by Anne Girard
“Never entirely good to leave a beautiful young wife to her own devices.”
“I trust my husband and he trusts me.” She could hear a note of self-defense creeping into her own voice so she forced up a smile to mask it. But her heart was sinking further by the moment. It was certainly not how she had hoped this would go.
“Maybe he wouldn’t be so confident if he knew about the casting office.”
“I know you don’t like Chuck, but I love him, and if there is ever a reason to tell him I’ll do it in my own time and in my own way. You wouldn’t dare tell him about that!”
“Baby, it has nothing to do with liking him or not. You were too young and too impulsive when you married, and you have your whole life ahead of you.”
Harlean had longed for this reunion with her mother. For days she had excitedly imagined these first tender moments back together, where she would have a chance to share all that had been happening in her life more easily than on long-distance telephone calls. But this was not at all the encounter she had hoped for. It felt like her mother was attacking Chuck—and therefore attacking her, in that artfully passive way she had mastered—and Harlean could feel her defenses flare.
She was certainly hurt by it, even if she wasn’t ready to admit it to her mother. So far in her life, it had never been worth the price of Jean’s days-long, stormy tirades if she felt even the least bit confronted or questioned.
“You were young when you married my daddy.”
“And you see how that ended up.”
“Well, that won’t happen to us because we married for the right reasons.”
“Time will tell, I suppose.”
Anxious for a distraction, Harlean glanced down at her mother’s lovely silk-faille-covered shoes, ornamented with large square, silver buckles.
“Gee, those are awfully keen.”
She knew her mother well enough—better really than anyone else did—to know that this was the best way to divert a scene or end a problem. It was also far more clever than initiating a full-scale tirade so soon after her mother’s arrival. Harlean might not always be as forceful as she would like to be, but she did take pride in her ingenuity. For now that would have to do.
Jean glanced down at her own feet, the tense moment between them extinguished in the face of sudden fashion talk, which they both adored.
“Oh, good, I’m glad you like them because, as it happens, I brought you a pair just like them, so we can be twins!”
“Gosh, that’s great, thank you, Mommie. I just love them!”
Suddenly, Marino was standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, wearing his customary sly grin. He always reminded Harlean of a gangster, but that was another thing she would never tell her mother. Jean believed him to be the sophisticated savior of a floundering Midwest beauty. In reality, he was a smarmy, two-bit huckster.
“So what have you two gorgeous dames got in store for me today?”
As he posed the question, he touched his moustache. Harlean supressed a twinge of disgust in response. What her mother saw in him she would never know, and she certainly didn’t care to. But they were here now, and Harlean fully intended to take advantage of the visit in order to bring her mother and her husband together at last. She certainly didn’t want this turmoil, she didn’t like it, so that was about to come to an end. She would figure out a way. Being in Hollywood again had given her a new confidence she never knew she had, and finally Harlean felt up to the heady challenge.
* * *
Over the next few days, Jean and Marino settled into the house as if they meant to remain there indefinitely. Clothing was steadily being strewn and piled everywhere in the bedroom and the bathroom. A few pieces even found their way into the living room. Jean’s favorite tablecloth now covered the table in place of one Chuck and Harlean had bought on their honeymoon cruise, and the music on the radio was nearly always the Italian opera that Marino fancied.
As a clear response to their presence in his home, Chuck left early most mornings before Harlean awoke. When he returned at night, he was most often under the influence of more than a few drinks.
“I hate this damn guest room,” he grumbled in the dark as he flopped onto the edge of the bed and tried to remove his own shoes and socks without falling over.
Harlean pressed a hand onto his shoulder in a soothing gesture. “You’re only saying that because Mommie’s in the other room.”
“I’m saying it because I haven’t made love to my wife since her mother installed herself in my bedroom!”
“Shh, pipe down, or she’ll hear you!”
“This isn’t normal, doll, us being separated. I miss the feel of you, the way you taste. Not having you is driving me crazy!”
He pivoted on the bed and pressed her back into the pillows, then arched above her before she had a moment to object.
“I need you, Harlean. I need us. Your mother is gonna ruin everything, I know she will.”
“Don’t say that. You don’t know her like I do. She wants what’s best for me.”
“Not so long ago you told me that was me.”
His thighs anchored hers to the bed, his hands were tightly cuffing her wrists. Harlean pressed her hips into his, wanting the connection with him every bit as much as he did. But the walls in this house were thin, the two rooms separated only by boards and stucco. The springs on the bed frame creaked.
She could hear the muffled sounds of Marino and her mother talking in the other room.
Chuck kissed her again, one breast then the other. They were straining to hold back from what they both wanted.
“If we’re quiet...” he raggedly whispered.
“God, they’ll know, for sure!”
Harlean was meeting his kisses with anticipation. He pressed up her silk nightgown straining over her. “So what if they know? I need you, Harlean, you’re my wife!”
“Chuck! I can’t!”
Their heavy breathing fought the silence, though Marino’s muffled words still came through the thin walls. “I can’t go on like this!” Chuck growled.
“They’ve only been here a few days.”
He moved away from her and fell onto his back, his chest heaving. “Well, it feels like a goddamn eternity to me.”
Harlean nestled against him, the sound of his heart slamming in her ear. He was being petulant and spoiled. She waited for him to calm beneath her tender touch. “I love you, Chuck, with all my heart. You know I do.”
“Get them out of here, Harlean. I want my wife back.”
It was the last thing he said before he rolled away from her and pulled the covers up to create a barrier between them.
* * *
Harlean rose early the next morning so she could let the dog outside in the backyard. There was a light mist covering the lawn and the sunrise sky was all rose and vermilion. She stood watching it for a while before she went back in to make a pot of coffee, then sank onto one of the new kitchen chairs. She’d been awake most of the night, wanting Chuck as much as he had wanted her and struggling with guilt over refusing him. As glad as she had been about her mother’s arrival, it had changed things. The Bellos just needed their own house nearby and then everything would be fine.
Everything would get back to normal.
The ringing of the phone startled her. She lunged toward the dining room nook to answer it. She needed this bit of peace, time to herself. She certainly didn’t want Chuck to wake in a fouler mood than the one in which he had gone to bed.
“Hello?”
“Jean Harlow, please.”
“I’m sorry, my mother is still asleep and—”
Only then, as the words crossed her lips, did she remember the name she had given to Central Casting. She was Jean Harlow.
She cleared her throat. “Jean
Harlow speaking.”
“Bring your best evening gown to the Paramount Pictures lot. Get here by nine and be prepared to spend the day.”
The voice was male, young and in a hurry. She heard the click on the other end before she had a chance to ask if she could bring her mother.
Stunned, Harlean set the phone back in the cradle, then sank against the wall. The spark of excitement she had felt faded quickly when she thought of her mother, asleep and unaware, in the next room. In spite of the enthusiasm she had initially shown, Harlean could not help wondering how the news would truly strike her. After all, Jean Harlow Bello was a beautiful woman who had struggled for years, then finally had given up on her dream only to have her young, pretty daughter called for work in a matter of days—and while using her mother’s name.
Harlean fought against the disloyalty and worry she felt. Not only was her mother likely to feel envious, Chuck would doubtlessly feel threatened that a group of men might want to use her in a motion picture.
Hollywood is no place for a lady.
The echo of her grandfather’s voice the last time they’d spoken moved through her mind now and added to what she knew would be a resounding chorus of discontent if she went through with this. A silly dare had very suddenly become something more. Harlean couldn’t help but feel as if she were on the cusp of some monumental thing, but she still wasn’t certain that finding out just what it might be was worth the risks with those she loved.
Chapter Seven
She decided to leave a note for Chuck saying that she was going off for the day with Rosalie and she was taking the car. Then she left before anyone was awake. She didn’t trust herself with them about this yet—her mother would be pushing for one side and her husband would be dead set against it on the other. After all, she kept reminding herself, it was rare to actually be chosen for work from the huge pool of extras they called in. For luck, she had just pinned Irene Mayer’s brooch squarely onto the collar of her dress and, before turning from the mirror’s reflection, she had admired her ingenuity in obtaining it. Ah, Irene’s face when she had presented the business card to her and demanded payment had made the entire adventure worthwhile. Of course she would return it in time, but for now the brooch was a symbol of her having set out to prove something to herself, setting a goal and then achieving it.
Always finish what you start. It was another thing her grandfather regularly said, and the maxim came to her as she walked across the studio lot with a renewed purpose. She wondered, with a spark of amusement, if he would think that applied to his only grandchild trying to wade into the turbulent, highly competitive waters of Hollywood. She already knew the answer to that, of course.
Skip Harlow would be livid.
Two men in silk top hats and tails, each carrying scripts, walked by her with bearded men in plaid shirts and cowboy boots. A group of actresses in dance-hall costumes stopped them to talk. Others wearing ponchos, sombreros and great false mustaches passed her by as she made her way through the bustling Paramount back lot. There was such energy to the atmosphere that she hadn’t seen when she was younger, and there was a touch of mystery to it. Harlean hadn’t expected to be drawn in by any of it today, but being in the center of everything, and on her own, suddenly felt exciting.
After she checked in at the casting office with a hundred other extras, the women were all shown to a huge room, the walls lined with mirrors, where they could change into the evening attire they had brought with them. Most of the women kept to themselves as they primped, straightened and pinned themselves together. They ranged from stout-looking matrons to slim ingenues. Her mother and Rosalie had both told her that if the hopefuls received a nod in the next few minutes it would mean a day’s wages to actors who were more than a little down on their luck. She could hear several of them murmuring prayers and affirmations to themselves as they filed back outside to line up around the soundstage.
While they all waited together, Harlean began to feel as if she were trapped in a crushing jungle of competition and desperation. Most of it was costumed in stained, faded or mended satin, or taffeta and fake fur. The actresses around her gossiped, smoked cigarettes and cracked chewing gum to lessen the strain and pass the time.
Harlean fluffed the rose silk evening dress she had worn on the cruise. It was couture and had cost her grandfather a small fortune. She guessed that hers was the only dress that had actually come from a Paris designer as she compared it to the faded costumes around her.
A no-nonsense-looking woman and man, both in gray business attire, surveyed the long line. The man quickly assessed each hopeful extra and only occasionally said “you.” The woman wrote down the person’s name on the clipboard she carried, and they moved steadily on.
He had chosen at least thirty by the time he came to Harlean. To her surprise, she felt her heart begin to pound. Suddenly, she desperately did not want to be passed over. It was a curious sensation—one that felt unnervingly like a growing sense of ambition.
When he stopped in front of her, Harlean saw that he was a remarkably young and fresh-faced man for the job. However, his gaze held the critical stare of a professional who had been at this a while.
“You, what’s your name?”
“Harl... Jean Harlow, sir.”
“Quite a looker. The director will want you, for sure.”
She was uncertain whether or not she was meant to respond.
“Follow the others,” he said with no inflection in his voice. He moved along down the line and, just like that, her moment was over.
The chosen extras were herded inside a vast soundstage. Cloth-draped tables encircled a large dance floor and huge Georgian-style faux windows, covered with silk draperies tied back with claret-colored cords, gave the illusion of an elegant restaurant dining room.
There was a group of tuxedo-clad actors standing around joking as Harlean and the others came in. The extras were each told to take a seat, then wait for an assistant director to move them around in what felt to Harlean like a game of musical chairs. After everyone was settled, she found herself wedged tightly at a table beside a stout, white-haired woman wearing a rhinestone tiara and a long necklace of amber-colored glass beads.
“Any idea what the picture is called?” Harlean asked the older woman as she took out a cigarette and casually lit it with a gold lighter.
“Not a clue. But a paycheck is a paycheck. Lula Hanford,” she said in a slightly graveled, no-nonsense tone.
Harlean was struck by the unique name. It was lovely.
“Jean Harlow.”
“You’re new around the lot, aren’t you?”
“Does it show that much?”
She knew she probably sounded as green as grass, and looked it, as well.
Lula gave a raspy chuckle and exhaled a cloud of smoke as a production assistant began to fill water glasses on each of the tables, and another was shouting to the assistant director. “It only shows to an old broad like me. I’ve been around a long time, and I’ve worked with ’em all—Buster Keaton, Mary Pickford, John Barrymore...”
“No kidding?”
“Sure. They put their pants on one leg at a time just like you and me.”
“Although I bet Miss Pickford wouldn’t like her public to think of America’s Sweetheart putting on her pants, just like all the boys,” Harlean quipped in a low voice.
Lula Hanford chuckled. “You’re sharper than you look.”
“Thanks...I think.” It was quickly becoming her standard response. She knew she could use more confidence, and she meant to work on that.
“Relax, it was a compliment. A talented girl who looks like you could go far in pictures.”
“If one of them doesn’t poison my water.”
They both glanced at the next table where four sour-faced women were seated together. Each of them shot
Harlean a foul glare before they looked away.
“Or trip you on your way to the toilet. That happened to me once when I was much younger, so you gotta watch out.”
“I’ll have to remember that.”
“It can happen just as easily when you’re older. I worked on a picture with Lillian Gish once and played the second lead. Beautiful girl, sweet, too, but she was always trying to steal my scenes, which I never understood since I was playing her mother.”
Harlean found herself thinking that she could learn a thing or two from this woman as the work to set up the scene continued around them. Two of the actors in white dinner jackets were being instructed on how to hold the trays. Harlean hadn’t realized before now about the details—every hat, every necktie—all needed to be in place. There was something fascinatingly meticulous about it.
“Still, that must have been so gratifying to see your name on a marquee.”
“Not another feeling in the world like it, honey,” Lula said.
“Places, everyone!” the assistant director called out. “Quiet on the set!”
Suddenly chatter, mimicking the sounds in a restaurant rose up naturally at the director’s signal. Harlean leaned forward as though she were speaking to the other woman seated across the table. Her heart was still racing, even though she struggled to look exceedingly nonchalant. She tried to imagine being a worldly young woman, and conveying it, so that if the camera caught her it would pick that up.
Being in the middle of this was certainly more exhilarating than she had expected. The dare had become a surprising pleasure.
The scene took several hours to shoot. It was shot and reshot before the slim, gaunt-faced man sitting beside her injected himself into her conversation with Lula Hanford.
“Say, weren’t we in that picture with Buck Jones a few years back?” he asked Lula.
“I love Buck Jones!” Harlean interrupted, sounding every bit seventeen, even if she didn’t look it in her gown and makeup.
“Bit pompous for my taste, but handsome enough,” said the man seated on Harlean’s other side. His eyes were bloodshot and his hands were shaking. He looked like he could use a drink. Lula looked more closely at him.
