Stars Over Sunset Boulevard

by Susan Meissner

  “It’s perfect,” Violet said, almost breathlessly.

  “Not as big as your Southern plantation back home, though, right?”

  Violet laughed. “I didn’t live on a plantation. We lived in the city.”

  “In a big house?”

  Violet hesitated before nodding. “It was. But . . . but I don’t live there anymore.”

  Audrey sensed for a second time Violet’s desire for something that for the moment was out of reach. This young woman from Alabama by way of Shreveport wanted something that life back home couldn’t give her. She had come to the land of dreams to find it. “Do you have any bad habits I should know about?” Audrey said.

  “Why? Do you?” Violet asked, and a tiny current of dread rippled across her face.

  Audrey smiled. Violet didn’t appear to be like any of the other Hollywood women she knew. Audrey liked her. “I tend to leave my shoes and clothes lying around. You?”

  Violet smiled back at her. “I tend to put things away.”

  “Do you want to think on it?”

  “I don’t need to think about it. I would like very much to rent from you if you’ll have me.”

  “Well, then. Shall we go get your suitcase?”

  “Right now?”

  “Why not right now? Do you want to go back to your hotel to sleep tonight?”

  Violet shook her head.

  Audrey moved away from the bedroom door. “C’mon. We’ll catch a cab on Franklin and take the bus back.”

  A moment later, the two women were heading west toward the glittering lights of the city.

  • • •

  Audrey awakened the next morning to the aromas of coffee, cinnamon, and toasted bread. For a moment she could almost believe she was a little girl again and it was Christmas morning and her mother had made sticky buns.

  She closed her eyes to hold the image captive for just a few seconds longer, but Valentino had noticed she’d stirred. He now rose from where he had been sleeping curled up at her elbow and nuzzled his feline face into hers—his way of communicating that he wanted his breakfast.

  Audrey pushed the cat away gently and sat up. Dinah hadn’t been a coffee drinker. Audrey couldn’t remember the last time she had awakened to the fragrance of a freshly brewed pot. She reached for a silky robe on the armchair next to her bed and slipped it on. Valentino jumped down and meowed at the door. Audrey opened it, yawning as she tied the sash around her waist. After a quick stop in the bathroom, she walked into the kitchen, where her new roommate was sitting at the kitchen table in her nightgown with a cup of coffee, two slices of cinnamon toast, and Audrey’s latest copy of Variety magazine open to the middle. The dirty dishes that had been piling up in the sink over the past few days had been washed and the countertops wiped clean of smudges, dried spills, and crumbs.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I made coffee for us. I found some Hills Bros. in the cupboard,” Violet said, her thick Southern drawl elongating every syllable.

  “Mind?” Audrey grabbed a coffee cup from the dish drainer and poured a cup. “Smelling it was like waking up in paradise.”

  Audrey pulled out a chair and sat down across from Violet. Valentino began to wind himself in and out her legs, meowing a reminder that he had not yet been fed. “I can’t remember the last time I had cinnamon toast.”

  Violet pushed the plate toward her. “Have one. It’s your cinnamon. Your bread. I promise I’ll get my own groceries today.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Audrey lifted one of the pieces of toast off the plate, brought it to her mouth, and took a bite. Violet had been liberal with both the butter and the cinnamon sugar. It was divine.

  “I am in awe of how great this is. I usually skip breakfast. You might have noticed there’s hardly much to make a meal with here.”

  “I like to cook,” Violet said. “I can make us breakfast in the mornings. I don’t mind.”

  Audrey took another bite. “You know how to make biscuits and gravy?” she asked as she chewed. “I’ve always wanted to try that.”

  Her roommate smiled wide. “Of course. Mama taught me how to make everything.”

  Audrey broke off a piece of the crust and tossed it down to Valentino. “Word gets out among the single men at the studio that you can cook, and I’ll be looking for another roommate.”

  Violet laughed lightly.

  Audrey looked up from the cat. “You think I’m kidding?”

  Her new roommate shrugged. “I think men want more in a wife than just someone who can cook.”

  Audrey arched an eyebrow playfully. “And it’s a good thing they do! Can you imagine how terrible it would be if all a man wanted was someone to be his maid?”

  Violet shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” Audrey half laughed.

  Her roommate chewed on her bottom lip for a second. “I don’t think too much about stuff like that.”

  “Stuff like what?” Audrey laughed fully now.

  “You know. Stuff about . . . men.”

  A new thought stole across Audrey and she gasped slightly. “Violet! Do you . . . do you prefer other women?”

  Violet’s face went crimson and a half bite of toast catapulted out of her mouth as she nearly choked on it. “What? No! No, I don’t. I’m not . . . No!”

  “All right! Okay!” Audrey said in a reassuring tone. “I just thought for a second that maybe, you know. . . . Most women do think about stuff like that, Violet. You can’t fault me for wondering.”

  Violet brought a hand up to her right cheek, as though to cool her discomfort with her palm. She exhaled heavily, forcing any remnant of toast from her windpipe. Her breath was feathery with alarm and embarrassment. “All I meant was I don’t like to think about that right now,” she said.

  There was a trailing hint of sadness in Violet’s words. Audrey felt a tug of kinship toward her. Violet had been hurt. Recently, perhaps. It was why she had come to Hollywood for a fresh start. Audrey understood that unspoken thought perfectly.

  “What happened to you?” Audrey asked softly. Respectfully.

  Violet studied the empty plate in front of her for a moment. “I’d really rather not talk about it.” She rose from her chair. “I’ll make some more toast.”

  Audrey knew as well as anyone that some wounds simply could not be spoken of easily. She would not press the matter. Not yet, anyway.

  She stood as well and reached down to the floor for the cat’s dish.

  THREE

  The last of the day’s warmth had disappeared when Violet and Audrey arrived at the far end of the studio’s property, a dirt-covered expanse known as the Forty Acres, even though it measured closer to twenty-three acres. Studio employees called it simply the Forty. Violet could see her breath in white puffs, and her hands were already numb despite having been plunged into her pockets from the moment she’d stepped off the streetcar. She hadn’t thought it got this cold in Southern California, and she wished she had stayed in the warm bungalow instead of dashing out on a second’s notice. She had planned to use that Saturday evening to wash and set her hair, but Audrey had arrived home breathless after being away all day and told her to put on something warm. They were going out.

  “Out to do what?” Violet had asked.

  And Audrey had turned to her, eyes gleaming. “Do you want to go to a fire?”

  “Like a bonfire?”

  Audrey had laughed. “Like no other fire you’ve ever seen. Come on. Get your coat.”

  On the way to the studio, half by cab, half by streetcar, Audrey had told Violet that her friend Bert knew someone who worked on the technical crew who could get the three of them onto the Forty for the filming spectacle of the decade.

  “The what?” Violet had asked.

  Audrey had leaned forward to whisper, lest any of the other streetcar
passengers hear her. “They’re going to film the burning of Atlanta tonight.”

  Many minutes later they found themselves joining a crowd of maybe two hundred people whose collective attention was riveted by a towering row of old sets at the edge of the back lot. A man of medium build, with a kind, clean-shaven face and dark curly hair under his cap, waved them over to where he stood just on the other side of a cordon.

  “There’s Bert.” Audrey nodded toward the man.

  They closed the distance to him. Bert looked to Violet to be about her age, maybe a little older, with pleasant features. Audrey had told her on the way over that Bert was her oldest friend in Hollywood. She had met him when they were both working at MGM. Bert Redmond had moved over to Selznick International not long after Audrey had. He was a wardrobe assistant, though he dreamed of one day being on the camera crew. He had grown up in Santa Barbara and he liked the outdoors—particularly hiking, fishing, and bird-watching.

  Bert also apparently liked Audrey; at least that was how it appeared to Violet. His eyes had lit up as they neared him. Even in the shadowed light of dusk, Violet could see that Bert fancied Audrey. But, then, who wouldn’t? Audrey was beautiful and enchanting.

  “Bert, this is Violet Mayfield, my new roommate,” Audrey said as soon as they were at his side. “Violet, this is Bert Redmond. The nicest guy you’ll ever meet.”

  Bert seemed embarrassed by Audrey’s compliment. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Mayfield,” he said.

  “Please, call me Violet.”

  His mouth broke into a smile when she spoke, and Violet found herself feeling warmer, even though it had to be close to thirty degrees. Her accent had amused him.

  “Audrey tells me you’re a long way from home,” Bert said.

  Audrey put an arm around Violet. “Home is just where you hang your hat, Bert.”

  “Well. Welcome to California, Violet.” Bert tipped the brim of his cap.

  “See what I mean? Nicest guy you’ll ever meet.” Audrey dropped her arm from across Violet’s shoulders. “So, do we have to stand right here or can we get closer?”

  “Jim said if we stay put he will be able to vouch for us if anyone asks why we’re here.” Bert pointed to a group of men huddled around one of the seven Technicolor cameras set up beyond the cordon. “He’s right over there.” One of the men turned toward them and waved. Audrey waved back.

  “Are all these people here to watch the fire?” Violet asked, looking around at the groups of people, all waiting with their hands in their pockets.

  “Of course,” Audrey answered. “It’s going to be the talk of the town tomorrow. I can’t believe a million secret memos didn’t go out yesterday about it. You know how Mr. Selznick is about his memos.”

  The day before, Violet had been stuck taking dictation for one of the accountants in another building. She had learned in just a few weeks at Selznick International that everyone in management had something to say, and everyone needed someone from the secretary pool to say it. Selznick himself, whom Violet hadn’t yet met face-to-face, apparently dictated memos morning, noon, and night.

  “I wasn’t in the pool yesterday,” Violet answered.

  “I wonder what they’re waiting for,” Bert said, looking toward the imposing facades from The Gardens of Allah, King Kong, and other completed Selznick and RKO films. The old sets, which had been taking up space needed to build the Gone With the Wind exteriors of Tara and Twelve Oaks, had been hastily repainted to look like an antebellum downtown. “It was supposed to start already. I was afraid you gals were going to miss it.”

  “We had to find someone to hitch a ride with from the Mansion. There’s no chance we could have walked all the way out here in high heels,” Audrey said.

  Minutes later, a man got onto a portable public address system and its speakers squawked in protest. A few introductory remarks were made and then the crowd was told that absolute quiet was required once the fire started burning and the cameras started rolling. No one was to make a sound.

  Bert leaned toward Audrey and Violet. “They’ve only got one chance to do this,” he said quietly. “There’s no way they can stage another shot like this one.”

  Fire engines that had been idling off to the side now moved into place, and men with hoses positioned themselves at the ready should the blaze get out of hand. Smoke machines were primed and the sweet, pungent odor of a flame accelerant tinged Violet’s nose.

  One of the three stunt doubles for Clark Gable stood well past earshot, but he was listening intently to instructions being given him by another man, who pointed to the facades, then to a waiting wagon, and then to the bank of cameras. A horse hitched to a wagon whinnied and the man holding its reins reached up to pat the animal’s flank.

  “I never would have guessed moviemakers would start a film with a scene from the story’s middle,” Violet said as a tractor was driven into position. “The burning of Atlanta doesn’t happen until nearly halfway through the book.”

  “It will be like this the whole time they shoot,” Audrey replied, never taking her eyes off the elements of the spectacle that was about to transpire. “Selznick could very well film Scarlett and Ashley kissing in the paddock tomorrow—if they had a Scarlett.”

  “And to start shooting before you have the entire cast in place? That just seems backward. How will Scarlett even be in this scene?”

  Bert turned to Violet. “Scarlett’s double in the wagon won’t be filmed in close-up. The camera will never show that woman’s face. Then when there is a Scarlett, production can take scenes shot elsewhere and layer them on top of what’s already in the can.”

  “In the can?”

  Audrey smiled and took a step forward. “Finished. Done. Let’s get closer.”

  She advanced toward more of the hubbub in front of them. Bert hung back a moment before he joined her. Somewhat reluctantly, Violet followed.

  After moving up twenty yards or so, Audrey eased her way into a larger group of spectators. No one seemed to notice. Everyone’s gaze was trained on the facades.

  Someone shouted, “Action,” and for a second there was no sound or movement. And then the jets supplying the gas flared to life. As if bewitched, the storefronts and warehouses burst into flame. The stunt doubles in the wagon began to make several passes in front of the massive wall of fire. The indigo sky was suddenly swathed in orange and rose and yellow. Thick smoke started to rise and wander, and the heat and roar of the flames reached those who watched. Violet was astounded by the hellish tableau in front of her. She would learn later that the local fire department had been flooded with calls from people who were sure all of Culver City was on fire.

  The cameras kept rolling as the fire reached its zenith, and then the tractor at the edge of the burning sets began to move slowly forward, dragging chains behind it, which elongated and then grew taut. The engulfed facades began to tumble to the ground like a defeated dragon as the tractor slowly yanked them down. A few minutes later a director yelled, “Cut!”

  Clusters of people began to cheer and applaud. The burning of Atlanta seemed to have been a success. The gas jets were switched off and the smoldering sets were allowed to be further consumed before the water trucks were at last released.

  “I wish I could have brought my camera to this,” Bert said, in awe. “I’ve never seen anything like that before in my life.”

  “Me, either,” Violet replied.

  She and Bert both looked to Audrey, but she seemed not to have heard them. Her gaze was fixed tightly on a small group of people closer to the platform on which David Selznick had been standing.

  “Do you know those people or something?” Bert asked Audrey, and Violet could tell he was concerned that she was about to abandon him and Violet to go speak with them.

  “That man over there is Laurence Olivier.” Audrey nodded toward a man off in the distance. “I have no idea
why he’s here.”

  Violet craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the British stage star but the man stood too far away to be seen clearly.

  “And that’s David Selznick’s brother, Myron,” Audrey continued, pointing to a gentleman in a hat and overcoat not as far away as Mr. Olivier, but still not close enough for Violet to make out any facial features. “But I can’t see who that is with him.”

  The woman next to Myron Selznick was also wearing a hat, and the light from the fires was mostly gone now. It was far too dark and she stood many yards away.

  After a few seconds of silence Violet suggested they go back to the place where Jim had told them to wait. Bert seemed immediately amenable but Audrey hesitated and so did he.

  “Audrey?” Bert said.

  But Audrey seemed lost in thought as she stared at the woman in the hat.

  “I’m going back to where we were,” Violet announced. She didn’t like not being where they’d been told to wait.

  Bert, obviously torn between wanting to stay with Audrey and wanting her to come with them, paused midstep before following Violet.

  Several minutes passed before Audrey made her way back to Violet and Bert. She seemed to have recovered from the disappointment of not knowing who the woman in the hat was.

  When tall, redheaded Jim joined them at the cordon, he suggested they go out for drinks and dancing and fun. Audrey turned to Violet and said, “Shall we?” but she didn’t wait for Violet to respond before facing Jim again. “We’re not exactly dressed for the Trocadero, you know.”

  Jim grimaced. “Good thing you’re not. I’d much rather we go to a place where you don’t need to worry if your butler polished the underside of your shoe.” He laughed at his joke and poked Bert, who also laughed but with less vigor.

  Audrey seemed to thoughtfully consider her response for a moment. “You have a better place in mind?” Her tone was coy and challenging.

  “You bet I do.”

  Jim led them to his car, a rusting ten-year-old Packard, and opened the front door for Audrey, leaving Bert to open the back door of the aging sedan for Violet and to share the backseat with her.