The soundstage buzzes with workers rolling lights, hoisting cables over their shoulders, moving props, preparing the set for the day’s final shot. Closing my eyes, I will the pain in my temples to disappear. Four more days and the shoot will be complete. Even thinking about wrapping production splits my nerves into a million threads. It’s not because filming is ending in four days that my nerves splinter, it’s the experimental ‘treatment’ Rufus has planned for me after the shoot that frightens me.
Hands clenched in my lap, I look for him. The corners of the giant soundstage are dark and ominous. Rufus could be anywhere, watching. He’s been known to hide and observe, then swing the gauntlet later. I shiver. I catch sight of Jonathan touching up my co-star’s makeup, the two of them a dozen feet away off set.
Jonathan was irate this morning when he’d applied my makeup. He knew, without me having to say a word, what had happened between Rufus and me last night—again. No one can see beyond skin to the soul like Jonathan. His light blue eyes fasten on mine offering comfort.
He strides over.
He glances around the set for Rufus before stopping at my chair, his grey slacks rubbing against the robe I wear to protect the gown beneath. He wears his favorite sweater, a gray wool pullover with a diamond pattern across the chest. I gave it to him for his twenty-fourth birthday.
“Four more days,” he whispers. “And he won’t be able to hurt you ever again.”
Though I doubt anyone can stop Rufus from doing whatever he wants, I smile at Jonathan. He squeezes my hand. Jonathan and Oscar, my assistant, are the only people who really know me. The only people I trust. The line between his brows deepens. Hate and fury storm through his eyes. My heart softens at the sight of such fierce protection.
He scrubs his jaw. In his other hand he clutches a few tools of his profession: sponge, powder cake and a dark pencil. “I can’t—I won’t stand by and watch you used as some common whore.”
Jonathan’s anger scrapes a chill over the surface of my skin.
Oscar appears carrying a cup of steaming coffee. He’s young like me, and, like me a high school dropout. His youthful enthusiasm for show business brought him to Hollywood in search of something other than his current job scuttling around movie lots as my assistant.
“Two sugars, just like you like it,” he pipes, the splattering of freckles across his nose spreading with his grin. He seems to catch the thickness in the air between Jonathan and me and his smile vanishes. “Are we still on for Sunday night?”
I nod, take the teacup and set it on the table next to my chair. “Though I do wish you two would tell me what you have planned.”
“Shh.” Jonathan’s eyes search the dark corners of the stage. “Just be ready.”
“I don’t want either of you harmed,” I protest.
“I promised you I would take care of you and I will.” Jonathan’s blue eyes darken. “Forever.”
“Me too,” Oscar adds in earnest.
I’m grateful, but afraid neither of them, especially Oscar, really understands how dangerous freeing me really is.
Movement from one of the dark corners of the stage draws our gazes. I sit erect, heart thumping. Rufus appears from the murky shadows like an apparition. He wears white from his hand-tailored, double-breasted jacket to his white wing-tip shoes. He keeps his jacket buttoned, accentuating the V shape of his waist and shoulders, made formidable with extra padding he has specially sewn in to make him look larger and more powerful. Fear wracks my body. The cunning smile gracing his features, the genial way he greets those who work for him hides his ruthlessness. Only I am privy to the depths of his impiety.
Jonathan steps back. So does Oscar.
Rufus’ dark eyes flick from Jonathan to me. I shudder, hoping he did not see Jonathan holding my hand. I extended my hand to Rufus, hoping to distract him. He takes it, bringing my fingers to his lips. Moist heat brushes my knuckles. “My darling wife,” he murmurs.
“Rufus.”
He keeps hold of me. “Jon.”
Jonathan nods a terse greeting, glances at me and then with reluctance, leaves to attend to the other actors.
“I’ll be over there if you need anything, Miss Doll.” Oscar tips his cap.
“Thank you, Oscar.”
Rufus slides into the empty canvas chair next to me, my hand still at his lips. His gaze pins me with black fire. “Jon was touching you.” He kisses each finger one by one.
My heart trembles beneath my breast. “He was greeting me, nothing more.”
With one last, penetrating stare, he stands, looking down at me. “Clear the set!”
Panic flutters in my veins. I grip the arms of the wooden chair. I can’t bear looking into the faces of those around me.
Silently, workers drift down from the rafters overhead. Set dressers, costume matrons, even Jonathan, quietly wind their way around sets, lights and cables.
“Jon!” Rufus booms.
Jonathan stops, turns.
“You. Stay.”
Oh no. No. Over and over the door of the soundstage opens and then thuds closed as the giant building empties.
Tomb-like silence follows. Jonathan doesn’t move.
“I’ve invited a photographer to take some photos, my darling.” Rufus leans close, his cigar-tainted breath filling my ear, nose. I close my eyes, forcing myself not to turn away.
He sets his finger under my chin and turns my face to his. “Grace, look at me.” He smiles at the fear I can’t disguise. “He’s very good, you’ll see.”
I have no doubt the photographer is good. Rufus doesn’t let anyone near me unless they are the best.
“And Jon…” he tosses over his shoulder without taking his gaze from mine. “Do your job. Make sure Grace’s makeup is perfect.”
I don’t dare glance at Jonathan, I’d infuriate Rufus.
A little man dressed in baggy slacks, tweed coat and a lop-sided hat appears. He sets up his equipment at the edge of the set. The long, stick legs of the camera spread out like spears beneath it. The man nods at Jonathan as if he senses the tension building.
Rufus takes my hand, bringing me to my feet. He scans me from head to toe. “Take off the robe.”
I obey.
“Stunning my dear.” He leads me across the cold, cement floor and chills explode through my body. When he catches sight of the goosebumps over my skin his right brow lifts. “Cold?”
Instinctively I wrap my free arm around my breasts. Rufus had the tissue-thin satin gown designed specifically to show off the body he worships underneath, so the world can further envy him, and covet what is his.
“Poppi, I’d like you to meet Grace.”
The squat man turns. He dips his head, removing his felt hat to reveal a naked crown. “My pleasure, Miss.”
I nod, and try to delay the inevitable with conversation. “Poppi. What an unusual name.”
“Because my flashes pop,” he chuckles. Rufus’ face remains stony. The photographer plops the hat back on his head and returns to his equipment. “Any time she’s ready, Mr. Solomon, sir.”
Rufus leads me to the set: a lavish living room, complete with working fireplace and open windows behind which the art department has craftily painted what looks to be real exterior country scenes. Low-lit sconces, assisted by overhead lights strategically hung, make the faux room warm and inviting. A desk is covered with papers my character supposedly studies, books she supposedly reads. Framed photos of people she purportedly loves. All of the dreamy coziness of a life and home I will never know. Usually, I find my reprieve onset. While the camera’s rolling, I lose myself in another world and forget that I belong to Rufus.
Not now.
“I want you on the couch,” Rufus instructs.
I lie down. Carefully, as if arranging delicate flowers on fragile glass, Rufus places my left arm along the back of the piece, right arm up over my head, leaving the front of me exposed. He snags a pillow and places it beneath the small of my back so my spine is force
d into an arch. I don’t like that. Even with hundreds of hot lights, the temperature in the soundstage is consistently cold, and my body is nearly naked through the fabric. With a slow smile, Rufus spreads the cloth taut, his deliberate caressing continues down my abdomen, along my hips and thighs as he positions my legs.
“Perfect,” he murmurs.
I want to vomit in his face. He tilts his head. “What do you think, Jon?”
Panic and shame flush my cheeks.
Jon doesn’t move. Rufus jerks a look at him over his shoulder. “Jon!”
Reluctantly, Jonathan steps closer to the set, his furious gaze flicking from Rufus to me.
“She looks fine.”
“Fine’s not good enough,” Rufus hisses. “Grace is perfect. Don’t you think she’s perfect?”
Jonathan is still as a marble statue. He remains silent.
Rufus stands and crosses to Jonathan, their faces inches apart. “Do you not think she is perfect?”
“Yes.”
“Do you look at her and want her?”
“Please,” I whisper. “Let’s get started.”
Rufus’ face remains one breath from Jonathan’s. “I want every man who looks at these pictures to want her. To dream of her. To wish she was his. Tell me, Jon,” he inches closer, “do you wish Grace was yours?”
Jonathan’s eyes leave me to look at Rufus.
He doesn’t step back, but holds his own. The want on his face is plain. And condemning. He glances away. “She’s yours, Rufus.”
“You’re damned right she’s mine!” Rufus shouts.
“Rufus!” Both men look at me. “It’s been a long day. If you want me sizzling, take the picture. I’m growing tired.” I’ll be punished for talking back to Rufus, but I’m paralyzed with fear, scraping for dignity.
Rufus’ eyes narrow a moment. “She needs powder.”
Jonathan crosses to me, whips out his powder brush and dips it into the plastic flask. I close my eyes, unable to bear looking at him—seeing the secret expression he will have of horror, disgust, and murder. The dusting is over and he steps back.
“Fire away.” Rufus nods at Poppi whose wide eyes and curious expression cause my stomach to turn over. Then Rufus’ attention is locked on me.“Sizzle, darling.”
Poppi slides his face behind the large camera he’s set up on the stand. “Beautiful, Miss Doll…just like that…very nice.” Click. Pop. Click. Pop.
I’ve learned to never look directly at the lens, but just a finger above, a trick Jonathan shared with me. That way, the blinding white flash in my eye disappears faster.
Behind Poppi, Rufus paces like a tiger eyeing prey. The menacing back and forth motion sends an unwelcome quake through me.
Rufus stops and creeps closer. “Yes,” he purrs. “Look. She’s burning right before our eyes. I want that heat on film, do you understand?”
Click. Pop. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Perfect…yes.” Rufus wets his lips. Then he comes toward me, his steps meted out like the low pound of a primal drum. Poppi stops.
“Mr. Solomon, sir. You’re in the shot.”
I wish I could dissolve into the fabric of the couch, afraid of the darkness in Rufus’ eyes. Out the corner of my eye, Jonathan shifts with discomfort.
“Don’t stop,” Rufus demands.
“Uh…are you certain?”
Rufus nods, unbuttoning his jacket. Instinct forces me deeper into the cushions. “This roll of film is mine, do you understand?”
“Yes sir.”
I glance at Poppi, shrouded behind the camera, still taking pictures. Click. Pop. At Jonathan, now rubbing the back of his neck.
“Rufus, no,” I plead. He wouldn’t take me—not here, now. Not on film.
Coat off, Rufus tosses it aside without care. He wears a white shirt with red pinstripes. Black suspenders garnish his silky slacks. His thumbs skim up to release them and they fall to his sides.
Click. Pop. In a harsh rip, Rufus yanks the tie from his neck and throws it to the floor. Then, he unbuttons his shirt.
Jonathan stops, he turns his face away.
“Please…”I beg.
Rufus’ lip curls.
Click. Pop.
Chapter Three
The film has wrapped, and Sunday evening is here. In the room Rufus has had created for my dressing area, I dare myself to step closer to the French doors and look down. Anyone else would stand and enjoy the evening scene. Directly below me, the swimming pool is lit like a tropical lagoon surrounded by palm trees. I hate heights. Can’t swim. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve contemplated jumping from the balcony into the water. But the part of me that gives myself to the craft of creating a character somehow believes in the magic that there might be another life out there waiting for me.
I open the doors and stand on the small wrought-iron balcony. Jonathan is out there somewhere. The half-acre estate is black as night, save for lanterns laced along walking paths, the gazebo, and pool. Wrapping my arms around myself, I ward off a shiver. I’m not sure yet how the evening will unfold. Rufus has been predictably secretive. All I know is that the doctor is from France, he’s won a Nobel Prize and Rufus has brought him here so that I can be the first to try the doctor’s latest discovery. One thing is certain: the years I’ve spent as Rufus’ creation are dwindling with each passing hour.
A handful of stars twinkle in the night sky. The scene reminds me of nights when I’d lay on a blanket with my sisters and Daddy would point out constellations. An old pain echoes through my heart. I close my eyes from memories waiting at the fringe of my thoughts and try to focus on the freedom I hope lies ahead.
The door opens too late for me to jump back into the house. Rufus’ footsteps quicken. “Grace.” His hands grip my shoulders and he pulls me inside. He closes and latches the French doors. “I’ve told you not to stand out there. It’s dangerous.” His gaze rakes, searches, wonders why I have the nerve to act against his demands. His hands skim up and down my arms. “Don’t dare mortality yet, darling.” His finger tips my chin up so I have to meet his black eyes.
“What are you talking about?”
He smiles. “The doctor will explain everything.”
I leave him and cross to the room to my wardrobe. He follows.
He comes up behind me. I feel his eyes scan each inch of me like fingers touching my skin. “It’s a miracle, my love. My greatest gift to you. Your beauty will remain intact. Spotless. Pure.”
I haven’t been spotless and pure since the first night he brought me home and I realized my life would never be mine again.
“You’re not dressed.” His teeth take my earlobe in a gentle bite. “Does this mean you want me?”
I keep my voice void of revulsion. “It means I’m getting dressed.” I’ve selected a pair of camel slacks and a wool turtleneck sweater, also in camel, both simple and easy to pack.
“No, no, no.” He frowns. “I don’t care for those at all.” Stepping closer, he surveys the excessive assortment of clothing he’s purchased for me: thousands of dollars worth of hand-sewn designer gowns, tailored slacks, blouses, lingerie, and hundreds of purses and pairs of Italian and French shoes. Slowly, he passes by the upper and lower rungs of hanging garments.
“This is comfortable, Rufus. It’s practical.”
“Practical and utterly dull.” He looks me up and down.
Irritation I normally wouldn’t dare allow threads my voice. “No one’s going to see me.”
His eyes flash with displeasure. “I will see you. Which reminds me…” He steps closer. The scent of his greasy pomade fills my senses. “I’ve given the staff the night off.”
My knees nearly buckle with the news. “Everyone? But you promised me that Oscar could be here.”
“You should know better than anyone else, my darling, that I only keep promises when it suits me.” Tracing his finger along my jaw bone, down my throat, he smiles. “You won’t need your assistant tonight. I’m here for
you. Besides, it’s for his own good. If anyone saw what we are going to do with Dr. Lemarchal , I would have to ensure none of them live to talk about it.”
I remain neutral on the outside, but inside, a swarm of urgency is building. I hope Oscar somehow finds Jonathan and nothing will thwart the escape plan.
He starts out the door. The sight of his looming back infuriates me. “Dr. Lemarchal arrives in thirty minutes.” He turns. “We won’t keep him waiting, will we?”
* * *
With my elbow tucked in his arm, Rufus escorts me into the great room—one of many areas in the Dollhouse Rufus fills with emblems of his insatiable appetite for me. This room is adorned with works of art he’s had commissioned where I am—as always—the star. Photographs and paintings in every size.
Dr. Lemarchal greets us with a smile. I’m taken aback by the soft pink of his skin, the vibrancy in his clear gray eyes. His gaze examines me with the thrill of first meeting I am accustomed to from strangers. He shakes my hand with youthful vigor.
“Cherie, it’s an honor.”
“Thank you.”
“You are even more beautiful in person.” His accent is lyrical, slick and oddly surreal in light of the circumstances—as if he just stepped out of a James Whale picture. He makes no indication that he is ready to let go of my hand so Rufus breaks in, and with a not-so-subtle tug, severs the doctor’s grip.
“Shall we, doctor?” Rufus’ impatience rears its unsightly head.
“Yes, yes, of course, Monsieur. Madame.” He leads me to one of the white couches—and pats his hand on the cushioned surface. “If you’ll lie down we can begin.”
Rufus assists me as I lay flat. My heart starts to pound.
“I’ve seen all of your pictures, Miss Doll.” The doctor can’t stop looking at me, a response I have learned to ignore but because he holds my future in his hands, I appease him with a forced smile of congeniality.“My favorite was—”
“I’m sure you admire all of Grace’s work,” Rufus cuts in. “But let’s keep this to business.”
“Of course.” The doctor nods at me. “I will make you beautiful forever, you will see.”
Grace Doll Page 2