Starstruck

by Rachel Shukert

  Olive Moore! Gabby had to clap her hands over her mouth to keep them from hearing her gasp. She knew who Olive Moore was; everyone in Hollywood did, unless they were prissy little Margo Sterling.

  “But Olive’s girls have always been discreet,” Amanda said.

  “Used to be. Things have changed since your day, Gin. The new ones she brought in, well, let’s just say they aren’t all exactly fresh from finishing school, if you catch my drift.”

  Amanda’s dress made a silken rustle. “You should have brought him someplace else. Someplace less conspicuous. Olive won’t like it.”

  “This was where he wanted to go. What am I going to do, say no? Besides, how was I supposed to know you were here? Hey”—Lucy’s voice dropped about an octave—“you’re not still hung up on him, are you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Amanda snapped her purse shut. “That’s all been over for ages. Over before it even began.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Lucy said. “And I guess that’s the new fella?”

  “He’s a fella, yes.”

  “And I suppose he doesn’t know about all this.”

  “He certainly does not,” Amanda said. “And he’s not going to.”

  “Relax, Gin. He’s not going to get anything out of me. I’m not out to ruin things for you. Although …” Lucy paused. “It would be nice to feel like a big star like you remembered her old friends every now and again.”

  A sharp edge, like the blade of a knife, crept into Amanda’s voice. “What do you want, Lucy?”

  “Nothing! Just a letter now and then, that’s all. Golly, you’ve gotten hard in Hollywood.”

  “I’m sorry, Lucy. I didn’t mean it to come out that way.”

  “That’s all right, Ginger.” Lucy’s voice was gentle. “But you have to know we’re rooting for you. Maybe not Olive, but I am. And I know it can’t be easy.”

  “It would be a lot easier if you’d stop calling me Ginger.”

  Lucy let out a peal of laughter. “Excuse me, Amanda. But I do think I played it off pretty well though, don’t you think? ‘Well, I do declare, Mr. Gordon, Ginger is just what we call all the redheads back home! Just a term of endearment down in little ol’ Kentucky!’ He never doubted it for a second!” Their laughter echoed through the door as it swung shut behind them.

  Alone again, Gabby finally dared to breathe. Her heart was pounding harder than ever, but her mind was perfectly clear. Amanda Farraday worked for Olive Moore. And she and Dane had had some kind of relationship, had been lovers, even. Oh boy. This was a doozy.

  Knowledge is power. Gabby didn’t know who had said it first, but she knew it was true. She knew so many things now. About Amanda, about Dane, about Jimmy, about Margo.

  Smiling, Gabby sat back on the toilet seat, the blue pill beginning to send its calm blue warmth through her veins. If knowledge was power, then Gabby Preston was about to become the most powerful person in Hollywood.

  “Here, Sophie.” Standing at the paddock fence, Margo took an apple from the folds of her heavy gown and held it against the mare’s velvety snout. The horse turned her large dark eyes on Margo as though she’d never seen her before. “It’s a cooking apple, just like you like,” Margo urged. “Go on, eat!”

  She heard a quiet chuckle. Owen, the head groom of the Olympus stables, stood behind her, twisting his checked cap in his hands. “Begging your pardon, Miss Sterling,” he said in his soft Irish brogue, “but they’re nearly ready for you on the set. They’ve sent me to come and fetch you.”

  “Oh, Owen,” Margo said mournfully. “I don’t think Sophie recognizes me.”

  Owen laughed again. “Telling the truth, miss, in that getup I’m not sure I’d have recognized you myself.”

  Margo looked sheepishly down at her costume, a vast Tudor-style riding habit of heavy brick-colored velvet—which Rex Mandalay insisted would photograph as black—with enormous padded panniers over the hips and a tightly laced stomacher that made the front of her torso look like a flat inverted V. Along with the huge feathered riding hat and the thick hank of false hair gathered into a spangled net at the back of her head, she was about three times the size she usually was when she came to the paddock, in jodhpurs and a button-down shirt. “I see what you mean.”

  “Don’t you worry, Miss Sterling. She’ll know it’s you as soon as you’re on her back. Horses always do.” Owen gave Margo an awkward pat on her wrist, the only part of her he could easily access. “Now, we can walk down to the set if you’d like, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather you ride. Sophie’s all saddled up, and I’d like to get a sense of how the weight of that skirt feels in the sidesaddle before you start filming. Then I’ll lead you down.”

  “That sounds very sensible, thank you.”

  Putting on his cap, he knelt next to the horse and put out a sturdy palm to boost Margo into the saddle. His brow knit in concentration as he carefully arranged the capacious folds of her dress over the mare’s chestnut haunches. “I’m sure the dressing girls will have another go at it,” he said, giving the fabric a final tug, “but in the meantime, how does that feel?”

  “Fine,” Margo said, settling into the saddle. “More importantly, how does it look?”

  Owen pushed back his cap, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Before I came to America to seek my fortune, I was a groom in the stables of the Earl of Kimbrough, back in Tipperary. I thought never to see a finer horsewoman than his countess.” He grinned. “And I still never have. But for an American girl, I guess you’ll do.”

  “Owen!” She tossed a glove at him playfully. “As though I’m not nervous enough!”

  “Begging your pardon, Miss Sterling, I was only joking. You’ve the best seat I’ve seen around these parts. Excepting …” Owen suddenly stopped himself.

  “Except who?” Margo asked.

  Owen looked straight ahead, not daring to meet her eye. “Excepting Miss Chesterfield, miss.”

  I should have known, Margo thought. “Diana was good in the saddle, was she?”

  “Better than good,” Owen said reverently. “Had a real sixth sense for the animal, she did, as though she could tell what it was feeling. It’s rare, that is, although not so much for those that grew up on a farm.”

  “Diana Chesterfield grew up on a farm?” Margo asked in disbelief. “I thought she was supposed to be a socialite in England or something.”

  “Ah, come to think of it, I could be mistaken, Miss Sterling,” Owen said, obviously embarrassed to have revealed something he realized he shouldn’t have. “Perhaps that’s a tale of my own invention. On account of how natural she was with the horses.”

  “What about Dane Forrest?” Margo pressed, unable to stop herself. “How is he in the saddle?”

  “Oh, fine, fine,” Owen said quickly. “A bit rough for the mares, perhaps, but I can’t fault him on a stallion. But you’ll see soon enough, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” Margo said. “I suppose I will.” Today would be her first day filming with Dane and their first interaction since that fateful night at the Cocoanut Grove, if you didn’t count that horrible night at the Trocadero, when he could barely bring himself even to glance at her. Perhaps the anticipation of seeing him, more than the thought of toppling off her horse from the weight of her dress, accounted for the butterflies in her stomach—or rather, under her stomacher.

  Margo gave Sophie’s flank a gentle kick. The horse trotted obediently out the paddock gate as Owen walked ahead, holding the reins.

  It was a beautiful morning. The last orange streaks of sunrise had retreated, and the sky over the canyon was dazzlingly blue. As they made their way down the rocky path from the paddock, Margo caught her first glimpse of the hollow. It was utterly transformed. The ground was laid with what looked like nearly an acre of sod, transforming what had been a scrubby Southern California canyon into one of England’s verdant hills. In the middle of the lawn stood two turrets, festooned with the royal standard and the Cross of St. George. Between them mi
lled about thirty extras in plates of armor and Tudor livery, doubtless indulging in the traditional film extra activities of chain-smoking and complaining about the weather and/or the breakfast they had just been fed. At the end of the grass was the enormous modern camera, surrounded by a forest of clanking generators and cylindrical lights. It was utterly incongruous, utterly magical, utterly mad. Utterly Hollywood.

  At the center of it all was the small figure of Raoul Kurtzman, bundled tightly in overcoat and scarf despite the incipient heat. Beside him was Dane, astride a giant black charger. In a dark velvet doublet and loose white shirt left open at the throat, his perfect profile finely etched in shadow by the rapidly rising sun, he looked more handsome than Margo had ever seen him. Damn, she thought furiously. Damn, damn, damn.

  “Good luck, Miss Sterling,” Owen said. “I’ll be standing by if you need me.” He let go of the reins.

  Taking as deep a breath as her costume would allow, Margo trotted Sophie gingerly over to her director and costar.

  “Margo,” Dane said curtly, glancing up at her. The makeup department had affixed some kind of jaunty little mustache to his upper lip, but he could make even that look good. “Nice of you to join us.” Clearly, he was itching for a fight.

  “Hello, Dane.”

  “Miss Sterling, there you are.” Mr. Kurtzman clapped his hands together. Most people went sort of craggy and pale over the course of a movie shoot, as though the strain of the filming and lack of sleep were slowly turning them to weathered stone. Not Raoul Kurtzman. Over the past few weeks, he had completely transformed from the tired little man she had first met on soundstage fourteen into a smiling, effusive, rosy-cheeked bundle of energy. He needs to be making a picture, Margo thought. It’s like oxygen to him. “Let me look at you.” Margo obliged, pulling Sophie back a few steps. Mr. Kurtzman surveyed them with an appraising eye. “Very good,” he said. “Very good indeed. Just a small adjustment we need in the arrangement of the skirt.… Wardrobe!” He snapped his fingers and two women in smocks came hustling forth to fussily rearrange the folds of cloth over Sophie’s hindquarters, seemingly heedless of any possible unpleasant surprises from that end.

  “Now.” Kurtzman clapped again. “Today, we begin with a very simple shot. Simple for you, that is, not simple for me. It is the moment when Lady Jane Grey”—he gestured toward Margo—“and Lord Guildford Dudley, her betrothed”—he bowed toward Dane—“meet. When I call action, Lady Jane, accompanied by her father, the Duke of Suffolk”—he nodded toward the cluster of director’s chairs in the shadow, where Sir Benjamin Cattermore, the august and elderly British actor playing the role, was poring intently over a racing form—“and her liveried men, will ride out from the castle. From the other end rides Lord Dudley with his armored men. And you meet in the middle. Understand?”

  “Mr. Kurtzman!” a man called from behind the camera. “We need you to look at these lights.”

  The director turned back to Margo and Dane. “You just stay here and—how do you say it in English—sit tight? Sit tight until I call places, yes?” He darted away.

  Margo twisted Sophie’s mane idly between her fingers, not daring to meet Dane’s eye. She could sense that beside her, he was doing the same thing. Well, this is comfortable, she thought. The initial thrill of moviemaking wore off quickly, Margo had found. The acting part was exciting, but mostly you spent a lot of time sitting around doing nothing as they calibrated the lights, then recalibrated them, then moved the camera three inches to the left, then back again. It was trying enough in the best of circumstances. If she and Dane couldn’t bring themselves to talk to each other, the day was going to be excruciating.

  Dane finally cracked. “So,” he said. “How’s it going for you?”

  “How’s what going for me?” Margo replied. Grateful as she was to him for initiating the conversation, she had no intention of making this any easier for him than it had to be. After all, he was the one who’d agreed to shut her out first.

  “The picture.” He offered a wan smile. “At least, let’s start with that.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Although you’d know that already if you’d stopped by the set.”

  “It’s not a school play, Margo,” Dane said testily. “I come when I’m called. Otherwise my time is my own. And besides,” he added, giving his charger’s reins a little tug, “I may be listed as a costar, but this is your show. My role is actually pretty small. Most of my scenes were shot before you even started.”

  “Oh?” Margo raised her eyebrows loftily. “I didn’t realize that.”

  “Margo, please. Don’t pull that high-and-mighty duchess bit on me. You know very well what a rush job this was. They’re massively over budget as it is. Karp has to please New York, and New York likes things cheap.”

  “Like me, I suppose,” Margo said. She twisted Sophie’s reins tightly around her hand. “Nice and cheap.”

  “Margo—”

  “Just a nice, cheap replacement for Diana.”

  “I didn’t say it,” Dane replied coldly. “But if that’s your aim, I have to say you’re doing a pretty good job.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Dane’s charger let out a whinny, rearing back on his hind legs as a desert lizard scuttled across the path. Pulling back on the reins, Dane patted his neck soothingly. “Nothing,” he said when the horse was calm. “Forget it.”

  “No,” Margo insisted. “Say what you mean, Dane.”

  Dane kept patting his horse. “How is Jimmy, Margo?”

  There. There it was at last. The all-singing, all-dancing, ten-ton elephant in the room—or rather, on the hillside. Margo glanced over at the liveried extras standing in a cluster as they received direction from an assistant director. The smoke from their cigarettes formed a small cloud above their heads. “Marvelous, thank you.”

  “From what I read, the two of you have certainly been painting the town red.”

  “Since when do you read the gossip columns?”

  “Oh, I pick up the odd rag here and there. Doctor’s office, barbershop, that sort of thing. I saw quite a precious little photo spread of the two of you the other day. Jimmy prancing around dressed as an elf, I think it was?” He paused. “Or perhaps was it a fairy?”

  There was a cruelty to his tone that Margo didn’t care for. She and Jimmy knew how foolish they both looked, but that didn’t give Dane any right to mock them. “It was Santa Claus, as it happens,” she said coolly.

  “Santa!” Dane snapped his fingers. “How could I forget? Curious, though, that they should run it in the summer instead of waiting for the holidays—unless they don’t expect the two of you to make it that long. But I suppose they’ll let you know when you’ve served your time. And I suppose we’ll see if I’ve got any appetite for Jimmy Molloy’s sloppy seconds.”

  “Flattering a thought as that may be, Mr. Forrest, I hardly think we’ll get to find out.” Her tone was icy, hard, bemused. Vintage Mildred Frobisher, she thought with a surprising burst of gratitude. At least Mother taught me something. “Things are going very well between Jimmy and me. So well, in fact, that he’s escorting me to Pasadena tonight. We’ll be attending the coming-out party of a very dear friend at the club there.”

  “Bringing him home to the folks, huh?” Dane gave a hard laugh. “Well, that’s just swell, Margo. Really swell. It does my cynic’s heart good to hear it. I suppose we’ll be reading all about the engagement ring in Picture Palace any day now. America’s Princess, A Fairy-Tale Bride. I can see the pictures now. Of course, they’ll recast your father if he’s too bald and your mother if she can’t cry on cue, but what does that matter? It’s a small price to pay for being the envy of every girl in the world.” He looked her straight in the eye. “Just as long as you know that deep down, they all hate you.”

  “Dane!”

  “It’s true, you know. They hate us. They say they love us, but deep down, they hate us. Because we remind them that life is unfair.”

 
; Margo was silent for a minute. “Well, they’re right. Life is unfair. About Karp … I—I had no choice,” she said, her voice breaking. “You would have done the same thing.”

  Dane shook his head. “I don’t know about that, Margo. Because you went into Karp’s office with more power than anyone in the business, and you came out with nothing.”

  “What?” Margo blinked back astonished tears. “What do you mean?”

  “You had the most powerful thing of all,” Dane said sadly. “The power of having nothing to lose. You aren’t like the rest of us—the gypsies and strivers and walking wounded. You could have walked away. Gone back to your beautiful house in Pasadena, and your canopy bed and your swimming pool and the long line of nice, solid, honest young men who would give their eyeteeth for a chance to make you happy. You could have kept your soul.”

  “What do you know about my soul?” she hissed. Suddenly, she wanted to hurt him. She wanted to slap that fake mustache right off his smug face. “What do you know about my life? You barely know me!” She had never spoken like this to anyone before, let alone a grown man, but she was too furious to stop. “You’re the one who got me into this mess in the first place. You knew the tabloids had it in for you. You knew they’d jump all over any girl you so much as smiled at, like a pack of hounds who smelled blood. God, it’s so sick, it’s like a game to you! And it’s not just me, is it, Dane? There’s that blonde you were out with at the Troc the other night, and Amanda Farraday …”

  “Margo—”

  “And Diana! Because it all comes back to her, doesn’t it? It all comes back to Diana. And you know where she is, don’t you? You know exactly what happened to Diana. Why won’t you tell the truth, Dane? Why won’t you tell the truth about Diana?”

  Dane grabbed hold of Sophie’s reins, pulling Margo close, horse and all. His eyes blazed, searching hers. He’s going to kiss me, Margo thought wildly. Or hit me. Or maybe both.