A knock at the door brought her back into the moment. “I have some fresh clothes for you. They’re likely to be big, but they’ll do the trick. I’ve set them outside the door.”
“Thank you!” Claire called, feeling odd about the whole situation. Going to a stranger’s house to clean up after a sticky accident would never happen in Sydney or Melbourne, but she had to remember that she was in a small town and things were different. After the hustle and bustle of her regular life, this made for a lovely change.
She turned off the shower, toweled herself down and quietly opened the door enough to grab the clothes Hattie had left her—a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans. To her surprise, they were men’s clothes. Claire dipped her hand into her messenger bag and pulled out a small toiletry kit with spare underwear, a toothbrush, toothpaste and deodorant—a habit she got into when she first started working as a location scout. Often, she’d go on a fact-finding mission and have to stay overnight unexpectedly, so, just like the traditional Scouts, Claire endeavored to always be prepared.
After donning the clothes, she rolled up the jeans, cinched in the waist with her own belt, which had miraculously escaped the milkshake waterfall, and adjusted the T-shirt. Claire hung the towel, shoved her dirty clothes in a plastic bag she kept handy, exited the bathroom and shut the door.
“Thank you so much, Hattie, I feel…” Her words fell away as she caught sight of one Mr. Luke Jackson sitting on a chair at the round dining table. He held a cup of tea in his hands, the steam snaking skyward. “Oh.”
Luke put the cup on the table and stood, his chair scraping against the shiny tiles. He turned to Hattie. “This is the stray you brought home?”
“Excuse me?” Claire placed a hand on her hip.
“Now, Luke, there is no need for this behavior,” said Hattie.
“She’s the one who knocked on the door today. I told her we’re not interested. And now she’s in your house, using your shower and wearing my clothes?”
Claire looked down at the black T-shirt and jeans. She’d felt so comfortable in the oversize clothes, but now they felt too constrictive, like every last breath was being squeezed out of her. She did an about-face and turned the handle on the bathroom door. To hell with clean clothes.
“Claire, do not listen to my great-nephew. He has no manners, just like his father.”
Claire drew a deep breath and faced Hattie and Luke. His lanky frame dwarfed his petite great-aunt, who looked at Claire with large, round eyes.
“Is it true you were here this morning?” Hattie’s confident tone was gone.
“I was here, yes, but I didn’t know this was your home.”
Luke’s eyes narrowed. “It’s a ploy.”
“I’ll have you know, everything is aboveboard,” Claire said indignantly. “In fact, I had actually started telling Hattie about why I was in Starlight Creek, but our conversation halted when a wayward milkshake landed on my head.”
Luke smirked and Hattie flicked the tea towel against him. He flinched and rubbed his arm.
“If I could just explain—”
“I have everything I need to know,” said Hattie. “I’m sorry, young lady, but the answer is no. We do not wish to be involved in film.”
“But—”
“I am sure you are very good at your job and you will find somewhere else more suitable.”
“That’s the problem; this cinema is the centerpiece we’ve been looking for. We need this cinema.” Great negotiating, there, Montgomery. “We had another location, but… Look, we’ll make it worth your while.”
“Money has nothing to do with it. People crawling all over my cinema and sticking their noses in places they shouldn’t is the issue. I like you, Claire, but it doesn’t mean I’ll change my mind. You’ll need to tell your people it is no from us.”
Her shoulders slumped as panic rose. “But—”
“A very firm no from us.”
“It’s just that the miniseries is about Amelia Elliott and your cinema is so beautifully preserved on the inside and—”
“Nothing you say will change our mind.” Hattie gripped the tea towel and looked out the window.
Although overwhelmed with the stomach-churning fear of failing at her first job since her promotion, Claire couldn’t berate the poor lady into changing her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut, imagining the grief she’d receive from Nigel—not to mention Tony Karter’s glee—when she returned empty-handed.
“I think it’s best if you leave,” Hattie said, her eyes still trained on the view of the stark alley behind the cinema.
Gathering her messenger bag and her milk-drenched clothes, Claire said, “Thank you so much for helping me out. I’ll wash these clothes and mail them back to you.”
“That’s not necessary,” said Luke.
She didn’t argue, having already pushed things too far. She needed to return to Ashton and devise a plan—and quickly. If only she could figure out Hattie’s sweet spot, the one thing that would guarantee she would say yes.
“What if we sent you on a vacation while we shoot? Where would you like to go? We’ll set you up with business-class flights, five-star accommodation. That way you won’t be bothered by filming.”
“I need you to leave.” Hattie’s soft temperament had been replaced by a hard edge.
“You’d be helping us honor Amelia’s legacy. Honestly, we won’t—”
“Out.” Luke pointed at the back door. His steely eyes held no sympathy.
Clutching the plastic bag against her chest, Claire had no other choice than to make a hasty exit. As she opened the door, she said quietly, “I’m sorry we couldn’t make this happen, Miss Fitzpatrick. I would really have enjoyed working with you.”
Chapter Three
1950 – Hollywood
Lena Lee gripped her light blue purse with both hands as she stood in front of Stage Seven at Fortitude Studios. Her gaze traveled the full height of the thirty-foot steel door, which today seemed darker, more daunting. She really should have been grateful to have a supporting role in a star-studded movie, but recently a malaise had descended upon her and she’d found it impossible to push aside.
“Cheer up, old gal.” She smiled at her brother’s favorite saying. How she missed her family.
“Miss Lee!”
She turned to find a thin boy of about sixteen running toward her. He took off his peaked cap and gasped for air. When he’d regained composure, he handed her a small, pale green envelope. “From Mr. Cooper.”
“Thank you.” She studied the thick linen paper, unsure why the head of the studio was sending her a missive. Itching to open it but realizing a pair of eyes were fixed on her, she looked up. “Is there something else?”
He wrung his hat in his hands and shuffled his feet. “It’s… it’s…”
The poor boy had turned the same shade of crimson as the dress she’d worn on set yesterday.
“Yes?” She hoped her tone sounded encouraging.
The boy offered a crooked smile. “You are as pretty in person as you are on the screen.”
He took off as fast as his long legs could take him. Lena laughed and shook her head. This kid, in his adolescent awkwardness, had been so genuine, she couldn’t help but be flattered. Lena may not have the beauty of Ingrid Bergman, the sultriness of Veronica Lake or the sass of Mae West, but what she did possess was an ability to relate to people on and off the screen, no matter their background.
Lena undid the envelope, trying not to damage her freshly painted pink fingernails. She pulled out the stiff paper, unfolded it and sucked in her breath.
Dear Miss Lee,
You are cordially invited
to celebrate the twentieth wedding anniversary
of Mr. Stuart and Mrs. Lesley Cooper
Saturday 11 March 1950
A squeal of delig
ht escaped, then she clutched the invitation against her chest.
Oh no.
This couldn’t be right. Why would they want her to attend? She was nothing more than a supporting actress.
“What’s with you?” Yvonne Richardson, wardrobe assistant and good friend, stood beside Lena. When Lena had found herself without a place to live, Yvonne had taken her in, reassuring Lena that she’d never be homeless again. This act of kindness had shown Lena that Los Angeles did have a soul, she just needed to surround herself with the right people. Although that was a harder task than she’d anticipated.
“This.” Lena held the invitation in front of Yvonne, who scanned it a couple of times.
Her grin was as large as her personality. “That’s incredible!”
“It has to be a mistake.”
“Mistake or not, you’re going, right?”
“I don’t know. I—”
“I know just the dress! Come on!” Yvonne shoved open the door and grabbed Lena’s hand. “You don’t have to be on set for a while, so we’ve got time.”
Lena let Yvonne drag her into the studio and across the set of cobblestones, rose bushes and a large fountain. With only two days left to film, Parisian Dreams had been Lena’s biggest role to date—not that a dozen lines and a few minutes’ screen time counted for much when starlets like Jeanne Harris took enough limelight for ten people. Lena and Jeanne had arrived in Hollywood and started working at Fortitude Studios at the same time. They’d considered themselves friends then, but things changed once Jeanne became a leading lady and dropped Lena like she had the plague. Jeanne had the advantage of youth on her side, whereas Lena, at the grand old age of twenty-nine, was considered by the studio as “well past it” for an actress. For the past two years she’d clung to the few sparks in a sea of darkness, while Jeanne’s career had taken off like a rocket on the Fourth of July. If Lena didn’t find a way to break through soon, her contract would be cancelled and the life she’d worked so hard for would vanish. But as much as Lena would love to be where Jeanne was right now, she refused to turn into a cutthroat diva. There were limits, even if it meant a less lucrative career.
Lena and Yvonne wove between the lights and cameras, the studio quiet at this early hour. Lena often arrived on set before anyone else, as it was her chance to sit in silence and remember why she’d made so many sacrifices for her chance at the big time—and how many more she’d have to make.
They left the set and walked down narrow hallways that twisted and turned.
“What is this place?” Lena asked.
“You’ll see.”
“Are we supposed to be here?”
“No one’s around, it’s fine!” Yvonne’s laugh didn’t instill confidence in Lena.
“But we’re only allowed on certain areas of the lot,” Lena said.
“Why do you worry so much?”
They reached a door and Yvonne yanked it open. She started sorting through the rainbow of dresses that sparkled and shimmered with thousands of tiny crystals. Yvonne grabbed an emerald number and placed it against Lena’s body.
“Oooh! That color looks gorgeous with your red hair! Try it on!”
“Oh no.” Lena shook her head. “It’s not mine.”
“Some of these are Jeanne’s.” Yvonne winked.
“Then I’m definitely not touching them.”
“Oh, come on! Look.” Yvonne ran a hand across the dozens of costumes. “These dresses have been long forgotten. It’s sad, really. We create these masterpieces, they’re worn on set for a short time then they end up in the costume graveyard. Honestly, no one would notice if one was missing.”
“And what if it’s recognized?”
“I doubt it.” Yvonne shoved a violet dress at her.
“No, no, no.” Lena backed toward the door.
“No one would care if you borrowed it for the weekend.”
“I can’t.”
“Just try it on. Please?”
Her friend batted her eyelashes and Lena gave a nervous laugh. She held out her hand for the dress and stood in front of the mirror. Draping the silky fabric across her body, Lena studied the intricate beading around the sweetheart neckline.
“It truly is a work of art.” She sighed.
“Here.” Yvonne placed a tiara on Lena’s head, then curtsied. “At your service, Miss Lee.”
The door slammed against the wall.
Lena jumped.
Yvonne cursed.
“What the hell is this?” boomed Lawrence Doherty, Lena’s movie director. Just like Lena, he often arrived early, but Lawrence’s habit was to meander across the lots, mentally preparing for the day ahead. Trust Lena to be caught out on the day Lawrence decided to mosey past a place she wasn’t allowed.
“I… I…” Lena couldn’t put the dress on the rack fast enough. She stood with her hands behind her back, feeling like a schoolgirl caught with her hands in the cookie jar.
“Lee, get on set now. And you.” He rested a steely gaze on Yvonne. “You shouldn’t be here without good reason.” He pointed at the door and Lena scurried toward it, but stopped when he put his hand across the doorway.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I was just looking.”
Lawrence lifted the tiara off her head and cocked an eyebrow.
She glanced at Yvonne, who pursed her lips as if trying to contain a laugh. What Lena wouldn’t give to be as carefree as her best friend.
Making a hasty exit, Lena bolted toward the communal dressing room outside Stage Seven. A cold wind whipped around her legs. She glanced up. The sky had turned almost black.
Today would be a long one.
* * * *
Lena entered Roy’s Diner, took off her coat and removed the scarf from her head. Outside, the rain pelted, dropping the temperature but upping the humidity. She didn’t dare glance in the mirror, as she was in no mood to deal with her unruly red curls. Looking around the crowded room, she spotted Yvonne and her other best friend, George Barrett, in a booth. Making her way over, she sat next to Yvonne and let out a long sigh.
“Still gainfully employed?” asked George.
“You would know, as you’re always up on the latest gossip,” she said.
“Why, yes, that is correct.”
When Lena had first met George, he was an intern in the screenwriter’s office, fetching coffee and filing papers that would be forgotten in a week’s time. It had been Lena’s first day and she was hopelessly lost, scooting from one place to the next, petrified she’d be fired before lunch. She’d rounded a corner in a rush and crashed into George, sending his boss’s script flying across the pavement. From the goodness of his heart, George had taken Lena under his wing, and they’d become steadfast friends. It had been a delight to watch George move up the ladder so quickly to become one of the studio’s most sought-after screenwriters.
“How did it go?” asked Yvonne.
“It was the worst day of my life.” Lena hung her head.
Yvonne placed her hand on Lena’s. “It was my fault. I shouldn’t have pushed you.”
“It’s all right, really,” said Lena. “I shouldn’t be so easily swayed. Besides, I’ve always wondered where those dresses went.”
“Such a waste,” said Yvonne.
Meryl, the waitress, appeared with a tray of hamburgers, milkshakes and a salad. She gave Lena a wink and handed her the salad and a shake.
“Extra banana in your shake today.”
“Thanks?”
“Don’t look so surprised, sweetheart. I could see the cloud of sadness following you through the door. Hopefully comfort food will make it all better.”
“Thank you, Meryl.” Lena took a sip. “It’s delicious.”
“You’re welcome, honey.” Meryl went back to the kitchen.
“So.” George shoved a
fry in his mouth. “Are you going?”
“What?”
“Going to the party?”
“No.”
“Are you crazy?” George’s high-pitched voice carried through the diner, causing other patrons to turn and stare. Leaning toward her, he whispered, “Are you crazy?”
“The invitation has to be a mistake,” she said.
George’s eyes met Yvonne’s.
“What?” asked Lena.
Yvonne drew her lips into a tight line and George shook his head.
“What?” she said loudly.
Yvonne said between clenched teeth, “You have to tell her.”
“Tell me what?”
George rolled his eyes. “Okay. But you cannot breathe a word.”
“About what?” This was painful.
“I snuck your name onto the list,” he said.
“What? That could get me fired!” A thin film of perspiration broke out on her body and her stomach muscles tensed. “I feel sick.”
“No!” George reached over and grabbed her hand. “It’s all right, don’t worry. It was just one of those chance things. I had to deliver some scripts to Cooper, but he was out and so was his secretary. The list was on the desk and…” He shrugged.
Lena slapped her hand against her forehead. “Good grief, George. There’s no way I can go under false pretenses.”
“Your name is on the list now—”
“No,” she said with force, then softened her tone. “Look, I really appreciate your intentions, but it’s not right that I go.”
“Hollywood’s biggest directors and leading men will be there. It’s a treasure trove of potential for you. What have you always told me?” he asked.
The Cinema of Lost Dreams Page 3