Fancy Pants

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  “It's not at all what I had in mind, and I can't possibly wear it,” she said firmly. “You'll have to do something.”

  Sally Calaverra bit off a length of pink thread with more force than necessary. “This is the costume that was designed for the part.”

  Francesca chided herself for not having paid more attention to the gown yesterday when Sally was fitting her. But she'd been so distracted by her exhaustion and the fact that Lloyd Byron had proved so unreasonably stubborn when she'd complained to him about her awful living arrangements that she'd barely looked at the costume. Now she had less than an hour before she was supposed to report to the set to film the first of her three scenes. At least the men in the company had been helpful, finding a more comfortable room for her with a private bath, bringing her a meal tray along with that lovely gin and quinine she'd been dreaming about. Even though the “chicken coop,” with its small windows and blond veneer furniture, was an abomination, she'd slept like the dead and actually felt a small spurt of anticipation when she'd awakened that morning—at least until she'd taken a second look at her costume.

  After turning to view the back of the gown, she decided to appeal to Sally's sense of fair play. “Surely you have something else. I absolutely never wear pink.”

  “This is the costume Lord Byron approved, and there's nothing I can do about it.” Sally fastened the last of the hooks that held the back closed, pulling the fabric together more roughly than necessary.

  Francesca sucked in her breath at the uncomfortable constriction. “Why do you keep calling him that ridiculous name—Lord Byron?”

  “If you have to ask the question, you must not know him very well.”

  Francesca refused to let either the wardrobe mistress or the costume continue to dampen her spirits. After all, poor Sally had to work in this dreadful trailer all day. That would make anyone cross. Francesca reminded herself that she had been given a role in a prestigious film. Besides, her looks were striking enough to overcome any costume, even this one. Still, she absolutely had to do something about getting a hotel room. She had no intention of spending another night in a place that didn't offer maid service.

  The French heels of her slippers crunched in the gravel as she crossed the drive and headed for the plantation house, her great hoopskirt swaying from side to side. This time she wasn't going to make the mistake she had made yesterday of trying to negotiate with lackeys. This time she was going straight to the producer with her list of complaints. Yesterday Lloyd Byron had told her he wanted the cast and crew lodged together to develop a spirit of ensemble, but she suspected he was just being cheap. As far as she was concerned, appearing in a prestigious film didn't make up for having to live like a barbarian.

  After several inquiries, she finally located Lew Steiner, the producer of Delta Blood. He was standing in the hallway of the Wentworth mansion, just outside the drawing room where her scene was being set up for shooting. His sleazy appearance shocked her. Pudgy and unshaven, with a gold ankh hanging inside the open collar of his Hawaiian shirt, he looked as if he belonged on a Soho street corner selling stolen watches. She stepped over the electrical cables that curled across the hallway carpet and introduced herself. As he looked up from his clipboard, she launched into her litany of complaints while managing to keep a smile in her voice.

  “... So you see, Mr. Steiner, I absolutely can't spend another night in that dreadful place; I'm sure you understand. I need a hotel room before nightfall.” She gazed at him winningly. “It's so difficult to sleep when one is worried about being devoured by cockroaches.”

  He devoted a few moments to ogling her elevated breasts, then pulled a folding chair away from the wall and sat down in it, spreading his legs so wide that the khaki fabric strained over his thighs. “Lord Byron told me you was a real looker, but I didn't believe him. Shows how smart I am.” He made an unpleasant clicking noise with the corner of his mouth. “Only the male and female leads have hotel rooms, sweetie, and that's because it's in their contracts. The rest of the peasants have to rough it.”

  “‘Peasants’ is the operative word, isn't it?” she snapped, all efforts at being conciliatory forgotten. Were all film people this sordid? She felt a flash of irritation at Miranda Gwynwyck. Had Miranda known how unpleasant the conditions would be here?

  “You don't want the job,” Lew Steiner said with a shrug, “I got a dozen bimbos I can have here by this afternoon to take your place. His Lordship was the one who hired you—not me.”

  Bimbos! Francesca could feel a red haze gathering behind her eyelids, hut just as she opened her mouth to explode, a hand cupped her shoulder.

  “Francesca!” Lloyd Byron exclaimed, turning her toward him and kissing her cheek, distracting her from her anger. “You look absolutely ravishing! Isn't she wonderful, Lew? Those green cat's eyes! That incredible mouth! Didn't I tell you how perfect she'd be for Lucinda, worth every penny it took to bring her over here.”

  Francesca started to remind him that she was the one who'd paid those pennies and that she wanted every one of them back, but before she could say anything, Lloyd Byron went on. “The dress is brilliant. Innocently childish, yet sensual. I love your hair. This is Francesca Day, everyone!”

  Francesca acknowledged the introduction, and then Byron drew her aside, pulling a pale yellow hankie from the pocket of his tailored vanilla walking shorts and gently pressing it to his forehead. “We'll be shooting your scenes today and tomorrow, and my camera is going to be in absolute raptures. You don't have any lines, so there's no reason to be nervous.”

  “I'm hardly nervous,” she declared. Good gracious, she'd gone out with the Prince of Wales. How could anyone think something like this would make her nervous? “Lloyd, this dress—”

  “Scrumptious, isn't it?” He led her toward the drawing room, steering her between two cameras and a forest of lights to the front of the set, which had been furnished with Hepplewhite chairs, a damask-covered settee, and fresh flowers in old silver urns. “You'll be standing in front of those windows in the first shot. I'm going to backlight you, so all you have to do is move forward when I tell you to and let that marvelous face of yours come slowly into focus.”

  His reference to her marvelous face eased some of the resentment she was feeling over her treatment, and she looked at him more kindly.

  “Think ‘life force,’” he urged. “You've seen Fellini's work with silent characters. Even though Lucinda never speaks a word, her presence must reach out from the screen and grab the audience by the throat. She's a symbol of the unattainable. Vitality, radiance, magic!” He pursed his lips. “God, I hope this isn't going to be so esoteric that the cretins in the audience will miss the point.”

  For the next hour Francesca stood still for light readings and then concentrated on a walk-through rehearsal while final adjustments were made. She was introduced to Fletcher Hall, a dark, rather sinister-looking actor in morning coat and trousers who was playing the male lead. Although she kept abreast of movie star gossip, she had never heard of him, and once again she found herself assailed by misgivings. Why didn't she recognize any of these people's names? Maybe she'd made a mistake by not finding out more about the production before she'd jumped so blindly into it. Perhaps she should have asked to see a script... But she'd looked through her contract yesterday, she reminded herself, and everything seemed in order.

  Her misgivings gradually faded away as she shot the first setup easily, standing in front of the window and following Lloyd's instructions. “Beautiful!” he kept calling out. “Marvelous! You're a natural, Francesca.” The compliments soothed her, and despite the increasingly uncomfortable constriction of the dress, she was able to relax between shots and flirt with some of the male crew members who'd been so attentive to her the night before.

  Lloyd shot her walking across the room, making a deep curtsy to Fletcher Hall, and reacting to his dialogue by gazing wistfully into his face. By lunchtime, when she was unlaced from her costume for an hour, she
discovered she was actually having fun. After the break, Lloyd positioned her at various points in the drawing room where he shot close-ups from every conceivable angle. “You're beautiful, darling!” he called out. “God, that heart-shaped face and those wonderful eyes are just perfect. Loosen her hair! Beautiful! Beautiful!” When he announced a break, Francesca stretched, rather like a cat who had just had its back well scratched.

  By late afternoon her feeling of well-being had succumbed to the stifling heat from the weather and the carbon arc lights. The fans scattered about the set did little to cool the air, especially since they had to be turned off every time the cameras rolled. The heavy corset and multiple layers of petticoats beneath her gown trapped the heat next to her skin until she thought she would faint.

  “I absolutely can't do any more today,” she finally declared, while the makeup man dabbed at the tiny pearls of perspiration that had begun to form near her hairline in the most disgusting fashion. “I'm simply expiring from the heat, Lloyd.”

  “Only one more scene, darling. Just one more. Look at the angle of the light through the window. Your skin will positively glow. Please, Francesca, you've been such a princess. My exquisite, flawless princess!”

  Put like that, how could she refuse?

  Lloyd directed her toward a mark that had been placed on the floor not far from the fireplace. The beginning of the film, she had gathered, centered on the arrival of a young English schoolgirl at a Mississippi plantation where she was to become the bride of its reclusive owner, a man Francesca assumed was intended to resemble Jane Eyre's Rochester, although Fletcher Hall seemed a bit too oily to her to be a romantic hero. Unfortunately for the schoolgirl, but fortunately for Francesca, Lucinda was to die a tragic death the same day. Francesca could already envision a splendid death scene, which she intended to play with the proper amount of restrained passion. She had yet to discover exactly what Lucinda and the plantation owner had to do with the main body of the story, which was set in the present time and seemed to involve a large number of female cast members, but since she wouldn't be appearing in that part of the film, it didn't seem to matter.

  Lloyd wiped his brow with a fresh handkerchief and went over to Fletcher Hall. “I want you to come up behind Francesca, put your hands on her shoulders, and then lift up her hair on the side so you can kiss her neck. Francesca, remember that you've been very sheltered all your life. His touch shocks you, but it pleases you, too. Do you understand?”

  She felt a trickle of perspiration slide down between her breasts. “Of course I understand,” she replied grouchily. A makeup man walked over and powdered her neck. She made him hold up a mirror so she could check his work.

  “Remember, Fletcher,” Lloyd went on, “I don't want you to actually kiss her neck—just anticipate the kiss. All right, then; let's walk it through.”

  Francesca took her place, only to suffer through another interminable delay while more lighting adjustments were made. Then someone noticed a damp patch on the back of Fletcher's morning coat where he had sweat through, and Sally had to bring a substitute coat from the costume trailer.

  Francesca stamped her foot. “How much longer do you expect to keep me standing here? I won't put up with it! I'll give you exactly five more minutes, Lloyd, and then I'm leaving!”

  He gave her a chilly glare. “Now, Francesca, we have to be professional. All these other people are tired, too.”

  “All these other people aren't wearing ten pounds of costume. I'd like to see how professional they'd be if they were bloody well suffocating to death!”

  “Just a few more minutes,” he said placatingly, and then he clutched his hands into fists and pulled them dramatically toward his chest. “Use the tension you're feeling, Francesca. Use the tension in your scene. Pass your tension on to Lucinda—a young girl sent to a new land to marry a man who is a stranger. Everyone quiet. Quiet, quiet, quiet. Let Francesca feel her tension.”

  The boom man, who'd been preoccupied with Francesca's cantilevered breasts for the better part of the day, leaned toward the cameraman. “I'd like to feel her tension.”

  “Stand in line, bro.”

  Finally the new morning coat arrived and the scene was shot. “Don't move!” Lloyd called out as soon they were done. “All we need is one close-up of Fletcher kissing Francesca's neck and we'll wrap for the day. It'll only take a second. Everybody ready?”

  Francesca groaned, but she held her position. She'd suffered this long—a few more minutes wouldn't matter. Fletcher put his hands on her shoulders and picked up her hair. She hated having him touch her. He was definitely common, not her sort of man at all.

  “Curve your neck a little more, Francesca,” Lloyd instructed. “Makeup, where are you?”

  “Right here, Lloyd.”

  “Come on, then.”

  The makeup man looked vague. “What do you need?”

  “What do I need?” Lloyd threw out his hands in a dramatic gesture of frustration.

  “Oh, ri-i-ight.” The makeup man grimaced apologetically, then called out to Sally, who was standing just behind the camera. “Hey, Calaverro, reach into my box, will you, and toss me over Fletcher's fangs?”

  Fletcher's fangs?

  Francesca felt the bottom drop out of her stomach.

  Chapter

  7

  Fangs!” Francesca screeched. “Why is Fletcher wearing fangs?”

  Sally slapped the odious objects into the makeup man's hand. “It's a vampire picture, sweetie. What do you expect him to wear—a G-string?”

  Francesca felt as if she'd stumbled into some terrible nightmare. Jerking away from Fletcher Hall, she rounded on Byron. “You lied to me!” she shouted. “Why didn't you tell me this was a vampire picture? Of all the miserable, rotten— My God, I'll sue you for this; I'll sue you to within an inch of your ridiculous life. If you think for one moment I'll let my name appear on—on—” She couldn't say the word again, she absolutely couldn't! A vision of Marisa Berenson flicked into her mind, the exquisite Marisa hearing about what had happened to poor Francesca Day and laughing until rivulets of tears ran down her alabaster cheeks.

  Clenching her fists, Francesca cried, “You tell me right this minute exactly what this odious film is about!”

  Lloyd sniffed, clearly offended. “It's about life and death, the transfer of blood, the very essence of life passing from one person to another. Metaphysical events of which you apparently know nothing.” He stalked away in a huff.

  Sally stepped forward and crossed her arms, obviously enjoying herself. “The film's about a bunch of stewardesses who rent a mansion that's supposed to be haunted. One by one they get their blood sucked by the former owner—good old Fletcher, who's spent the last century or so pining for his lost love Lucinda. There's a subplot with a female vampire and a male stripper, but that's closer to the end.”

  Francesca didn't wait to hear any more. Shooting a furious glance at all of them, she swept from the set. Her hoopskirt rocked from side to side and the blood boiled in her veins as she dashed out of the mansion and toward the trailers in search of Lew Steiner. They'd made a fool of her! She had sold her clothes and traveled halfway around the world to play a minor part in a vampire movie!

  Quivering with rage, she found Steiner sitting at a metal table under the trees near the food truck. Her hoopskirt tilted up in the back as she came to a sudden stop, banging against the table leg. “I accepted this job because I heard Mr. Byron had a reputation as a quality director!” she declared, stabbing the air with a harsh gesture directed roughly toward the plantation house.

  He looked up from a half-eaten ham on rye. “Who told you that?”

  An image of Miranda Gwynwyck's face, smug and self-satisfied, swam before her eyes, and everything became blindingly clear. Miranda, who was supposed to be a feminist, had sabotaged another woman in a misguided attempt to protect her brother.

  “He told me he was making a spiritual statement!” she exclaimed. “What does any of this h
ave to do with spiritual statements—or life force or Fellini, for God's sake!”

  Steiner smirked. “Why do you think we call him Lord Byron? He makes crap sound like poetry. Of course, it's still crap when he's done with it, but we don't tell him that. He's cheap and he works fast.”

  Francesca searched for some misunderstanding, for the small ray of hope her optimistic soul demanded. “What about the Golden Palm?” she asked stiffly.

  “The Golden what?”

  “Palm.” She felt like a fool. “The Cannes Film Festival.”

  Lew Steiner stared at her for a moment before he released a belly laugh that brought with it a small chunk of ham. “Honey, the only ‘can’ Lord Byron's ever had anything to do with is the kind that flushes. The last picture he did for me was Co-ed Massacre, and the one before that was a little number called Arizona Prison Women. It did real good at the drive-ins.”

  Francesca could barely force the words from her mouth. “And he actually expected me to appear in a vampire picture?”

  “You're here, aren't you?”

  She made up her mind immediately. “Not for long! I'll be back with my suitcases in exactly ten minutes, and I expect you to have a draft waiting for me to cover my expenses as well as a driver to take me to the airport. And if you use a single frame of that film you shot today, I'll bloody well sue you to within an inch of your worthless life.”