“Of course,” Margo said mechanically. She could hardly believe this was happening. Our arrangement. Your discretion. A desert breeze was drifting through the open window. Suddenly, she felt very cold.
As if he could read her mind, Jimmy reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. “Look, I know it’s not exactly the proposal that every girl dreams of. And none of this has to be decided now. But believe it or not, I’m fond of you, duchess. I know I haven’t always shown it.…” His eyes wandered toward the closed bedroom door. “But we could be good friends for each other, if you’d like to try. And in the meantime, I’d be more than happy to let you pursue whatever interests you had on the side. Believe me, I’ll be a hell of a lot easier to get around than Larry Julius, that’s for sure.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dane Forrest?” Jimmy raised his eyebrows mischievously, and for a moment he looked like his old self. “God knows he’d be a lousy husband. But as a part-time lover? It’s the role he was born to play.”
Margo forced herself to put that thought to the side. Future clandestine meetings with Dane Forrest were the last thing she could think about right now, especially after that scene on the set today. If she started thinking about the mystery of Dane Forrest, not to mention Diana, she might never stop. “I still don’t see what’s in it for you,” she said stubbornly.
“For me? I thought I told you.” Jimmy looked surprised. “I get to keep the thing I love.”
“Roderigo?”
Jimmy chuckled. “Touché.”
“No, I mean, wouldn’t you rather let people know who you really are?”
“But they already do.”
“Jimmy, I’m being serious.”
“So am I,” Jimmy said intently. “Because before I am anything else in the world, before I’m a son or a friend, or a brother or a lover, I am a performer. It is the first, last, and only thing I am.”
“But it can’t—”
“Listen to me, Margo.” He leaned in very close to her. His boyish face was as grave as a judge’s. “Some people are in the business for the cash. I’m not going to name names, but they get addicted to the lifestyle, the luxury, the fame. I don’t care about all that.”
“Neither do I, Ji—”
“It’s different for you,” Jimmy interrupted. “You grew up with money. You don’t care about it because you can’t imagine a world where it doesn’t exist. But my father was a hobo. We used to ride the rails, he and I, and I started singing and dancing so people would throw pennies at us, or pieces of bread. And it turned out I was good at it. Really good. Better than anyone else in the world.”
Jimmy’s face had taken on an almost beatific glow. He looked like one of the angels singing in the painting above the altar in the chapel at Orange Grove. “I dance dances that are created by geniuses, like Tully Toynbee,” he said. “I sing songs written by Cole Porter, Irving Berlin, the Gershwins, Dorothy Fields: the greatest poets of the modern age. I bring joy to millions of people who have nothing else to be happy about. Men who’ve been out of work so long they don’t feel like men anymore. Women who don’t know how they’re going to put dinner on the table every night. People everywhere, living under the thumb of poverty and oppression. They need me, Margo. There’s nothing in the world I wouldn’t sacrifice to keep giving that to them. Nothing I wouldn’t hide.” He put down his glass. “If you want to be a star, a real star, you have to be willing to give up everything else. Everything. And anyone who says otherwise doesn’t belong in Hollywood.”
Reaching out to Jimmy, Margo stroked his damp cheek. Smoothing her dress, she stood from the couch and walked to the door. “Then I guess I’d better go back where I belong.”
The row of orange trees standing guard along the gravel drive of the Pasadena Country Club was ablaze with tiny balls of lights. Not cheap Christmas-tree strings that came coiled in a box at the five-and-dime, but individual Chinese lanterns no bigger than an infant’s fist, each painted with the initials DW entwined in the petals of a miniature orange blossom. Dangling from every glossy green branch like beacons lighting the way for a battalion of fairies, they cast a magical glow on grounds that for Margo were already imbued with a hazy mist of memory.
Here was the lawn where she had spun in circles in her first new party dress, until she’d gotten so dizzy she’d had to lie down behind the bushes. There was where she and Doris had gone sledding on tea trays that one December when Los Angeles had had snow; below it was the pool where they’d eaten countless club sandwiches and horrified the more old-fashioned members with their newly stylish suntans. Above her head was the flower-bedecked terrace where Phipps McKendrick had pulled her hair during their first cotillion tea, with the long walkway down which she used to dream of gliding on the arm of her beaming father at her own coming-out ball, and at her wedding soon after. The word swam into her mind unbidden, stinging her eyes with tears. Home.
In the main ballroom, branches of fragrant mimosa soared from crystal vases encircled in white hyacinths and roses the color of milk. Debutantes in white glided by, their full gowns as silken and bell-shaped as Easter lilies, their slender gloved arms threaded through the white-jacketed elbows of their escorts. Margo had forgotten how clean everything would be, how beautiful, how pale. In her crimson velvet, she looked like an unwelcome streak of blood on a white handkerchief.
“Margaret!” Doris came rushing over, an astonished expression on her face. With her white ruffled skirt bobbing along behind her, she looked as though she were poking her small head out of an enormous cake. In her hand she held a wreath of gardenias, waiting to be pinned in place in her hair. “What are you doing here?”
“I wrote to tell you I was coming,” Margo said. Her arms were suspended in midair, as though she were anticipating an embrace. Feeling foolish, she lowered them. This was hardly the warm welcome she’d been expecting. “Didn’t you get my note?”
“Oh, perhaps Mother opened it. Isn’t it awful? I’ve been far too busy preparing for the Season to keep up at all with my correspondence.” Doris stretched her mouth in a wide, forced smile. “Anyway, you’re here now! My, how you’ve changed!”
I’m not the only one, Margo thought. Doris was as small and spritely as ever, but the unruly girl had been smoothed down, the girlish freckles expertly powdered away. Even her voice sounded different, its bubbly, musical excitement having given way to a clenched, metallic quality, her words forced through her teeth as though moving her jaw were an effort she really couldn’t be bothered to make. “Well, you look just beautiful.” It seemed like the only thing to say. “What a lovely dress.”
“Do you think so? I hoped for something a bit sleeker, but Mother insisted on a crinoline. It seems everyone is doing ball gowns this year. Much easier to make over into a wedding dress, if there’s actually going to be some ghastly war and it’s impossible to order a proper one from Europe.” Doris shook her head. “Isn’t it awful? Those poor people.”
“Oh, I know,” Margo said fervently. “There are so many people at the studio now who had to leave Germany. My own director—”
“Oh, I’m not talking about those sorts of people, silly. I mean the poor Germans. Just because they finally have a leader willing to stand up for what he believes in, they have all these people jumping down their throats. My father went to Berlin last month on business and he said the city hadn’t been so pleasant since the kaiser was in power. All the more unsavory elements are gone. He said it’s finally a place where you can feel your wife and children would be safe.”
With great effort, Margo managed to suppress a snort. If only Raoul Kurtzman or Harry Gordon were here, she thought. She’d love to hear what they had to say to that. Then she remembered where she was. The Pasadena Country Club was restricted. Raoul Kurtzman and Harry Gordon—or even Leo Karp, or L. B. Mayer or Adolf Zukor or Sam Goldwyn or any of the men who had the power of emperors in her new world—would never be allowed through the front door. “Thank goodness for Neville Cham
berlain,” Doris continued, in that same metallic voice. “If anyone can sort this whole mess out, he can.”
“I never realized you were so interested in politics,” Margo said. When they used to go to the pictures together, Doris would always be overcome with a craving for popcorn or Milk Duds so strong she had to duck out to the concession stand the moment the newsreel came on. That she could suddenly identify the British prime minister and his stated policy of appeasement was nothing short of astonishing.
“Oh, it’s very good for dates,” Doris said, without a detectable trace of irony. “I mean, we’re not living in the olden days anymore. Eligible young men expect a girl to be up to date on current affairs.”
Who are you, Margo wanted to scream, and what have you done with my friend? It was as if Doris had been brainwashed. But by whom?
“Doris! There you are!” Even in her pristine white gown, Evelyn Gamble looked like a giant bird of prey, swooping down on Doris as though she were a helpless mouse. So that’s the answer to that question, Margo thought. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Where have you been? And what on earth happened to your hair?”
Doris looked sheepishly at the flowers in her hand. “They won’t stay put.”
“Well, go to the powder room and have Prissy use extra pins. They cover your ears, you know.”
“Hello, Evelyn,” Margo said loudly. “How are you?”
“Margaret.” The color drained from Evelyn’s face, but her voice was as steady and sharp as always. “What a surprise to see you here.”
“Yes,” Margo said coolly, shooting Doris a dark look. “It seems to have come as a surprise to everyone.”
“Well, I suppose we all thought you’d be far too busy for us, now that Hollywood has claimed you.” Evelyn gave Margo her sickliest sweet smile. “I trust everything is going well?”
“Very well,” Margo replied. She turned back to Doris. “I’ve got so much to tell you. Things you wouldn’t believe, all about the studio, and how a picture is made, and what the stars are really like—”
Doris’s face brightened, her eyes opening wide. Like her old self, Margo thought happily. “Did Jimmy Molloy come with you?” she asked.
“Ah … n-no,” Margo stammered. “I’m afraid Jimmy had a previous engagement.”
“Oh.” Doris’s face fell. “That’s too bad. Maybe he could have sung a song or something.”
“Never mind about that, Doris.” Evelyn slipped her long-gloved arm through Doris’s. “Your father was looking for you earlier; that’s why I was sent to fetch you. He wants to practice your father-daughter waltz. He’s terribly afraid he’ll trip on your dress and spoil everything.”
“Oh!” Doris brought a tiny hand up to her mouth. “We’d better go. I’ll see you later, Margie?”
“Sure,” Margo said.
“Lovely to see you, Margaret.” Evelyn flashed her a Cheshire cat grin as she pulled Doris away. “And by the way, that really is quite a dress. Very … red.”
My God, Margo thought as she watched them go. Was it always like this? Had Doris always been so changeable, so easy to manipulate? She remembered what Doris had said about the pictures on the phone: You were always more into that stuff than me. As if she were a sponge, indiscriminately absorbing whatever was around her. Maybe Doris hadn’t really changed at all. I’m the one who’s changed, Margo thought bitterly. All these months spent in Hollywood, the World Capital of Phonies, had left her with the horrible ability to see people for what they really were. She didn’t know if it was a blessing or a curse.
“Looks pretty good to me,” piped up a male voice behind her.
Margo spun around and saw Phipps McKendrick, resplendent in dinner jacket and bow tie, slouching against an ornately carved pillar. “The dress, I mean.” Reaching up to push his studiedly disheveled blond forelock off his forehead, he gave her what she knew he considered his most devastating grin.
“Thanks,” Margo said coolly. If memory served, it was important not to seem too impressed by Phipps. God knew he was impressed enough for the both of you.
“No, I mean it,” Phipps said, taking a step toward her. “It’s refreshing to see a girl who lets it all hang out like that.”
“I’m not sure I like your implication,” Margo said hotly.
“Aw, come on, Margie.” Phipps held up his hands. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just that it’s nice to see a girl dressed like a woman, for a change. I mean, look at them.” Phipps tilted his head in the direction of Mary Ann Nesbit, who was wearing a very frilly white dress and speaking with uncharacteristic animation to an equally frilly girl Margo didn’t recognize. “They look like a couple of babies in a christening gown. Who wants to dance with that?”
In spite of herself, Margo smiled. Phipps had always been charming when he wanted to be. He wasn’t handsome and brooding like Dane, but he was awfully good-looking in his cocky, prep school way. And they did have a history together. That had to count for something. “Well, I’m glad you approve,” Margo said. “To tell you the truth, even before Evelyn said anything I was feeling very Julie Marsden.”
Phipps frowned. “Who’s that? Not that really tall girl at Briarcliff? The one from the field hockey?”
“No.” Margo laughed. It was funny, how much Pasadena and Hollywood had in common, actually. Each sequestered in its own way, with a complicated lexicon of symbols and references that no outsider could ever hope to understand. She wondered how many other people had ever seen so far inside both. “Julie Marsden is the character Bette Davis plays in Jezebel. She’s a headstrong Southern belle. You know the type. She insists on wearing a red dress to a ball, and it causes such a scandal that she’s shunned from society forever. You must have seen it, it came out months ago.” Margo paused for a moment. She remembered seeing Jezebel with Doris, just before that fateful afternoon at Schwab’s when everything changed. They had cried over Bette Davis’s plight in the theater, of course, just like you were supposed to do, but Margo had no idea just how hard the story would eventually hit home. “Bette was just marvelous,” she added quickly, recovering. “Everyone in town is sure she’s going to win the Academy Award.”
Phipps shrugged. “If you say so. I never remember pictures myself. Mostly I just go to the theater to neck.”
He’s trying to shock me, Margo thought. It was almost endearing. “Spoken like a true gentleman,” she said.
“Hey, at least I’m honest.” Phipps laughed. “Speaking of pictures, aren’t you making one? What’s it called again?”
“The Nine Days’ Queen.”
“Well, that one I’ll watch all the way through. Scout’s honor.” He took a step closer. “Really, Margie, you really do look good. All shiny or something. Kind of like that actress you used to be so crazy about, remember? What was her name?”
“Diana Chesterfield.”
“That’s her.” Phipps looked at Margo intently. “I guess I never noticed it before, but you really do look like her. Does she look the same in person?”
“I don’t know.” Margo felt a sudden chill go through her. “I haven’t met her.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Phipps frowned. “She ran away, didn’t she?”
“Something like that,” Margo said quietly.
“I remember hearing about it on the radio,” Phipps said. “Lucky for you, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, I mean, if she comes back … what would they do with two of you?”
Margo was furious. She worried about that enough as it was, when she heard it from people who knew what they were talking about. The last thing she needed was to hear it from some arrogant Pasadena twit like Phipps McKendrick.
“Margie, wait.” Phipps caught her by the hand before she could storm away. “What? What’d I say?”
“You know perfectly well,” Margo said. “That was rotten and you know it.”
“I’m sorry,” Phipps said.
“That’s nice for you.”
“Margie, come on. I was just teasing, I didn’t mean anything by it, really. I’m just …”
Margo tapped her foot impatiently. “You’re just what?”
Phipps looked down at the floor. “I don’t know. I mean, I haven’t seen you in so long, and you look so gorgeous and you’ve been off … well, hobnobbing with all these stars … I guess I’m just a little nervous, that’s all.”
Margo felt her irritation subside. With his hair flopping over his forehead and his downcast eyes, he looked like a little boy who had just been scolded by his mother. In spite of herself, she smiled. “Nervous?” she said. “Why would you be nervous? I thought you were going to be the governor of California someday.”
Phipps’s face settled back into its familiarly rakish grin. “That’s the plan.” Still holding her wrist, he gently caressed the back of her hand. “A future governor and a future movie star. You have to admit, we make quite a pair.”
In the ballroom, the band had reconvened. The music wafted in through the open doors.
“How Deep Is the Ocean.”
The song she’d danced to with Dane Forrest at the Cocoanut Grove, the night she’d felt as though all her dreams were suddenly coming true.
But she’d danced to it with Phipps first.
Dane didn’t want her, not enough. And Jimmy didn’t want her—at least, not for the right reasons.
But Phipps McKendrick wanted her. Wanted her without complication, reservation, or hesitation. Without any backroom deals or calculations or worries about what the papers would say. She was the most beautiful girl in the room, and he was the most desirable boy, and he wanted her. It was as simple as that. She looked at him. “How about we get a breath of fresh air?”
Starstruck Page 22
