“No, I’m sorry,” Pamela said. “She’s out all day meeting with the people from ITV and the toymakers, arranging for the debut of the merchandise.”
“Yes, of course,” Hannah said. “Okay, listen carefully, dear, this is urgent. A woman called Hedda Hopper may wish to visit the set—”
“Not really? The Hedda Hopper?” Hannah had never laid eyes on Pamela but pictured a sudden blonde who carried three movie magazines on her person at all times. “How simply marvelous!”
“No, dear, it’s very important that Miss Hopper not be allowed on the set—you’ll be polite of course but explain the set is closed to guests, do you understand?”
“But why?” Pamela protested. “Adults are watching the show too. A story about the show like this could double their viewership.”
Give the magazines some credit—they’d taught Pamela something.
“Just do as I say, Pamela dear,” Hannah ordered. She knew that most British women this age responded reflexively to the tones and words that brought them straight back under the firm gaze of a headmistress. Likewise, a certain breed of man could be brought to heel if reminded of his nanny. There was something to be said for this aspect of the class system. “Miss Hopper is not to be allowed on the set, and should she ask any questions, the only people you are to mention are the actors. Every last one of them and no one else. Is that clear?”
“But, Miss Wolfson, I’ve seen the sort of things she writes when she feels she’s been hard done by. It could do us far more damage.”
Hannah was caught short. The girl had a point. But Langham had to get away, shooting be damned. Telling Pamela as much could cause suspicion, and who knew how discreet this girl was? But insisting Langham be asked to drop everything and come to the phone would be worse—much though she respected Frank, she knew he could be irrational when panicked. No, she needed someone to quietly get rid of him, someone who truly understood the danger and could remain calm. “Can you find Miss Adler and have her call me?”
“Who?”
“The script supervisor.” Hannah hung up and faced a wild-eyed Sidney, who had obviously heard her on the phone. He was actually clenching his hair.
“We have to go down there,” Hannah insisted.
“We cannae!” Sidney howled. “The Americans are ringing us in twenty minutes’ time, and then only a wee interview with the Radio bleeding Times! We’ll look goons to cancel them. Our only excuse could be that one of us died.”
Hannah hesitated. “No, we’d never be able to keep that one up. I shouldn’t have hired Langham. I knew that all along. I’m sorry, Sidney.”
He popped a Walkers shortbread into his mouth. Hannah watched the effect of butter and sugar turn him affable again.
“Nae your fault, ’tis the foolishness of the circumstances. That Hopper creature doesn’t know your history, does she?”
“If she did, believe me, we’d already know. No, she’s looking for people actually named, and we’ve got a huge one all ready for her.” Hannah reminded herself that her own status was fine. It must be. She would indeed know by now if it wasn’t. She shoved a piece of shortbread into her mouth, chewing hard to banish the wave of paranoia she’d come to London to escape. This is how the Red hunters win. Get inside you, wherever you are.
“Our people will manage it,” Hannah insisted.
“They will,” Sidney agreed.
They quelled their anxiety with another piece of shortbread each and prepared for their phone meeting. Hannah kept one ear cocked for the other line, willing Phoebe to call and say she would help keep Hedda Hopper at bay. It was unfair, perhaps, throwing the obviously and suspiciously American Phoebe into Hedda Hopper’s path, but Hedda wouldn’t know Phoebe from Adam. And Phoebe, more than anyone else on the set, knew the danger the woman represented. She was clever. She would know how to warn Langham, how to keep the evil woman from securing the prize she wanted so badly.
* * *
• • •
Within an hour of his beginning work the day before, the Robin Hood set labeled Langham “an interesting experience.”
He had a speed and gruffness that the crew delightedly assured each other was the American style of direction. The Other Girls, having ascertained that Langham was divorced, engaged in a silent rivalry to attract his attention. His scruffiness was excused as “eccentricity.” He was Oscar nominated, not unattractive, and might go back to Hollywood at any time. Who was to say that return wouldn’t be enhanced by a pretty English girl on his arm?
Phoebe, not wanting to remind people there were now two Americans on set, willed everything to go more smoothly than usual so she didn’t have to open her mouth. By Tuesday the strain was getting to her. At lunch she hid her face behind her notebook, thinking dark thoughts about Langham and everyone who had anything nice to say about him.
Tommy found her and tapped her shoulder.
“I think Miss Brown was looking for you.”
“Oh, was she?” She couldn’t say she had no idea who Miss Brown was. Tommy would tell her—with that marvelously English polite condescension—but it would get around that the American hadn’t bothered to learn people’s names, and who did she think she was, anyway? So Phoebe chose her words carefully. “Did you happen to see where she got to?”
He shrugged—anything to do with Phoebe was of no interest to him. “Back to her desk, I expect.”
There were desks everywhere. Phoebe pondered. “Miss Brown” did her little good; half the crew were called Brown. Not that a given name would help. Nearly every woman but Dora was called some variation of Priscilla or Camilla . . . Vanilla, Flotilla, Chinchilla, who could keep track? They all just sniffed when she walked by anyway.
“Hey, script gal!” Langham barked. “Lemme have a gander at scene eight.” He seized her notebook and ran through the script. “Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh. All right, Tommy, let’s set ’er up.” He snapped the binder shut and strode off with it before Phoebe could say anything. She tagged after him, clearing her throat politely. No one was going to accuse her of being so impertinent as to actually request her binder back. She was too focused to register the unusual buzz building at the edge of the studio floor.
The chatter rose to a crescendo and Tommy hurried to Langham, eyes bright with the pleasure of important information to deliver.
“There’s a Miss Hedda Hopper here, sir, wanting to tour the set for a Photoplay story.”
Langham staggered backward. His hair seemed to visibly whiten. It was like watching a film cut to half speed, the stricken face of Langham and the perplexed face of Tommy flickering in and out before Phoebe’s disbelieving eyes. Hedda Hopper, here. A joke. A joke that would bomb before the drunkest audience at the grubbiest Village club. Because as much as Hedda Hopper ranted about “Runaway Reds,” her world was the mansions and hotel poolsides and palatial film studios of Los Angeles. Not gray, battered England, and not snug little Nettlefold Studios. Impossible.
“Oh God, why did Hannah hire me?” Langham said, looking around the set with wild eyes, as if he were watching it burn.
Hannah . . . Robin Hood! Phoebe was no great shakes at mathematics, but she could add one and one.
“Tommy, get rid of her!” she cried. “Say it’s a closed set.”
“That won’t fly, the broad’s got a nose for blood like Dracula,” Langham moaned.
Phoebe looked back and forth between the two men. Langham was completely ashen. Tommy was openmouthed.
“Mr. Langham, you’ve got to hide!” Phoebe said. “Hide in the set!” she ordered, snatching back her binder. “In the sheriff’s tower! You can watch through the arrow slits. We’ll pretend Tommy’s the director. I’ll sneak over to you for directions and pass them to him. She won’t notice me, and once she doesn’t find what she’s looking for, she’ll get bored and leave.”
Langham locked eyes with Phoebe. They both
knew what Hedda Hopper was looking for. He ran for the tower, Tommy ran to spread the word, and Phoebe ran for the lion’s den. Ignoring the flustered young woman she recognized from around the studio, Phoebe extended her hand to the devil in a flowered hat.
“Welcome to the set, Miss Hopper, though I’m afraid it’s a very busy day. How long are you in town, maybe we can arrange a more convenient visit?” Phoebe wasn’t deliberately trying to put on a British accent, but she softened her Rs and As. The studio woman glared, but Miss Hopper didn’t seem to notice anything untoward. Phoebe guessed she was the sort who assumed that a few softer tones meant one had been born and raised in the shadow of Big Ben.
“Well now, that is funny,” Miss Hopper answered in the patrician voice Phoebe knew only too well from the radio. A voice Phoebe also knew had replaced a rural Pennsylvania twang. “Miss Brown here says it’s a great honor to have me. Publicity department having a bit of a civil war, eh?” Miss Hopper’s eyes glinted.
The Miss Brown who’d looked for her? Phoebe had no leisure to ruminate.
“Not at all, Miss Hopper! Miss Brown undoubtedly didn’t realize. But tomorrow should work very well—our whole principal cast will be here.”
“Who are you?” Miss Hopper demanded.
“Me? Just the script girl, the director sent me over to apologize, he’s so busy,” Phoebe said with a deprecating titter. Her fingers were nearly pushing through the binder. She wished someone would alert her that the set was ready to keep Langham safe, and that she might get away from this woman.
Miss Hopper’s face was magnetic. Phoebe saw both the prettiness that had once helped her gain a toehold and the stately beauty she still possessed, even into her sixties. But what really drew attention was the woman’s hat. She was famous for outlandish hats, and this one was quite the conversation piece, though Phoebe suspected Miss Hopper wouldn’t like the conversation. A replica of the Statue of Liberty was built into the hat, pointing due north amid a sea of red, white, and blue silk flowers in brilliant Technicolor. No one would ever accuse Hedda Hopper of subtlety, but this open proclamation of her nationality was a miscalculation. The crew knew condescension when they saw it. Even the most Hollywood-obsessed Other Girl wanted to see the back of her.
“Well, Little Miss Script Girl,” Hedda Hopper snapped at Phoebe, “it just so happens that today is my most convenient day. And Miss Brown here knows the value of Hedda Hopper, so here I am. I’m sure no one can object to my having a little look around.” She waved a green Mont Blanc like a baton. Let other columnists do their reporting in pencil. Hedda Hopper would of course use a fountain pen.
Phoebe kept pace beside Miss Hopper, ready to create more distraction if she had to, trying not to swivel her head, searching for a sign that they were safe. She went hot and cold. No doubt Miss Hopper looked at her only to see a pale, square-faced creature with glasses, barely controlled hair, and an outfit that Miss Hopper would consider appropriate for hoboes. How hard would she have to scratch, though, to find Phoebe Adler, one of the very Runaway Reds she was here to expose?
“I’ll chat with the actors,” Miss Hopper announced. “They probably don’t get much of a chance to mingle with anyone from Hollywood, poor things.”
A ruse. It had to be. Hedda Hopper must know that Richard Greene, their Robin, had acted in Hollywood for several years. She was hoping actors, rarely unwilling to talk, would reveal something damning. Bernadette O’Farrell, resplendent in her Maid Marian costume, sailed up to the gossipmonger. Phoebe tried to catch her eye, but Bernadette was busy playing up every stereotype of Irish charm as she took Hedda Hopper’s hand. “Top of the day to you, Miss Hopper!” she cried, her voice dripping with shamrocks.
Tommy materialized at Phoebe’s elbow and smoothly backed her away, his face splendidly unruffled. Phoebe had to admire him. One thing about having grown up amid regular bombing raids, nothing much fazed you after that.
“Everyone knows,” he whispered. “Miss O’Farrell’s softening the bat up, Mr. Greene will move in next. Go get instructions from Langham, I’ll keep guard.”
Phoebe moved with a studied casualness to the enormous dolly that held the high tower exterior—imposing even though its stone bricks were only painted. Behind it was a staircase that served as the interior of any given castle. When used during a shoot, this portion of the set had a lot of padding underneath it. Right now, though, the only thing on the other side of the stairs was the light safety rail. Phoebe thought the actors had nerves of steel, staging swordfights on these steps. Between the stairs and the situation, her own nerves had all the strength of a rotting banana.
Langham knelt by the arrow slit so he could look out the thin strip but avoid being seen from outside. Phoebe hunched over and padded up the steps to him, where he whispered in her ear.
“Tell Tommy to arrange them in a triangle—he’ll know what that means. Sharp pacing, this is a tense scene.”
No kidding, Phoebe thought as she wended her way back to Tommy. She muttered instructions over her open binder, pointing with her pencil. Tommy nodded, looking exactly like a bright young director who recognized an error in continuity, and shouted out directions.
Hedda Hopper’s face flushed purple with rage. That confirmed it. The woman had been told Langham was directing this week. Someone had whispered something. There must be good money in revealing secrets.
As the take ended, Phoebe speed-drifted back to the tower and scaled the steps with more confidence. Langham gave instructions: another filter on B light, and Malcolm, the guest actor playing a peasant accused of stealing a cow, was being too hesitant. Phoebe wasn’t surprised. It was hard enough being a guest, but downright head-splitting when your director changed midstream with no explanation.
Tommy followed through to perfection, spoke bracingly to Malcolm, and the scene went well. Langham approved and was ready for reaction shots, which required some shifting. This was done with a lot more shouting and fuss than usual, in the hopes of irritating Miss Hopper. She cast a cold look around the set—Phoebe thought of a snake looking for the most likely mouse to swallow.
“Don’t look!” Tommy hissed. It was too late. The snake eyes were on Phoebe.
“You!” Hedda Hopper bellowed, sharp heels click-click-clicking over. “I saw you walking hither and yon. Why would a script girl wander so much?”
“They give us a lot of nice food on this set,” Phoebe said. “Walking helps keep the weight off.”
Miss Hopper hooted with laughter. “Nice food? Only someone who’s never had a decent meal in her life would call English food nice.” She gave Phoebe’s hips a very deliberate assessment. “And you, dearie, seem to like eating. You know, all the Hollywood girls wear girdles with every outfit.”
Phoebe bit her inner cheek to keep from laughing. The woman certainly had no qualms about insulting everyone and everything around her. Phoebe hoped the conventional truth was true, and that such pride would go before a fall. Preferably off a high cliff.
Tommy interrupted. “So sorry, Miss Hopper, but we really must get this next shot before wrap. I do apologize, it’s inconvenient I know. Miss Marrow, come along now.” He propelled Phoebe to her usual perch, leaving no moment for her to forget herself and utter a fateful “huh?”
He didn’t know she was blacklisted. He didn’t even know she was a writer. Maybe he had guessed and was protecting her? Names of blacklistees might well be accompanied by photographs. Phoebe wouldn’t be a fine catch like Frank Langham, but anything was better than nothing. However, it was more likely Tommy was protecting her from any attempt Hedda Hopper might make to blackball her as a script supervisor. That, or he knew the woman hated Jews, and the name “Adler” might set her off. Either way, it was clever . . . and kind.
The next take went off perfectly, and Miss Brown, finally doing her job, told Miss Hopper they were preparing to wrap and if she’d like to schedule another visit, that woul
d be lovely. Miss Hopper cast a withering glance around the set.
“This is a very silly show for very silly children. I wouldn’t waste another minute here.” She flounced away; Miss Brown had to skip to keep up with her.
Phoebe held out until she could no longer see the bobbing red, white, and blue flowers and sank straight into the director’s chair. She didn’t get up until the director himself came out of hiding and patted her shoulder.
“Those are some good brains you’ve got, doll. Consider me grateful.”
Whispers went around the set, little fireworks of surprise on learning it was Phoebe who had saved the day. Even the most vapid of the Other Girls knew a report of a blacklistee involved could derail their American deal. As admirable as Hannah was to give her compatriots assistance, it would have to end.
That particular whisper unnerved Phoebe all over again. Would her own job disappear before she’d sold a script? She reminded herself no one on the set knew she was blacklisted. I wonder if it would make me more interesting or more ostracized?
After they wrapped, Langham shot off to the nearest pub. Phoebe shrugged on her coat and hat.
“Good night, Miss Adler, or should I say Marrow,” Tommy said, bopping her lightly on the shoulder.
“Marrow, like that stuff in bones?” Phoebe asked.
“I suppose so,” he said. “Our air raid wardress was called Mrs. Marrow—made of steel, she was. Here, have a choc,” he said, handing her a Rolo.
Phoebe was so stunned that by the time she remembered to thank him, he’d disappeared.
* * *
• • •
That typical London rain—light and misty, just enough to get under the skin and make a person realize why tea and scones were such a dietary staple—beat down on Phoebe as she walked home from the Charing Cross station. She couldn’t be bothered to tie her scarf around her head, letting her hair frizz into a beehive some women paid good money for. Rounding the corner on Meard Street, she heard a mournful saxophone wail from a back window.
Red Letter Days Page 18
