famous could be late to Robert Willoughby’s parties. It was just as well. Clara wouldn’t have listened.

  They were three hours late to the party, and Clara was pleased with that. She didn’t want to appear eager. Robert Willoughby hated the eager almost as much as he hated liars.

  The man at the door didn’t even check for their names on the list, but smiled at Clara, lost in her green eyes.

  “Come righ
t in, Miss –”

  “Daniels.” Clara smiled at him. “Clara Daniels.”

  She drew Pete with her into the house. He had worked in Hollywood for ten years, but he still had to stop himself from gaping around the rich and famous. His first assistant director’s salary made him comfortable, and he worked steadily, but he would never know the opulence of Robert Willoughby’s guest house, much less that of his mansion.

  Clara scanned the crowd and found Mrs. Willoughby in the first few moments. People turned to stare at the girl in the red silk dress and the man she had in tow. A lot of women were dressed better, and many of the women were famous, but Clara had a presence that made even the most jaded give her a second glance.

  She made her way gently through the crowd, smiling at those who smiled at her, and nodding to the few people she knew. Few day players had been invited to this party, and no extras of any kind. Clara had her SAG card, but she’d never had more than two weeks’ worth of work on any project. That, however, was about to change.

  Clara stopped in front of a short lady with deep brown hair. She was forty and her hair was dyed, but her smile was genuine as she turned to Clara.

  “Hello. Have we met?”

  “Not before tonight.” Clara bestowed a rare gentle smile on Mrs. Willoughby.

  This woman was as honest as her husband, and a good deal kinder. She had a lot to do with his current success, and Clara knew she would have a lot to do with the rest of his climb.

  “Thank you for having us, Mrs. Willoughby. It’s a pleasure to be invited to someone’s home on Christmas Eve.”

  Mrs. Willoughby beamed at her, taking her hand. “I’m glad, honey. Are you new to Los Angeles?”

  “No, ma’am. I’ve been here almost two years.”

  “Well, I’m glad to meet you.”

  Mrs. Willoughby nodded to Pete as she moved off, drawn away by the gentle hand of a friend who eyed Clara sardonically. Clara didn’t give a damn what the friend thought. It was important to acknowledge her hostess, and she had done it. Mrs. Willoughby’s friends and their suspicions were irrelevant.

  Aunt April had bred Clara’s manners into her bones. Clara would speak to her hostess again before she left. She had sacrificed a lot to become what she was becoming, but there were some standards that even she wasn’t willing to part with.

  Pete leaned close to Clara’s ear and spoke softly. “I see Paul over there by the dessert table. I’m going to say hi.”

  “All right.” Clara smoothed his bangs back on his forehead.

  She was genuinely fond of him, and that constantly surprised her.

  “I’ll mingle,” she said.

  He pressed a kiss to her cheek and moved off, his hand sliding away from her waist reluctantly.

  Clara took a glass of champagne off a passing tray, nodding to the servant who offered it. She sipped cautiously, scanning the room for Willoughby. She found him watching her, with a frown on his face.

  He was forty-five and on his way to becoming head of the studio in another ten years or so. Clara smiled to herself, not dropping her gaze from his. With her help, he would finish his climb in less than two.

  Willoughby’s frown deepened, and he started to circle the room. Clara could read the surface of his thoughts and knew he was moving toward her. She didn’t walk to meet him but stood still and let him come to her. By the time he reached her side, his frown was thunderous.

  “So, you think you can make good with me by sucking up to my wife?”

  Clara laughed at his rudeness. She smiled at him, enjoying someone for the first time in a long while. He hated manipulation, and he thought she was trying to use his wife to get to him.

  “I always greet my hostess, Bob. I was raised to have manners. I’m not certain I can say the same about you.”

  She gestured to a nearby servant and took another champagne flute from his tray, relinquishing her empty one. The man had overheard her remark and stood wide-eyed, waiting to bolt at the first opportunity. He seemed to be one who lived in the house, not a rental for the evening, because he watched Willoughby’s face as if waiting for an explosion that never came.

  Willoughby reached over and took a glass of champagne for himself and drank, waving the man away. Clara didn’t take her gaze off his face, watching as he decided what he thought of her. She knew it wouldn’t take long.

  “No one calls me Bob, by the way. The name’s Robert.” He glared at her, as if daring her to dispute him.

  “If they call you that, they don’t know you very well.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, his face blank. She listened to the wheels of his mind turning behind his eyes. The blue of his eyes seemed to catch fire, and he spoke low, with the tone of a threat.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Clara smiled at him as if he’d introduced himself the way one would at a garden party.

  She extended her hand. “I’m Clara Daniels. And you’re Bob Willoughby, the man who’s going to be the head of Barnett Studios in ten years.”

  He looked at her outstretched hand but didn’t take it. He met her gaze, his anger gone.

  “No one knows what the future holds.”

  “Not unless they build it.”

  Clara’s hand didn’t waver, and her gaze did not drop from his. The slow light of admiration crept into his eyes against his better judgment. She watched the first wall around his mind crumble as he extended his hand and slowly took hers. He didn’t shake it but held it in his bearlike grasp as he looked at her.

  “I’m faithful to my wife.”

  Clara laughed at the implication. “That’s why I’ve chosen you.”

  He dropped her hand. “Chosen me? What the hell for?”

  Clara’s smile faded, and she took another sip from her champagne. “You’re going to give me a role in your next picture.”

  She had made her play. Now it was up to him. She listened intently to his thoughts, hoping she wouldn’t have to start all over again with someone else.

  Willoughby snorted and started to turn away. He stopped when the girl didn’t move to follow him. He watched her out of narrowed eyes for a long moment before he spoke. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand why he didn’t just walk away. Something about the girl held him. Not her looks, though she had them, and not her cocky attitude. Cockiness was rampant in Hollywood. Both men and women had it, and it didn’t make them any more attractive to him. It was something behind the girl’s eyes, he realized. The hint of a mystery that he knew he would never solve. Robert Willoughby liked a challenge. He didn’t walk away.

  “Why the hell would I hire you?” he asked.

  Clara gave him a gentle smile. She really did like this man. It was so refreshing to find someone in the industry that she genuinely liked.

  “Because I’m going to make you rich.”

  “I’m already rich.”

  Clara set her empty glass on a nearby table. She scanned the room and saw Pete talking to a buddy he’d found by the dessert bar. He was eating chocolate mousse and gawking at the models nearby who, of course, ate nothing. Clara’s smile widened at the sight of him. She didn’t turn her attention back to Willoughby.

  “You’re going to be studio head within ten years. Would you agree?”

  He shifted his weight but didn’t answer until she looked at him.

  “That’s right.”

  Clara nodded. Another wall was beginning to crack between them.

  “If you hire me, you’ll be studio head in two.”

  Willoughby snorted, but she didn’t drop his gaze. And after a moment, his sardonic smile faded.

  “Two years is outrageous.”

  “Yes, but you’re talented, and I’ll sell. Give me a buddy role in your next film and then wait and see.”

  “I’m doing Three Sisters and a Baby. We start shooting next month. The buddy role has already been cast.”

  Clara shrugged one shoulder. She was completely relaxed as he scrutinized her, trying to s
earch out her motives.

  “It doesn’t matter what movie you put me in. Just cast me in one that’s shooting in the next six months, and I’ll do the rest.”

  “Really?” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “That’s all I need to do, and I’ll be studio head?”

  Clara met his gaze, not smiling. “Like I said, it’ll take two years. But it will happen. I’ll make it happen. And so will you.”

  It was a crucial moment. She listened avidly to every thought as it filtered through his mind. Willoughby looked into her eyes. She didn’t disguise her ambition from him, but he didn’t hear any cutthroat blood lust in her voice. She didn’t want someone else’s role. And she had a presence he’d rarely, if ever, seen. As he looked at her, he saw part of the secret that lay behind her eyes. She felt absolutely no fear.

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Eighteen.” Clara smiled at him when he blinked.

  He looked at her for another long, silent moment. Even years later, he never really knew why he answered her the way he had. But in that moment, he felt her certainty of success as a rock-solid fact, as if their success lay not in the future, but in the past.

  “You’re hired. I’ve got a role for you in Standing in the Stream. It’s not a big one, but it’s good.”

  Clara offered her hand. “That’s great, Bob. You won’t regret it.”

  He laughed a little under his breath. “I already do, kid.” But he relaxed.

  Clara offered him a canape that she took off a passing tray.

  Willoughby took it and ate it, reflecting quietly for a moment.

  “We’ve never met before,” he said. “How did you manage to get an invitation to my party?”

  Clara smiled the warm, slow smile that would make her famous. She met his gaze and didn’t look away.

  “Oh, I was never invited.”

  16

  Los Angeles, 2019

  The bright sun shone off the Pacific, turning the water a deep blue. The smog had been washed away by heavy rains the week before, and now the sky above Los Angeles gleamed as it almost never did. Bob Willoughby’s yacht was painted white, except where the teak had been left bare, and the entire ship was lacquered and gleaming.