by Juliette Fay
The director looked up, face placid. His heart wasn’t pounding, Henry felt certain of that. And yet his gaze caught on Henry not as an employer ready to manage some trifling question of an employee, but as . . . a person. An acquaintance. Even someone with whom he’d shared a notable experience. It gave Henry courage, and he began again.
“Edward.”
The man blinked, and his face colored ever so slightly. “Yes?”
“I wondered if I might take you up on that drink tonight.”
They met at The Valley Quail, which was far enough south on Highland Avenue not to be a Hollywood favorite, and yet not so far that Henry couldn’t easily walk there. He appreciated the director’s thoughtfulness in the choice. It was fairly nondescript, a notch above a diner. As Henry waited outside, he began to get the distinct feeling that more people were going in than the place might be able to accommodate. He hoped they’d get a table. And yet, when he peered inside, several were empty. The phone booth in the back, however, seemed to be getting a lot of use. There was even a line forming.
Edward’s car pulled up, and in the waning light, with no fresh injuries to distract him, Henry was able to fully appreciate the vehicle. It was a subtle navy blue, not the ostentatious champagne color that so many stars seemed to prefer. Henry had failed to notice the canvas roof when he’d ridden in it the previous week, or the high whitewall tires with thick wooden spokes.
Edward emerged and shook his hand, noticing Henry’s interest in the car. “It’s a Packard Twin Six. Twelve cylinders. It’s not too flashy, but it’s got a lot of power.”
Just like its owner, thought Henry.
The driver didn’t even glance at Henry but kept his eyes trained forward before pulling away to park somewhere. He’d clearly been hired for his ability to behave as an extension of the car, blind and deaf to anything but the road.
Henry held the door to The Valley Quail open for Edward and followed him as he strode straight back to the phone booth. He held a hand up to Henry, entered, and closed the folding door. Then he opened it and cocked a finger, inviting Henry to join him.
Two men in a phone booth together?
Henry balked, but Edward tipped his head, insistent. And then he disappeared.
Henry took a hesitant step forward, and suddenly a man’s voice growled, “In or out? I’m not holding it open till the cops come.” The back panel of the booth seemed to have been pried back. Henry stepped through into another world.
The room was small, crowded with about a dozen small round tables, the walls hung with tapestries as a sort of decorative soundproofing, he suspected. It smelled of smoke and drink, of perfume and food, and of humans enjoying themselves just a tad more than they might have without the tingle of secrecy.
A makeshift bar took up the length of one wall, and Edward stood ordering drinks. He looked over his shoulder at Henry and motioned for him to get a table. And then he smiled.
Edward was happy.
He had a stately sort of handsomeness even when scowling, but with that joyous little grin on his face, he was the most beautiful thing Henry had ever seen.
They were several drinks in, talking about this and that, exchanging chitchat about the studio and eventually boyhood information, nothing much more revealing than place of birth, siblings, parents still alive or not, when Edward asked, “And what brought you to Hollywood?”
Henry gave him the whole story—performed it for him, really—about Irene and Millie, the three of them jumping off the train, the silly play they concocted, and running for their lives from Barney. Edward laughed or shook his head in wonder at all the right places, and Henry found himself thinking, This is a date.
He’d had many dates before, of course, when he was trying so hard to like women. He’d fed and entertained them, kissed and petted them, and even taken one to bed, which had been disastrous. In her mind it confirmed that he was the man for her, while at the very same time it confirmed for him that he never wanted to do anything like it again.
This is a date, he thought. The one I never dared to hope I could have.
After dinner, the car magically reappeared, and Henry wondered if the evening was over. If so, he couldn’t complain. It had been the most enjoyable dinner he’d had in a long time—possibly ever. But Edward said, “Have you been up in Laurel Canyon? It’s a beautiful night for it. We could put the top down.”
They drove the lonely road up to Lookout Mountain, and Edward pointed out Tom Mix’s log cabin on the hill. It was such a quiet spot, the sky noisy with stars, and sitting with Edward so near, Henry almost forgot the reason he’d suggested they get together in the first place.
“I need your advice on something.”
Edward turned his gaze from the sky to look at Henry. “Of course.”
“My friend, Millie. She’s in a bit of a bind.”
Edward’s face, so serene, suddenly lost some wattage. “Oh.”
“I’m sorry,” said Henry, flustered. “Have I said the wrong thing?”
“No, not at all.” Edward’s voice was slightly flat. “Young actors and actresses always need help of some form or another.”
“I didn’t . . .”
“Didn’t what?”
Words wouldn’t come. Henry shook his head.
“Didn’t come out with me tonight so I would help your friend?” Edward prompted.
“Edward . . .”
The director was silent for several seconds and then he said gently, “How can I help?”
It’s time to stop all this cowardly nonsense, Henry thought. It really is time.
“I came out with you because I want your help, it’s true. But I do want to be here. With you. And if the only reason I was brave enough to do it was because I told myself I was helping a friend . . . well, that’s embarrassing. Truly. And Millie, you know, she’s so . . .” Henry clenched his hands in frustration. “But she has this way of making you feel like you would jump off a ship in the middle of the ocean to save her. Which is exactly what this feels like to me—like I’m bobbing around in the sea without a life jacket.” He shook his head. “I suppose I should thank her. As maddening as she is, she got me here.”
Edward’s gaze never wavered, but he remained silent.
“Actually,” Henry whispered, “I’m having the night of my life.”
He leaned forward, slowly, watching those lovely hazel eyes for any reluctance, and seeing none, pressed his lips to Edward’s.
30
Give me a smart idiot over a stupid genius any day.
Samuel Goldwyn, producer, actor
On Saturday morning, when Millie woke in a strange apartment with Irene sleeping next to her, she thought, Isn’t this fun. I wonder where we are.
It came back to her in pieces. The dance hall. Dan showing up. At first she’d thought he wanted to dance, and she was so relieved, because he wasn’t grabby or bad-smelling like the others. He’d be nice to dance with. Then suddenly she was outside and Irene was there. That look on her face . . .
Even in the wobbly, cotton-headed state she’d been in, Millie had seen the pain she’d caused her dear friend. Remembering it now, remorse crashed over her and she almost gasped at the weight of it. She’d been remorseful for many things in her life . . . at least at the time . . . at least for a while. But this was different.
When Irene began to stir, Millie could hardly wait to tell her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Irene. You were so worried, and I just wanted to help out, but I shouldn’t have done it like that.”
Irene pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “What time is it?”
“It must be almost noon. See where the sun is? Whose apartment is this, anyway?”
She heard movement on the other side of the bed. “It’s mine,” said a man’s voice thick with sleep. Dan sat up from the floor, and his cheek was creased in the strangest little braid pattern.
In fact, there was a braid pattern on Irene’s arm, too.
Dan gave Millie a nod and
then smiled at Irene, and her cheeks went pink.
Something had happened between them. Millie wasn’t entirely sure what, but she thought it must be good. She knew she shouldn’t say anything, but she couldn’t help grinning and giving Irene a secret little nudge.
Irene’s face suddenly went flat with anger. “Millie, there is nothing to smile about. What you put us through last night—”
“I know! I’m so sorry—”
“You know? You know? How could you possibly know? You were so drugged up you barely knew your own name!”
“It’s true, but even in such a”—Millie waved her hand around searching for the word—“such a state, I could see you, Irene. I could see your face and how upset you were. And I promise I will never forget it. I will never put you through that again.”
This seemed to take a little starch out of Irene’s fury, but she wasn’t ready to let it go. “Millie, I swear—”
“You don’t have to swear, you just have to know that I’ve learned my lesson, and I’m so, so sorry, Irene. Truly. And Dan, you, too. You both have been so good to me and I will never let you down again.”
She would never let them down again . . . but that didn’t mean she wasn’t tempted to go back to The Hollywood Harem the following night with the twenty or so tickets she’d found stuffed in her pocket and cash them in. That was about a dollar’s worth of dancing right there, and she was entitled to it.
But if she did that she knew there would be additional temptations: the first would be to find another one of those very, very nice cigarettes that Agnes had shown her how to smoke. It had made even boring things seem fascinating, like the pattern of dandruff on one man’s shoulders or the way the lights hanging from the ceiling seemed to move, even though she knew she was the one moving. The second temptation would be the money she could make if she stuck around to have a few more dances.
“Things have a way of cascading with you, Millie,” her father had often said. “One little misstep leads to a bigger one and a bigger one after that.” She didn’t know why that was, but there seemed to be some truth to it. This time she was determined to keep that first domino from falling.
On Sunday, she and Irene had searched the papers for jobs, anything Millie might be able to do. On Monday, she applied for several maid positions. But she had no experience, and one very blunt wife informed her that even if Millie had super-human cleaning powers, the woman wouldn’t hire her because she was too pretty and would “distract” her husband.
There were too many young women in Hollywood looking for jobs that required no skill. The skills Millie did have—farm and stable work—those jobs all went to the many young men who were also scouring the area for work to hold them over until their big break in the pictures finally came. She was told she was just too dainty to muck out stalls.
Things brightened up considerably on Thursday, though. For Irene, at least.
Millie returned to the Studio Club that afternoon, feeling terribly dejected after another round of fruitless job hunting and in danger of breaking all her promises to everyone.
Irene must have run all the way to the Studio Club and back during her lunch break, because when Millie checked in at the club office, as she now did from habit rather than expectation that anything good might await, there had been a note:
Meet me at The Cottonwood at seven. I have good news, and it involves dress shopping!
Millie looked down at the one she was wearing. It had once been her best day dress, Nile green in crepe rayon with a boat neck, three-quarter sleeves, and an inset sash around her hips. It had been washed so many times now that the sheen had gone fuzzy and the hem of one sleeve was beginning to fray to a rather appalling degree. The need for new dresses was clearly at a critical state, yet she knew it was the last thing Irene would spend money on. Something was either very right or very wrong.
Millie walked up to The Cottonwood and caught sight through the window of Irene and Dan sitting together at a table inside. Dan had apparently just teased her about something, because he was grinning like the cat that got the cream, and Irene went a little pink and flicked the back of her hand against his arm. Her gaze never left his face, though. Nor he hers.
Millie was staggered by the love she saw between them. She had known something was up at Dan’s apartment—a crush maybe? Even a kiss?—but Irene was still angry about the Harem, and Millie hadn’t wanted to push her luck by prying for details.
This, though. This was more than a crush, and at first Millie was just so glad. Irene deserved to be adored by the whole world! But then it suddenly occurred to her that if Irene started wanting to spend her free time with Dan—alone for at least some of it—that would mean less time with her. She felt her throat tighten like a string bag at the thought of it.
Don’t be greedy, she told herself and stepped inside.
Irene spied her and extended her arm to beckon her over. “Millie!”
I still belong to her. Millie let out a little sigh of relief and went over to kiss Irene on the cheek and nod and smile at Dan. “Now, what’s all this about dress shopping?”
Henry and Gert were fast on her heels, and when they were all seated and anxiously awaiting the news, Irene pulled twenty-five dollars out of her purse and waved the bills in the air like little green flags. “I sold my first scenario.”
A cheer went up, and handshakes and kisses were exchanged.
“I’m so happy for you, Irene.” Henry’s eyes shone with pride.
“And I’m so happy for you, Henry Weiss, because you’re finally going to get your loan repaid!” Henry crossed his arms resolutely and shook his head, but Irene was so happy, she just laughed. “Also, dinner tonight is on me.”
Millie was delighted to see Irene feeling free to be so generous, but she had to wonder. Once she reimbursed Henry and Dan, paid for dinner, and socked a few dollars away for next week’s rent, that money would be gone. She leaned over and whispered in Irene’s ear, “We don’t have to get dresses. Let’s wait until you sell the next one.”
Irene grinned and patted Millie’s hand. “That’s very practical of you.”
Millie nudged her with her elbow. “I am sometimes, you know!”
Irene raised her voice to address the group. “The very wise Millie Martin is concerned that I’m going overboard with spreading around my boodle. So I guess I should tell you that I have even better news. I was recommended for a job in the Scenario Department reading submissions to suggest for production. They’ll teach me how to write continuity scripts, too. I start on Monday at thirty-five dollars a week.”
When Millie arrived home that night, she was still smiling. The stars seemed to be aligning for her wonderful friend, both romantically and professionally. Millie still felt desperate to get a job somewhere, but at least she didn’t have to worry quite so much.
As she passed the office on her way up to bed, Miss Hunter called out, “There’s a message for you.” Her homely face seemed particularly bright. “Mr. Carlton Sharp’s secretary called to say he would like to meet with you in the Olympic Publicity Office tomorrow morning at nine.”
Millie frowned. “Did she say what he wanted?”
“She didn’t,” said Ms. Hunter. “I suppose the only thing to do is go and find out.”
Most of the buildings on Olympic’s lot had the architectural appeal of a car barn. They’d been thrown up hastily as the demand for pictures rose and overran the available set space. But the corporate offices were in that grand pillared building with the enormous iron lanterns they’d seen on their very first day in Hollywood. Millie had never been inside before, separated as it was from the ongoing fray of production.
In the lobby she approached the reception area and was told Publicity was on the second floor, next to Vice President Louis Manning’s office. The heavy oak door with CARLTON SHARP, DIRECTOR OF PUBLICITY stenciled in gold stood ajar, and Millie peeked in.
“Yes?” A woman with highly tweezed eyebrows sat behind a desk
. “May I help you?”
“I’m Mildred Martin. Mr. Sharp wanted to see me?”
The woman’s face stiffened. “He’s in a meeting right now with Mr. Manning. They’ll see you presently.” She pressed a button on a large box on her desk and went back to her work.
A meeting with both the vice president and the director of publicity? Millie’s thoughts alternated between wondering what she possibly could have done wrong and becoming convinced that this was some kind of mistake. The box on the secretary’s desk beeped, and the woman rose and ushered Millie into a grand, beautifully furnished room. Three walls were completely paneled in oak, but the far wall had a row of small windows that overlooked the central area of the lot. She had never noticed those windows before, and she suspected that this was by design. Cast and crew members were unaware that they could be watched.
The two men introduced themselves and invited her to make herself comfortable in an elegant sitting area to one side of the room. Millie sank down into a sofa that was unaccountably lower than the chairs the men had taken opposite her.
Mr. Sharp smiled and asked her some questions about herself: where she was from and how long she’d been in Hollywood.
“About two months, I guess,” said Millie. “Since just after Independence Day.”
“Well, you’ve certainly made quite a few friends since then.”
“I have?”
The two men glanced at each other. “We’ve heard about you from a director, a cameraman, the head of the typing pool, and last but certainly not least, Miss Mary Pickford.”
Millie clapped a hand over her mouth, but a tiny squeak came through just the same. Mary Pickford? AMERICA’S SWEETHEART, MARY PICKFORD?
“Miss Martin,” Mr. Sharp went on, “not to raise a delicate subject, but each of these people have relayed troubling information about your being . . . disadvantaged by a certain assistant director.”
Millie’s smile evaporated. What was happening? Were they accusing her of something?
