Hoodwink

by Rhonda Roberts

  ‘Action,’ said Ada.

  The camera was focused on Scarlett’s sleeping face. A female extra wearing the Confederate uniform and holding the sword sent a black menacing shadow across Scarlett’s face.

  Scarlett jerked up into a sitting position and screamed, arms held high and wide in fright. The camera caught her face in fraught close-up.

  ‘Cut,’ said Ada. ‘That’s excellent, Miss Leigh. That’s a wrap. Everyone take a break.’

  Hmm. Scarlett tries to kill Melanie … then turns into Melanie. Now the dream sequence worked.

  Just how often had Ada saved Earl’s films this way? That could add up to a whole lot of resentment.

  Vance Wheeler sidled up to me. ‘So how’s Phyllis?’ He perused my legs with professional interest.

  ‘Not good. I don’t think she’ll be back this week …’ I was busy studying Ada as she coached Vivien Leigh.

  Just how much did she hate Earl? She certainly had reason to.

  Vance tried again. ‘I guess you heard about the light that fell on Phyllis?’

  As intended, that got my attention.

  ‘One of my boys checked the ropes it was attached to … they’d frayed clean through.’

  I zoomed in on his last words.

  Frayed …

  ‘Just what are you suggesting, Vance?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said casually. ‘Just that everything in this place is falling apart. But don’t worry, Kay, we’ve checked them all now and the rest are brand new.’

  ‘Where exactly did the light fall?’

  ‘Where you’re standing now,’ he said. ‘Right next to Earl’s chair. A little further to one side and it would’ve hit him instead.’

  14

  THE MGM MAKEOVER

  I bored holes in Earl’s front door with my eyeballs.

  It was 6 pm and I’d been prowling around the front of the bungalow for the last hour.

  Oh, he was in there all right … I could hear him moving around doing God-knows-what with the blinds pulled down. He knew I was waiting because the last time I’d knocked he’d told me to do something physically impossible with my notepad.

  I tapped my fingers on my satchel with intent. If Earl didn’t come out soon I was going in.

  Vance Wheeler said Earl had just left to take his afternoon nap when the light dropped on Phyllis. There was no way that could be an accident; surely it had to have been meant for Earl?

  But who’d tampered with the ropes?

  It kept coming back to someone who had access to even the closed sets … someone who knew Earl’s every move.

  Just when I was about to knock again, the door flew open and Earl stuck his head out. ‘What did you say your name was, girlie?’

  ‘Dupree. Kay Dupree.’

  ‘Well you’d better stop hanging around here … you’re gonna take notes for me tonight at the Selznick house.’

  I resisted punching the air in triumph. He’d wasted my afternoon but this was more like it!

  I already knew about the Selznick party. Susan hadn’t attended but she’d listed it in the events diary she’d given Bloom. Phyllis used to tag along to work functions like tonight and act as Earl’s gofer.

  It was a perfect opportunity.

  In the tight-knit Hollywood circles of 1939, everyone knew everyone else’s business: who had done what to whom and how many times. But almost none of it ever reached the press. All the big studios had special fixers who acted as a cross between security guards and spin-doctors and they handled the seamier side of the business. If an actor was found at the scene of a crime, the police contacted the studio and a deal was made. If an actress got pregnant then the studio doctor came to visit.

  This Hollywood lived in a publicity cocoon; they could manicure their lives as easily as they changed their names and hair colour.

  For that reason alone, I’d already intended to go to this party.

  ‘What time should I be …?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, girl, you can’t come dressed like that,’ Earl snapped. ‘Get over to Costumes, the supervisor can fix you up. Hair. Make-up. Everything. Be out the front of the Administration Building at nine o’clock. If you’re not there on time and looking damned good, don’t bother coming into work tomorrow.’

  ‘But where is the …?’

  He shut the door in my face.

  Nice.

  It was sunset but the studio lot was still in top gear. There were huge floodlights everywhere so it probably never completely shut down. Benny, one of Vance Wheeler’s lighting assistants, showed me over to the costume building and left me with a hasty ‘goodbye’ at the door.

  It was just one big room and looked like a clothing factory. The front was stuffed to exploding with racks of military uniforms, Southern belle dresses, women’s long frilly underwear and shelves full of nineteenth century hats and shoes.

  In the right back corner was a makeshift office. Just two partitions really, each attached to the walls.

  A tall, elegantly clad and perfectly groomed redhead was leaning in the doorway. She was talking to a short, bald man wearing a nineteenth century suit made of orange and green checked material. She seemed to be admiring his lapels.

  ‘Serge, there is no substitute for quality. And if you have to wear this kind of …’ She paused politely. ‘Thing. Then why not enjoy the knowledge that it fits you so well?’

  ‘Eve, I will not wear this … this …’ The little man stuttered around for a sufficiently abusive word. ‘This monstrosity!’

  Eve put her arm around his waist, which meant she had to crouch, and began gently steering him past me and towards the door.

  ‘Serge, darling,’ she cooed. ‘You must immediately go and find David. He will want to know you feel this way.’

  Serge puffed his chest out. ‘I left Stagecoach to work on this shit. If Selznick thinks I’m going to put up with anything he’s got another think coming.’

  ‘Yes, darling, and you must tell him that.’ The redhead launched him ever so gently towards the front door, waving sympathetically as he marched off.

  Eve straightened, heaved a tired sigh, then spotted me.

  She reset her face into a polite greeting. ‘Hallo there.’ She gave my clothes an instantaneous but thorough appraisal. ‘I’m not responsible for producing that outfit am I, darling?’

  ‘No,’ I said, depressed. So much for Bloom’s bloody stylist.

  ‘Good.’ She patted my arm reassuringly. ‘I’ve had enough complaints today already and it’s only lunchtime.’

  ‘It’s six-thirty.’

  ‘Yes, darling, but only in the normal world. We’re on Hollywood time.’

  Eve rubbed the material of my suit collar between her fingers and frowned. Maybe Bloom’s team had picked the wrong cloth too?

  I cut in before she could ask me about it. ‘Earl Curtis sent me over to find the costume supervisor? Is that you?’

  ‘Darling.’ She rolled the r. ‘Only on my good days. Most of the time I’m the costume hostage. But I know who you are now,’ she said with a friendly smile. ‘Phyllis rang me this morning.’

  She stuck out her hand, professional woman to woman. ‘I’m Eve Manning. And anyone who’s going to dish the dirt on Earl is a friend of mine.’

  The wrong clothes but definitely the right cover story.

  ‘Does anyone here actually like Earl?’

  ‘Possibly his mother, but not if she’s ever worked for him,’ said Eve dryly.

  I was getting that impression. ‘Well, anyway, Earl’s sent me to you for a makeover. I’m going with him to the Selznick party tonight.’

  Eve’s expression reset in extremely curious lines.

  I responded to the unasked question. ‘No, I’m just supposed to be there if he wants notes taken.’

  She raised a well-plucked eyebrow. ‘You’ll be babysitting him, darling, just like Phyllis normally does. Earl will probably get drunk and fall in the pool. So what do you need? A dress, shoes, diving equipmen
t?’

  I laughed. ‘Earl said “the lot”.’

  ‘The lot.’ She circled me. ‘No point in guessing, darling, we need to measure you. Follow me.’

  Eve led me into her office and shut the door. There was a desk cluttered with material swatches, scissors and bottles of pins, a pin board wall covered in sewing tools and piles of costumes on the floor.

  Eve apologised as she used one elegantly clad foot to clear space for us to stand in. ‘This is a small studio, darling. No money. No staff. No room.’ She picked a tape measure off the pin board. ‘Strip down so I can take your measurements and work out what may suit your figure.’

  ‘Oh, and I need to get a shower before the party. Is there …?’

  ‘Yes, darling, we can arrange that.’

  I’d taken off the coat and shirt and was unzipping the skirt when Eve stifled a groan. ‘Did you make those yourself?’

  Brigham, naturally, had been difficult down to the very last detail. He’d stood in the portal antechamber and gone through every piece of my baggage. No technology and no anachronism of any kind allowed.

  Which was why I was wearing punitive underwear.

  The stylist had tried to get me to wear a full girdle, which resembled a chastity belt but for the whole torso. I’d refused and opted for a suspender belt and stockings, briefs and a slip.

  Unfortunately the briefs weren’t actually that brief. I could’ve parachuted in them.

  But the worst thing was the brassiere. It was more like a material breastplate and excruciatingly tight. So now I was crushed into something that rivalled the Golden Gate in its engineering framework but would’ve fitted me when I was eleven.

  ‘Underwear as well as everything else?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ I struggled for a quick excuse. ‘The New York Torch doesn’t pay that well.’

  I dropped the skirt and half-slip to the floor.

  ‘My, oh my. What did you do before you became a journalist? Were you a dancer?’

  I glanced down. Too much muscle definition all over. Women’s bodies didn’t usually look like this now. And mentioning martial arts in this era wasn’t going to work.

  ‘Ballet.’

  Eve ran the tape measure around my breasts, waist, and hips, then did my height, torso length and length from hip to floor.

  She stopped and thought for a moment. ‘When’s Earl picking you up?’

  ‘Nine sharp, outside the Administration Building.’

  ‘Get dressed, darling, we’re going for a ride.’

  She reached for the phone, dialling in short, efficient movements. I pulled my clothes back on.

  ‘Charmaine? It’s Eve, darling. I have a full paint job standing in my office as we speak.’

  She listened.

  ‘Yes, a red alert, darling. Now.’

  Eve listened again.

  ‘We’ll be right over.’

  I was just buttoning my suit coat when she said, ‘You’re getting a complete makeover courtesy of MGM, roaring lion and all.’

  Eve drove us the mile or so along Washington Boulevard to the stately MGM studios and the guards at the front gate let her straight through. We sailed into a totally different lot. This place was big and impressive with classic art deco lines, not a dusty construction site.

  The MGM costume building was equally impressive, more like a couture fashion house. When we reached Charmaine’s office two pink toy poodles bounced out to greet Eve. Then they immediately started growling at my shoes.

  Great. Canine fashion police.

  ‘Coco, Balmain, behave!’ admonished Eve, pulling them away by their jewelled collars.

  They began barking instead.

  ‘Ah. My guard dogs have sounded the alarm. The fashion barbarians are at the gates.’ Charmaine glided from her office on impossibly high heels to gather up the two poodles.

  When they wouldn’t shut up, she shoved them at the harried-looking assistant beside her and imperiously waved all three away.

  Eve introduced us. Charmaine Marle was Eve’s opposite number at MGM and an old school friend.

  Charmaine was draped in a square-cut black suit with white piping and buttons, which perfectly suited her skeletal frame. She was very Modern. All edges. Even her shiny straight hair was cut in an angular bob at forehead and jaw. Dark eyes and hair. Red lips and nails. Cheekbones you could use as weapons.

  We moved into her enormous office, also very Modern. Steel furniture, abstract paintings and a glass and steel desk.

  Eve and Charmaine went into a discreet huddle for a minute or two then simultaneously turned to give me a professional dissection.

  ‘She could lose a pound,’ declared Charmaine.

  ‘No, darling, not when you see her without those …’ Eve smiled apologetically. ‘Garments.’

  Charmaine sniffed. ‘Garments? I’d rather walk down the street in my underwear.’

  ‘Well certainly not in her underwear, darling.’

  They both tsked at that.

  I pointed at my watch.

  Eve got the message. ‘Charmaine, we only have two hours. Everything from head to foot, the lot. And she needs a shower. It’s the Selznick party and you know what that means.’

  ‘Glamour with a capital dollar sign. So it’s got to be ready-made? But what do we have that would fit her?’

  ‘I was thinking maybe something from The Women, darling? Perhaps something made for Rosalind Russell?’

  ‘No.’ Charmaine dismissed that immediately. ‘The height’s close enough for us to change the hem but the bust isn’t right.’

  Charmaine tapped a sharp red nail on her sharp white chin. ‘I’ve a dress I made for a new girl that might do. You don’t know her, Eve … Esther Williams. A talent scout spotted her on the Olympic swim team. Williams did her screen test last week.’

  Charmaine told me to have my shower in the bathroom off her office while she made some phone calls. Eve showed me where and gave me a bathrobe to wear. She said Charmaine’s people would have my street clothes cleaned and ready for me before I left. I could store them in Earl’s limo while I was at the party.

  I took a quick shower, washed my hair and emerged to find a crowd of chattering men and women wearing pink laboratory coats surrounding Charmaine’s desk. She looked like a five-star general delivering battle plans. I was hustled off to a change room down the hall and measured for a strapless bra, which was supplied, together with matching flesh-coloured briefs, suspenders and a pair of sheer silk stockings.

  Five minutes later I was sent next door to a room lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors for a dress fitting with Eve and Charmaine. They were exchanging gossip as I arrived.

  ‘No, darling. Marion’s off the bottle now, she said the cocaine worked wonders …’

  They turned around.

  ‘An ex-dancer you say?’ said Charmaine. ‘I see what you mean.’ She held up a slinky silver dress. ‘This one will be perfect.’

  I touched it. It was made of that shiny, thin material that feels like it’s running off your skin like water. Eve helped me into it and zipped it up. It had a high front but a very low back. I swished when I walked and it was the right length.

  ‘That’s it, darling,’ said Eve.

  I checked the mirrors. It slipped smoothly around every curve, except my breasts. Those it hugged like a second skin.

  ‘Try on the shoes,’ said Charmaine.

  There was a row of shoes, all the same style but in different sizes, stacked opposite the door.

  They were very high heeled with silver crisscrossing straps. I found a pair in the right size, put them on and stood.

  Perfect.

  ‘Very good. Now for the rest.’ Charmaine clapped her hands once and the pink-coated gang surged back in. They slung a protective cape over my dress and then we all moved next door.

  The make-up man tutted, mostly over my errant eyebrows. My hair is fair but my brows and eyelashes are dark like my eyes. But I wouldn’t let him reshape them too fin
ely; I really don’t like the surprised look.

  ‘Yes,’ ordered Eve. ‘Keep it light and natural. She’s young enough to get away with just a little gilding. Just enough sophistication to heighten that bone structure.’

  When he’d finished, Eve started combing my hair. It’s light blonde with whiter streaks through it from surfing. I’d grown it over the past year and now it hung thick and straight to just below my shoulder blades.

  Eve stood back to get a better look at my reflection. ‘Parted on one side and soft rolling waves. Then we can make the most of the thick texture.’

  The hairdresser dried my hair then moved my part. She trimmed the ends and then started on the curling iron …

  Finally they removed the cape and I posed in front of the mirror.

  The attendants applauded, exchanging self-congratulatory glances. They’d created a swan from an ugly duckling.

  I barely recognised myself.

  Their version of ‘just a little gilding’ was to turn me into a sultry blonde siren with glossy red lips in a slinky tight dress.

  Behind me, Eve and Charmaine whispered. They were concerned.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

  I looked back at the mirror. I was sex on a stick …

  Maybe that was too much for tonight?

  Eve shook her head but didn’t answer.

  Charmaine clapped her hands. ‘That’s all now, everyone. Pack up later, thank you.’ Her staff scurried out.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I repeated.

  ‘Darling, you are sensational,’ said Eve. ‘Like a real Hollywood actress.’ Her tone was disapproving. ‘Unfortunately, too much so.’

  ‘Are you sure she needs to know?’ said Charmaine. ‘She’s a reporter and how long is she going to be here anyway?’

  ‘Just look at her!’ Eve’s tone was sharp. ‘She’s exactly the kind they go for.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I insisted.

  They exchanged a glance.

  ‘Kay, have you heard about the Wolves of Hollywood?’ asked Charmaine.

  They read my confusion. ‘Tell her,’ insisted Eve. ‘You’ve got to warn her. Just imagine if something happened …’