by Tara Hyland
The dress was a size too small for Franny, and it seemed to be moulded onto her body like a second skin. It was meant to be a demure outfit, with a high, Victorian neckline and full-length sleeves, but as the lace material clung to Franny’s curves, it meant that the dress ended up being quite see-through when she stood in the direct spotlight.
Standing centre stage, Franny knew that every man in the audience was watching her. But the only one she cared about was Clifford Walker. Locking eyes with him, she began to sing ‘I’m in the Mood for Love’.
Her performance was all for him, a long seduction. After the first verse, she picked up the mike and went down into the audience. So it wasn’t too obvious who her target was, she stopped along the way, picking on men as she passed, snaking her feather boa around their necks. As she came to Clifford’s table, she could see he was captivated by her and delighted by all the attention. Perching on his knee, she began to sing the third verse directly to him, as though he was her lover and she meant every word, looking up at him from lowered lashes, giving him a secret little smile.
With the song coming to a close, she trailed her fingers across his cheek, then stood up and glided back to the stage. As she came to the final line, she made sure to meet his gaze again, running her hands suggestively over the microphone stand. Seeing the look that crossed his face, she knew that she’d nailed it.
Sure enough, she’d only been back in the dressing room for five minutes when one of the stagehands came over to her. ‘A guest at table one asked for you to join him. Some American chap.’
‘Good.’ She felt a surge of triumph, followed by a rush of nerves. It wasn’t in the bag yet. ‘Tell him I’ll be right there.’
Franny didn’t hurry out. Instead, she retouched her make-up, not wanting to look too desperate. By the time she entered the dining room, the rest of the party had discreetly taken to the dance floor and Clifford was sitting alone.
Clifford Walker watched as the girl swayed towards him. She had a quality about her. She was sexy without being slutty; a classy broad, worth waiting for.
‘Mr Walker?’ Franny kept her voice low and breathy.
He stood to greet her. He was an inch or so shorter than her, with a round belly that his jacket could hardly close across. She could see dark hairs coming out of the top of his shirt collar. No wonder the other girls were making a beeline for Duke instead.
‘Miss Healey.’ His eyes swept over her and he nodded appreciatively, as if to confirm that she looked just as good as he remembered. ‘Thank you for joining me.’
‘It’s my pleasure,’ she said.
He waited for her to be seated, and then sat down himself. Franny had never been allowed at one of the tables before – the performers weren’t supposed to fraternise with the guests. But she tried to look as though this was something that happened to her all the time. A waiter brought over a bottle of Dom Perignon and poured them two glasses.
It was Franny’s first taste of champagne. She wasn’t expecting the bubbles to go up her nose, and she choked a little, but hid it with a cough. She thought she saw amusement in the producer’s eyes, but if he noticed her faux pas he didn’t mention it. Instead, he sat back and regarded her with keen, professional eyes.
‘I have to tell you,’ he drawled, ‘I was damned impressed with your performance tonight.’
‘Oh?’ Despite the way her heart was hammering, Franny tried to play it cool.
‘Yeah, you were real good up there; knew how to work it. I couldn’t take my eyes off you. And neither could any other man in the room.’ The professionalism slipped for a moment, and there was the faintest hint of a leer.
Franny dropped her gaze, and tried to look modest. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed the song.’
‘I more than enjoyed it.’ He rubbed his belly contemplatively. ‘Hell, I’ve been in this business a long time, and I reckon by now I know talent when I see it. And I also reckon I might be onto something here with you.’
‘Really?’ Again, Franny tried to appear nonchalant.
‘That’s right.’ He waited a beat, and then said, ‘Course, it’s always hard to tell how good someone’s gonna be until you have them up there in front of the camera.’
‘I see.’
‘But I guess it might be worth putting you forward for a screen test, see if you’ve got what it takes.’ He looked over slyly at her. ‘How does that idea grab you?’
Suddenly all Franny’s poise deserted her. Without thinking she grabbed his hand, wanting to show him how much the opportunity would mean to her. ‘Oh sir, Mr Walker – I want this so badly. You have no idea. I’d do anything to get that screen test. Anything.’
‘Anything?’ Clifford seized on the word. Something in his expression changed, his eyes narrowing and growing predatory, as though he was a lion tracking a gazelle from the undergrowth. His grip tightened on Franny’s hand, his palm hot and clammy against hers, and it took all her willpower not to pull away. ‘In my experience, that’s very easy to say, much harder to mean.’
He was watching her intently, a calculating expression on his face.
‘So, Franny Healey, I guess my question is: what do you mean by “anything”? Exactly how far are you willing to go, to get what you want?’
The sick feeling in the pit of Franny’s stomach stayed with her all the way back to Clifford’s hotel. She kept thinking that at any minute she would find the courage to tell him that she’d changed her mind. Instead, she found herself being helped out of the taxi under the bright lights of the entrance to the Savoy, walking past the liveried doormen and entering the grand lobby filled with impeccably dressed guests. Sensing her hesitation, Clifford took her by the arm.
‘Come along, darling,’ he said loudly, as though they were like any other couple.
As he led her towards the elevator, she kept her head down, unable to meet anyone’s eyes, certain everyone could tell exactly why she was here. They rode the lift together in silence, and Franny tried to forget the task ahead of her and concentrate on her surroundings instead.
The hotel itself was beautiful. Clifford had a suite of rooms to himself. It was bigger than the whole of Annie’s house, which regularly accommodated at least twelve people. The suite itself was elegantly decorated, with Regency striped wallpaper, a thick carpet and solid wood furniture which looked like it had taken months to carve. A huge fire burned in the grate, welcoming them. The hotel staff lit it every evening at six, Clifford explained.
He went over to the drinks cabinet, poured a tumbler of what looked like whiskey, and then hesitated over a second glass. ‘Drink?’
‘Please.’ She needed the Dutch courage.
Despite the fire, she couldn’t stop shivering. Hearing her teeth chatter, Clifford frowned.
‘What’s up? You cold or something?’
There was a note of irritation in his voice. Franny could tell he wasn’t happy with her lack of enthusiasm. Spotting the bathroom, she saw an escape route. ‘Just give me a minute to freshen up.’
Inside, she managed to turn the taps on full blast to mask any noise, before collapsing in front of the toilet bowl and throwing up several times. Once she was sure there was nothing left in her system, she got up and went to the sink. Staring at herself in the mirror, she was alarmed at how pale and shaky she looked. Her only currency was Clifford’s desire for her, and what man would want her like this?
Pull yourself together, she scolded herself. You want to be an actress? Well, think of this as your first audition.
That helped. Quickly washing out her mouth, she tried to approach this as if it was a role in a movie. First, she reapplied her make-up: mascara emphasised her emerald eyes, a little rouge gave colour to her cheeks and dark red lipstick brought out the vamp in her. Already she was starting to feel better. Next, she unpinned her hair – Sean had always preferred it that way – until the rich auburn curls spilled around her shoulders. But it still wasn’t enough of a transformation. When she stepped outside, she needed
to be a different person, at least for the duration of her time with the producer. Taking a deep breath, she began to unbutton her dress.
Clifford was growing impatient when he heard the key turn in the lock of the bathroom door.
‘Finally! What the hell have you been doing in th—’
The final word died on his lips as Franny stepped into view. Along with her clothes, she had removed her brassière and panties, and now she stood there in the doorway, wearing nothing but a black lace suspender belt, sheer stockings and four-inch heels. She struck a pose.
‘Well?’ she demanded, in a breathy imitation of Marilyn Monroe. ‘Was I worth the wait?’
Clifford’s eyes ran over her, taking in her full breasts, the nipples carefully rouged with lipstick, moving down to her tiny waist, then onto the red triangle of hair between her legs. He was pleased to see that the naïve ingénue had disappeared, and the vamp who had sung to him earlier was back. He patted the bed. ‘Why don’t you come over here and let’s find out.’
When it was over, Franny dressed quickly in silence, trying hard not to think about what she had done, and then stood uncertainly, watching Clifford. He was lying on his back on the bed, a sheet pulled over his waist and legs, and his hand thrown over his face, so she couldn’t tell if he was asleep or not. She opened her mouth to speak once and then a second time, but eventually settled for clearing her throat to remind him that she was there. He opened his eyes.
‘What?’ he grunted.
‘I . . . er . . . just wondered about . . . well, about the test.’
Clifford didn’t answer straight away, and for a horrible moment, Franny thought he was going to renege on his promise. But then he said, ‘I’ll leave word at the club,’ before closing his eyes again, signalling that she should go.
Franny felt dirty all the following day. Although Clifford had promised to be in touch about the screen test, she kept wondering what would happen if he didn’t do as he’d promised. She had no guarantee that he would keep his word, and it wasn’t as if she could take back what she had done.
But she began to feel a bit better the next evening, when she went into work and found a note from Clifford, saying that she was to come out to Juniper’s studio in Hertfordshire for a screen test the following Monday. She had her opportunity – now all she had to do was prove that she had what it took to be a star.
Chapter Eight
‘So what do you think?’ Clifford leaned back in the soft green velvet couch and regarded the attractive redhead intently.
He hadn’t expected to be in this position. When he’d seen this Franny Healey perform her Mae West number, he’d wanted her badly, and had been prepared to use his pull with the studio to get her into bed. In his wildest imagination, he hadn’t expected her to be any good. But she’d pulled off the screen test: she was one of those rare people who looked even more beautiful on film than in person – and boy, could she act! With the growth of television and government deregulation, times might be hard for the big Hollywood studios, but they were still always on the lookout for new talent, and Clifford had a feeling he’d found someone who had a real future in the business.
Sitting across from the producer on an identical couch, Franny didn’t know what to say. How many times had she read magazine articles about the way stars had been ‘discovered’, and longed for that to be her? And now it was.
It had been exciting doing the screen test. Along with other Hollywood giants, Juniper had a studio out near Elstree, a nondescript village in Hertfordshire, about a forty-minute train ride from London. The sheer size of the place had amazed Franny: it was like a little village, made up of a series of anonymous low-rise rectangular buildings of varying lengths. Franny had been escorted to one of the empty lots, a little like an aircraft-hangar. An assistant director, a low man on the pole, had taken charge, giving her instructions. There was a plain stage with nothing but a blank backdrop, where she’d had to read lines from a short scene, about a woman who has just found out that her husband is dead.
After the screen test, she’d had a tense wait until she heard from Clifford. He’d left word at the club for her to meet him at his hotel room this afternoon. She hadn’t known what to expect. But as soon as she’d reached the room, she’d known it was going to be different this time. He’d ordered tea for them; the bedroom door was firmly closed. This was altogether more professional. And once she’d sat down, he’d spoken those magic words: ‘Honey, you might just have what it takes to be a star.’
He’d loved her screen test, he told her; absolutely loved it. He’d shown it to Juniper’s Head of Casting, Lloyd Cramer, and he’d loved it, too. So much so that they’d decided to fly her out to Hollywood. They had her in mind for a project that was due to start filming in the next few weeks. All she had to do was get on a plane. Franny couldn’t believe it. This was exactly the news that every girl dreamed of hearing.
Except now, as she looked down at the aeroplane ticket Clifford had handed her, she bit her lip and frowned.
Seeing the change in her expression, Clifford frowned, too. ‘There’s no problem, is there? I was under the impression that you had no ties here.’
When she didn’t answer at first, he went on, a little sharper this time, ‘I am right in thinking you have no husband, no sweetheart?’
She looked up at him, and then back down at the plane ticket, dated for the fifteenth of March. ‘It’s just there’s only one ticket.’
‘So?’
Franny waited a beat, certain she was about to say the wrong thing, but knowing she had to get it off her chest. ‘Well, you see, I have a child. A little girl, called Cara. And I really can’t go anywhere without her.’
On the way back to Whitechapel, Franny couldn’t stop looking at the aeroplane ticket that Clifford had given to her. It was as if someone had handed her a wonderful, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and then snatched it away. Because Clifford had been very clear on one thing: there would be no additional ticket for her daughter.
‘It was hard enough persuading the studio to fly you out. If Lloyd finds out that you’ve got a kid, he’ll blow a fuse.’ The fat man had shaken his head in exasperation. Hell, there was only so much he was prepared to do in return for a quick roll in the sack. ‘Look, I’ve gone out on a limb here. You’ve got your shot. It’s up to you whether you take it or not.’
He had stood up then and opened the double doors that led through to the bedroom, and she’d been expected to show him how grateful she was for his help. Two hours later, she’d finally been allowed to leave the hotel. Now, she was trying to forget everything that had happened, how cheap and degraded she felt, and instead concentrate on her dilemma. There was no way she could afford another ticket, which left two options: either give up her dream, or leave Cara behind.
The thought of being apart from her daughter was like a fist in the chest to Franny. It might be six months before she could afford to bring Cara out, which would feel like a long enough time to her, but to the little girl it would be a lifetime.
I can’t leave her.
She just couldn’t do it. What kind of mother would she be, to leave her child because she wanted to go off gallivanting in Hollywood? But as the bus drew into the grey bowels of Whitechapel, she thought suddenly of the days and weeks and years of drudgery that lay ahead, and felt a wave of defeat wash over her. Could she really give up this chance to fulfil her dream? It wasn’t as though opportunities like this came her way often. This might be her only shot at fame.
What if she left her daughter in Annie’s care? The idea suddenly struck her. Annie and her girls were pretty much like family anyway. And it would only be temporary, Franny assured herself – just until she’d made a name for herself. Once she had some money and a nice place to live, she could fly Cara out to be with her. In fact, far from abandoning Cara, this would benefit her daughter in the long run. Maybe it would mean a brief separation, but it would also make it possible for her to finally get her child out
of the East End. Franny felt excitement rush through her. She could make this work; it would just take a bit of planning.
With a solution found, Franny sat back and began to daydream about a film set, complete with a director, cameramen and crew, and everyone’s eyes were on the beautiful, red-haired star as she came out of her dressing room . . .
As soon as Franny stepped into the hallway, she heard the commotion coming from the sitting room: the sound of a man shouting and a child crying. There was something about the child’s cries – more like howling really, the sound of an animal in pain – that sent a shiver through her. Without even pausing to take her coat off, she rushed to see what was going on.
Pushing open the door, Franny stood frozen as she took in the scene. She’d been right about the child crying out in pain: it was Danny, and Liam – Annie’s lover – had clean picked him up off the floor and was holding the struggling boy in one meaty hand. He’d tugged the boy’s trousers partway down, and in his other hand he had a belt, with which he was hitting Danny, hard. Cara was crouched in the corner, watching the whole scene as she sobbed.
‘That’ll teach you to cheek me, lad,’ Liam muttered, bringing the strap down on the boy’s exposed red buttocks again. Danny let out another strangled cry.
For a moment Franny simply stared in silence, too shocked to move. No one else in the room had spotted her yet. She was about to call out to Liam to stop, but before she could say anything, Cara got to her feet and, with an almighty bellow, put her head down and charged at the man like a bull. It all happened so fast that he didn’t see her coming, and when she struck him he let out a yelp and promptly released his grip on Danny, who dropped to the floor.
But that wasn’t enough for Cara. Clearly intent on, as she saw it, saving her friend, the little girl started to pummel Liam’s right leg with her small fists. He turned to swat her away like a fly, pulling his hand back to strike her. It was only then that Franny recovered sufficiently to act.
