by Tara Hyland
Before coming out to Hollywood, Franny had written to Clifford Walker, the producer, reminding him of her imminent arrival in town. He had left word at the Sunset Lodge for her to come into the studio to meet Juniper’s Head of Casting, Lloyd Cramer. Lloyd had been at Juniper all his life. A sharp, no-nonsense man, who looked a little like a fox, at fifty he was one of the most powerful people in the studio. He was known for being scrupulously fair, but unsentimental, too. If an actor wasn’t performing, they were out – no matter how much money they’d brought in for the studio in the past.
In the comfort of his office, Lloyd studied Juniper’s newest recruit, trying to get the measure of her.
‘You’re one of Clifford’s girls, right?’
Franny nodded eagerly. While she wasn’t in any hurry to see Clifford again, he was her only contact and for that reason she was happy to namedrop. ‘Yes, he was the one who sent me for a screen test.’
‘Hmmm.’ In fact, the Head of Casting was unimpressed. Clifford had a reputation around the studio for using his position to get laid. A family man himself, Lloyd had no time for the casting-couch system. He’d reviewed the footage of Franny Healey, and while she might have something, he wasn’t about to push her until she proved herself. ‘Well, let’s see if you got what it takes to make it in this town.’
Lloyd made it clear that becoming a star wasn’t going to be easy. There were many things that Franny needed to change about herself – the first being her name.
‘It’s all wrong. Franny Healey isn’t going to stick in anyone’s mind.’ He considered the problem for a moment. ‘Franny can’t be your real name. What’s it short for?’
‘Frances.’
His face brightened. ‘Frances. Mmmm – that’s better. Now, what goes with Frances? Something Irish, but maybe with a bit of class . . .’ He thought for a second. ‘How about Fitzgerald?’ Without waiting for a reply, he said, ‘Frances Fitzgerald . . . Yes, I like that. What do you think?’
‘Sounds great.’ It wasn’t as though she was going to object. She was prepared to listen to him about everything. Next on the agenda was her looks. He made her stand in the middle of the room as he walked around, appraising every inch of her. There was nothing sexual in the way he surveyed her: it was almost how her father would have examined a heifer when deciding whether to buy it. She half-expected him to come over and check her teeth.
After a thorough inspection, Lloyd declared that he thought aesthetically everything was pretty much fine – ‘maybe the nose could be smaller, but I think we can get away with it for now’ – but that she should definitely dye her hair.
‘Blonde?’ she said hopefully, imagining herself as cool and sophisticated as Grace Kelly. But even as she said it, she knew that she could never pull that off – she was too buxom, too obviously earthy.
‘Hell, no!’ He mused for a moment. ‘A deeper red would be better, a more vibrant colour than you are now, so we can bring out that Maureen O’Hara look. So yeah, red would be good. I’ll send you to the hairdresser we use. And we’ll have to do something about your clothes, too.’
Franny looked down at herself, surprised by his comment. She was dressed in her very best outfit: a neat suit in racing green, with a matching pillbox hat perched on her head. It was a cast-off from one of the headline acts at the Victory Club.
‘That green colour is perfect on you,’ Lloyd explained, ‘but it’s clearly a cheap knock-off. We’ll have to get you into something better before you’re in any of the papers.’
Next to go was her accent. He might want her to look Irish, but he couldn’t have her sounding that way, since ‘half the people won’t understand a word you’re saying’. Instead, he wanted her to sound more neutral, hard-to-place, like Audrey Hepburn.
‘Is that a problem?’
Franny, always a good mimic, replied in what she thought was a perfect mid-Atlantic accent. ‘No problem at all.’
He nodded seriously. ‘Good. But our speech coach will make it better.’
Lastly, he wanted to know about her personal life, if there was anything noteworthy or special about her. ‘It’s always good if our press agents have something to work with, some angle to go out with to the media. So is there anything special about you that I should know?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Lloyd sighed, clearly irritated at having to do all the work. ‘What about family? You must have someone back home?’
‘Well . . .’ Franny hesitated, not sure whether to share the information about Cara after Clifford’s reaction. But what else did she have to say? ‘I have a little girl. She’s about to turn seven.’
Lloyd’s smile faded a little. ‘Oh?’ He started searching through his papers, as though looking for a crucial piece of information he’d missed. ‘You married, then?’
‘No.’
He looked more hopeful. ‘A war widow?’
‘No.’
‘Then . . . ?’
‘It was back when I was seventeen.’ She dropped her gaze, feeling embarrassed to be confessing her past indiscretions in front of this important man. ‘I thought he would marry me, but . . .’ She trailed off.
‘I see.’ Lloyd put down the notebook he’d studiously been writing in. ‘Look, honey, I’m going to be honest with you here. We’re pitching you as a young romantic lead. A kid – well, that just won’t work.’ There was a pause. ‘Where is the child now?’
‘Back in Ireland. With my mother.’
Lloyd relaxed a little. ‘Well, that sounds good. Hollywood . . .’ He puffed his cheeks out. ‘Hell, it’s no place for a kid. I’m sure she’s much better off with her granny. Don’t you think?’
Franny knew the answer he wanted to hear. ‘You’re probably right,’ she said miserably.
‘And that means there’s no reason to mention the girl to the media. Or to anyone else. Gossip has a way of getting out in this town. You tell one person in confidence and suddenly everyone knows your business.’ He waited a beat. ‘And then you’re on the next plane back to England, dream in tatters. Now, you don’t want that, do you?’
A cold fear took hold of Franny. That was what she dreaded most – this whole opportunity being snatched away from her. But if she agreed to his suggestion, then what would that mean for Cara? She was going to have to deny her own child. It didn’t bode well for bringing her daughter over here, if she was going to have to lie about her existence.
But it wasn’t really a lie, she comforted herself. It was just an omission of information. And Lloyd was probably right: Hollywood was no place for a child. At least, not at the moment, while she was starting out. Once she was famous, that would be different. She could do anything then.
‘No, I don’t’ she said finally.
‘Good.’ Lloyd’s tone was brisk. ‘Then that’s all settled. You’re a young, single woman, newly arrived in Hollywood, chasing your dream to be a star. Not exactly original, but it’ll do.’ He regarded her with keen eyes. ‘And talking about being young – you said you were seventeen when you got pregnant and the kid’s now . . . ?’
‘Seven.’
‘So that makes you, what, twenty-four?’
‘Twenty-five next month.’
There was another frown. ‘Again, that’s just not gonna work. We need you to be young, say . . . twenty-one.’ He squinted at her. ‘You can pass for that, can’t you?’
Yes, she agreed; of course she could. After all the other lies, that seemed the least of her worries.
Following that meeting, Franny was signed by Juniper onto a contract at $100 a week, becoming one of its stable of starlets. The movie that Clifford originally had her in mind for had been postponed, which was a bit disappointing, but Lloyd said they had something else lined up for her instead. It was just a bit part, not as meaty as the role she’d been promised, but it was a start and her chance to prove herself. Filming was due to begin the following week, and she couldn’t wait.
Chapter Twelve
Cara spri
nted along the makeshift path, forging deeper into the forest. Behind her, twigs snapped and leaves rustled, telling her what she’d already guessed: someone was following. But the girl wasn’t worried. She was as fast as the hares that dashed through the Galway countryside, as cunning as the foxes which hunted them. Over these past few months she had got to know every inch of the Connemara woods, as she came out here every day after her chores and lessons were finished. No one could catch her.
Ducking under the low-hanging branches of a sycamore tree, she turned to look over her shoulder. The split-second distraction meant she missed a recently fallen log and stumbled across it. She righted herself quickly and flew on, but the momentary lapse had cost her precious time, allowing her pursuer to catch up. With the footsteps drawing closer, and no more corners to dart around, she had no choice but to hide behind the trunk of an oak.
Sure enough, a second later her anonymous shadow’s footsteps began to slow. Cara resisted the urge to peep out.
‘Hello?’ the voice rang out in the silence of the woods, startling some birds from their trees.
It was a female voice, and belonged to a child, not an adult. Cara felt herself relax a little.
‘Hello?’ the voice called out again, with a tinge of desperation this time. ‘Are you there?’ A pause. ‘It’s just – well, I don’t know this area very well. I followed you, you see, which means that I have no idea how to get back, unless you show me.’ Another pause, before the girl said, somewhat tearfully, ‘So if you are there, could you show yourself? Please.’
Confident that she had the upper hand now, Cara stepped out from behind the tree. She could see straight away that the newcomer was about the same age as her, but that was where the similarity ended. The stranger was a girly type, wearing a pretty pink and white gingham dress, shiny black patent shoes with white socks, and her fair hair in bunches, tied with ribbons to match her outfit. In contrast, Cara looked more like a boy now. In the three months since she had come to Connemara, she’d grown almost wild: she wore breeches whenever she liked, and her hair was cut short. She was like one of the boys from Danny’s gang back home, and she was proud of that fact. This girl was no match for her in strength or speed.
‘Who are you?’ Cara demanded. ‘And why were you following me?’
‘I’m Alysha and I’m from Dublin,’ the girl explained. ‘My mam’s having a baby soon, and as it’s school holidays I was getting under her feet, so she sent me to stay with her sister and her husband for a while. They don’t have any children, so I’m bored on my own. I saw you out here yesterday and the day before. I thought we could play together.’
The last part was said as a plea. Cara knew how the girl felt – she missed Danny and her friends back home, and would love to have a new playmate. But something made her hesitate. No one was supposed to know about her, which meant she wasn’t allowed to talk to anyone. It was one of her grandmother’s rules, like having to stay out for the afternoon today, because Theresa had a guest coming over. Cara wasn’t allowed back to the cottage until the stranger had gone. Not that she wanted to be in that horrible, musty place, but it was awful to think that she was such an embarrassment that no one could know about her.
‘So?’ the girl pressed. ‘Can we play together?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Why not?’
Cara bit her lip. ‘Because no one’s supposed to know about me,’ she said in a small voice.
Alysha frowned, confused. ‘How come?’
‘I can’t tell you. It’s a secret.’ Cara felt suddenly miserable. It was horrible being alone, and although she read a lot and made up games to keep herself amused, it wasn’t the same as having a real friend. And now this girl would be off out of it, thinking she was odd or something.
But instead of being put off, Alysha looked impressed. ‘I can keep a secret,’ she said. ‘If it means we can play together.’
Cara couldn’t help being tempted. It meant breaking the rules, but she was so lonely. And what would it hurt? This girl was here on her holidays, it wasn’t like she had anyone to tell.
Aware that Alysha was watching her, waiting for a decision, Cara finally nodded. ‘All right, we can play together. As long as you swear an oath not to tell a soul?’
The girl’s eyes were solemn. ‘I swear. But you have to tell me your name first.’
‘It’s Cara. And I’ll show you the way out of the woods now. The path is easy enough to find, and we can meet there again tomorrow.’
‘I heard from your sister.’
It had taken Theresa all afternoon to build up to telling Maggie about Franny’s reappearance in their lives. Her elder daughter usually came to visit once a month, but because her children had come down with chicken pox, one after the other, this was the first time she’d visited since Cara had been left here. Theresa had debated long and hard about whether to tell the rest of the family about Franny’s daughter. Eventually she’d decided that it was something that she couldn’t keep to herself.
It took a moment for Maggie to work out who her mother was talking about. Theresa knew when she’d got it, because her eyes widened with surprise. ‘Franny?’
‘That’s right,’ Theresa said. ‘She wrote to me a little while ago.’
Maggie sat back in her chair and folded her arms. ‘Oh, yeah? And what would she be wanting after all this time? Money, I’d bet.’
‘Maggie!’ Theresa scolded. ‘Don’t speak about your sister that way.’
‘Why not?’ her daughter demanded. ‘She disappears in the middle of the night, and we don’t see hide nor hair of her for the best part of eight years. I saw the grief she caused you and Da. You cried every night for months after she left. So I think I’ve got every right to say what I like now.’
‘Oh, come on now, love.’ While Theresa might be hard on Franny to her face, behind her back she wouldn’t have a word said against her youngest child. ‘Whatever Franny’s done she’s still my daughter, and she’s still your sister.’
‘She’s no sister of mine.’ Maggie’s face curled into a sneer. The years had done her no favours. Whereas most women were mellowed by motherhood, she seemed to have grown more shrill and harpy-like. ‘But trust you to defend her. You always favoured her most, Mam. Pretty, talented little Franny – so special, that’s what everyone thought. Even my husband. But she turned out to be the little tart I always knew her to be. Running off with that labourer. She found her level, all right.’
Theresa stared at her elder daughter, stunned by the bitterness in her voice. She’d been planning to tell Maggie about Cara, hoping that she might be able to help with the burden of raising the child. But now, realising how much Maggie hated her younger sister, she knew that she could never tell her. Maggie wouldn’t stand for her looking after Franny’s daughter. She’d probably go to the authorities, and the next thing Theresa knew, Cara would be taken from her.
The knowledge depressed Theresa. She would have to keep this secret to herself. It was a lonely position to be in.
Theresa looked at the clock. Cara would be back soon and she needed to get Maggie out of here.
‘Franny just wrote to say that she was in London and doing well for herself, that was all,’ Theresa said quietly. ‘Now it’s late, and no doubt you want to be on your way. You’ve got a long journey back.’
Chapter Thirteen
‘You.’ The assistant director pointed at Franny. ‘Come with me.’
Her stomach churning with excitement, Franny followed the man onto the movie set, a recreation of a nineteenth-century Wild West saloon. It was her first day working for Juniper, and she had a bit part in Preacher Man, a light-hearted Western about a preacher who falls for a brothel madam, and the trials they go through before finally getting together. The majority of the movie had already been filmed on location in New Mexico, but the director wanted to shoot a couple of extra scenes back in the studio.
Franny’s scene was at the end of the film. By that point in the story
, the preacher has been run out of town, and the madam is in the saloon with her girls, drinking and playing cards, and trying to forget the man she loves – not realising that he’s secretly ridden back to claim her. As he comes through the bar doors, Franny – playing one of the saloon girls – is the first to spot him, and it was her job to nudge the madam and say: ‘Looks like you got a visitor.’ Then the madam turns round, sees the preacher, and goes to join him.
It wasn’t much of a role, Franny knew, but at least it was better than being an extra or just having a walk-on part. And she would be credited too, as Saloon Girl One. Not bad to begin with.
The scene had been set up so that a group of saloon girls were sitting round a table, laughing and joking with a handful of customers. Like the others, Franny was wearing a black and pink striped can-can dress, the skirt ruffled up at the front, accessorised with long, elegant gloves and a headband with a pink feather in it. She loved the costume, even if it had been made for someone two sizes bigger than her, and the wardrobe mistress had spent twenty minutes taking it in with safety pins at the back. Franny was so excited just to be on a real movie set, to have had her hair and make-up done, and gone through the wardrobe fitting, that she didn’t even care that one of the pins was digging into her flesh.
The other extras were already at the main table: three girls, dressed like Franny, along with four cowboys. The assistant director pointed at the best-looking of the men.
‘Sit on his knee,’ he ordered.
Franny dutifully did as she was told. There was a bit of fussing round, to make sure that she was facing exactly the right way to be in line of sight of the saloon doors. Then, once the assistant director was finally satisfied, he went off to fetch the stars.
The cowboy whose knee Franny was sitting on was a sandy-haired, All-American type, fresh off the bus from Ohio. He introduced himself as Brad, and confessed that it was his first film, too.
‘Gotta start somewhere, dontcha?’ he said.
