by Tara Hyland
Brad was pleasant and friendly, and clearly trying to strike up a conversation, but Franny was too interested in everything else that was going on to be anything other than polite. She was surprised at the number of people on the set. Alongside the actors with speaking parts, and the walks-ons and extras, there were dozens of crew members, everyone from lighting and sound men to camera operators and continuity photographers. As they waited for the stars to emerge, the hot, bright Klieg lights burned down on Franny, making her sweat under her make-up, and hurting her eyes. But she didn’t care about the pain – this was the most fun she’d had in her entire life.
Finally, after another twenty minutes, the stars came onto the set. The female lead was Lily Powell, who was perfect as the madam. Originally from Texas, she had a sweet Southern drawl, and with her platinum hair and killer figure, she was Juniper’s answer to Marilyn Monroe. Like Monroe, she’d made her name in screwball comedies, playing the dimwitted blonde. Franny had seen all of Lily Powell’s movies, and couldn’t believe her luck at finally being in a film with one of her heroines.
Franny watched as the director talked Lily through her shots, and then walked her over to the set and got her settled. The star smiled at the table of extras.
‘Morning,’ she greeted them. ‘Hope y’all haven’t been waiting too long.’
Once Lily was settled, Make-up, Hair and Wardrobe flocked round her again to tidy up the details before filming began. And then, just like in the movies, the director called, ‘Action!’ and everything went silent.
Franny’s part went off without a hitch, and was over in one take. The section between Lily and the preacher took a little longer to get, as each lost their lines a couple of times, and then the director asked them to run the scene again, with a different emphasis on certain parts of the dialogue. Most of the bit players got bored and wandered off outside to chat and smoke, but Franny stayed to watch, transfixed by the whole process.
An hour later, the director finally seemed happy, and called it a day. He came onto the set to congratulate Lily. ‘Well done, sweetheart.’ He embraced the star warmly. ‘You’re a true professional.’
Laughing, the blonde actress playfully pinched his cheek. ‘I just do what you tell me. You’re the one who knows all that fancy camera stuff.’
Franny looked on enviously as Lily Powell swept off the set.
‘A few of us are going for ice cream at Schwab’s,’ a man’s voice interrupted Franny’s thoughts. It was the handsome blond cowboy, Brad, changed back into ordinary clothes. ‘Wanna join us?’
Franny was tempted. It would be lovely to have some company, rather than going back to her lonely motel room. But she’d had her fill of good-looking, happy-go-lucky men with no prospects or money.
‘Thanks, but I’m beat. All I want to do right now is go home and get some sleep.’
Ignoring the disappointed look on his face, Franny went to get her bag. She knew she was doing the right thing. From now on, she was focusing on her career. She’d come to Hollywood to be a star. And she wouldn’t be happy until she had everything that Lily Powell had – including her own dressing room, with her name above the door.
Preacher Man was just the beginning for Franny. The following week, she started work as a chorus girl on a light-hearted musical comedy. After that, she was given a bit part on a Western, then a small speaking role as a coffee-shop waitress in a film noir. Nothing big as yet, ‘But that will follow,’ Lloyd assured her. Since their initial meeting, Juniper’s Head of Casting had taken a shine to Frances Fitzgerald, and he was going to do everything to make sure the claim that she was the studio’s next great star – said about so many young actresses – actually came true in her case.
When Franny wasn’t on the set, she was being given lessons by Juniper’s acting and vocal coaches. She got her hair dyed, and even had a consultation about having her nose fixed. She also posed for countless publicity shots with other up-and-coming actors, in restaurants and clubs throughout the town. Early on, Lloyd gave her a lecture on what a big part publicity played in any aspiring star’s career. The studio staged these outings, took pictures, and then tried to get the papers to print them along with a suitable accompanying story. Franny thought of how she’d always gobbled up those photos of her favourite stars out for the evening. Now she felt so naïve!
It was difficult to crack the papers, Lloyd explained, but if you got one of the major gossip columnists on side, that was half the battle. ‘Hedda Hopper still likes to claim responsibility for giving Elizabeth Taylor her first break,’ he told Franny.
LA Times gossip columnist, Dolores Kent, was currently one of the most influential people in Hollywood. As revered as Hedda Hopper and Louella Parsons, Dolores could make or break a career with her pen. Originally married to the head of one of the Big Five studios, she’d lived the life of a lunching lady until a week after her fortieth birthday, when her husband had dumped her for a younger model. With his assets neatly tied up where she couldn’t get to them, Dolores had been forced to find work. Her insider knowledge of the movie business had led to a job as a showbiz reporter at the LA Times, and she’d quickly found a talent for scooping her rivals. Her weekly column was now followed religiously, and she was feared and revered in equal measure by the industry.
Lloyd happened to be good friends with Dolores. Over lunch at Brown Derby, he took the opportunity to have a word with the gossip columnist about his newest protégée.
‘She’s someone to watch,’ he told Dolores.
‘Aren’t they all?’ she laughed cynically.
‘No, no. I mean it in this case. She’s something special.’
The personal plea piqued the columnist’s interest. ‘Tell me her name again?’
‘Frances Fitzgerald.’
The next day, a small piece appeared in the LA Times, announcing the arrival of ‘a new talent at Juniper, Frances Fitzgerald’. It was accompanied by a lovely publicity still of Franny, all big eyes, luscious hair and creamy skin. Franny tore it out and pinned it to the grubby wall of her motel room. She stood back to admire the cutting. It was going to be the first of many – she would make sure of that.
In the midst of all this hard work, Franny still made sure to keep her promise, and to write her weekly letter to Cara. However tired she was, however late home from shooting, she always wrote a couple of paragraphs about her day. And however much of a hard time she was having, Franny made the whole experience sound amazing, as if she was just on the verge of great riches, and that any day now she would be able to bring Cara to live with her. And if sometimes Franny wondered whether it was cruel to lie, she would reassure herself that it was only a little fib, and that everything would come together soon enough, and then she would at last be able to send for her daughter.
During those first three months in LA, Franny’s acting appearances were limited to a series of walks-ons and bit parts. While she was content with this at first, soon she was itching to be given a shot at a bigger role. She’d heard about a new project called My Fake Wedding, a romantic comedy about a perennially single playboy who, finding that he needs to get married to secure his inheritance, asks his secretary to pose as his fiancée in order to appease his elderly father. Inevitably, the disapproving, spinster secretary begins to thaw towards her rakish employer, and after a series of misunderstandings, he falls for her, too.
Franny had hoped to be cast as the main female lead, but instead she’d been given the role of the villain – the father’s vamp-ish nurse, who is next in line in the Will. Determined to get her hands on her patient’s money, the nurse does what she can to break up what she believes to be the happy couple, but her actions just bring them closer together. Although it wasn’t the lead, it was still by far Franny’s biggest part to date, and it would mean she’d get fourth billing on the cast list.
‘Don’t screw this up,’ Lloyd warned her before shooting started – as though she hadn’t realised how important this opportunity was!
&nb
sp; Lloyd’s words kept echoing in Franny’s head once filming started. She knew this was her big break, and that if she performed badly, she was unlikely to get another shot. Unfortunately, the pressure was getting to her, and she kept messing up her lines. The director, a short-tempered bull of a man called Emery Brecht, wasn’t happy. Every time she got something wrong he would tut loudly, or snap a sarcastic comment, which only made it worse.
By the third day of filming, Franny was already a nervous wreck. When she forgot her lines for the fifth time, Emery finally exploded.
‘Frances Fitzgerald!’ he roared. Rocketing out of his chair, he stormed across the set, his heavy footsteps making the whole crew visibly wince. ‘Five words!’ He held up his hand right in front of her face, spreading his fingers and thumb to illustrate the number. ‘That’s all your tiny little birdbrain needs to remember – five little words. Do you think you can do that?’
Franny was so upset that she couldn’t speak, so she settled for nodding.
‘Good! Because if you don’t get it right next time, then you’re fired!’
Franny’s eyes filled with tears. She felt so humiliated in front of her fellow actors, particularly Lily Powell, who was playing the lead. What must she think of this new girl, getting everything wrong?
But, to her surprise, Lily spoke up for her. ‘Can it, Emery. This isn’t her fault, it’s yours. With you bitching at her every five minutes, it’s little wonder the poor lamb’s screwing up.’
Emery stared at his female lead, enraged. ‘Excuse me?’ he spluttered.
But Lily was unimpressed by his posturing. ‘You heard. Now why don’t you call lunch, we’ll all take five, and I bet you’ll see a big difference later.’
Without waiting for an answer, Lily linked arms with Franny and led her off the set and to her dressing room. Franny expected the other actress to maybe give her some tips to help her through the filming. But on the contrary, when she tried to bring up the subject, Lily refused to discuss it with her or let her look at a script.
‘It’s called a break for a reason, honey. We’re just here to eat and relax. No work talk – and that’s an order!’
Although Franny wasn’t to realise it yet, Lily was one of the few genuine people in Hollywood. While a lot of the big-name actresses feared the new starlets, Lily was happy to help. She sat with Franny through lunch, deliberately keeping up a constant stream of chatter, so the redhead didn’t have time to think about Emery’s threat. By the time Franny got back on set an hour later, her head was miraculously clear, and she got the scene in one take.
At the end of filming that day, Franny went over to Lily’s dressing room to thank her for her help.
‘Oh, it’s no problem,’ Lily said breezily, as she cold-creamed her face. ‘We’ve all been there, honey. Let’s talk about something more important. What are you up to tonight?’
‘Nothing,’ Franny answered honestly. Most evenings she went back to the motel and wrote to Cara. Apart from the obligatory publicity shots that she posed for on a regular basis, nights were spent alone.
Lily tutted. ‘Wrong answer, sugar. You’re coming out with me.’
With her make-up successfully removed, she went over to a large rack with two dozen outfits hanging off it. Franny followed her.
‘Where to?’ she asked.
‘Ciro’s.’
‘The nightclub?’ Franny could hardly keep the excitement out of her voice. That was where Hollywood’s royalty went to party.
Lily stopped hunting through the dresses and turned to stare at her. ‘You’ve never been?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, honey!’ Lily looked genuinely appalled. ‘If you haven’t been to Ciro’s, you haven’t lived.’ Her cornflower-blue eyes sparkled. ‘Trust me, sweetheart, you’re in for a real treat tonight. But first, we need to find you something simply sensational to wear.’
Chapter Fourteen
It was Thursday morning, and Theresa was in the grocer’s, waiting for Mr Quinn, who owned the shop, to measure out flour and a bit of bacon, when Mrs Murray came in with her little niece. The Murrays were Theresa’s nearest neighbours, their cottage half a mile away from her own. Theresa knew them to say hello to, and exchange the odd piece of gossip. But she had no interest beyond that. Noreen was in her thirties and had never been blessed with children, and she’d told Theresa all about looking after her sister’s child for a few weeks. She was obviously spoiling the kid something rotten: dressing her in that fancy outfit just to come into town.
Theresa watched disapprovingly as they walked over to the sweet counter, and the child ordered half a pound of humbugs. As they waited for Mrs Quinn to measure them out, the child began chattering away, continuing a conversation that they’d obviously been having outside.
‘I’m not making it up,’ the girl insisted. ‘I followed her into the forest and talked to her.’
‘Oh Alysha, will you ever give over making up these stories.’
‘But it’s true. There was a girl in the forest and she said no one was meant to know about her.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘No. She said it was a secret.’
Theresa’s ears pricked up. ‘What’s this?’ she interrupted.
Noreen Murray rolled her eyes at Theresa. ‘The girl reckons she met someone in the woods yesterday.’ She lowered her voice and tapped the side of her head meaningfully. ‘It’s all in her mind, you know.’
This time, Alysha stamped her foot. ‘It’s not! I saw her! I did! Her name’s Cara and we’re going to meet later today. If you don’t believe me, you can come along this afternoon and see for yourself.’
Cara whistled to herself as she went about her chores. She was looking forward to meeting up with Alysha that afternoon. Boredom and loneliness had been the most difficult things to deal with these past months. She could put up with her grandmother’s moods and harsh words, but it was hard having no one to talk to. Apart from Theresa’s elder daughter, whom she wasn’t allowed to meet, there were never any visitors to the cottage; the closest neighbour was half a mile away. She hated having nothing to do once the housework and her lessons were finished. Roaming the countryside was her only escape. Meeting Alysha yesterday had been a stroke of luck. Now she had a potential playmate and she could hardly contain her excitement. For the first time since she’d arrived, she had something to look forward to.
She’d already finished all her chores by midday. She was just thinking about making lunch when the front door banged open, signalling that Theresa was back from town. It was earlier than usual, and the change in routine made Cara uneasy. Her suspicions were confirmed a moment later, when her grandmother came into the kitchen, bristling with anger. She was breathing hard; her white hair was wild from the wind, her nostrils flared and her eyes burned with fury. Cara instinctively shrank back.
Theresa took two giant steps across the kitchen and grabbed Cara by the arm. Although she was older now and frail, she was still stronger than the seven-year-old child.
‘What did I tell you? What was the one simple rule you had to follow?’
Cara simply stared at her, mute and frightened. She had no idea what was going on.
Theresa shook her none too gently. ‘You are not to speak to anyone! You know that, don’t you?’
Cara nodded.
‘So what’s this I hear about you arranging to meet Noreen Murray’s niece by the woods this afternoon?’
Finally Cara realised what had happened. Alysha hadn’t been as good at keeping a secret as she’d said.
‘I told her not to say anything,’ she said in a small voice. It was her only defence, and she knew it wasn’t a good one.
Now that she’d admitted what she’d done, Theresa released her. ‘Stupid girl,’ she muttered. ‘Don’t you realise this is for your own good? While you’re here, no one can know about you. Understand?’
Cara nodded because she knew that was what was expected, but really, she didn’t understand. It seemed to
her that her grandmother was just mean and trying to spoil her fun.
Theresa sighed deeply. ‘Well, that’s it then. You can’t go out for the rest of the day now.’
Cara let out a little moan of protest. The days when it rained and she had to stay indoors were interminable.
But her grandmother had no sympathy. ‘Don’t complain to me, girl. Until you prove to me that you can be trusted, you’ll have to do what I say.’
The child stared at her grandmother and felt dislike and anger rise within her. It wasn’t fair. She hated the old witch. Thank God her mother was going to come back for her soon. After that, she would never have to see her grandmother again.
Theresa and Cara didn’t speak all afternoon. They moved around the cottage as though they were there alone, studiously ignoring each other’s presence. Cara saw the allotted time when she was meant to meet Alysha come and go, and felt her frustration growing.
Eventually, Theresa settled in the kitchen to listen to the wireless. Cara decided to go upstairs to read. She was in the sitting room, trying to find where she had left her book, when she knocked over her grandmother’s handbag, which was lying on the floor. She began to pick up the contents, and spied an envelope that had fallen out. She knew immediately that the letter was from her mother, because she always wrote on lilac writing paper.
The postman didn’t come out this way, it was too far, and so when Theresa went into town she would pick up all the post. Usually once she got home, she would give the letter straight to Cara. They would read it together, Theresa helping her with any words she didn’t understand, and then Cara would write back, again with her grandmother’s assistance. But after finding out about Alysha, Theresa must have decided to keep the letter from her as punishment. That wasn’t fair, Cara thought. She had so little to look forward to – now she couldn’t even get her precious letters!
She bent to retrieve the letter. But just as she stood up, Theresa appeared.
‘What are you doing?’ she demanded, stalking over and snatching the envelope from her granddaughter’s hands.
