Starstruck

by Rachel Shukert

  Carefully stepping around the snoring pile of feathers, Amanda made her way over to Lucy, who was wisely standing as far from the piano as possible and was engaged in an intense conversation with a slender young man in a monocle, who, upon closer inspection, turned out to be a slender young woman. It takes all kinds, Amanda thought wearily.

  “Ginger!” Lucy exclaimed. It was what all of the girls at Olive’s called her. Only Olive knew Amanda’s real name, which of course wasn’t her real name at all. “Where ya been?”

  “Oh, just a little place called not here.”

  Lucy grinned at her companion. “Ginger likes to be mysterious. She thinks it’s part of her charm, but the rest of us just find it an awful drag. Ginger, this is Erika. Erika, Ginger. Erika just came here all the way from Berlin,” Lucy added. “That’s in Germany.”

  “Gute Nacht, gnädige Fräulein.” Clicking her heels, the woman in the monocle made a great show of manfully kissing Amanda’s hand.

  “Nice to meet you.” Amanda turned to Lucy. “You seen Olive?”

  “Sure. She’s upstairs, going over figures. Where else? You want a drink or something?”

  Amanda smoothed her skirt down the sleek curve of her hips. “I just really have to talk to Olive.”

  “Suit yourself.” Lucy turned back to her companion as Amanda walked away. “A nice girl, that Ginger. I just hope she’s not in any trouble.…”

  The office was at the top of the curving staircase, tucked away in a complicated warren of rooms Amanda thought of as Olive’s secret hideout. Unlike the rest of the house, which was a riot of feathers and fountains and gilt-covered statues, Olive’s private rooms were tastefully furnished: heavy Oriental rugs, moss-green taffeta curtains hung everywhere to muffle the sounds of revelry from below.

  But the most tasteful decoration by far was Olive herself, sitting at an antique mahogany desk, her honey-colored head diligently bent over a stack of leather-bound ledgers. “Amanda, dear!” She looked up with a pearly smile. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

  “You got a …” Amanda stopped herself. Olive was terribly strict about elocution, insisting that all of her girls speak as correctly as she did. “Do you have a moment?”

  “Of course, dear. Come right in.” Olive beckoned her with a brisk nod. “Would you like a sherry? I’m having one.”

  “Sure.” What the hell. With what she had to say, they were both going to need one.

  Olive rose to pour the sherry. Amanda couldn’t help smiling at the way the older woman was dressed. Her impeccably tailored black suit and spotless white blouse with the knife-edge pleats at the collar and cuffs had almost certainly come straight from Madame Chanel in Paris. The creamy pearls at her ears and throat were undoubtedly the South Sea’s finest, as was the little gold-and-pearl pin she always wore fastened to the shoulder of her jacket. Olive had far more lavish jewels, but Amanda had always loved that pin. It was so sweet, so understated, so classy. If she ever had enough money to spare, she was going to buy one just like it.

  There was only one conspicuous flaw in Olive’s appearance: the thin red scar running down the right side of her face. She always kept it carefully powdered and camouflaged beneath the neatly marcelled waves of her hair. It was the only part of Olive’s appearance that hinted at a life more colorful than that of your average society matron, let alone a woman of Olive’s profession.

  But Olive’s views on her “profession” were hardly typical. For one thing, she hated the word madam, preferring instead the far more genteel term of concierge. When a traditional concierge’s client required flowers, the concierge contacted a florist. When the client wanted to go to the theater, the concierge procured tickets. Olive’s clients required beautiful girls to go out with them, keep them company, and not ask for much in return, so that was what she provided. Anything that might happen next was solely at the girl’s own discretion. Naturally, some of the girl’s were a bit more … eager than others, but the ones who had been around for a while knew you didn’t have to try too hard to make a man happy. Amanda had become particularly adept at doing the bare minimum. For the vast majority of Olive’s clients, just being seen in public with a girl as gorgeous as “Ginger” was enough. Her beloved Packard convertible hadn’t cost her more than a few kisses and a caress or two in the back of a limousine. It was just as Olive had told her the night they’d met, three years ago, when she’d found the fifteen-year-old Amanda begging in the rain on Hollywood Boulevard, hoping to get enough for a flea-infested room and a hot bowl of soup: It doesn’t matter who you are or what you do. If you want to get anywhere in life, you always leave them wanting more.

  “Well?” Olive handed Amanda a tiny crystal glass filled with amber liquid. “What do you need to speak with me about?”

  Courage, Amanda thought, swallowing her sherry in one gulp. “I’ve been offered another job,” she said quietly.

  “Oh?” Amanda detected a slight tightening around Olive’s mouth, but otherwise, her face was as blankly friendly as usual. “And what might that be?”

  Amanda took a deep breath. “At Olympus Studios. As a contract player.”

  Olive allowed herself the daintiest sip of sherry. Her hair fell back as she drank, revealing an extra inch or so of pink scar, and Amanda suddenly thought of Olive’s other scar. She’d seen it by accident, when she’d walked into Olive’s changing room to borrow a pair of stockings, not realizing Olive was inside. It was a pink line running about five inches along Olive’s belly. Amanda had seen a scar like that only once before, when she was a little girl. It was on Mrs. Anderson, the wife of the hired man on her father’s farm. When she’d asked her brother Jacob how somebody got a scar like that, he said it was what happened when they had to cut a baby out of your belly. After that, Amanda had tried not to think about Mrs. Anderson’s, or Olive’s, scar ever again. “I never realized that was something you wanted,” Olive was saying.

  “Of course I do,” Amanda snapped. “I told you the first time we met.”

  “That’s funny. Because the way I remember it, all you wanted at the time was a bed to sleep in and a meal that didn’t come out of a garbage can.”

  She’s hurt, Amanda thought suddenly. She thinks she’s given me everything and I’m letting her down. “Olive, look,” she said urgently, leaning over the desk to look directly into the woman’s unblinking eyes, “I will always be grateful to you. You took me in when I had nothing, and I will never forget that. But let us also not forget that you’ve made out pretty damn well too.” Amanda let her eyes wander to the huge diamond ring sparkling on Olive’s right hand as it fluttered nervously to adjust her collar. Wonder how much of that rock I paid for. “Any debt I had to you was settled long ago,” she continued firmly. “Now I have a chance to make a fresh start.”

  Olive drank the last of her sherry and delicately poured herself another glass. “Do the other girls know about this?”

  “No. Lucy knows I’ve been going to the casting office. But she doesn’t know I had a screen test or that they offered me a contract. And she won’t tell anyone anyway.”

  “And when they see you in the pictures? Provided things make it that far?”

  Amanda understood the implication. She knew very well how the studio system worked. The kind of contract she’d been offered, as a short-term featured player, was no guarantee that she’d even make it into a movie, let alone become a star. It was really nothing more than a holding contract, a small stipend for remaining at the studio’s exclusive beck and call until she became successful or they got tired of her, whichever came first. Almost like being somebody’s mistress, although as a mistress, Amanda thought, she’d never be so underpaid. But you had to start somewhere, she reasoned. Even Diana Chesterfield had begun her career as a contract player, although given the stories she’d heard lately, perhaps it was better not to think about Diana. Or Dane Forrest, for that matter … but Amanda was an expert in not thinking about him. She shrugged. “To the girls, I’m just Ging
er. No last name, no real first name. The studio invents new backgrounds for all their players anyway.”

  “And the press?” Olive asked.

  “It’ll just be a rumor, and the studio can take care of those,” Amanda said. On one of their first dates, Harry had told Amanda all about the various tactics the Olympus publicity department, led by a man named Larry Julius, used to strong-arm the press, bribing or blackmailing editors into running items that flattered its stars and killing stories that did not. There was a story of which he was particularly fond about the treatment received by a reporter who had a scoop about an Olympus star with a major drug problem. “Larry Julius flew out one of Al Capone’s goons from Chicago,” Harry had told her as excitedly as if he were laying out a grand new idea for a screenplay. “The goon shows up at the newspaper office and the whole time this reporter is typing his column, the guy stands behind his desk with a gun to his back. Then the editor comes over, looks at the goon, says, ‘Who the hell are you?’ The goon says, ‘I’m his brother.’ The reporter is too scared to say a word, he just nods, and then the editor invites them both down to the bar for a round on him! So the goon says yes, he’d love to, and the whole time they’re drinking in this bar, laughing and joking, this poor reporter’s got a snub-nosed Smith and Wesson pressed against his back, not knowing if he’s going to live or die. Can you believe it? That’s the Olympus publicity department!” Amanda had pretended to be appalled at the story; it was what Harry seemed to expect. But secretly, she was relieved. If any cub reporter someday put two and two together about where he’d seen her before, she sure as hell hoped Larry Julius wouldn’t hesitate to pull out the big guns. Literally. “The publicity department will keep it out of the papers,” Amanda added, with more confidence than she felt. “May I have another sherry?”

  “Help yourself.” Olive sat back in her chair, caressing her pearls with her finger. “May I ask the terms of this contract?”

  Amanda turned back toward the desk, sherry in hand. “What do you mean, terms?”

  “Money, dear. I know what you’re worth to me; I want to see if they agree.”

  “Fifty dollars a week,” Amanda mumbled.

  “Fifty dollars a week.” Olive’s perfectly made-up mouth broke into a wide smile. “So I’ll keep you on the roster, then.”

  “No,” Amanda said, struggling to keep her voice down. There were few things guaranteed to enrage Olive more than a woman with a raised voice. “You don’t understand. This is it for me. I’m done.”

  “Amanda dear, be sensible.” Olive sighed. “Fifty dollars a week might make you a Rockefeller back in Hayseed, Oklahoma, but out here, it’s hardly going to keep a girl like you in lipstick and stockings, let alone in Lanvin and Mainbocher. You aren’t going to get anywhere in the pictures without looking like a queen, and believe me, my dear, you’re not going to do it on fifty dollars a week. Even you aren’t that pretty.”

  “Maybe I’m talented.”

  Olive pursed her lips. “Amanda, please be practical. There’s nothing wrong with supplementing your income with a few carefully chosen patrons. You’d hardly be the first girl on the Olympus lot to do it. Unless there’s something holding you back.” Olive narrowed her eyes, searching Amanda’s face. “Or someone.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “There’s a man. Isn’t there.” It wasn’t a question, so Amanda didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. “Well, I declare.” Olive brought her hands up to her mouth in mock amazement. “I do believe love has finally found Andy Hardy.”

  “Stop.”

  “Who is he? He’d have to be rich. A producer? No, that’s too obvious. A press agent, maybe? Very useful at the beginning, what he lacks in money he makes up for in connections, but I can’t think of one that would turn that copper head. Wait, I know! A moneyman. One of those serious types who come in from New York with a suitcase full of cash and a wife they’re wishing away.”

  “He’s a writer, actually,” Amanda said quietly.

  “A writer.” Olive shook her head sadly. “How the mighty have fallen.”

  “He’s brilliant,” Amanda insisted. She had hoped to keep Harry out of all this. Even having him be a topic of discussion in this setting seemed disrespectful somehow. But she was damned if she wasn’t going to defend him. “He was a playwright in New York before he came to Hollywood. The New York Times called him the fiercest and freshest voice of our age!”

  “Ah.” Olive swept a hand around the room, the pleated cuff of her sleeve fluttering like a ghost in its wake. “And tell me, dear, does the fiercest and freshest voice of our age know about any of this?”

  Amanda dropped her gaze into her lap, willing away the tears. Leave it to Olive to plunge an arrow into the Achilles’ heel of the whole enterprise. Larry Julius might be able to protect her from the newspapers if it suited him, but even he couldn’t save her from a broken heart.

  “I see,” Olive said softly. “And who exactly does he think you are?”

  “He thinks I’m a nice, wholesome girl who caught a break.” Amanda looked up defiantly. “Nothing that isn’t true.”

  “Oh, Amanda,” Olive sighed. “You sweet, brave fool.” Smoothing her hair back over her scar, Olive rose to her feet. “Come. I want to show you something.”

  Olive walked to the far corner of the room, where she swept aside the heavy taffeta curtain to reveal a hidden door. From the cuff of her blouse, she produced a tiny gold key, which she slid into the lock. Behind the door was a small, closetlike room. Amanda could just make out the long shelves lining the walls. Olive flicked a switch, and one by one, the shelves were illuminated, revealing row after row of photographs in gorgeous mirrored frames. As Amanda’s eyes adjusted to the sudden burst of refracted light, she saw that all the photographs, every single one, were of a young and beautiful Olive.

  Olive, dressed in a Victorian-style gown, with curls cascading winsomely down her back. Olive as Cleopatra, her kohl-lined eyes gazing enigmatically toward the camera. Olive at a movie premiere, diamonds dripping from her wrist as she waved regally to a crowd of adoring fans below a marquee that read in lights:

  JOHN GILBERT & OLIVE MOORE

  IN

  THE EMPRESS OF EL DORADO

  “You were … in the pictures?” Amanda asked incredulously. “You were a star?”

  “I was an actress,” Olive corrected her. Smiling wistfully, she picked up another photograph and handed it to Amanda. It was a close-up of Olive, young and lovely and unscarred. She wore an old-fashioned nurse’s uniform, her hair covered by a starched white cap, her eyes dark and sad over a Cupid’s bow mouth. “This was my big hit. He Never Came Back. I played a young British nurse who fell in love with a doomed French soldier during the Great War.” She picked up another frame, this one holding a yellowing clipping from Picture Palace magazine, dated May 14, 1922. It showed a smiling Olive, dressed like a flapper and wearing a feathered headband, under a caption reading The Next Lillian Gish?

  “So what happened?”

  Olive shrugged, but her hand flew up to her scar. “It was the twenties. Short skirts, short hair, short memories. Sound came to pictures, and great stars, far greater than me, came crashing to the ground. A lisp, an accent, a high-pitched voice, and suddenly, you were a nobody.”

  “But the scar?” The words were out of Amanda’s mouth before she could stop them.

  “Never mind,” Olive said shortly. She put the framed clipping back on the shelf. “The point is, my time in the spotlight was through. Still, I thought I’d be all right. Early retirement wasn’t what I had in mind, but I’d made a fair amount of money and invested wisely. Or so I thought.”

  Amanda felt a sudden lurch of dread. “And then …”

  “That’s right.” Olive nodded. “And then 1929. The crash. Oh, I kept myself afloat for a while, selling off my jewelry, piece by piece. When that was gone …” A shadow crossed her face, and Amanda thought it was the only time she’d truly seen Olive look old. �
�Well, I made a living selling the only thing I had left.”

  “Wasn’t there anyone who could help you?”

  “Who?” Olive barked out a short laugh. “There was no Olive Moore in those days to pick lost young things off the street.”

  Amanda blushed. “I mean, your family, or—”

  “My family disowned me when I went into the pictures. In their minds, being an actress was no better than being a whore. Ironic, isn’t it? As for friends from the old days, well, that’s the thing about this town. Picture people are superstitious. They think failure—and success, for that matter—is contagious. When you’re on top, everyone wants to be your friend. They’d give you their firstborn child if you asked. But when the chips are down, in this town, there’s no such thing as friendship.”

  “And love?”

  “Believe me, there’s even less of that.”

  “Why are you showing me this?” Amanda asked. She was suddenly furious. How dare Olive mock her one shot at happiness? “Are you trying to make some point? A cautionary tale about not trusting too much in the stock market? Because if that’s the case, lesson learned.”

  “You could certainly do worse than to take financial advice from me.” Olive smiled her Cheshire cat smile. “But no, dear, I’m simply reminding you that everyone has a past. And we have no way of knowing when—or how—it might intersect with the present. Or the future.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “There’s no need to be so unimaginative. I’m simply advising you to look out for yourself. When you’re walking through a nest of vipers, it behooves you to tread carefully. That is to say, give the people what they want.”

  “I won’t keep working for you.” Amanda fought to keep calm. “I can’t.”

  “No, I think not,” Olive said reflectively. “At least, not for some time. Believe it or not, dear, I’m very fond of you. I’ve no desire at present to stand in your way. But from time to time I may need to ask a favor of you, and I certainly hope that given our previous relationship, you’ll find that it’s in your best interest to oblige me. After all, why burn bridges with old friends?”