The Cinema of Lost Dreams

by Alli Sinclair

  She threw the letter opener on the desk, adrenaline rushing through her. “When it happens—and it will—you’ll remember the betrayals and the lies and wish you were never born.”

  Lena unclenched her hands and looked at them. Half-moons of blood were on her palms. Her arms shook. Her breath came out fast. She looked up at Mr. Cooper, fearing what she’d see.

  He stared at her, unmoving. The air was thick with anticipation. Or was it dread? Out of all the characters she could have played, why had she gone for a femme fatale rather than the sweet and sunny and likable characters this studio favored? She’d just lost the role of a femme fatale. What was she thinking?

  A slow clap echoed in the office. It grew louder and faster and was punctuated with a deep laugh. “Well, well, Miss Lee. You are full of surprises. Who would have thought someone as innocent-looking as you would have the mettle to pull off an audition like that?”

  “It was the first thing that came to mind.”

  When he got up, he seemed less gigantic than before. “It wasn’t the kind of role I had in mind, but you’ve convinced me you are a very capable actress. The director who was here before wants an unknown to mold. I’ll call to tell him I found her.”

  Chapter Twelve

  1951 – Hollywood

  Lena exited the sound stage. It had already been a long day filming, and it wasn’t over yet. Even though she was busy, she took a moment to close her eyes and angle her face toward the sun. Warmth caressed her skin and she reveled in seeing daylight after what felt like weeks. She doubted she’d ever grow accustomed to getting up before daylight and returning home after sunset. Today was the first day she’d had a chance for a short break, while they reshot leading man Pierre’s scene, which he managed to keep messing up.

  “It’s nice to see someone enjoying the sun. Others say it will age you,” came a voice she hadn’t heard in a long time.

  Opening her eyes, she was met with the vision that was Reeves Garrity. Although dressed in an expensive navy-blue suit with his hair immaculately styled, he still held the same freshness as when they’d first met at Stuart Cooper’s party the year before.

  “Long time, no see.” She looked at the hat in her hand but decided a few minutes of sunshine wouldn’t cost her her career. Maybe…

  “How have you been?” His voice sounded genuine, and memories of why she had taken a liking to Reeves Garrity came flooding back.

  “Good. Busy. As you have been, I hear.”

  “You’ve been inquiring about me?” His lopsided smile set her off-kilter.

  “No!” she said, a little too defensively. He didn’t need to know she’d been watching his career—and relationship with Jeanne—with the eagle eye of a crazed fan. “It’s a bit hard not to notice your name and face splashed across every single newspaper and magazine.”

  A flicker of…something flashed across his face. What was it? Apprehension? Embarrassment?

  “It’s mostly about Jeanne, who has a habit of dominating every conceivable form of publicity available,” he said.

  “Yet you seem to be inextricably linked to her. When are you getting married?” Lena grinned for good measure, hoping he understood the lighthearted ribbing.

  “She wants…” He frowned, then relaxed. “Very funny. I see you have an arrangement with Pierre like I do with Jeanne.”

  “Let’s not talk about them.” She waved her hand to disperse any mention of Pierre Montreaux. “Do you have time for coffee?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” He offered his arm. She put hers in his and they started toward the small café near Reeves’s sound stage.

  As they walked across the lot, Lena grew nervous, like all eyes were on them. She extracted her arm from his.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Better to keep some distance. We don’t want tongues wagging.”

  “Let them wag.”

  A small laugh escaped her lips. “Reeves Garrity, the rebel.”

  “Lena Lee, the rule breaker.”

  “What rule have I broken?” she asked.

  “The rule that women should be quiet and do what they’re told. That they shouldn’t ask for what they want because that makes them a pushy diva.”

  “Is that how you see me?” she asked, stunned. Was this the true Reeves Garrity?

  “Not at all! It’s what certain people expect. I see you as someone who fights for what she believes in. The last time we saw each other, you were on your way to Stuart Cooper’s office to demand he give you a new role.”

  “Demand? I asked nicely. He made me audition on the spot.”

  “And here you are, working your way to the top.”

  “Yes, here I am.” Her steps felt lighter than they had in months. What was it about Reeves Garrity that made her feel like she could do anything? “And here you are. How is fame? Anything like you expected?”

  They sat at a small table in the far corner. Lena placed her purse on the red-and-white tablecloth. She shivered in the shade, surprised at how cold it was. Reeves took off his jacket and offered it to her.

  “It’s fine, really,” she said.

  “I’d rather have a conversation without the sound of chattering teeth.”

  She looked around at the actors and crew sitting at tables, engrossed in their own conversations, and she realized she was being paranoid for nothing. Her whole life felt like it was under the microscope these days. No wonder it tainted her view of the real world.

  “All right, thank you.” She put her arms through the sleeves and wrapped the fabric around her. An alluring, musky scent enveloped her.

  Elsie, the waitress, appeared with two mugs. She carefully poured the steaming coffee.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Lee. I haven’t seen you here for some time.” Elsie almost curtsied.

  “Elsie, please, call me Lena. And yes, it’s nice to be seeing you at the café rather than you bringing my coffee to the sound stage. I almost forgot what daylight looked like!”

  Elsie laughed and held up a finger. “I have something for you. I made it with the berries from my family’s farm up north.”

  She disappeared, and a moment later came back with two small plates boasting thick slices of pie filled with raspberries and blueberries. Elsie placed one in front of Lena and the other in front of Reeves. “There’s one for you, Mr. Garrity.”

  “Why, thank you, Elsie,” he said. “And you can call me Reeves.”

  Elsie’s face flushed red and she retreated back into the café.

  Lena dug the fork into the pie, trying to block out the voices that told her the zipper on the dress she had to wear on set tomorrow might have an issue. It was already tighter than a rubber band. She took a bite and the zesty deliciousness of berries and crusty pastry danced across her taste buds. It was absolutely worth it.

  “You have quite the effect on people,” said Lena.

  “Apparently I do.” Reeves broke off a large chunk of pie and shoved it in his mouth. He chewed slowly. Eventually, he said, “Did you hear about Geraldine Donnolly?”

  “No.” Lena sipped the black coffee, prepared just how she liked it—strong and syrupy. “I only met Geraldine once, at one of Cary Grant’s soirees. Isn’t she with Robin Studios? Ooh.” Lena leaned forward. “Has she signed somewhere else?”

  Reeves shook his head. “I thought the Hollywood grapevine would be faster. She’s been subpoenaed to testify at the House Un-American Activities Committee.”

  “HUAC? Why?”

  “Remember last year, when the Red Channels pamphlet was published?”

  “The one that named some film industry professionals as communists or sympathizers?”

  “Yes.” He nodded.

  “That was terrible.” Lena looked around in case anyone was listening to their conversation. With the goings-on in Hollywood and the “Red
s under the Beds” scare, she shouldn’t trust anyone. Her intuition told her she shouldn’t worry about Reeves, but any talk of communism these days was always a risk. “There were a lot of innocent people on that list. You can’t tell me that out of those one hundred and fifty-one people, every one of them was disseminating communist propaganda through their scripts, music, acting or directing.”

  “HUAC likes to think otherwise. Though it’s not illegal to be part of the Communist Party,” he said.

  “It shouldn’t be legal to blacklist people based on their beliefs—proven or otherwise.”

  “Agreed.” Reeves crooked his finger for her to move closer. Quietly, he said, “Did you know England has strong ties to communism? It’s not just the Russians and Chinese.”

  “What?”

  “Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels used to meet in Cheetham’s Library in Manchester.”

  “No way,” she whispered.

  “It’s true. The British industrial revolution and poor conditions of the workers inspired Marx and Engels to find a way for those without voices to be heard. That’s why they wrote The Communist Manifesto, which was published in London in 1848.”

  “I had no idea. So all this panic about communists is not new?” She sat back, surprised.

  “Not at all.”

  Lena bit her lip, unsure about her next question. “Reeves?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re not…”

  “A communist?” He laughed. “The only thing I am committed to these days is my career.”

  “What happened to Geraldine?” Lena asked, afraid of the answer.

  “It’s more to do with her screenwriter husband, Walter, but she’s suffered the fallout.”

  Reeves leaned toward her once more, and Lena started to worry people would think they were whispering sweet nothings. Though better they believe that than hear this dangerous conversation.

  Reeves put his fork down. “This new round of investigations from HUAC is better organized—they’re getting around the legalities of questioning people and their alliances. Walter was dropped by his studio, as they didn’t want any trouble, or to have any of their writers under scrutiny.”

  “And Geraldine was fired because of guilt by association.”

  “Exactly.”

  “That is so unfair.” Lena looked at the pie, but her appetite had disappeared. “When will this craziness stop? We have the Hays Code dictating what we can and can’t do on-screen, now there’s the worry about communists warping audiences’ minds with subliminal messages.”

  “I can’t see it changing.” Reeves concentrated on stirring his coffee. “What can we do? We just need to keep our heads down and noses clean.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Hmm, you’re right,” she said. “I’m not saying I’m for communism, but I am for people’s rights to support who they want. And I’m also for people being able to decide if a movie or book is suitable for them. Why should a handful of men in suits shape our culture? What will happen in future generations? Will there be any creativity left if the government and right-wing groups dictate what is acceptable? Where does it stop?”

  Lena looked up and noticed a trio of men were staring at her and Reeves. She pulled her lips tight and clutched the fork in her hand.

  “You’re here?” A loud, high-pitched voice had Lena quickly turning around. Jeanne Harris stalked over to the table.

  Great.

  Reeves got to his feet and gestured for Jeanne to sit. She looked at the seat next to Lena like it was piled high with manure.

  Reeves checked his watch. “Perhaps you’d like to join us for coffee and pie?”

  “Pie?” Jeanne laughed. “No, thank you. We should leave and go through the script.”

  “I’m not ready.”

  A well-placed hand on her hip said plenty.

  “I’ll be over to your dressing room when I’ve finished talking with Miss Lee. You and I both had an early start this morning, why don’t you have a rest before we start working again?”

  “I’ll see you in thirty.” Her eyes fixed on Reeves’s jacket draped around Lena’s shoulders. Jeanne flinched, then spun on her heel and flounced between the tables. Every set of eyes in the small café stayed on the starlet until she was out of view.

  “I’m sorry,” Reeves said.

  “Don’t be, everyone knows what she’s like.”

  “It’s no excuse.”

  “No, it isn’t, but people are who they are.” Lena tapped her finger against the cup of cold coffee. “Perhaps you should go.”

  “I probably should. It’s not worth the angst I’ll have to endure otherwise.”

  Lena laughed. “I can only imagine.”

  She gathered her purse and Reeves stood to pull out her chair. His nearness unnerved her, and her hands grew sticky as she fumbled in her purse for money. Reeves beat her to it, leaving a generous stack of notes on the table.

  “I asked you for coffee, please, let me pay.” She swapped the notes and handed his back.

  “No, no. A gentleman always pays.”

  “A gentleman will end up broke.”

  “Not for as long as I’m leading man with Jeanne.”

  “Good point.”

  They fell into step with each other, and a question she had been trying to suppress grew so large it threatened to explode out of her.

  “Say it,” said Reeves.

  “Is it that obvious?”

  His cheeky smile warmed her heart but frustrated her at the same time. Was it good that he could sense what was going on in her mind?

  “All right,” she said, feeling brave. “What’s the true story with you and Jeanne? You don’t exactly look like the world’s happiest couple.”

  Reeves clasped his hands behind his back, his eyes glued to his shiny black shoes.

  “Sorry,” she said quickly. “It’s none of my business.”

  Reeves stopped and turned toward her, his dark eyes searching hers. “If things were different I would date you in a heartbeat.”

  “That wasn’t what I was angling—”

  “I understand, but I want you to know that in another place and another time I would be honored to take you on a date—endless dates.”

  Lena scrambled for something to say. Was she ever going to get over the way Charlie had manipulated her?

  Warm fingers brushed hers and she closed her eyes. What would it be like to be held in Reeves’s arms? To kiss his lips?

  “Lena?”

  “Yes?”

  “I said thank you for the coffee and pie.”

  “Oh? Oh! Sure. No problem.”

  “One more thing.” He kissed her on the cheek, and she inhaled his musky cologne.

  “What was that for?” Her voice had turned husky.

  “To thank you for being the most interesting person I know.” With that, Reeves walked toward Jeanne’s dressing room.

  Lena stood rooted to the ground. If only she and Reeves had met in different circumstances….

  * * * *

  Pierre’s arm snaked behind her neck. His baby-soft fingers caressed her skin; his blue eyes looked longingly into hers.

  “I have loved you from the moment we met.” His French accent wrapped around every word. “You are my love. My life. There is nothing else in this world I need.”

  Lena struggled out of his hold and stepped away. “You can’t have what isn’t yours. I am not some possession you can pick up and discard at your whim.”

  “You love me. I know it. I can see it in your eyes.”

  Lena turned her head away. “You only see what you want.”

  “I…I…Damn it!” yelled Pierre.

  “Cut! Cut!” Henry lunged forward, waving his arms like a madman. “How many takes do we need? What i
s wrong with you, Montreaux?”

  “It’s not me, it’s Lena. She’s not into this scene. I’m not feeling it from her.”

  “What?” she spat. “I’m not the one forgetting my lines.”

  Henry held up his hand. “All right, all right. Let’s leave it here. We’ve done more than enough today, but that doesn’t mean I don’t expect this scene to be perfect first thing tomorrow morning,” he said. “And Montreaux, learn your damn lines.”

  Henry could have saved his breath, as Pierre had already stalked off the set and disappeared. His dressing room door slammed shut and confirmed his whereabouts.

  “Sorry, Henry,” said Lena.

  “It’s all right, honestly. I had a feeling we’d pushed too far today. There’s only so many hours we can eke out before exhaustion kicks in. Go on, go home. Enjoy what’s left of the evening.”

  “You too.” Lena waved and headed toward her dressing room. She entered and shut the door, pushing the footstool against it in case the lock didn’t click into place—again. After stripping out of the teal dress and putting on her floral day dress, Lena wiped off the heavy makeup and applied a light smattering of her own. Finally, her skin felt like it could breathe again.

  She picked up her purse and noticed Reeves’s jacket on the coat hanger next to her costumes. She glanced at her watch. He could still be working.

  She hung his jacket over her arm, exited the room and headed down the deserted corridor. A door opened and Pierre stepped out. He casually rested an arm on the wall, blocking her way.

  “Where are you off to?” His accent wasn’t as thick as when the cameras were rolling.

  “I’m not on the clock anymore, so I am off to wherever I choose to go.”

  Pierre glanced at the jacket. “Whose is that?”