He was standing alone at one of the bars, blending in among the sea of tuxedos, downing what she was fairly sure was meant to be one of many tumblers of Glenfiddich. Margo waited to slip away until Mr. Karp was deeply immersed in an intensely boring conversation about box-office returns with a couple of managing officers. Nervously, she grabbed a saucer off the top of one of the champagne fountains and downed it in one gulp; she grabbed a second one for good measure and drank that too. Fortified, she sidled up to Dane at the bar and very gently laid a hand on his sleeve.
“Hello, Margo.” Dane was funny when he drank, she’d noticed. He didn’t get slurry or vague or cloudy-eyed the way other people did; in fact, he somehow seemed sharper. As though an invisible camera had trained its lens on him and thrown everyone around him into an indistinct blur. “You look nice,” he said quietly.
The faintest hint of a smile on his face gave Margo the strength to continue. “I’ve been looking for you all night,” she said urgently.
“Really.” He drained the Scotch from his glass. “I don’t remember hiding behind Clark Gable.”
“Dane, please. We need to talk.”
Dane frowned. “Do we?”
“Don’t you think so?”
“I don’t think this is really the time or place.”
“Then when is?” She tried to keep her voice down, but she knew her desperation was written all over her face. “You won’t talk to me here, you won’t talk to me on set, you don’t return my phone calls. Why are you doing this to me? What did I do to make you treat me this way?”
Dane’s voice softened. “Margo—”
“Here they are! My two stars!” Leo Karp came barreling over to them, clapping a surprisingly strong hand on each of their shoulders. Showing us who’s boss, Margo thought bitterly as he pushed both of them insistently toward his companion, like a couple of cheap souvenirs he was trying to get the man to buy. “Now, Dane Forrest, of course, you’ve met before,” Karp was saying, “but this is Margo Sterling. Our newest star.” Mr. Karp beamed with pride. “Margo, darling, this is my partner and dear, dear friend, Mr. Hunter Payne.”
So this is the notorious Hunter Payne, Margo thought. Up close, he looked much younger than when she had seen him coming out of Mr. Karp’s office. Naturally, the prematurely silver hair aged him a bit, but his face was unlined and his hazel eyes sparkled with youthful mischief. He was easily young enough to be Mr. Karp’s son.
“Margo Sterling, I’m enchanted,” Hunter Payne said, leaning forward to brush his lips lazily against her outstretched hand. Beside her, she felt Dane’s entire body stiffen. Good, she thought. Let him see another man be interested in her for once. Let him be jealous and afraid and uncertain. Give him a taste of his own medicine for a change.
“Enchanted?” Leo Karp crowed. “Dane, I’m telling you, you should have heard him just now. All night, it’s ‘Leo, tell me, who is that girl? When will you introduce me to that girl?’ ”
Hunter Payne laughed. “I’m afraid I was an awful nuisance.”
“Who can blame him?” Karp chortled. “Who isn’t smitten with our little Margo?”
“Well, Mr. Payne,” Margo said, in her sweetest finishing school voice, the kind of voice F. Scott Fitzgerald must have had in mind when he’d written that Daisy Buchanan sounded like money. “I’m sure I’m terribly flattered.” Satisfyingly, she saw a muscle in Dane’s jaw jump.
“Call me Hunter. All my friends do.”
“And what about your enemies?” Dane’s voice was cold as ice.
“Dane, there you are!” Larry Julius suddenly materialized at their side, as though he’d been conjured out of thin air. “So sorry to interrupt. That woman from Picture Palace has been asking for an interview all night. If we don’t oblige her, God knows what kind of poison she’ll write.”
“Well—”
“I’ll come with you,” Mr. Karp said. “A star and a studio boss. Some scoop for the old bag, huh?”
It all happened so quickly, so smoothly, that Margo was sure it had all been worked out in advance. Larry must have been hovering on the sidelines the entire time, ready to whisk Dane away at the first sign of trouble. But how did Larry know there would be trouble between Dane and Hunter?
Hunter was smiling at her—the expectant smile of a man who was used to being entertained. I have to say something. “Mr. Payne—” she began.
“Please.” He cut her off. “Hunter.”
“Hunter,” she said shyly, glancing up at him through her eyelashes. He wasn’t as handsome as Dane, but he had a confidence, a kind of calm authority, that made him seem better-looking than he was. “I do hope you’ll excuse Mr. Forrest—”
Hunter cheerfully interrupted her again. “Why are you apologizing for him?”
That’s a good question, Margo thought. When had Dane ever stuck up for her? When had Dane ever done anything but jerk her around? Throw her a crumb when it suited him, just enough that she never knew if she was coming or going, and then make it somehow seem as though it were all mysteriously her fault? “I suppose I just don’t want him to be in any trouble,” she said.
“Well, that’s very noble.” Hunter chuckled. “But I wouldn’t worry if I were you. I may be a staid New York moneyman, but I know how moody these creative types can be. Besides, we’d better give Mr. Forrest the benefit of the doubt. This must be a difficult night for him.”
Margo drew her breath in sharply. “What do you mean by that?”
“Well, it’s never easy for an old star when another one ascends, is it?” His hazel eyes danced. “Sure, the old one might flame out in a glorious supernova, but the new one gets to stay and reflect all the light.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about you, Margo.” With one smooth motion, he swept two full champagne flutes from the silver tray of a passing waiter without ever taking his eyes off her face. How on earth did he do that? “Here. Now drink that down like a good girl and forget all about the fantastic Mr. Forrest. At least for one dance.”
Margo smiled. It was impossible not to. Robert Taylor and William Powell and even Dane might all playact different versions of the urbane gentleman, but Hunter Payne was the real deal. “One dance would be lovely,” she said. In reply, he presented her with another glass of champagne.
The orchestra was playing outside, on the rose-bedecked ivory-colored terrace. A hush fell over the crowd as Hunter led Margo onto the dance floor below. “I guess you better get used to the stares, Margo,” he murmured under his breath, wrapping his arms around her tightly. “This is your life from now on.”
Hunter was a marvelous dancer, with grace and surefootedness that were clearly the product of a lifetime of cotillions and parties and balls. But there was a whisper of danger in the proprietary way he clasped her waist, the way he looked at her with a kind of careless fondness, as though she were a prize he’d already claimed. Margo wasn’t sure she liked that, exactly, but she liked him. She liked the idea of him. And she especially liked the idea that Dane was watching. And seething.
“The Nine Days’ Queen will do good box office,” Hunter was predicting. “There’s enough interest around it, due to everything that’s …” He paused for a moment. “Everything that’s happened. And it’s always exciting to see an unknown in a juicy role like that. Even if they stink, it’s still fun.”
Margo felt her stomach lurch. “You don’t mean—”
“That you stink?” Hunter laughed. “Darling, even if I’d seen the finished picture, I honestly couldn’t tell you. I’m strictly a numbers man. And right now the numbers are saying that in general, this kind of big historical picture is done. The Nine Days’ Queen is one of the last of its kind, and if you want to stay on top of the game, you’ve got to get yourself out of the swords-and-corsets racket, if you know what I mean.”
“And what do the numbers suggest I do instead?” Margo asked, genuinely intrigued. No one had ever spoken to her like this before, a
s though she had a say in controlling the trajectory of her career.
“Well, there’s a real gap in the market right now for a modern, highbrow, sophisticated leading lady. Myrna Loy, but she’s too old for the ingénue roles, or she seems like she is. Katharine Hepburn’s got the breeding and the chops, but if there’s a single red-blooded man in the whole forty-eight states who honestly wants to go to bed with Kate Hepburn, then I’m the king of the Belgians. Lombard’s the closest.” He nudged their clasped hands in the direction of the gorgeous blond star, who was wearing a hooded gown of the palest blue silk and gazing deeply into Clark Gable’s eyes. “But she can’t do drama; at least, the audiences don’t think she can. So if you ask me, the numbers all add up to a hostile takeover by Miss Margo Sterling. Of course, you could benefit from being party to some real sophistication. Not all this trashy Hollywood flash. You should spend some time in New York. Maybe London, or Paris. Spend some time with people who have had money long enough to be bored by it.”
“And I suppose you think you’re the one to take me there?” It was a bold thing to say, but Margo was feeling bold. Hunter seemed to expect it. It was as if he’d already written the script. All Margo had to do was say the lines she was given.
“I might be.” He gave her one of his careless smiles. “I’d certainly be open to discussing it further. I wonder if we might go someplace a little more private?”
Margo felt a sudden stab of fear as the image of Phipps McKendrick and his angry smirk swam into her mind. “Someplace … private?”
“Sure,” Hunter said casually. “After all, I’m not one of you Hollywood exhibitionists. You may be used to going through life being stared at, but I’m feeling a little self-conscious having everyone looking at me as though I were a trained monkey.” He grinned. “Besides, it’s for Leo. Apparently he spent a fortune setting up a gazebo and a hedge maze and all manner of English-style nonsense out on the grounds, and he’s positively livid that nobody seems to want to move very far from the booze and the food. So what do you say? Should we do the old man a favor?”
Margo felt a little dizzy. All those glasses of champagne in quick succession had gone straight to her head, just like people were always saying they would. She knew she ought to be cautious about this sort of thing after that horrible episode with Phipps, but that wasn’t Hunter’s fault. Hunter would never try anything like that. Hunter wasn’t a hormone-crazed adolescent animal like Phipps. Hunter was a gentleman, one she was pretty sure didn’t need to force a girl into anything. Nothing would happen, but just think of the look on Dane’s face when he caught a glimpse of her coming back from the hedge maze with a man who had the power to buy and sell Leo F. Karp.
“Sure,” she said finally. “Why not?”
“Why not indeed.” Hunter smiled. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll grab us a bottle of champagne, and you go wait for me down by the lily pond.” He reached out a hand and gave her right hip a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
“Miss Preston, no!” The waiter made a defensive flying leap in front of the champagne fountains, rattling the unsteady stack of glass down to its fragile foundation. “I’m so sorry, but there can be no underage drinking. Mr. Karp’s orders.”
Gabby scowled. Why do they even invite me to these things? She’d been so relieved to attend the party on her own—Viola was sick in bed with a cold—but they were treating her like she belonged at the kiddie table. “Margo Sterling is underage,” she pointed out. “And I just saw her guzzle down about four glasses.”
“Ah, w-well … I didn’t see that …,” the waiter stammered. Of course, Gabby thought bitterly. As usual, there was one rule for Margo Sterling and one rule for everybody else. Margo had just waltzed into the studio one day, practically on a whim, and just because she happened to be in the right place with the right look at the right time, everyone was treating her as if she were God’s gift to the motion picture industry.
“In the meantime, Miss Preston, something else to drink?” the waiter said brightly. “A Shirley Temple, perhaps?”
Gabby’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Do not even talk to me,” she hissed, “about that bitch.”
Storming away from the stunned waiter, Gabby opened the gold locket she was wearing on a chain around her neck. Inside, there was just enough room for two green pills. She’d been meaning to save them—the last time she’d gone to get her prescription renewed, Dr. Lipkin had threatened to cut her off when he saw how quickly she was going through them. But God knew she needed something to help her tolerate this miserable party, and she could always convince Viola to get some more from one of those “vitamin doctors” with the dirty offices downtown. She tipped back her head and quickly swallowed the pills down her dry throat.
If only Jimmy hadn’t gone out to Palm Springs for the week. She’d asked him if she could tag along, but he hadn’t seemed to think that was such a great idea. “No, Gabby,” he’d said, fixing her with a strange, hard look. “And don’t try to telephone me either. Just let me have this time to myself, and when I get back, maybe I’ll be able to look at you again.” Poor Jimmy, Gabby thought, and sighed. She’d expected Jimmy would be the teeniest bit annoyed with her for making sure Margo would catch him red-handed at the Chateau that night, although if you thought about it—and she was sure Jimmy would—Gabby had really done him a favor. Margo would’ve found out about Jimmy sooner or later; wasn’t it better for everyone to know how she’d react before it was too late? Whereas when Gabby had begun to notice that Jimmy paid a little more attention to the boys in the chorus than the girls, it hadn’t changed her feelings for him one little bit. She’d seen that sort of thing a million times, and it was usually just a phase. Boys like Jimmy all wound up with girls eventually; they had to, if they wanted to be stars. But they had to be the right girls, and Margo Sterling was all wrong. Jimmy knew that now, and that was enough for Gabby, whether she got him for herself or not.
Besides, Gabby thought, she knew the real reason Jimmy was so upset. The Tully Toynbee picture had finished shooting the same week as The Nine Days’ Queen. Where was their party? Why wasn’t it Gabby swanning around on Leo Karp’s arm while Dane Forrest and Hunter Payne hung on her every word?
Well, it will be, Gabby thought. Anybody could get lucky once. Luck didn’t make you a star; talent did. And this time next year, when her vaudeville picture was finished, they’d all see who the real talent at Olympus was.
Gabby gave a little shiver of excitement. An American Girl. It was a perfect title. She could hardly wait to see the finished script. She had so many ideas for it: things that had happened to her in real life, little details that would make the whole thing seem so much more real. Honestly, she should talk to Harry Gordon about them. He’d probably be grateful to her. Hell, he might even give her a screenwriting credit!
There was no time like the present, Gabby decided. She’d go and talk to Harry right now. Viola was always saying that networking was the whole point of these big Hollywood parties. Excitedly, she scanned the room. Harry had been slobbering over that Amanda Farraday all night, but right now he was standing next to the ice sculpture on the buffet, looking bored by a bunch of old accountant types in unfashionable suits. Amanda was nowhere to be seen. Probably off with some other guy, Gabby thought with a derisive snort, showing him her “talent.”
Well, she’d save him. Steal him away from those dullsville squares and talk about artistic things. He’ll be so grateful. “Harry!” she called. “Over here!”
He turned eagerly at the sound of his name, obviously glad to have an excuse to get away from the Bore Brigade. “Oh, Gabby,” he said, walking over. “It’s you.”
“Well, of course, silly, who else would it be?” Gabby turned the full beam of her dimpled smile on him. “I figured someone ought to rescue you. Whatever those men had to say, it must have been awfully gloomy.”
Harry smiled sheepishly. “Box-office projections. Enough to depress anyone.”
>
“Oh, but you won’t have to worry about that!” Gabby gushed. “The Nine Days’ Queen is going to be a hit! How could it not be? It’s been the talk of the town for months! And of course,” she said slyly, “people are just dying to get a glimpse of Margo Sterling. How did you like working with her?”
“Me?” Harry looked uncomfortable. “Oh, she was all right, I guess. A little stiff, maybe.”
Gabby felt an inward gleam of pleasure. “Well, that won’t make any difference. Not with a script as brilliant as yours. I mean, you could probably just hire someone to sit in the theater and read the screenplay out loud like it was a shopping list, and the audience would be enthralled.”
That was laying it on a little thick, even for her, but Harry didn’t seem to blink an eye. “Do you really think so?”
Typical, Gabby thought. Writers say they’re insecure, but deep down they all think they’re God. “Oh, of course,” she said eagerly. “But your biggest triumph is still to come.”
“Oh?” Harry looked intrigued.
“An American Girl!” Gabby exclaimed. “Our vaudeville picture! Now, I know writers don’t always like to talk about their work while it’s in progress, but honestly, Harry, I’m so excited about it that I can’t sleep at night.” That, at least, was perfectly true. The blue pills had stopped working long ago. She needed to take at least five or six now to even drift off, and then it took practically an entire bottle of the green ones to get her back up again. It was much easier to just stay awake most of the time. “I have so many ideas, Harry.” The words rushed out. “So many stories you can use. Things that happened to me, things I’ve heard about backstage, things hardly anybody even knows about except for me.” She hugged herself. “For example, I thought maybe the main character should have an older sister, who’s her best friend in the world. And she’s in the act at first, but then she runs off with this magician and leaves the main character all alone, and that’s when she really starts to feel the pressure to make it, for both of them. And then another time, she thinks she’s booked into the Palace Theater in New York and she’s finally hit the big time, but then it turns out the operator got the telegram wrong and it’s actually the Palace Theater in Newark. And then later she’s booked into another theater, but when she gets there, it’s not a legitimate theater at all, but a hoochie-coochie parlor, so she—”
Starstruck Page 25
