And, on that cheerful note, Christina gave Phineas Lovejoy a thumbs-up signal, indicating her readiness to begin shooting the scene.
Lovejoy smiled back, stepped out of camera range, and sang out, “Places! And . . . action!”
The filming went smoothly. Pharaoh’s brother made lewd advances toward the timorous and terrified slave girl reclining on the couch next to him. The slave girl eyed him with loathing while his back was turned to her and the cameras cranked noisily along. The slave bearing the tray of goblets and the pitcher mouthed secrets to her and gave her many steamy glances from under his handsome brow.
The whole thing made Martin want to puke.
He didn’t, of course. He was known in the industry as an unsurpassed professional. He’d be damned if he’d allow one misguided girl and her crazy, rude, and underhanded grandmother to cause him to do anything to tarnish his reputation. His career was important. This—this—fling he was having with Christina was nothing compared to his career.
His heart gave such a fierce spasm, he almost dropped his tray. Because he was a professional and a paragon and was supposed to be acting, he didn’t. Blast his heart, anyway. It knew, even when Martin pretended he didn’t, that fling came nowhere near to describing what he wanted with Christina.
But how in the name of mercy was he ever going to make the wench see reason? It was insane of her to condone the behavior her grandmother exhibited every single day. Would she grow to be like the old coot in time? The notion made Martin shudder.
A loud instruction from Lovejoy broke his concentration. Thank God.
“Good, Marty! Keep going. Now drop the sleeping powder into the goblet!”
Right. Martin’s character had to drug Pharaoh’s brother in order to make off with Christina. Facing the camera, Martin shot over his shoulder the best apprehensive, sneaky glance he could summon. Good old Paul was doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing, which was leering at a couple of dancing maidens who were performing for the banqueting guests. God alone knew what kinds of dances Egyptian maidens did three thousand years ago, but Martin had a shrewd notion the present example wasn’t an apt representation.
Nevertheless, the distraction was supposed to provide him time to do the nefarious deed, so he did it. With his movements exaggerated for the camera—Lovejoy didn’t believe the American public was smart enough to draw conclusions from subtleties—Martin withdrew a vial from a fold in his tunic. Lovejoy had wanted it to be a folded paper until Martin had reminded him that papyrus probably wasn’t a very good medium for carrying sleeping potions around in, being apt to crack when folded.
Moving with elaborate caution, he stole closer to Christina and the goblets. The two made eye contact, and if Martin had been feeling more cheerful, he would have been amused by the utter brainlessness of the expression on Christina’s face. It would be a cold day in hell before she ever behaved like the powerless slave of any man.
Of course, back in the good old days when Pharaohs reigned, Martin didn’t suppose she would have been given any choice in the matter. That must have been a fine time to be a man. Nowadays, women were emasculating men every day.
He told himself not to get sidetracked. Once he stood beside Christina, he said distinctly—so that any audience members who could read lips wouldn’t be disappointed—“I’m going to pour this drug into the monster’s wine. He’ll sleep then, and we can steal away together.”
As she was supposed to do, she grabbed his sleeve, being careful not to jog his arm and make him spill the contents of the vial. “Oh, no! Pray don’t endanger yourself!”
Turning his head so the camera couldn’t capture his mouth, he muttered, “God, who wrote this dialogue?”
“I don’t know, but if you make me laugh, Martin Tafft, I’ll never forgive you.”
Paul, who was still leering at the dancing girls and whose face was hidden from the camera, laughed outright. “Cut it out, you two. This scene is silly enough without commentary.”
“You won’t think it’s so silly in a minute, you foul fiend.” Martin made his voice go low and resonant, as if he were a villain in an old melodrama. “You’re about to get slipped a knockout potion.”
“Heaven forefend!”
“Stop it this minute,” Christina commanded. I won’t be able to keep my face straight if you two keep it up.”
“Right.” Martin drew the cork out of the small vial, using an exaggerated gesture so as not to leave the audience in any doubt as to his intentions. “Okay. Here goes.”
As Christina watched in feigned horror, he poured out the powder from the vial. He was very glad the wind wasn’t blowing today, because they’d had to practice with dozens of angles in order to be sure the camera would pick up the thin trickle of powder as it fell from the vial into the goblet. But Peerless was careful about things of that nature. If there was a poisoned powder in use, they intended the public to see it.
“Great, Marty!” Lovejoy called through the megaphone. “You’re looking great!”
“He’s not doing it right!”
The comment had come from Orozco, and Martin chose to ignore it, knowing it sprang from wounded pride and pettishness. In a way, he didn’t really blame Pablo. He might be an ass, and it might be his fault his arm had been broken, but it was probably sort of scary to see someone else doing your job as well as you could do it yourself. Not that Martin wanted Pablo’s job. He’d sooner commit that Japanese form of suicide—what was it? Hara-kiri? Seppuku? Whatever—than act any more often than he had to.
“Oh, shut up, Pablo,” Christina called back to him “If you hadn’t fought with that nice camel driver, you’d be here instead of Martin.”
“Don’t aggravate him, please, Christina. He’s been humiliated enough today.”
“Fiddlesticks.” Evidently, Christina knew Martin was referring to the cane incident. “He deserved it.”
“Nobody deserves your grandmother.” He could have bitten his tongue as soon as the words left his lips.
Christina gasped. When he glanced at her, he saw pain in her eyes and gave himself a mental kick in the rear end. He muttered, “I’m sorry.”
“Think nothing of it.” Her voice was as frigid and pointy as icicles.
“Children, children,” murmured Paul, who was now in the process of pawing one of the dancing girls. “Let’s not squabble.”
“Right,” said Martin. He couldn’t talk anymore anyhow, since he had to carry the tray off the set. Damn it, he wanted to solve this thing with Christina.
Pointedly ignoring Martin, Christina picked up the goblet. She stared into the camera’s unrelenting eye and gave a wonderful impression of a young girl, frightened, alone, and defenseless, as she lifted the goblet. She glanced down, supposedly staring at the tainted liquid it contained. In truth, the goblet was empty but for the powder Martin had just poured into it. After several seconds of staring enough to give the audience the impression that she was both scared to death and feeling a trace of guilt over what she was about to do—she gave Paul’s arm a tentative pat.
That was Paul’s signal to unhand the dancing girl and turn toward Christina with lust. He did a damned good job of it, too. Martin was impressed. Looking at his burning eyes, you’d never know that Paul didn’t generally care for women. He’d be the next American sex god, or Martin would be surprised. Which was kind of funny, actually.
“And now for you, my beauty,” Paul said in a high-pitched simper that put the lie to his facial expression. Christina shrank back from him, holding the goblet out in both hands as if for protection. Which it was supposed to be, although not in the way her pose and expression suggested.
“Aha, so you want to ply me with liquor before the big seduction, eh?” Paul snatched the goblet out of her hands.
For a mere second, he looked as if he might dash the goblet to the ground and get down to the seduction immediately. Lovejoy and Martin both hoped the second would be fully long enough for the American public to suck in its col
lective breath in terror for Christina’s sweet character’s virtue.
She made a gesture at the goblet, as if urging him to drink, and said, “Drink the stupid stuff, willya?” in a voice that might have come straight from Brooklyn. There was scattered laughter from the sidelines, although Paul didn’t falter.
After casting one more torrid glance at Christina, he turned his attention to the goblet and pretended to drain it. Christina pressed a hand to her presumably palpitating heart and looked scared. Paul wiped his mouth with the back of his hand—Martin had objected to the brutish gesture as an unlikely one for a refined gentleman of the era to have made, however warped his character. Lovejoy had won, however, and the gesture remained. It reminded Martin of how a lumberjack might act after drinking too much beer. Not that Martin knew any more about lumberjacks than he did about Pharaohs’ brothers.
At any rate, after making the gesture, Paul lunged at Christina, who scurried back on her couch as if a rabid beast were after her. Paul stood, weaving on his legs.
“Good job!” Lovejoy cried.
Since he was now out of camera range, Martin joined in his approval. “Great job, Paul! You look perfectly uncivilized!”
“Good,” Paul called back, still with his heated gaze raking Christina
She pushed herself off the couch and stood, too, in the classic pose of a virgin about to be ravished. In other words, she clasped her hands together and wrung them pleadingly as she begged for mercy from her captor. If Christina had really been in that position, she’d have bashed the fellow over the head and hightailed it for the hills The thought made Martin smile. God, he loved her. No matter how misguided she was.
But he was on again. As soon as Paul staggered and sat, hard, on the couch Christina had just vacated, Martin tiptoed onto the set. Christina caught sight of him, and her relief was obvious—which was a good thing, since the viewing public needed to see it on her face. Paul did a superb job of acting like a man who’d just been slipped a knockout potion. He blinked and shook his head as if trying to clear blurred vision, glanced up at Christina, saw her staring past him at something, turned, and saw Martin. He lurched to his feet and reached to his side for a dagger that wasn’t there. As if finally realizing he’d been drugged, he made a last lunge at Christina, who shrieked and jumped aside. As luck—and artistic direction—would have it, he managed to clutch only the hem of her frothy costume, which ripped from her body, leaving her there with her gorgeous long legs exposed and her hands pressed to her cheeks.
Martin rushed up to her as soon as Paul lay, ostensibly out cold, on the floor, grabbed her by her hand, and pulled her after him out of camera range. She was supposed to drag her feet at first, looking with horror upon Pharaoh’s brother, although Martin didn’t know why. After all, she wanted to be rid of the great oaf. Why should she stand around and think when an opportunity for escape presented itself?
But who was he to argue with art? He certainly wasn’t a man who argued with success. So he did as he was supposed to do. And Christina did as she was supposed to do. And Paul did as he was supposed to do.
And both Phineas Lovejoy and all the people watching from the sidelines cheered wildly when Christina finally fled from the wicked brother’s clutches.
Fifteen
Christina really wanted to talk to Martin alone. But she had to be civil to everyone else involved with the picture. And since Phineas Lovejoy planned to leave the next day and return to his home in Pasadena, she owed it to everyone to be present at the big dinner he was hosting for the cast and crew that evening. Right now, she and Gran were headed for the drawing room, where everyone was gathering for a social hour or so before going in to dinner. Christina had about as much interest m socializing as she did in learning how to knit sweaters for dogs. She did, however, know where her duty lay.
Her grandmother’s rubber-tipped cane made a soft click-clack on the floorboards behind her. If Christina hadn’t known it was her grandmother there, she might have been disturbed by the weird, almost ghostly, noise.
Come to think of it, her grandmother was probably more dangerous than any number of complete strangers or otherworld oddities.
Considering the brouhaha Gran had perpetrated that afternoon before the banquet scene, Christina decided to air some of her disapproval. What the heck, why not? Gran was never shy about telling others what she thought about their behavior. Why should Christina cavil at doing likewise. “That wasn’t very nice, what you did to Pablo this afternoon, Gran.”
“The man’s a toad.”
“His being a toad has nothing to do with the issue. First you goaded him into behaving badly, and then you hit him with your cane when he did. That’s not only unkind, it’s unfair.”
“Bah. Life’s unfair. I don’t care to put up with it.”
They reached the drawing room, and Christina opened the door so that her grandmother could enter before her. “But don’t you think you’re being disingenuous, Gran? I mean, if you preach equality, don’t you think you should behave with the same propriety you expect from others?”
Her grandmother gave Christina a hard stare as she walked past her and into the throng of people awaiting them in the drawing room. “No.”
Oh. Well, that settled that, Christina guessed. Far from satisfied, but not wanting to continue the discussion in front of the others, she gave it up for the time being.
She was feeling pretty low this evening and for that reason had taken special care with her toilette. She was wearing her finest dinner gown, a light green silk underbodice with a high waist, narrow skirt, and uneven hemline that showed off her shapely calves and ankles. The darker green overbodice with short dolman sleeves with a beaded-bow motif, green satin cummerbund, and matching bound hem created an impression of elegance. She’d gilded the lily by attaching a silk flower to her cummerbund. Sheer black silk stockings, black satin shoes with cross straps, pointed toes, and Louis heels completed the ensemble.
Even though she felt like the ragged edge of hell, she knew she looked good. So good, in fact, that she entertained the mean-spirited wish that Martin would fall groveling at her feet in awe and admiration.
No. Not really. She didn’t want a groveling Martin. She wanted a Martin with whom she had built a singular rapport as well as an enduring love.
Now how, she wondered, did a body go about creating that happy combination of emotional and spiritual circumstances with a person who didn’t share one’s basic beliefs?
Unfortunately, she had no idea. With a sigh, Christina decided to think about happier things.
The filming had gone exceptionally well, according to Mr. Lovejoy. Benjamin, the chief cameraman, aimed to experiment with close-up shots of Pablo tomorrow, since the actor didn’t look very Egyptian with a plaster cast on his arm. While at first Martin and Mr. Lovejoy had worried about how Pablo’s injury was going to affect the filming, now they held out great hopes that the new and innovative use of close-up shots would be a landmark breakthrough in motion picture history.
Not only that, but they’d managed to get two major scenes filmed in one take each. Word from the spectators was that Egyptian Idyll was going to be every bit as spectacular as Peerless had hoped it would be.
A lot of its spectacle had to do with the elaborate sets, but Christina believed the acting, the creative camera angles, the close-ups, and even the relatively silly plotline played a big part in what she hoped would be the picture’s success. The more money Peerless made from a product that included her, the more apt Peerless would be to use her again when she needed money.
Money. Christina caught herself frowning as she considered money, and stopped. She didn’t want to get wrinkles before she even entered medical school. On a personal level, she didn’t much care how she looked, but on a professional level she needed her looks. Quit lying to yourself, Christina Mayhew. She stopped dead in her tracks, startled, the thought having come through so crisply and clearly that it had sounded like a real voice in her ears.
<
br /> Only it hadn’t been anyone else talking to her. It had been herself talking to herself. And one of them was telling the truth.
Blast. Very well, she might as well admit it. She did, too, care how she looked, because she wanted Martin to love her, and men seemed to care more for pretty women than for smart ones. And they assuredly cared more for pretty ones than for ugly ones. Unless the ugly ones came with money attached.
If Christina got any more cynical, she’d be exactly like her grandmother. And that, she thought gloomily, was a possibility too grotesque and catastrophic even to contemplate.
She saw Martin from across the room. He saw her, too, and looked away quickly. The gesture reminded her why she was feeling so dismal. Her heart hitched, her throat got a lump in it, her mouth went dry, and her eyes prickled as if with tears.
Darn it all, why did everyone always go around mooning about love and how wonderful and thrilling it was? From her perspective, love only hurt, and she’d rather have been spared the ordeal. If she’d been alone, Christina might even have sat herself down and had a good cry She didn’t normally indulge in such so-called feminine behavior, but she’d never been involved in an ill-fated love affair, either, and figured she deserved at least one good crying jag.
She saw Martin take a deep breath, as if preparing himself for an unpleasant ordeal, and turn toward her again. Was she really that difficult to get along with? Was she that much like her grandmother? Already? She wasn’t even old yet!
It was a truly horrible thought.
Because she didn’t want to act like her grandmother almost more than she did want to go to medical school, Christina forced herself to smile brightly at the man she loved. Martin’s expression lightened slightly, and he looked a shade more cheerful when he started toward her and Gran from the other side of the room.
Her Leading Man Page 22
