It sounded to Gwendolyn like Judy was starting to grope around in the dark without the sort of flashlight Gwendolyn could provide.
The studio was coming up on them fast.
“Billy and I have started work on the Soldier of Fortune costumes for Susan Hayward and Anna Sten,” Gwendolyn said, “Billy has also asked me to put together options for Gable and Michael Rennie. You could happen to be around when the guys come in.” She realized she had pushed too hard when Judy hit the brake at the security gate.
The guard leaned out the window. “The big guy’s office called down here. Mr. Z. wants to see you straight away.” He lifted the boom gate and waved them through.
Judy gave a long whistle. “Does he think you’re gonna sue him for getting popped on his lot?” She parked outside the administrative building and pulled out a copy of The Disenchanted. The novel was a biting attack on life in Hollywood—an interesting choice for a nineteen-year old. “I’ll be here until Zanuck’s finished with you, then I’ll run you over to Costuming. Mother’s chomping at the bit to have you back.”
* * *
When Zanuck told her to take a seat, Gwendolyn gave up any ladylike pretense of lowering herself into the visitor chair with poise and dignity. She half-threw herself into it, landing with a soft groan.
“I was sorry to hear what happened to you on No Business.” Deep furrows wrinkled his brow with what appeared to be candid concern.
“Thank you, Mr. Zanuck.”
“I assume your foot or ankle or whatever is okay now?”
“Getting better every day.”
He let out a yelping guffaw as he pulled on a half-smoked cigar. “Man, oh man, but that damned DiMaggio guy can be a hothead, huh? I sure hope he apologized to you.”
Gwendolyn weighed up the pros and cons of pointing out that the only two people she hadn’t heard from during her convalescence were Joe DiMaggio and Darryl Zanuck. Marilyn was the one who’d sent cards and letters and flowers and books and magazines and apologies and regrets. But her ankle was healing nicely and she was keen to get back to work.
“How may I help you, Mr. Zanuck?”
“I’m taking you away from costumes.”
Gwendolyn felt a jolt. “Why would you do that?”
“You’re too valuable to me to waste your time stitching frocks together.”
“I do more than just—”
“I’m creating a new job. You’re going to be a special assistant.”
“A—what?”
“You’ll be doing special projects for me.”
“What kind?”
“As needed.”
Gwendolyn didn’t like the sound of this. No sirree, not one little bit. Zanuck was a man with a well-earned reputation of keeping tabs on every aspect of the movie-making process. “As needed” sounded suspiciously vague. But he said it with such decisive finality that she felt as cornered as she had when he’d recruited her to snoop on Marilyn.
“Why me?” she asked him. “I’m handy with needles and threads, and, I suppose, I have an appealing bedside manner when it comes to handling insecure actresses like Loretta and Marilyn. But that’s about it.”
Zanuck snuffed out the cigar in a square copper ashtray with his initials, DFZ, stenciled in complex, intertwining calligraphy. He fixed her with a look that bordered on wistful.
“You have the darndest habit of popping up like a jack-in-the-box. You stopped me from getting poisoned that night at Chasen’s. You reconnected me with Hilda. And when that nude calendar debacle blew up with Marilyn, there you were, giving her safe harbor. Who stepped in to stop DiMaggio when nobody else was shutting him down that day? And who helped bring Gable to Fox?”
“I’m sure I was one of a whole chorus of crickets chirping in his ear.”
“Being too modest will get you no place in this town.”
“I’m just a gal who’s trying to get along.”
“Of course,” Zanuck continued, “this does mean a pay increase.”
Gwendolyn doubted that Zanuck had any idea of her salary. On the other hand, he was King of All Details.
“It does?” she asked, feigning nonchalance as best she could.
“I’m doubling your pay.”
It meant halving the time it would take to pay off her Chez Gwendolyn bank loan. “That’s very generous.”
“Effective immediately.”
Gwendolyn pictured the mound of half-finished gowns waiting for her in the costuming department. She could only accomplish so much at home with a throbbing ankle hoisted onto pillows. The vision of inchoate outfits vanished, and in its place rose Loretta Young, her face flushed with irritation, demanding to know why she was being left in the lurch.
“When you say ‘immediately,’ you don’t mean today, do you?”
“Why not?”
“Miss Young’s show starts again in a couple of weeks. I haven’t completed any of her entrance gowns.”
“We have a whole costume department.”
“The relationship between a performer and their costumer isn’t about needles and threads. It’s about trust, and support, and—”
“How long do you need?”
“I’ll have to butter her up. Of course, it would’ve helped if you’d cast her in A Woman’s World.”
“June Allyson was a much better fit, but point taken.”
“I’ve got six gowns lined up and with help, I can probably finish one every other day. So, two weeks?”
“Three days.”
“But Mr. Zanuck—”
“That’s all I can give you.” He pushed aside a stack of scripts and dragged across a folder with a bunch of pages jammed inside. “I want to talk to you about a new project. It’s called On the Deck of the Missouri, and I need your help to land the screen rights.”
Gwendolyn’s ankle started to throb. “On the deck of the what?”
“Don’t look at me like that—I know the author is your brother.”
As far as Gwendolyn knew, Monty had called his memoir My Summer in Tokyo Bay. She thought of all the times Monty had visited with her, often first thing in the morning or when he got home at the end of the day. I wish I could say I knew that he’d changed the title.
“Yes, he is.”
“It has the earmarks of a damn fine motion picture, so all the major studios are putting in bids.”
“And you want me to persuade Monty to give you the rights.”
“See? You’re one smart cookie.”
“You don’t need to involve me, Mr. Zanuck. Just offer Monty more money than everyone else.”
The rosy hue of Zanuck’s lips disappeared as he pressed them together. “Your brother’s literary agent is one taciturn bastard.”
You think Monty shares all this with me? If you’re willing to double my salary to get the rights to a book whose name I didn’t even know, the joke’s on you, mister.
A generous offer from a Hollywood studio could set Monty up very nicely should he decide to quit the navy. The last thing Gwendolyn wanted was to inadvertently sabotage the deal. She’d spent more than enough years watching Marcus getting pushed and pulled by the studio system to know what it thought of writers.
“Mr. Zanuck,” she said, “I’ve only seen my brother a handful of times in the last twenty-five years. He’s a military man who plays his cards closer to his chest than your gold tiepin. I doubt my poking around in his business will do either of us much good.”
He opened his mouth but she raised her right hand and showed him her palm.
“Which isn’t to say I won’t try,” she continued. She made an exaggerated movement of looking at her watch. “I’ve been away from the department for three weeks. I’ve fallen behind with Miss Young’s gowns and The Seven Year Itch is coming up. Now that you’ve only given me three days, I’ll need every minute I can get.”
Zanuck pushed his chair away from the desk and rapped a knuckle against his window. “The girl in the convertible down there—is that Judy Lewis?”
“It is.”
“You planning on taking her to the Solider of Fortune set?”
“Already suggested.”
A knowing look passed between them. “And that is why I’m promoting you to special assistant. Now get along, and if Loretta kicks up a stink, tell her to come see me.”
Gwendolyn hauled herself to her feet and made the long trek from Zanuck’s desk to his office door as soundlessly as she could. By the time she got there, he was already in his seat, blue pencil in hand, eyes darting across a new script as though he’d already forgotten she’d been there.
CHAPTER 24
Kathryn drove into the parking lot of the Moulin Rouge nightclub on Sunset Boulevard and pulled into the first space she came to.
“If you’re not feeling well,” she told her mother, “I can put you in a taxi.”
“Not a chance.” Francine tugged a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her face. In an attempt to cloak her pallor, she’d applied so much rouge that it approached clown-level color. “I shouldn’t have told you how I was feeling.”
“Dizziness and nausea aren’t symptoms you should be ignoring. Especially not—”
“If you say especially not at my age, I’ll clock you with my handbag.”
Francine said it with a smile, but Kathryn knew she meant it.
“I am glad you’re here,” she said. “I’m nervous as hell about what I have to do in there.”
If Leo’s Sunbeam – Betty Crocker – Westinghouse idea had remained a slight reinvention of Kathryn’s coast-to-coast tour from a couple of years back, Kathryn wouldn’t have been twitchy about taking the stage with Betty Furness and Adelaide Hawley. But Leo had turned into Florenz Ziegfeld and now it was the sort of show that people might see at the Desert Inn in Las Vegas with musicians, back-up singers, and a sophisticated set covered in glitter, mirrors, chandeliers, and spotlights. Kathryn wasn’t sure what she was walking into this morning, but she half-expected to see the Rockettes executing a military-precision kick line.
Francine jammed her handkerchief up her sleeve. “But you’ve been performing in front of audiences for years. Why is Suncrockerhouse any different?”
At some point, everybody had tacitly agreed that “Sunbeam – Betty Crocker – Westinghouse” was too big a mouthful so they’d adopted the more convenient shorthand “Suncrockerhouse” when referring to the show.
To Kathryn, the doors of the Moulin Rouge now looked like Rodin’s Gates of Hell. “I have a sneaking suspicion that Leo’s going to ask me to sing.”
Francine’s eyes bulged. “Do you remember that audition you did for Eddie Cantor?”
Cantor had announced he was putting together a nationwide tour and needed a child performer. Francine had forced an eleven-year-old Kathryn to audition with a maudlin song called “Baby Shoes.” She had been so bad that she’d left the stage in tears without stopping to retrieve the sheet music.
“Why do you think I never sang on my radio show?”
The two of them sat in Kathryn’s Oldsmobile as the seconds ticked by, until Francine said, “Are we going in, or are you taking me out to that expensive lunch you promised?”
“In, I guess.”
Francine propped her handbag on the edge of her knees. “If you’re truly terrible, I’ll let you know and you can tell Leo to come up with a substitute. Deal?”
Kathryn smiled. Why weren’t you this nice when I was growing up? She risked a light kiss on her mother’s cheek. “Deal.”
* * *
A sign in black with gold lettering hung twelve feet over the curved stage.
Sunbeam Mixmaster & Betty Crocker & Westinghouse Presents!
Leo stood with a stagehand in front of an elaborate kitchen set checking through a list with the diligence of a brain surgeon. Once they were done, he cupped his hands to his mouth and called “Okay, Jim. Let’s have it.”
A string of enormous key lights blazed to life, drenching the stage.
“What the hell?” Kathryn muttered. “They’re as bright as the ones on a movie set.”
Francine pointed out a huge camera in the semi-dark of the audience seating. Stenciled on a side panel was a sign that read: Property of 20th Century-Fox Studios.
Kathryn dropped her handbag on a nearby table. “LEO!”
“You’re here!” He pointed out the side stairs leading up to the stage. “I’ve got the most wonderful news!” He met her at the top of the steps. “I got a call yesterday from Fox Movietone Newsreel. They want to film the first show! Isn’t that marvelous? You couldn’t buy that sort of publicity!”
Kathryn nodded in feigned agreement.
“Not only that, but the newsreel is set to play ahead of Fox’s big holiday release.”
“There’s No Business Like Show Business?”
“I don’t know why Zanuck’s okayed this, and I didn’t stop to ask.”
After her encounter with Zanuck at Perino’s, Kathryn had received a cryptic thank-you for alerting him to how his affair with Bella Darvi wasn’t as clandestine as he assumed, and a promise that he would pay back her good turn.
Leo searched Kathryn’s face for excitement. “Aren’t you thrilled?”
“Sure. It’s just that—”
Kathryn pulled out a square sheet of white cardboard she’d found under her front door the previous night. It contained four lines of what looked to her like song lyrics written in Leo’s pristine penmanship.
Sunbeam’s new Mixmaster
Mixes my Betty batter faster
It makes my baking more ambitious
’Cause everything turns out so delicious.
She held the card up to face height. “What is this?” Please don’t say lyrics. Please don’t say lyrics.
“Lyrics to the big song! What do you think?”
Another crewmember with another clipboard approached him for his authority to pay the band. She caught sight of three words—“ten-piece orchestra”—and waited until the crewmember departed.
“An orchestra?”
“Nothing but the best, baby!”
She waved the card in Leo’s face. “Please tell me I won’t be singing.”
“Each of you gets a verse and then you’ll harmonize the chorus together.” It took him an infuriatingly long moment to notice the frown on Kathryn’s face. “Is that a problem?”
“Betty and Adelaide are professional performers. This sort of stuff comes naturally to them.”
“But you’re Kathryn Massey!” Leo took a step back and crossed his arms. “You’ve got more moxie than anybody I know. I assumed you’d be up for anything.”
“Normally I would be, but singing? In front of hundreds of people? And a newsreel camera? That’s where I draw the line. And nobody says ‘moxie’ anymore.”
A shriek of laughter from Betty and Adelaide rang out from the rear of the cavernous auditorium.
“You’re refusing to sing?” Leo asked.
Not if you’re going to look at me with those moon-faced droopy eyes. “I didn’t say that.”
“How about we do a couple of run-throughs and see how it goes?”
Kathryn fanned herself. “Okay.”
Leo pulled her into a hug and whispered several hurried thank-yous as her costars climbed onto the stage, brimming with all the verve and chutzpah Kathryn wished she possessed.
* * *
“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” Leo announced in front of the footlights. “A few wrinkles to iron out, of course, but that was a wonderful first rehearsal. We’ll see you tomorrow morning, ten a.m. sharp.”
Kathryn descended the stairs, each step more wearying than the previous. She made it to Francine’s table with very little left in her tank. “All those years I did Window on Hollywood,” she said, plopping herself into the chair beside her mother, “I was never so drained as I am right now.”
Even with no audience, no cameras, no microphones, and only the crew looking on, singing Leo’s harmless little ditty was Kathryn’s wor
st nightmare come to life. Leo had told her that she was fine; so had Betty and Adelaide. But Kathryn paid them no heed. The opinion of the woman sitting next to her was the only one that mattered.
Kathryn had seen what happened when people surrounded themselves with sycophants. If “You’re fantastic! You’re so talented! You’re one hundred percent correct!” was all they ever heard, they start to believe it, and that’s where careers fell apart. But “straight from the hip” was Francine’s sole modus operandi, so she was the only person in this room whom Kathryn trusted.
The two of them seemed to be getting along better recently. Francine was sixty-six now, and Kathryn hoped perhaps her mom was slipping into a less feisty, less combative, less judgmental age. But she was still strong-willed enough to let fly with a brutal opinion.
“Leo has put together a very slick show.” Francine’s verdict lacked conviction, scuttling Kathryn’s confidence. “Lots of lively razzle-dazzle.”
“But how was I? Both barrels, Mother.”
Francine dabbed at her forehead. “You didn’t embarrass yourself. I mean, obviously, Betty and Adelaide know what they’re doing. Meanwhile, you were floundering around like a beached marlin. But you’ve got gumption and it shows. Your audiences will appreciate that.” She reached out and patted Kathryn’s hand. “You were fine, darling.”
Francine Massey wasn’t a tactile parent, so this warm act was unprecedented. What a shame her hand was so cold.
“You’re freezing. If you’re not feeling well, we can skip lunch—”
“What did I tell you?”
* * *
Kathryn’s Oldsmobile purred to life. “I haven’t been to the Polo Lounge in a while and it’s so nice during summer.” She pulled onto Sunset.
Two blocks later, Francine said, “I’ve changed my mind.”
It was a phrase Kathryn had never heard coming from her mother. Coupled with the hand gesture, this was turning into a red-letter day. “I didn’t get around to making a booking, so we can eat someplace else.”
City of Myths Page 19
