Platinum Doll

by Anne Girard

  The business had already taught her that an ally could come in handy.

  Just then, the tall, strikingly handsome actor, with a wide, genuine smile and massive hazel eyes, approached her and introduced himself. Clearly, she thought, he was aware of the effect his smile had on women, but his swarthy good looks did not have the same effect on her.

  “I’ve got to say, you’re not at all like the kind of girl I’d imagined you were,” he said sheepishly after they had conversed for a few minutes.

  “Well, join the club. It’s growing bigger by the day. You can be the president, if you’d like.”

  “You’re quite funny, Miss Harlow.”

  She softened, but still only slightly. “Call me Jean.”

  It wasn’t what she wanted to say. Everyone called her the Baby but with trust so important to her, that offering was far off.

  “Jean, it is. And my friends call me Gabe.”

  “By the way, every girl on the set has been eyeing you. I’m obviously the last to know you are kind of a big thing, Gabe.”

  “I’ve played enough third-rate theaters and road companies never to take myself all that seriously,” he said warmly, and his eyes crinkled at the corners.

  That way he had about himself, in addition to being so good-looking, was likely what drew Hollywood.

  “I don’t take Jean Harlow all that seriously, either,” she responded with a genuine laugh.

  Clearly, they had surprised each other. They weren’t friends yet, but Harlean found herself already thinking that could change one day and they actually could be.

  * * *

  In spite of her initial optimism, by noon Harlean was at her wit’s end. Beery was as rude and abrasive as she’d expected, but she forced herself to hold her tongue. It felt like Hell’s Angels all over again. Then her mother waltzed onto the set to have lunch with her. Much to Harlean’s surprise, she came with newly coiffed hair, dyed just that morning, the exact platinum shade as her daughter.

  “Who did your hair for you?” she asked.

  Harlean could hear the gossipy murmurs around them about it. Rosalie had been in Toluca Lake Park working on a picture so Harlean knew she hadn’t done it.

  “After looking positively everywhere in town, I finally found this lovely man who said he would kill to be the one doing your color, so I auditioned him for you,” she explained with a pleased smile. “Since you and I look so much alike I thought, why not? The results are impressive, wouldn’t you agree?”

  It honestly struck Harlean as desperate, and even a little sad, but she could not let that show. If her mother wanted to dye her hair to match hers, Harlean decided to appear duly flattered by the compliment, at least outwardly. The age difference between thirty-nine and almost twenty notwithstanding, Harlean was still devoted to her mother’s zest for life. She knew there were those, like Chuck, who didn’t understand her or who questioned her motives. Harlean now accepted that there would always be those people. But there was still no one like her mother for her absolute unfailing belief in her daughter’s destiny—a destiny that had come true, she believed, in large part because of Jean Harlow Bello. In spite of her manipulating and her obsessive need for control, she still owed her mother everything.

  * * *

  The next day of filming felt longer to her and more intense even than the first. In spite of Harlean knowing all of her lines, Beery seemed to want to vent his frustrations on her, and he took every opportunity to do so. With neither of them highly experienced, she and Gable became fast friends amid the tumult Beery created on the set.

  “Gosh, I was nervous. How’d I do?” she anxiously asked him after she’d finished shooting a scene.

  “Gee, kid, I’m no expert, but you do shine,” Gable exclaimed as the crew began to set up the next scene.

  She smiled at him with heartfelt gratitude and, while she decided to accept the compliment, she went on to ask him the same question several more times. In return, he asked her about his own performance since Beery intimidated them both.

  “So, what’s a nice dame like you doing in a business like this, anyway?” Gable asked that afternoon.

  The two of them were playing a game of cards while the director conferred with the formidable cigar-smoking Louis B. Mayer, who had taken this occasion to come onto the set.

  Gable wore a black tuxedo and Harlean’s costume was a flowing evening gown with which she wore dangling rhinestone earrings. They both found the portly, bespectacled Mayer a commanding presence even though Harlean had gone to school with his daughter, and they had shared that good-natured challenge that had launched her career. Irene Mayer’s father was such a force in Hollywood that nothing could soften that.

  She and Gable kept playing until they saw Mayer and his male assistant approaching the card table.

  “Oh, damn, we’re both done for,” Gable quipped beneath his breath and kept his head down. “Well, it was nice knowin’ ya, kid.”

  Harlean stifled a nervous giggle that faded quickly as Gable shot to his feet. She set down her fanned hand of cards and stood up beside him, both of them looking more like guilty children about to be reprimanded than two rising stars in a Hollywood picture.

  “Harlow, Gable, I’ve just had a look at the dailies from yesterday and the two of you’ve got chemistry. I’m pleased. Keep up the good work,” Mayer announced in a gruff, no-nonsense tone.

  He chomped down on his cigar.

  “Thank you, sir,” Gable said as he raked back his dark, oiled hair, then shoved his hands into the pockets of his tuxedo trousers.

  “How old are you, Harlow?”

  “Nineteen, Mr. Mayer, but I’ll be twenty in March.”

  “My daughter’s age. You look much older than she does.”

  “I went to school with Irene, sir. My name was Harlean Carpenter back then.”

  His eyes lit with recognition. “Your mother was the divorced woman.”

  “She’s remarried now. The two of them manage my career.”

  He wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something foul beyond the odor of his own cigar smoke. “The Bellos.”

  He rolled his eyes before he walked away.

  “Your mother must be somethin’ else,” Gable said after Mayer had left the set.

  “Oh, she’s a force, all right,” Harlean quipped. “I’m just happy she’s in my corner!”

  But the set for The Secret Six did not always lend itself to levity. Beery continued to bluster and rage much of the time, lashing out at the cast and crew at will. Even though she had endured similar behavior from the director James Whale, Harlean did what she could to stay out of Beery’s way—until late one afternoon, when she delivered a line incorrectly.

  “Dammit to hell, can I ever be in a picture with one dame in it who has bigger brains than tits?” he crudely growled.

  Harlean felt the blood drain from her face. “I’m sorry, Mr. Beery, but it was just one line.”

  “One line that means we have to film the whole damn scene over again at this hour!”

  She felt the powerful press of tears at the backs of her eyes but this time she stubbornly refused to cry them. No, not this time. She had come too far to give a bully the satisfaction.

  “I said I’m sorry.”

  “Well, I am not losing my dinner reservation for some blonde bimbo!”

  Suddenly, it felt like someone had turned a switch in her mind. She’d had enough. “Listen, there is no reason to be nasty. I’m sorry, and I’ll get it right the next time!”

  Harlean could hear whispers from the shadowy sidelines where the director and the assistant director sat watching the exchange. She tipped her chin up, trying to rise above the moment.

  “You damn well better, toots, because I’m in no mood for amateurs today.”

  She felt G
able approach behind her in support but before he could intercede, she took a step forward toward Beery. She stiffened her spine, along with her resolve, and met his angry stare straight on.

  “All right, listen, mister, I didn’t like it very much yesterday when you made us all wait because you were late getting back from lunch and then you flubbed your line, and you did it more than once. Yes, we all noticed. But no one bullied you because even we amateurs know about respect for fellow actors! And don’t ever call me toots again.”

  She came close to poking a finger in his chest. But less is more, she thought, remembering that sage advice Hal Roach had once given her.

  “Fair point,” Beery finally conceded after the charged silence that followed. The sharp lines of his expression softened. Then he said, “Let’s take it from the top, gang.”

  The suggestion was uttered as amenably as if he was everyone’s friend.

  The great Wallace Beery had backed down.

  Harlean tried very hard not to show a victorious smile as everyone gradually returned to their places, but the pride she felt in that moment was exhilarating.

  As everyone packed up after the day of shooting, Gable approached her. He was still wearing that smoldering grin that Harlean was sure had seduced more than a few women.

  “Say, kid, what about hitting the Cocoanut Grove tonight with me?” Gable asked as she slipped her arms into the sleeves of her gray coat.

  “For starters, I hear you’re married.”

  “You gonna hold that against me when I’m just asking for a few drinks and a little dancing to relax after a long day at the office?” he asked with a charming smile that, quite against her will, made her knees weak. Oh, he was trouble, all right.

  But Harlean arched an eyebrow and smiled back at him, knowing full well that she could give as good as she got in the clever repartee department.

  “That’s all you want?”

  “So bring a date if you’re that concerned. I’ll bring a friend. Come on, what do you say, kid?”

  Harlean had agreed to see Paul that evening but, even though she was smart enough to avoid Gable romantically, she had come to really enjoy his company, too. They understood one another and they shared the same sense of humor. There was also something about the similar place they both were in their careers that made her feel a deepening connection with him. Even after a couple of days she knew he would be a big star—if his wife, or a jealous husband, didn’t kill him first.

  The Cocoanut Grove was in full swing by the time she and Paul arrived to join Gable. He was sitting at a prominent table in the center of the room, as if he were holding court, and there were two very pretty, scantily clad girls standing next to his chair and giggling in open flirtation. She watched him revel in their attentions, hardly noticing her approach.

  “Hello, Hal,” Paul said to Gable’s companion, a man with a prominent forehead and dark hair that was combed straight back matching a thick, neatly trimmed mustache. He was a burly man, but not stout, attractive, but not handsome.

  He stood to shake Paul’s hand as Gable gradually turned his attention back to the table.

  “Jean, this is Hal Rosson. He’s one of our best cinematographers at MGM.”

  “Miss Harlow,” Rosson said with a sedate nod.

  He had the most lovely eyes, she thought, gentle and a little mysterious. She could see already that he had a reserved, gentlemanly manner about him that was intriguing.

  “Always a wise move to make friends with the guys who can make you look good,” Gable said through that winning smile that eclipsed everyone around him. “But seriously, Hal’s a real peach. And he can drink me under the table any day, which earned him my respect right out of the gate. Hello, Jean. My, don’t you clean up swell.”

  “Where’s your wife tonight, Gabe?” Paul asked as they sat down at the table covered in white linen, amid the upbeat jazz tune.

  “She’s a society dame. She doesn’t go for this sort of thing,” Gable replied easily as they all picked up their menus and began to peruse them.

  Harlean thought Paul was needling the actor, knowing perfectly well that his wife did not live in Hollywood and that Gable spent most of his social time with Joan Crawford.

  They’d only just ordered when the table full of men beside them began to laugh and heckle.

  “It absolutely is her, it’s that tramp from the picture, I tell ya. I’d know that rack of hers anywhere,” one of them cackled.

  The others quickly joined him. Harlean felt a hot rush of embarrassment flush her cheeks. She knew perfectly well it was what the world thought of her.

  “Ask her to dance, Phil. I bet she dances real fine.”

  His tone assured her it had not been a compliment. Again, a chorus of guffaws rose above the rousing orchestra tune.

  “Easy, fellas,” Gable intervened. His smile disappeared and his eyebrows knit together in a frown. Harlean could hear him try to maintain an affable tone in his warning. “We are with a lady right here. Let’s keep things clean, shall we?”

  Again the trio snickered.

  “She’s a starlet, not a lady,” one of them said loudly enough to be heard by everyone.

  “Do you want to leave?” Paul asked her.

  Hal stood. Something about him reminded her of a prizefighter. “You two aren’t leaving, they are,” he firmly announced.

  “All right, easy there now, boys. Nobody wants any trouble here,” one of them said in a far more conciliatory tone as their laughter quickly faded away. Standing and tensed, Hal seemed more intimidating than she had at first imagined him to be.

  “Then apologize to the lady or we’ll have you tossed out,” Gable added in support of Rosson’s credible threat.

  Harlean watched with appreciation as Clark and Hal defended her, and Paul stood ready to whisk her away if need be.

  “Sorry, Miss Harlow,” one of them finally said. The other two grumbled out similar, short grudging words of contrition as Gable and Rosson eased back into their chairs.

  “People are gonna keep thinking I’m like that, especially when this new picture is finished. I need to do a comedy soon, to change people’s minds,” she said.

  While she spoke to them all, she had intended the comment for Paul, who had the power at MGM to find her the right comedy role and to stand up to Howard Hughes in order to get it for her. She knew he was working on it but she was determined to keep the notion at the forefront of his mind. In response, Paul gave her hand a pat.

  An elegantly dressed couple was shown to the table beside them then. It took her attention from the trio of men who now were subdued and seemed to fade into the background of music and clinking glasses. The man wore a black tuxedo draped with a white silk neck scarf, and he had his arm around the striking blonde with him.

  “Be still my heart,” Gable exclaimed as he clutched his chest dramatically but in a low tone of voice. “An angel has just walked in the door and sat down beside me.”

  “That’s one you can’t have, Gabe. Gossip is Carole Lombard is taken,” Paul quietly informed him. “Mr. Mayer told me at a dinner party last night that she and Bill Powell are engaged. It was really just a matter of time, so tuck your charms back in.”

  “Never say never,” Gable mused as the man seated his date and when he turned, Harlean saw that it was indeed the dashing actor from the train and the Brown Derby and every fantasy she’d ever had.

  In this crowded room, filled with laughter, music and the buzz of activity, William Powell’s chair was close enough to smell the spicy musk of his cologne. For a moment, she was too starstruck even to move.

  “Let’s congratulate the happy couple, shall we?” Gable said with a devilish grin. “I’ve always wanted to meet an angel.”

  “Evening, Hal,” William Powell said, affably nodding to Hal Rosson before
introductions were needed. “And Paul, nice to see you here, too.”

  “Bill, do you know Clark Gable?” Paul asked.

  “Haven’t had the pleasure, I’m afraid, but I’ve heard a lot about you. Doug Fairbanks and his wife sing your praises. And this is my gal, Carole,” Powell said.

  As Harlean heard the proud tone in his voice, her heart sank a little. Carole Lombard may be gorgeous, but she was lucky to have such a debonair man look at her as devotedly as he did, and speak as though he were delivering lines from Shakespeare.

  “Bill and Carole, this is Jean Harlow,” Gable added. “We’re working on a picture together right now with Wallace Beery.”

  “My sympathies to you both,” Powell joked as his gaze finally met Harlean’s. Those eyes, she thought. I could drown in them. “Of course. You’re the girl from Hell’s Angels. Loved that, didn’t we, honey?” he asked Lombard, who acknowledged Harlean with a polite nod. “You were just terrific in it.”

  “Thank you,” she finally replied, although she was quite certain the sound of her voice was more like a croak. Even after all the movie stars she’d seen, he was still that appealing to her.

  Film stars, movie industry moguls...she couldn’t quite believe the company she was keeping these days. It was still striking to her how far a girl from Missouri had come, and she hoped never to take any of it for granted.

  After that, she danced with Gable, and then once with Hal, as Paul looked on. Hal was nice, she thought, but so reserved. As they danced on the crowded floor she bumped into someone behind them. As if the evening already wasn’t unbelievable enough, when she turned around, Harlean came face-to-face with Pola Negri’s smoldering kohl-darkened gaze. For a moment, she couldn’t speak, or even think. The actress, who she so long had adored, looked just like she did in the pictures and magazines. She knew that she was staring, but she couldn’t help herself. Negri was so elegant and delicate looking. All of her girlhood dreams of life in the motion picture business came rushing back at her in that instant.

  “Say, you’re Jean Harlow, aren’t you?” Negri asked in a surprisingly thick Polish accent Harlean had never envisioned her having.