The Slow Rise of Clara Daniels

by Christy English

  “I suppose exchanging numbers would be a bad idea,” he said.

  She looked at him for a long moment, shocked that she was actually tempted to do just that. Her good sense overrode her strange mood.

  “Probably.”

  He leaned down and kissed her softly, then stepped back and let her go.

  “See you.” She slipped into her car.

  He closed the door behind her. “I hope so.”

  She smiled at him as she started the engine. He stepped back and gave her a jaunty wave. Not until she was on the freeway headed back to her apartment in the Hollywood Hills, did she realize that she hadn’t asked his name.

  18

  Los Angeles, 2016

  Clara picked up the phone and turned off her vacuum. She was having a day of spring cleaning, though it was the middle of July. Her golden hair was tied back in a kerchief, and she pulled the cloth away from her ear as she picked up her cell.

  “Hello.”

  “Clara, you’re in.”

  Clara smiled at the sound of Bob Willoughby’s voice. They’d been working together for almost a year, and she still found him charming.

  “I’m in what, Bob?”

  “The new Cleopatra movie.”

  “That’s fabulous.”

  Clara swiped her dust cloth over the mahogany end table. She had only a little furniture in her apartment, but they were all good pieces.

  “Am I her maid or something?”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the line. When Bob spoke, she could hear the excitement in his voice.

  “No, Clara. You’re playing Cleo.”

  Clara stopped moving her hand over the table and held very still.

  “What?”

  “You’re Cleopatra, kiddo. I just got the green light from Frank.”

  Bob referred to the current head of Barnett Studios without the usual shade of contempt in his voice. That’s how Clara knew he was serious.

  “Holy shit.”

  She was silent for a moment, and he laughed.

  “I never thought I’d see the day when you were struck speechless.”

  Clara sat on the hardwood floor of her great room. The afternoon sun slanted in from her wall of windows. As she looked outside, she saw a bird flying high over the hills.

  “Bob, I’ve got a problem.”

  “What?”

  “I’m blonde.”

  Bob laughed so hard she heard him lay the phone down on his desk. She smiled, listening to him. He rarely laughed out of genuine amusement.

  “Jesus, Clara, you never stop surprising me.”

  “That’s why you keep me around.” Clara stretched like a cat in the sunlight, pulling off the kerchief and letting her hair fall free over her shoulders.

  “It’s not official yet, so don’t go around telling people.”

  It was Clara’s turn to laugh. “Bullshit, Bob. You wouldn’t have called me if they hadn’t already made up their minds.”

  In her mind’s eye, she could see him grinning, and she heard that grin in his voice.

  “Yeah, it’s set. The director just doesn’t know it yet.”

  “Do they need me to come in and talk to him?”

  “Nah, I wouldn’t set you lose on the poor bastard. He’s not reluctant, just unaware.”

  Clara smiled, leaning back on her hands, watching the muscles of her legs as she stretched.

  “We need to celebrate,” she said.

  “I agree.”

  “Get Brenda and meet me at West. I feel like eating steak.”

  “When?”

  “How’s seven sound?”

  “Great.”

  She listened to his chair squeak as he leaned back in it. She knew he was looking out his window over the studio lot.

  “Bob, this is going to make you studio head.”

  “Now, Clara, it’ll take one more project and you know it.”

  “Wait and see. Two months after this one opens, you’ll be sitting in the big chair.”

  Bob snorted. “Well, Clara, I do know that it’ll make you famous.”

  “I won’t wear a wig.”

  He laughed at her joke, and Clara smiled.

  “Hell, no. We’ll get you the best dye-job in town. Now let me call my wife.”

  “You haven’t told her yet?”

  “Before telling you? What kind of fool do you think I am?”

  Clara smiled. “See you tonight.”

  “The studio’s buying, am I right?” Willoughby asked.

  Clara grinned, feeling lighter than she had when she picked up the phone.

  “You’re damn right they are.”

  She heard him laughing as she hung up.

  Clara smiled at Willoughby as he raised his glass to her.

  “To the next Katherine Hepburn.”

  Clara laughed, taking a sip of her wine. “Who the hell will that be, Bob?”

  “You, and you know it.”

  She grinned at him, winking at Brenda beside him. “Don’t you think I need to learn to act first?”

  “You act well enough.” He started cutting into his steak.

  Brenda leaned over and touched Clara’s hand.

  “Your smile will sell, Clara. And your eyes.”

  She smiled at Bob’s wife, squeezing her hand. Brenda was the loveliest woman Clara could remember meeting. She didn’t belong in Hollywood, and Bob wouldn’t have survived there without her.

  “Thank you, Brenda. You’ll have to come watch me on the set and bolster my spirits. I’ll be feeling my lack of ability with Pat Mulligan standing in front of me. Bob, how the hell did they pick an Irishman to play Caesar, anyway?”

  Bob shrugged one shoulder, pouring himself more wine. “I don’t know. He’s a great actor. Women and men love him. Are those reasons enough for you?”

  Clara grinned at him, spearing a piece of filet with her fork. “Now, I haven’t seen the script yet, so let me get this straight. The movie ends before Cleo is twenty-three?”

  Willoughby nodded. “We’ve cut it in half, and we’ve made the writer fill out the first two acts. It was like a damn history lesson before, and God knows no one is going to pay to see that.”

  “So they cut out Marc Antony?” Clara kept her voice mild.

  “Marc who?” Bob met her gaze, and she saw fire in his eyes. “Who, I ask you, gives a damn about Marc Antony? He lost.”

  Clara laughed and reached for her wine. People in the restaurant heard her throaty laugh and turned to look at her. Some knew Bob Willoughby, but no one knew who she was. Yet.

  “Yeah, we had to deal with the writer on that one,” Bob said. “Turns out, he’s the nephew of one of the producers, so we actually had a fight on our hands for about five minutes.” He snorted. “I cleared that crap up. No one wants to see a docudrama about some loser.”

  Clara suppressed her smile. “So, when do we start filming?”

  “Next week. You’ll need to go in and get your hair dyed tomorrow. They want to test you again with the dark hair.” Bob scrawled a name and an address on the back of his business card. “See this guy. He’s the best.”

  “I had no idea you knew so much about women’s hair, Bob.” Clara’s eyes sparkled as he glared at her.

  Brenda laid her hand over her husband’s and laughed. “Clara, you’re a breath of fresh air. No one teases Bob but you.”

  Clara winked at her, and Bob grunted.

  “Damn right,” he said.

  Brenda smiled serenely. “It’s good for him.”

  Clara raised her glass. “To Bob Willoughby. The next head of Barnett Studios.”

  Brenda lifted her glass. “Here, here.”

  Bob didn’t smile but drank, his gaze never leaving Clara’s face.

  19

  Los Angeles, 2016

  Bob Willoughby’s voice was calm over the phone. Clara stood on her deck, running her fingers through her hair and gritting her teeth. Bob never asked favors of her, but he was asking for one now.
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  “Clara, it won’t kill you to spend a weekend at this spa.”

  She took a deep breath, trying to hold onto her temper. “I know it won’t kill me, but spas make me nervous. They make you eat rabbit food and run four miles a day. No thanks.”

  She could hear the smile in Bob’s voice. “It’s not that kind of place. They serve filet mignons and the best wines. They pamper you and massage you and indulge your every whim.”

  Clara raised an eyebrow. “Really? Every whim?”

  Willoughby heard the suggestive tone in her voice but ignored it. “Clara, it’s a great two days. You see some pretty country, you drink some wine, you shack up with a masseur or two, and the studio pays for it all. What’s not to like?”

  “Bob, why does this Donna woman have to come? I don’t deal well with women.”

  Clara knew she sounded petulant, but she was closing on the purchase of her first house on Monday, and her lawyer was making her frantic.

  “Brenda loves you.”

  “Brenda’s different, Bob, and you know it.”

  “Trust me on this one, kid. You do not want to start a three-month shoot with a woman you hardly know. Donna is a fine manager, the best in the business, and she’s serious about getting to know her clients. She wants to spend a little time with you to learn your quirks.”

  “So she can accommodate them, right?”

  “That’s the idea.”

  Clara sighed. She could use a weekend out of the city.

  “Where is this spa again?”

  She could hear Bob’s grin in his voice. “Donna has directions. She’ll pick you up.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “She doesn’t want you inconvenienced.”

  Clara snorted.

  “Get used to it, kid. This is the way it’ll be once you’re famous.”

  “I’ll have Donna at my beck and call?”

  “Among other people.”

  Clara laughed. “All right, Bob. We’ll see what we see.”

  Donna was a thin woman in a sophisticated black suit and tasteful gold jewelry. Her hair was black and cut into a pageboy. She drove a sporty red Maserati, which made Clara wonder who she’d represented in the past.

  Donna got out of the car and extended her hand. Clara shook it.

  “Hi, Clara. Let me take that.”

  Donna hoisted Clara’s duffle bag into the car and opened the passenger door for her.

  “Sorry we’re a little informal.” Donna gunned the engine of the expensive car. “I would have gotten a limo, but Bob said you were interested in a casual weekend.”

  Clara delved into the other woman’s mind, suspecting her of being flippant. Donna wasn’t kidding, however. She had a completely serious mind and felt that every moment with her client held great import. She represented only one actor at a time, something practically unheard of in Hollywood. She backed each client with a blind obsession that was legendary. Bob said she would cost more than any other manager they could get, but that she was worth every cent. Clara had taken his word for it, since she didn’t see the need for a manager in the first place.

  Sitting in the car, watching Donna maneuver deftly through afternoon traffic, Clara began to re-assess. Donna had almost as strong a will as she did, and with none of her advantages. She liked the woman already.

  “I’ve reserved an ocean-front suite for you. I didn’t want you to be disturbed this weekend. You start shooting Queen of Egypt in a week, and you need your head clear.” Donna spoke rapidly, pulling onto Highway 1, cutting off an eighteen-wheeler.

  Clara smiled as Donna took a hairpin turn at fifty miles an hour. She sat back, the sun warm on her face, and enjoyed the way the wind felt in her hair.

  For some reason, Donna wanted to look after her this weekend. And by some miracle, she was competent enough to do it. Clara had never been taken care of in her life, but two days of it couldn’t hurt.

  She watched a seagull wheel overhead and took in the sunlight glinting on the surface of the ocean beside them. She sighed, leaning back against the leather seat, and prepared herself to be pampered.

  Clara had heard of star treatment, of course, but she’d never paid any attention to it, since it was never directed at her. At the spa on the coast of Monterey, she got her first taste of it.

  Donna had called ahead and had told the staff that Clara was an up-and-coming starlet with money to spend. She had added that Clara was someone who might have a good deal of influence in the future, and that it was a good idea to court her business. So, when Donna drove the Maserati under the awning of the spa’s main building, three men stepped outside to meet them. One pulled the luggage out of the trunk while another opened Clara’s door. The third man, the manager on-duty, bowed to her and kissed her hand.

  Clara almost laughed but stopped herself. This man was serious about his business. Even if she thought his business a foolish one, she respected his intent. She smiled at him and held still until he released her hand.

  Donna stepped forward. “We’d like to see Miss Daniels’ suite. She needs to get settled in.” Her voice was brisk and polite.

  The manager bowed to her. “Of course. Come this way, madam. Miss Daniels.”

  Clara followed, bemused. They made a small parade through the lobby as the manager led them across the plush carpet and past the built-in waterfall. The other two men trailed in their wake, baggage in hand. Clara felt music should be playing to add the final touch to their march. As she was thinking it, a woman sat at the piano in the lobby and began to play Tchaikovsky. Clara bit her tongue hard, and the pain kept her from laughing out loud.

  Her suite was beautifully decorated in pale greens and beige. One wall was made of glass, and a sliding door opened onto the beach. Clara could hear the crash of the waves. Next to the heat of the desert, she loved the sound of ocean.

  She wandered through the suite as Donna spoke with the manager, giving directions for the meal that night and ordering a massage for Clara before dinner.

  The bedroom also looked out onto the sea and was decorated in the same soft greens. Clara felt soothed already, and she hadn’t realized she needed soothing.

  One of the staff brought her bag into the room and bowed to her before setting it down. She smiled at him and winked. He didn’t even blink but let her precede him into the den.

  “It’s gorgeous, Donna. I’m impressed.”

  “We’re glad you’re pleased,” the manager said, bowing yet again.

  The other two servants bowed as well and went to stand by the door. Donna pulled cash from her Armani bag and dispensed it liberally, including the manager in the windfall.

  “If you need anything, please call me,” the manager said.

  Donna nodded and closed the door behind him. Clara waited until she heard their thoughts disappear down the hall. Then she laughed, sprawling on the plush sofa that faced the windows.

  “Damn, Donna, I’ve never seen anything like that, even when I was a kid.”

  “It does have its own theatrical flair, doesn’t it?” She turned to the bar in the corner. “Do you need a drink?”

  “No, thanks.” Clara stretched luxuriously. “I think I’ll have a nap.”

  “Your masseur will be here in an hour. Would you like me to call and wake you before he gets here?”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll have to get naked for him anyway.”

  She watched as Donna caught the underlying meaning of the statement, and saw a gleam come into Donna’s blue eyes. Clara simply smiled and felt her manager’s amusement from across the room. Donna met Clara’s gaze evenly, without a hint of judgement. They understood each other. Clara couldn’t remember ever feeling that way about another woman, even for a moment.

  Her manager moved toward the door. “I’m in room twenty if you need anything.”

  “Do you have an ocean view?”

  Donna turned back to face her, smiling, her hand on the doorknob.

  “Of course.”

  Later th
at night, Clara sat with Donna on the terrace outside her suite. They had finished the duck l’orange and were working on their second bottle of wine. Clara leaned back into the soft cushions of her chair and sighed. She had done some calisthenics with her masseur after her massage and had made an appointment to see him again the next day. She felt completely relaxed as she always did after sex, her joints fluid and pliant. She lit a cigarette and watched as the smoke trailed heavenward.

  Donna poured more wine into both glasses, then kicked her shoes off and propped her feet on the railing. The stars were bright above their heads. They were miles from the nearest city, so there was no pollution to block the stars.

  Clara was amazed that Donna had sat with her in silence for almost an hour. She’d never known a woman who could endure silence, with the exception of her Aunt April.

  She looked into Donna’s mind and found that the woman wasn’t planning the next day’s adventures, but was simply listening to the ocean, letting her thoughts drift. With all her frenetic energy, Clara hadn’t realized that Donna was also capable of being at peace.

  “So, did you sleep with him?” Donna took a sip of her wine.

  Clara released a long line of smoke. “Of course.”

  “I don’t mean to pry. I was just curious.” Donna was silent for a long moment. “I never do anything like that.”

  “Have sex?”

  Donna looked over and laughed. Clara was surprised that her laugh was soft, almost girlish.

  “I have sex. Not often enough. No, I mean having sex with a man just because I find him attractive, even if I just met him five minutes before.”

  Clara shrugged one shoulder, stubbing out her cigarette in the crystal ashtray on the table.

  “Once you do it the first time, it’s easy after that. You just have to decide to take that leap, and then jump. I never even think about it anymore.”

  “Who was your first random encounter?” Donna asked.

  Clara laughed. “Jesus, Donna. You make it sound like space aliens or something.”