“Santa Anitas Racetrack is great. It’s historic and gorgeous, but be honest. It’s not Mo-No’s scene. If I’m right, she’s aiming her sights at Hollywood. Henry has to pass muster in Mo-No’s society.”
Or where Mo-No wished she could be. I couldn’t help rolling my eyes.
“Think of it this way—it will give him something to impress her when he first meets her. He can talk about his rubbing of elbows with the A-listers.” Polly beamed, clearly considering herself brilliant for her execution of this project she’d taken on to keep herself from getting bored over her Christmas break from school. Meanwhile, she was crashing into people’s lives, potentially breaking stuff. And I was her willing accomplice.
It’s all for Sylvie.
“I sure hope you’re going to be the one at his side taking notes, because I’m far better with horses than with movie stars.”
“Oh, pshaw. You’ll be luminous.” So that was how it was: she’d decided for me that I’d be going, whether I liked it or not. Would this involve my wearing of Burt’s clothes and hairstyles as well? Now at least I knew where the sinking premonition had stemmed from, and it wasn’t good.
The VIP Visitors sign accused me of being a fraud over and over, each time I glanced at it, knowing what a fraudulent scheme I was cooking up.
“Speaking of horses, you’ve still never taken me out to your ranch in the mountains.”
Our ranch wasn’t exactly in the mountains. Inland California did have mountains, the Sierra Nevadas, but our place ranged more in hilly areas rather than sharp peaks.
“Sometime we’ll go, if you’re ready for ranch life.”
Frankly, I couldn’t see Polly getting along too well with the types of work we had to do there every time I went home. Mucking out stalls, taking care of the animals, all the other chores Dad and Mom and the ranch hands did every day starting long before the crack of dawn, wouldn’t suit her. On days when she didn’t teach school, Polly rolled out of her four-poster bed around noon and spent half the afternoon primping. My parents would tell me she would start rubbing off on me, and tell me to find a friend with a moral compass—moral compass being the equivalent of a work ethic in their terminology.
They’d describe Polly as a life choice.
“After you and Geordie have kids, we’ll go and show them the hills. My dad will take them on horseback rides.” He’d jump at it, especially since he and Mom might never get grandchildren of their own at this rate. “But let’s get this project sorted first.”
“Right! Burt has a tuxedo all set aside for Henry, assuming I estimated the guy’s measurements accurately. I do have a gift for that.” Polly blew on her knuckles and rubbed them across her lapel. “I myself am wearing black, a dress I’ve had for ages. It hides my height, or lack thereof.”
I breathed a sigh of relief at hearing that Polly not only had her own dress to wear but also that she intended to go. In fact, maybe she was planning on letting me off the hook.
“Not to be a spoilsport, but I only brought my dining and shopping with Polly clothes for this trip, so I guess you’ll have to be Henry’s plus-one tonight.”
“Sorry, wrong number.” Polly wasn’t letting me off the hook. “For one, I’m engaged, and I’m not going to endanger Geordie’s feelings by showing up on the arm of a tall blond, tanned man at a movie premier that is going to be getting coverage in all the Hollywood papers.”
“But I don’t have anything to wear except this outfit and its clones.” I pointed to my sweater and jeans. They sported a little bit of bus station soil. Unfortunately, Polly was unfazed by reality.
“It’s black tie, so no jeans obviously, even if Vera Wang designed them herself. But we’re doing all the gussying up over at Pickering Place, and you can totally wear one of my gowns.” She clapped her hands together, and I heard Henry stir. “I’ve got this pretty blue one that will really bring out your eyes. It’s drenched in sequins.”
I shut my eyes in resignation. At least I wouldn’t be stealing from the studio. There was at least that balm to my woe—slight but soothing.
“You’re six inches shorter than I am.”
“Then you’ll be showing more leg. All the better.”
“Stop.” I did have nice legs. But flashing them in public wasn’t my thing, other than at the beach. While never warm off the California coast, this time of year the Pacific could have been masquerading as the Arctic, so I’d had no tanning time for a couple of months. “I’m not showing leg.”
“Then we’ll buy a dress. That’ll be fun.”
“We might not have time to shop.” This was a flimsy, last-ditch effort before I waved my white flag.
“Fine. I’ll have Burt send one over.”
Oh, no. Not that.
We were already raiding the studio closet, risking theft charges, and I’d rather scale down the crime level as much as possible.
“The blue sequins sound great, come to think of it. You’re right. Blue does make my eyes pop.”
“So you’ll wear my blue sequins,” came the coup de grace. I curled up and died, surrender my only option. I’d be attending a black-tie event, with A-list actors, on the arm of a man who believed he owned the bus station.
What could possibly go wrong?
“You’ll look like a gorgeous mermaid come ashore. Plus, you’ll look perfect on the arm of Mr. Sleeptytime back there when we give him a wash.” She made a sound like she was eating something chocolate. “I’ll just bet he cleans up nice.”
I agreed, probably too much, but I couldn’t let myself think about it in any detail, such as how nice his tan might be, or how well it would contrast with his brilliant smile. Rules had to be rules. Wagers had to be wagers. And I was keeping my heart out of this. Totally.
“Ooh!” Polly squealed as we got out of the car and before waking up Henry. “We should invent a back story for him. Something believable. If we’re going to pass him off to Hollywood’s elite as a handsome transportation baron, we’ve got a story to get straight.”
“Transportation baron!”
“You heard him. He owns the bus station. If that little gem pops out of his mouth again even when he’s been properly fed and bathed and rested, we want to have something that dovetails with it.”
Good thinking. Terrifying, but ingenious. Polly had noted that little quirk of his and would work with it instead of trying to go against the grain. Smart. It was like combing your hair to match your cowlick, rather than plastering it with sticky gel to try to overcompensate.
I had my hand poised on the back door handle. In a second we’d wake him and take him inside to meet Burt.
“Maybe the safest thing,” I said, “is to get him to work up his background story with us, then he can remember it better, in case he’s in a conversation on his own.” I partially hated how well this was all coming together, and I partially hated that now I was contributing to the mania.
But Polly clapped her hands giddily.
“This is going to be so intense.”
That was for sure. Me in a blue, sparkly mermaid gown just to save a little girl, while lying to the world about a possibly crazy man’s identity, just on a dare. Throughout my life, I’d always been a little more laid back. Doing anything like this would never have occurred to me.
My parents would definitely call this a questionable life choice.
For once, they would be totally accurate.
“I mean, if we can get this to stick with the people who made a living of pretending to be something other than they are, and therefore should be able to see right though us, then we’ll have it made in the shade with Monique-Noelle.”
Yeah, that, or we’d fail spectacularly, get banned from all future movie premieres ever, make the gossip columns, and possibly get Burt fired, all based on whether or not a stranger we just met and gave lunch to had the skills to pull off a deception.
Burt should not trust us.
Polly swung her back door open wide, bending over and gently sha
king his shoulder.
“Henry, good morning, sunshine. We’re here at Burt’s movie lot.” She turned to me. “Come on. It’s time to watch some magic.”
***
The inside of the studio’s costuming department was more like an acre-square warehouse filled end to end with clothes hanging on rods, two layers high. Signs dangled from the ceilings indicating the types of costumes for that area, kind of like a department store, but instead of Juniors or Big and Tall, there was a section called Westerns and another Sports, another labeled King Louis IV, another Zombie, and on and on.
Actually, an acre might be an understatement.
“If we don’t find what we need here, there’s more on the second and third floors.” Burt led the way through the racks, snagging an occasional item here and there on our way past. “Here’s the men’s dressing room. I’ll measure you, Henry. Don’t want to waste time with the wrong sizing. But to me you look like you have about the same build as Chris Hemsworth, who I fit for that one movie. Six-foot-three?”
At this, Henry nodded. “Or thereabouts.”
Which meant he was a good six inches taller than I was. My heart fluttered.
“Good build, too.” Burt turned to us. “After years at this job, I’m getting pretty good at sizing people up.”
How he could picture Chris Hemsworth in Henry through all those outer layers of rumpled sunburn, I had no clue—unless it was those preternaturally white teeth or the confident walk that blinded Burt to the grime. Kind of like it had worked on me.
Now that he mentioned it, I could see a layer of Thor beneath the grime. Of course, he’d have to get a haircut to turn Mo-No’s head. She wanted better hair on a guy than her current husband’s, but she was definitely not into the scruffy type.
Measurements ensued, the result of which brought Burt forth triumphant.
“I was dead on. Except height. Henry here has an inch on Chris.” Burt shoved forth into the racks, but my eyes were glued on Henry. Was he really that tall? Uh, yeah. He was. And as a tall girl, I appreciated a tall guy.
Monique-Noelle would, too, no matter her own height. Any girl could appreciate that build.
Henry caught my eye and waved me over. I went closer and he whispered, “It’s rare to get gussied up at the station. How about you, Elizer?”
“I’m a nanny. I don’t gussy.” I’d never dream of trying to compete with Mo-No, was more like it.
“Never mind.” He winked at me. “You look great without any gussying.”
I did? Instinct made me tug at the hem of my shirt as my face went hot. Had a wink from a vagabond just made me blush?
An hour later, we each struggled out into the late afternoon sunshine to Polly’s car, where we filled her trunk and two-thirds of her back seat with costumes.
“It’s only two weeks. Who could wear this many things in two weeks?” Even if Henry started now, it would take him almost one week to simply try these on and wear them for an hour each.
“Won’t someone miss this many items?” Henry asked the question plaguing me. Not that we’d even made a millimeter of a dent in the miles of racks.
“You never know when you’ll need tennis whites,” Burt said. “These were from that movie about the British championships. It flopped, so no one is doing a tennis movie again anytime soon. Hollywood types get superstitious; they won’t put their money into anything related to a project that failed.” Burt rolled his eyes. “What they should be afraid of putting their money in isn’t tennis movies—it’s bad scripts.”
So he hadn’t signed them out. My internal Titanic returned.
“So true.” Polly gave him a hug, oblivious to the bad situation brewing here. “You’re the best. Give Ivy my love.” Polly blew a kiss to Burt’s absent daughter.
“I will. She’s calling you Aunt Polly these days. I hope that’s okay.” Burt dug in his jacket pocket. “I almost forgot. You’ll need these.”
He handed Polly an envelope. I leaned over so I could see when she peeked inside. Henry leaned, too. I saw his face fall, and he shuddered when he saw the tickets to the premiere of Frogs in the Sand.
“Oh, brother,” he said under his breath.
Ditto. I might be sick and lose my cedar plank salmon on the sidewalk at Continental Studios. Was the world kidding me right now? I hadn’t realized someone had turned that horror of a book into a movie. Why would anyone? Geez, it was self-discovery poetry from a middle-aged woman who’d been abandoned by her husband. Nobody on planet earth wanted to sit through ninety minutes of that.
“I read this book five times.” Polly gave a squee and high fived Burt. “Can’t wait.”
“Concentrate on your masterpiece there.” He pointed at Henry. “He’s a definite work of art in progress.”
***
The Pickering mansion might have looked like a typical Beverly Hills pink stucco, 1930s Spanish-style two-story from the outside, but inside it was posher than posh. Not only did Polly’s father’s admiralty have a good income, Polly’s mother had arrived in the marriage with a dowry the size of a small U.S. state’s annual budget.
“Here.” I threw three Walmart bags full of personal items—from toiletries to socks and underwear—into Henry’s arms. Polly’s father’s chauffeur, Terrence, had been tasked with picking those up while we were at Costume Acres with Burt. I led him into the Spanish-tiled bathroom with its gold fixtures.
“The shower is vintage so it’s kind of tricky.” I explained the hot and cold dials to Henry, showed him the loofa sponge, in hopes of taking off a layer of that sun-murdered skin, and asked if he knew how to use a razor—probably offending him on every level.
He watched me with amusement.
“I know it’s been a while since I had a proper wash-up, but I can probably manage it. Unless you’re offering to be my personal assistant.” His eye twinkled. “I wouldn’t refuse that.”
At which point I realized how I must have sounded to him with all my instructions. A hot blush rose from my neck, flaming my cheeks.
“I hear in Japan,” he said, taking a step nearer to me, “they have soap ladies. If you go to the public bath house—and this bathroom is about large enough to qualify—you can sit there, and a soap lady will scrub your back—and all your hard-to-reach parts.”
I did not want to think about his hard-to-reach parts. Not right now, with my whole head and neck ablaze with embarrassment.
“I’m sure you have it handled.” I turned on the hot water, and the steam floated all through the air between us.
“Ah, but don’t forget, Elizer.” He looked down at me from his dizzyingly beautiful height. I couldn’t remember the last time a guy had looked down at me. “Remember that in My Fair Lady, the street urchin woman had to have someone wash her.”
I cleared my throat. “Ahem. She complained, loudly.”
He stepped a little closer to me, the steam floating between us, as I let my eyes stray to his very nice white teeth.
“I wouldn’t complain.”
My heart pounded, filling up my throat and turning my hands ice cold.
“I’ll leave you to it.” I dashed for the door and left him there in all that steam, but taking my own little steam bath with me.
“Polly?” I found her in the kitchen making sandwiches. She stunk at cooking, but she could assemble the best sandwiches ever. It was a different skill from cooking itself, and Polly had it big time. No one could put precisely the right width of avocado slice on bread with turkey like Polly.
“Henry’s in the bath.” I brushed that image from my mind with a single swipe. She didn’t look up but kept intently focused on her work. Before meeting us, Henry had likely gone a long time without food, and he was probably hungry again already, so a sandwich was a very thoughtful gesture.
“We should get ready while he’s busy.” Much as I dreaded trying to shimmy my tall body into a slinky short dress and then stride out in it for Henry and the rest of the world to see, I’d do it—for Sylvie’s sake
.
Well, that sounded weird, but I couldn’t get hung up on the details. For now, getting gussied up and going Hollywood was my best plan—because it was my only plan. If we could pull off the deception tonight, we could definitely make it work on Mo-No.
But when I looked again at Polly for some reaction to my suggestion, she wasn’t her smiling self at all. A tear was perched on her lower lashes.
“What’s wrong?”
“Geordie.”
“No!” I gasped and clutched my heart. With a member of the Armed Forces as a dear one, you could never assume the existence of a tomorrow. “Is he—”
“He’s shipping out.”
I exhaled. Shipping out was so much better than the tragic alternative my mind had jumped to.
“He won’t be at Camp Pendleton anymore?”
She shook her head, her eyes shimmering.
“They’re doing training exercises in the Pacific.”
I couldn’t blame her for her extreme concern. Training exercises were fraught with danger, too.
“How soon?”
“He goes in the morning. I have to see him before he leaves.”
Wait. That meant—
“You’re not coming tonight?”
“I can’t.”
“No. You’re right. Seeing him, that’s absolutely more important.” I hugged her and let her cry on my shoulder for a bit, which she did and then brushed some tears from shining eyes. “What time will you leave?”
“As soon as I’m done making him this picnic. He likes my sandwiches. I made some for you and Henry, too. I know he just ate, but he’s probably hungry again.”
She blubbered on for a bit about stuff that didn’t matter nearly as much as the giant thing that loomed over her of Geordie going out for real-life military exercises we both knew were high-risk. But people often focused on the mundane to avoid thinking of the overwhelming. “I’m driving down there to meet him, but I’m leaving in an hour instead of now, so I can miss the five o’clock traffic.”
My Fair Aussie Page 6
