She shook his hand and matched him smile for smile. “How nice to see you again.”
“You two know each other?” Wallace asked. “Leo, you didn’t mention that.”
He kept his gaze directed at her. “I wasn’t sure if you’d remember.”
She said, “We last saw each other at The Players, if I’m not mistaken.”
The gleam in his eye told her that she wasn’t. “I’m a big fan of your show, Miss Massey. Coming on board as your sponsor is exactly the sort of opportunity we’ve been seeking.”
For the briefest fleeting moment, Kathryn wondered if Presnell had engineered this disruption. Who has a sponsorship contract ready in his briefcase unless he knows the other guy’s already backing down the driveway? But she decided she’d read too many Raymond Chandler novels.
“You must excuse me,” Wallace broke in. “But I need to make sure the writers have the new sponsorship wording. Fifty minutes until places!” He retreated down the corridor.
Kathryn skirted around her new benefactor and stepped into her dressing room, leaving him to follow. “Mister Presnell,” she started.
“Please, call me Leo.” She wasn’t sure she was ready for that, but it seemed snippy to correct him. “And may I say that I heard the apprehension in your voice when Wallace told you about the cooking demonstration. I want to reassure you that it’s nothing to get worked up about. The whole point of this new cake mix is that anybody can open a box, add water, a couple of eggs, and hey presto—a perfect cake every time!”
“I’m not the kitchen type.”
“Me either. But then my wife left me. And I ask you: How’s a guy supposed to live without cake?”
She looked at him properly for the first time and found he wasn’t the arrogant huckster she remembered. So your wife left you, huh? Is that the tint of humility I can see in your eyes? Kathryn hated to admit it, but the way he confessed a failed marriage and a baking success in the same breath was appealing.
“You must excuse me,” she told him, “but I’ve got a show to prepare for, and this news has broadsided me.”
“Of course.” He stepped out into the corridor. “I’ll be in the control booth if you need me.”
“Exactly when is this cooking demonstration?”
“Next week.”
“You don’t give a girl much notice.”
“Can you see how anxious we were to clinch a sponsorship deal?”
Okay, so maybe you’re not directly responsible for Max Factor’s bowing out, but I’m still wary of the way you operate, mister. She gave him a bland smile as she closed her dressing room door.
* * *
Kathryn had only ten minutes to prepare for a show that wasn’t the one she’d planned an hour ago. By the time she emerged, Betty Grable had arrived, glittering in a silver and white floor-length dress and matching jacket. She fingered one of the white leather buttons. “You want to take a stab at where I got this?”
Kathryn knew Sunset Boulevard when she smelled it. “A certain boutique on the Strip?”
A harried stage manager shepherded them toward the stage where Kathryn could hear the chatter of the audience. “Eight minutes to air.”
“She’s a good friend of yours, isn’t she?” Betty asked. “She has some wonderful stuff. And that perfume! One whiff and I was sold.”
When they walked out onto the stage, the audience erupted into applause and wolf-whistles. Kathryn was happy to let Betty take the spotlight while she organized her notes.
New sponsor
Bergman
Sinatra & Gardner
Mayer & Lorena
Song, “Wilhelmina” from Wabash Avenue
Chat with Betty, mention Victor Mature
Samson and Delilah
J. Parnell Thomas going to the slammer
She went over the order a couple more times, then glanced up at the huge clock at the rear of the studio. Four minutes and fifty-one seconds.
Although Kathryn had been on the air for years now, she still had to settle her fluttering nerves. As she took a deep breath, she surveyed the audience to pick out a face that would help her forget about the twenty million listeners NBC claimed were tuning in.
It usually wasn’t hard to find someone who fit the bill, often a kindly widow gussied up in her Sunday best, but tonight the widow proved elusive. Three minutes and twelve seconds. She continued to scan the crowd.
Ruby Courtland. Fifth row. Far end. Kathryn kept her eyes moving.
What is she doing here? Tonight of all nights?
Kathryn cast a quick glance back at Ruby, just long enough to take in the annoyance plastered across her face.
Were you expecting us to cancel the show because we had no sponsor?
Kathryn glanced at the broad window in front of the control booth, where Leo Presnell stood behind the team of technicians. He shot her a thumbs-up sign, which Kathryn wasn’t sure how to interpret, but it did give her an idea.
She leaned into the mike. “Ladies and gentlemen, just a quick word before we begin. I’m very happy to announce that Sunbeam is now our sponsor. And to celebrate, one lucky audience member is going home with a brand-new Mixmaster!”
As the crowd burst into applause, Kathryn looked at Ruby, raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips.
Nice try, bitch.
CHAPTER 31
Gwendolyn couldn’t stand to look at Kathryn’s twitching fingers any longer, and clamped her right hand on top of them. “Anyone would think they were sending you into the Battle of Midway.”
Sunbeam had sent a car and driver to take Kathryn to the Mixmaster-Betty Crocker promotion. Less than an hour before it arrived, Kathryn appeared on Gwendolyn’s doorstep begging her to come along.
“I know!” Kathryn let out an uncharacteristic whimper.
“This coming from the woman who yelled ‘Rosebud!’ at Hearst in the middle of the Biltmore? But a cooking demonstration sends you into spasms? And it’s not even real cooking. It’s a cake mix, some water and eggs. Blend ’em together and throw it into the oven. What’s the big whoop?”
When Kathryn failed to respond, Gwendolyn pressed her hands more firmly against the fidgeting fingers. “Come on. Get it off your chest.” When Kathryn still didn’t respond, Gwendolyn went with her gut. “Is it about that Presnell skunk?”
Kathryn’s head popped up.
“Mister Hearst didn’t make you nervous, but Mister Sunbeam does?”
“I’m not so sure that he is such a skunk.”
“What is he, then?”
“Not nearly as full of himself as he used to be.”
“So you’re nervous because . . .?”
“I don’t want him to think I’m useless in the kitchen. If there’s a way to burn water, I’ll find it. This isn’t a cake recipe; it’s a disaster recipe, and he’s going to be standing there watching it all unfold like the Long Beach earthquake.”
They had only half a dozen blocks to go. “Recite the sales pitch for me,” Gwendolyn said. “They’ll want you to get it right.”
Kathryn put on a Happy Homemaker smile. “The Betty Crocker method guarantees a perfect cake every time you bake, cake after cake after cake. Bake a Betty Crocker cake right now. Perfect every time.”
“See?” Gwendolyn scoffed. “Such a fuss over nothing.”
“Gwennie, honey?” Kathryn sounded distant. “I’ll feel better if you’re in my sight line.”
“You got it. Just so long as I don’t have to talk to the skunk.” She watched Kathryn screw up her nose. “What?”
“I was hoping you’d talk to him. I think he’s changed, but I want a second opinion.”
“I’ve never met the guy.”
“At the very least, I want to know if he looks like he’s disappointed in me, or laughing at me, or is relieved I haven’t burned the store down, or—”
“Or happy he’s made the right choice?”
Kathryn’s shoulders relaxed a full two inches. “Or that.”
*
* *
Gwendolyn was floored to see three hundred women milling around the May Company’s homewares department just to witness the baking of a cake.
A white cloth covered a long table bookended with Betty Crocker cake mixes in a range of flavors. Suspended from the ceiling was a huge sign: Today only! Sunbeam Mixmaster and Betty Crocker present Kathryn Massey! Live demonstration!
A gracefully lanky man appeared. “Right on time!”
“Leo Presnell,” Kathryn said, “this is my friend Gwendolyn Brick. I’ve brought her along for moral support and general cheerleading.”
Gwendolyn took him in. Was that a cashmere jacket? “You must be pleased at the turnout,” she allowed.
“We are.” He turned to Kathryn. “That script I sent you, think of it as a rough guide. Remember, we’re not here to sell cakes.”
“We’re not?” The strain in Kathryn’s voice had started to evaporate.
“We’re selling convenience without compromising quality. And we’re selling it to women who take pride in their ability to bake a perfect cake from scratch. But you don’t have to worry about any of that.”
“I don’t?”
Presnell leaned in to ensure he’d make himself heard over the growing din. “We want you to have fun, and if you can slip in the words ‘Sunbeam Mixmaster’ and ‘Betty Crocker’ and ‘perfect cake’ a couple of times, everybody will go home happy. Okay?”
Kathryn nodded.
Gwendolyn slipped her fingers around the handles of Kathryn’s purse and tugged it away from her. “You’re not going to need this. Good luck, and I’ll see you afterwards.”
As Presnell led Kathryn to the stage, Gwendolyn made her way to the back wall of the demonstration area. By the time she located a spot that ensured a clear sight line, Presnell had introduced Kathryn to a round of applause.
“You know what, ladies?” Kathryn began. “I feel like a fraud!” Her confession reaped a tentative laugh. “I’m serious! I can’t bake a cake to save my life.” She planted her fists onto her hips. “I’d bet my last dime that any one of you could bake a better cake than me while blindfolded, one hand tied behind your back, a hungry kid screaming in the next room, and your mother-in-law due on the doorstep in the next five minutes.”
The cheers of several hundred enchanted women filled the hall. Gwendolyn watched Presnell retreat into the background. She groaned inwardly when he began to inch toward her.
“Which makes me the perfect person to tell you about Betty Crocker’s new cake mix,” Kathryn continued, “because the Sunbeam Mixmaster-Betty Crocker method guarantees me a perfect cake every time I bake. And if I can do it, you’ll have your mother-in-law eating out of your hand before she’s had time to take off her hat and criticize the way you’re spoiling the baby.”
The crowd broke into more applause as Presnell drew alongside Gwendolyn. His aftershave balm hinted at sandalwood and musk. He tilted his head so she could hear him. “I didn’t figure her for the nervous type.”
“She’s not, normally. But she is the type who always gives her all.”
“That’s why I wanted to sponsor her show. You wouldn’t believe how unreliable on-air talent can be.” He pointed to Kathryn as she held up a mixing bowl. “She was always my number-one choice.”
Gwendolyn drew back to study this man again. If I didn’t know his history, I’d say he’s a bit of a catch. “She was, huh?”
Her question pulled his attention away from the stage. “What does that mean?”
“Kathryn told me about that proposition you made to her back when you were Mister Pepsodent.”
Presnell cringed. He looked at her with a reticence that a guy like this—so well put together, so confident and professional—would rarely let slip publicly. “I’ve often thought about that night.”
“That gives us something in common.”
“And when I do, I mentally kick myself so damn hard.”
Kathryn warned her audience that they might want to stand back. “Because ladies, when I flip the switch on my Sunbeam Mixmaster, I’m giving fifty-fifty odds you’ll end up wearing Betty Crocker Honey Spice cake batter.”
Presnell kept his eyes on Kathryn. “After the end of the war, I was transferred to the New York office for a big promotion. I’d only been there a month or two when I met a gorgeous socialite. I fell for her the moment I saw her. She said, ‘Me too!,’ so we got married. Everything was great for the first couple of years . . . or so I thought. Then evidence started mounting that she had been cheating on me the whole time.”
“That can’t have been fun.”
“Do you believe in karma?”
“I’m not sure what that is.”
“It’s an idea they have in the Far East, like fate, but more along the lines of ‘Reap what you sow.’ I was an unconscionable philanderer in my first marriage, so I was determined to get it right in my second. But instead, I learned what it was like when the shoe gets rammed onto the other foot.”
“Are you still married?
“I got out by giving her everything. Then I quit my job, left New York, and returned to LA divorced, broke, and jobless. Eventually I talked my way into Sunbeam. A couple of weeks later, I listened to Kathryn’s first Window on Hollywood and made it my business to pursue her.”
“When you say ‘pursue her’ . . .?”
“Is she single?”
Ah, so this is the ol’ sidling-up-to-the-best-friend tactic. On the other hand, a guy who can talk about Far Eastern philosophy . . . “What if she were?”
“I’m hoping for a second chance.”
Kathryn rarely talked about her romance with Nelson Hoyt. As far as Gwendolyn knew, he wasn’t coming back any time soon.
“She doesn’t trust you.”
“She has no good reason to—and neither do you—and that’s my karma.”
“Kathryn’s had a rough time of it, romance-wise, and after that stunt you pulled at The Players, you’re going to have to work hard.”
“Just tell me how, and I’ll do it.”
Gwendolyn could feel her resistance softening. “You spent time in New York among the social set; ever come across a Ruby Courtland?”
Ruby’s name brought forth a disdainful growl. “My wife was an alley cat, but she was strictly amateur hour in comparison.”
“Bad as all that?”
“Ruby seduced my college roommate during his stag party at the Waldorf-Astoria, gave him a social disease, which he then passed to his bride, who subsequently sued him for divorce.”
“She’s even worse than I thought.”
“Why are we talking about her?”
The crowd whooped over some crack Kathryn had made about licking the bowl. She hadn’t glanced at Gwendolyn since her mother-in-law gag. Gwendolyn led Presnell behind a display of rolling pins and flour sifters.
“Did you know Ruby Courtland lives out here now?”
He rolled his eyes. “Columnist with Variety. What a joke. She fled to LA after she burned every bridge in all five boroughs.”
“Kathryn has an idea that Ruby was behind Max Factor dumping her.”
“How is that possible?”
“The evidence is circumstantial, but sure adds up to something stinky.”
“Does Kathryn want to get Ruby out of the way?”
“I certainly would if I were in her shoes.”
“The best way to neutralize an enemy like that is to make her an exile. I’ll happily give that moll the cold shoulder.”
“If you want to get on Kathryn’s good side, it might take more than turning your back on Ruby at a cocktail party.”
“Count me in. Nothing would give me more pleasure.” A hearty round of applause spilled over them. “We should probably get back. I don’t want her to think we’ve deserted her.”
She made an after you gesture. As he turned around, she reached for the bottom edge of his jacket and let the material slide through her fingertips.
Cashmere. I knew it.
&
nbsp; CHAPTER 32
The outer office of Howard Hughes’ executive suite at RKO was sparsely furnished. A pair of underworked secretaries in tight sweaters faced each other behind matching white desks on either side of a rosewood door whose unembellished brass handle was its only decoration.
Marcus waited on a sofa long enough to seat five. Beside him, on a low square end table stood the only other sign of life—a potted plant with long spindly branches and spiky leaves. It gave off a strange odor, like overly peppered Spam.
Ever since Hughes bought RKO, the rumors reported increasingly bizarre behavior: chronic hand-washing, 3 a.m. telephone calls, an army of private investigators hired to keep tabs on a revolving platter of beauties: Susan Hayward, Elizabeth Taylor, Mitzi Gaynor, Barbara Payton, and even European actresses like Gina Lollobrigida and Zizi Jeanmaire.
But Marcus tried not to dwell on any of those things as he sat on the sofa with the plastic covers and the smelly plant. When he accepted Melody Hope’s proposal that they work on Amelia Earhart together, he’d expected her to flake, figuring she’d fall off the wagon or get bored with the undertaking and stop returning his calls.
To his surprise, though, she collated her notes on The Fun of It into fifteen typed sheets and called every other day to share ideas or check on his progress and came up with several remarkably insightful suggestions.
Three months ago, in front of the library, Marcus wouldn’t have bet ten bucks that he’d be sitting outside Howard Hughes’ office with an outline for a project he was excited about—let alone that he’d be feeling desperate to come in from the professional cold.
The telephone on the desk of the right-hand secretary rang. She picked it up before it clanged a second time. She listened for a moment, then replaced the receiver and pointed to the rosewood door.
Hughes’ office was as austere as his reception area. In fact, it looked like he’d just moved in and the van had misplaced all his belongings.
It was a long room, maybe forty feet, and ended in a semicircle with windows that extended from waist height to the ceiling. His desk was as plain as the rosewood door. A bank of five telephones sat on one side, a pen and paper were the only things in front of him.
Twisted Boulevard: A Novel of Golden-Era Hollywood (Hollywood's Garden of Allah novels Book 6) Page 21