“Thank you, Mr. Stanley. That’s very kind.”
“Oh, no, Miss Frobisher. Stanley’s my first name.”
“It is?” Margaret blushed. She was hardly accustomed to being on a first-name basis with strange men. “And you don’t mind my calling you that?”
“Unless you can pronounce Cimenoczolowski.”
“I guess Stanley it is.”
Stanley guffawed, a bit more loudly, Margaret felt, than her feeble joke deserved, even locating a skinny knee inside his loose tweed slacks to theatrically slap. “You’re a keen one, Miss Frobisher, that’s for darn sure. Mr. Julius sure knows how to pick ’em.”
’Em? Margaret wanted to ask. Which ’em? How many of ’em? But she held her tongue. After all, a true star—a Diana Chesterfield sort of star—wouldn’t ask such questions. Confidence, she thought. Just think of your underwear and you can do anything.
“Do you have an automobile?” Stanley asked.
Margaret shook her head. “I took the streetcar.”
Stanley nodded approvingly. “That’s good. Mr. Karp will like to hear that. He likes a practical girl.”
Margaret suddenly felt dizzy. The idea of Leo Karp, the president of Olympus Studios, being even remotely aware of her existence made her stomach flip dangerously. “We’re not going to see Mr. Karp now, are we?”
“Oh gosh, no, Miss Frobisher! Hardly anyone gets in to see Mr. Karp. I haven’t even met him, and I’ve been working here for more than three years. I did get to wash his car once.” Stanley’s eyes took on a dreamy cast. “A ’36 Duesenberg. Absolutely gorgeous. Cream exterior, leather seats the color of butter. I rubbed it with a cloth diaper after and it gleamed like a South Sea pearl.” Abruptly, he cleared his throat, shaking himself out of his reverie. “But that’s Leo Karp for you. Likes to have the best of everything, no matter what. That kind of attention to detail is an ethos you’ll see repeated, ah, repeatedly throughout the Olympus grounds.” Straightening his bow tie, he tentatively proffered an arm. “Now, Miss Frobisher. Please allow me to welcome you to the Dream Factory.”
The Dream Factory.
Margaret had heard that phrase a thousand times; she’d always thought it was one of those hazy terms, like Tinseltown or La-La Land, that movie magazines and gossip rags like to toss around to make it seem as if Hollywood were a land apart, a through-the-looking-glass kind of place where the rules of the real world did not apply. She’d never considered that it might have something to do with the fact that being on the studio lot felt a lot like stepping into a dream.
Yet that was exactly how it felt. For example, here they were walking down a broad paved street lined with stucco bungalows and neatly kept flower beds. It was a scene that would not have been out of place in any middle-class Southern California suburb … until a man in full cowboy regalia appeared on the sidewalk, swinging his lasso absentmindedly behind him like a tail. The clattering pickup truck that came driving by couldn’t have been more prosaic, except for the gaggle of Marie Antoinette–style courtesans piled in the back, cigarettes dangling from their rouged lips as they held their towering powdered wigs in place. On an ordinary park bench, a very large man dressed as a pirate sat calmly sharing a sandwich from a paper bag with his companion, who was dressed in blue maintenance coveralls and holding a large broom. Olympus was like a fantastical dream, but it was real.
“The main grounds of Olympus—what we on the lot call the Village—are laid out to resemble the prototypical American small town,” Stanley was saying. He gestured toward a row of cheerful-looking white stone storefronts punctuated by old-fashioned lampposts and a red and blue striped barber’s pole. “We are now walking down Main Street, where one can find the studio’s own full-time barber shop, dentist’s office, doctor’s office, a general store, an all-access branch of the First National Bank, and a post office. We even have our own zip code.”
“My goodness!”
“That’s right. Everything one needs for a healthy civic life. Olympus is primarily a place of business, but it’s also a thriving community. And that, of course, includes all types of fun and games. Outside the Village, we have a year-round ice-skating rink, three Olympic-sized pools, tennis facilities, and extensive horse stables. These are all open to Olympus employees, providing they aren’t being used for filming. Our world-famous studio commissary serves gourmet breakfasts, lunches, and dinners from five a.m. until midnight. To your right you’ll see the Olympus movie theater, which features five showings a day of beloved pictures from the Olympus vaults for anyone who needs an hour or two of happy relaxation, or perhaps a reminder of why we’re all here, doing what we do.”
Margaret’s gloved hand flew to her mouth. “You mean you can just watch movies again and again?” How often had she longed to see a favorite movie one more time after it had left the theater for good? The idea was positively magical.
“Sure thing. It’s a different picture every day. And it only costs a dollar.”
“A dollar?” The movie theater in Pasadena cost twenty-five cents, and that bought you a double feature with the newsreel and the cartoon. On Thursday nights, they even threw in a small box of popcorn. Margaret shook her head. “I knew it was too good to be true.”
Stanley grinned. “Not a real dollar. An Olympus dollar. The only currency accepted by any establishment on the Olympus lot.”
Taking out a worn leather wallet from his pocket, he handed Margaret a small, rose-colored bill. It was smaller and printed on more delicate paper than regular money, and trimmed all around with silver foil. One side was printed with the Olympus logo of a lightning bolt surrounded by a crown of laurel leaves, beneath which was the Olympus motto: Like Heaven Itself. On the other side was a miniature portrait of Diana Chesterfield in a diamond tiara. Her image, limpidly beautiful as always, was encircled by a narrow ribbon upon which was engraved in elaborate cursive so minuscule it could have been written by a fairy: Diana Chesterfield, Box Office Queen 1937.
God, Margaret thought, she’s even on the money. If only she were here in real life.
“You get issued a certain sum every payday, along with your paycheck,” Stanley continued. “The props department prints up a new batch every January first, with the faces of the stars who did the biggest box office the previous year. Mr. Karp started it up ten years ago, when the silents went out. Everyone was awful blue back then, and he thought it would help morale. You know, incentive. Your pictures make money, you get your face on it.” He took in Margaret’s rapt expression. “I’m guessing you’re a fan of Miss Chesterfield’s?”
“Oh yes.” Margaret nodded fervently. “She’s my absolute favorite actress of all time.”
“You don’t say. Well, in that case, you can keep that one. I can never spend ’em all anyway.”
“You don’t think we’ll see Miss Chesterfield, do you?” Margaret asked hopefully.
Stanley’s eyes darted sharply to the side. “What do you mean by that?”
Margaret’s heart leapt in her chest. It had slipped her mind in all the excitement. Wally the soda jerk was right, she thought. There is something fishy going on with Diana. “N-nothing,” she stammered. “Just that I’m a huge fan, and it would be such a thrill to meet her.”
“Well, perhaps we can arrange something. In the future, of course.” Stanley gave her a tight smile. “But look at the time! We’ve got to get you into wardrobe or there’s going to be trouble. Hey, watch it!”
There was a loud skidding noise, and a golf cart pulled up beside them, nearly plowing Margaret over. A round-faced man in a flat cap hung out the side.
“Jesus, Al!” Stanley exclaimed. “Watch where you’re driving that thing!”
“Whatever you say, Chimney,” said Al. He looked Margaret up and down with his beady eyes. “Who’s the twist?”
“Tryout. Stage fourteen. I’m the walker.”
“Ditch her. I’m on orders. Julius needs you in publicity stat. We got a major SOS regarding the Ice Princess, and the boss
says there’s no time to lose.”
SOS? Margaret glanced down at the bill she still clutched in her hand. Diana’s crowned image was drained of color, but you could still somehow feel the clear ice blue of her eyes. The Ice Princess? Were they talking about Diana?
Stanley turned to her, a newly tense expression on his bony face. “It’s soundstage fourteen. All the way down this road, then make a left. You think you can find it?”
“Chimney! Tempus fugit!”
“You go ahead,” Margaret assured him. “I’ll be fine.”
But as soon as they sped away, the well-ordered streets of Olympus seemed to bleed into chaos. Swarms of funny little carts, identical to the one that had carried off Stanley, sped by, laden with racks of costumes or camera equipment. Script assistants on bicycles whizzed by with piles of paper balanced precariously on the handlebars, sometimes stacked so high she wondered how they could see where they were going. A gleaming white limousine made its stately progress up the street, perhaps bearing a star deemed too important to be seen traveling—at least, not before the hair and makeup department had worked its magic. Margaret tried to peer through its darkened windows for a better look. Could that be Diana? Had that been Diana? And would that be Margaret herself someday?
Stop it, Margaret, she said to herself, shaking her head. You’ve got Diana Chesterfield on the brain.
“Look out below!”
Before she could figure out where the shout was coming from, a heavy black telephone came flying out a second-story window, narrowly missing her head as it shattered on the pavement with a deafening crash. On the balcony, just above the silver lettering over the doorway that spelled out Writers’ Building, stood a young man, his arm still poised in midair. “Notes, Howard?” the young man shouted, with a mixture of equal parts fury and glee, down at the broken phone. “That’s what I think of your goddamn notes, you prick!”
Even if he hadn’t nearly killed her with a flying telephone, Margaret would have thought he was an extraordinarily curious-looking fellow. His frayed sweater, thick and navy blue, like the kind that sailors wore, hung loosely on his slight frame. Behind his horn-rimmed glasses, Margaret thought his eyes were an inky, bottomless black.
Running his hands through his unruly stack of black hair, he flashed a malevolent grin in Margaret’s direction. “Hang that up for me, will ya, sweetheart?”
Still in shock, Margaret half lunged toward the splintered receiver when she heard a breathy coo from behind her. “Harry, darling, you really must learn to assert yourself if you want to get anywhere in Hollywood.”
The young man, Harry, grinned in response. Margaret couldn’t catch a glimpse of the girl’s face as she slipped past her and up the stairs toward the young man; she saw only a curtain of gleaming red hair sweeping her shoulders and, clad in a tight-fitting black skirt, a backside that Margaret could tell was rather spectacular, even from her limited experience. No sooner had the girl reached the young man than he swept her into a passionate embrace, pressing his body against hers and gazing into her still-hidden face as though she were the only woman in the world.
Then he swept her into his waiting office and shut the door.
Now, that, Margaret thought, is Hollywood.
“What was that all about?” Amanda giggled, when they came up for air.
Harry Gordon raked his hands down her back, his lips still pressed warmly against the soft skin of her neck. “Oh, that. I think you know.”
Amanda giggled. “Not us, silly. I mean, I don’t know if you noticed, but you just hurled a phone off a balcony. You almost killed that poor terrified blond girl.”
“Oh, that.” Harry pulled away from her, frowning. As he put his thick glasses back on, Amanda studied his face. It wasn’t that Harry was exactly handsome. With his too-crooked nose and too-wild hair, nobody would ever confuse him with a matinee idol. But every time Amanda saw him, she thought she noticed something she’d never seen before. How the third finger on his right hand had a permanently ink-stained callus from long hours with the fountain pen. How the tiny mole under his left eye seemed to make it sparkle more brightly than the right. She could look at him forever. “That was just my troglodyte producer.” Harry scowled. “If only we’d done a face-to-face. I could have given him the old defenestration, otherwise known as the Coney Island Special. Solve all my problems in one fell swoop.”
“What’s he giving you grief about this time?”
“The Chesterfield picture,” Harry groaned. “The Nine Days’ Queen. He’s read the latest draft, and he thinks it’s too depressing when Lady Jane Grey is beheaded for treason. Wants to know if I can have her and the husband make a run for it in the end, or better yet, figure out some way she gets to be Queen of England after all. You know, slap a happy ending on it. Make it peppy.” Harry shook his head in disbelief. “ ‘Can you make it peppier?’ He actually said that.”
“Well … can you?”
“No, Amanda, I can’t,” Harry replied testily. “You see, The Nine Days’ Queen happens to be based on actual historical events, events that I have been researching in detail ever since the studio brought me out to this farkakte place. Not to mention the fact that the entire thing is an allegory for how totalitarian governments force their citizens into complicity with evil, which you’d think might have some resonance given what’s happening in Europe right now, but I’m not even going to talk about that, lest I scare the sniveling cowards in the production department off completely.”
“Harry—”
“I mean, God forbid we try to say something with our pictures, right? And of course, I have to pretend I don’t know that all these sudden ‘issues’ with the script isn’t them just stalling for time because no one knows where the hell Diana Chesterfield is.”
Amanda frowned. Like everyone around the studio lot, she’d heard things about Diana being missing, but picture people were highly prone to exaggeration, and anyway, it seemed so impossible. A major star like Diana was more than a person. She was a vast moneymaking enterprise, practically a whole corporation. For her to simply vanish from the Olympus lot without a trace was like Wall Street suddenly forgetting where it had put U.S. Steel. “Really? I thought that was just a rumor.”
“Funny thing about rumors,” Harry said bitterly, “they sometimes turn out to be true. Isn’t that just my luck? Months out here, I finally get a script out of the starting gate with these clowns and the star disappears. Damn these Hollywood bastards!” Harry slammed his fist down on the desk. An untidy stack of books fell to the already litter-covered floor with a crash. “I never should have left New York.”
Amanda looked down at the ground, consciously hiding the hurt in her face. “If you’d never left New York, you’d never have met me,” she said in a small voice.
Harry’s face softened. “You’re right.” He ran his finger tenderly down the curve of her cheek, his mouth set in a solemn line. Promise you won’t go back to New York, Amanda yearned to say. Promise you’ll never leave me. “Look,” Harry said. “Let’s forget all about this. It’s payday, I’ve got money in my pocket. We’ll go to the Polo Club.”
Amanda laughed. “You mean the Polo Lounge?”
“Sure.” Harry grinned, unembarrassed by his mistake. “See how the other half lives, have white wine en flambé and all that jazz. I’ll even ring down to wardrobe and see if they can send up some moth-eaten penguin suit in my size. Whaddya say?”
Amanda bit her lip. “Oh, Harry, that sounds like heaven …”
Harry’s face fell. “But?”
Don’t look at me like that, Amanda thought desperately. I can’t stand it. “I … already have plans for dinner.”
“So cancel.”
Amanda shook her head sadly. “I can’t. It’s with a producer over in Max Wineman’s division.”
“I see.” Pushing her away, Harry turned toward his desk. “I see. Well, I’d better get back to work.”
“Harry, no! You don’t understand—”
“I do understand. You’ve got a date with a bigger fish than me. Well, I hope you hook him. I hope you reel him in real good.”
“It’s not like that! Come on, the guy is probably old enough to be my father.”
“Do you honestly think that makes it better?”
“Harry, it’s just business, honest!” Amanda pleaded, desperate to make him see. “The guy is looking for a fresh face to put in the new detective picture he’s making with Spencer Tracy over at Metro. Larry Julius’s office set it up, for chrissake.”
Harry’s voice was dangerously soft. “I always knew Larry Julius was a thug. I didn’t realize he was also a pimp.”
“Harry, please …,” Amanda croaked. She felt as if she had just been punched in the gut with a fist made of ice. “You don’t know what you’re saying.…”
“Oh, come on, Amanda! You think I don’t know how it works? ‘Oh, Harry,’ ” he simpered, imitating Amanda’s breathy coo, “ ‘he might give me a part in his new picture.’ Well, I can’t stand it! I can’t stand the thought of him touching you, looking at you, leering at you, thinking about all the things he’d like to do to you, if you only give him the chance.” Harry was shouting now. “You’re supposed to be my girl, Amanda!”
“But I am!” Amanda cried out. “I am your girl!”
Harry suddenly lunged for her, catching her in a crushing embrace, his lips devouring her, his breath burning her neck as they tumbled to the floor. Urgently, his warm hands undid the buttons of her jacket. He thinks I’m a nice girl, Amanda thought wildly. Do nice girls let their boyfriends touch them this way?
“Harry—wait.…”
“You’re right. You’re right.” Harry pulled away. “I don’t know what got into me. Well, I mean, I know … but I shouldn’t have let myself get carried away like that. I’m sorry.”
“That’s … that’s okay,” Amanda stammered in bewilderment. This was all so new to her, these rules of courtship that Harry seemed to know automatically and to obey effortlessly.
“You’re a special girl, Amanda. A rare girl.” Harry stroked her cheek, as gently as if she were made of glass. “And your first time should be special too.”
Starstruck Page 7
