Starstruck

by Rachel Shukert

  “My movie, of course.”

  “The Nine Days’ Queen?” Amanda frowned. “I thought that didn’t finish shooting until next week.”

  “Not The Nine Days’ Queen.” Harry lifted the last, largest dome. On the tray beneath it was a script. Neat and freshly bound, it was so new Amanda could smell the ink on the page.

  AN AMERICAN GIRL

  By Harry Gordon

  “The Gabby Preston picture!” Amanda looked up at Harry with a smile. “You finished it! Oh, darling, that’s wonderful!”

  “I finished it, all right.” Harry stroked the title page lovingly with an ink-stained finger. “But it’s not a Gabby Preston picture. Not anymore.”

  “Oh, Harry.” Amanda slipped her arms around his waist. “Don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll change her mind. And if not, you can take it over to Metro. I know a producer there who says they’re desperate for something for Judy Garland.”

  Harry placed a finger over her lips. “I don’t need her to change her mind. And I’m not taking it to Metro.” He paused to take a deep breath. “An American Girl is not going to be a Gabby Preston picture because … it’s going to be an Amanda Farraday picture.”

  “What?” Amanda gasped. She thought her heart would stop.

  “You heard me.”

  “But, Harry, you can’t be serious. How can I headline a musical? I can’t sing, I don’t dance really, I—”

  Smiling, Harry shook his head. “It’s not a musical anymore. I rewrote the whole thing. That’s what I’ve been doing, holed up here all this time.” His eyes were alight with excitement. “Ever since that night at the Trocadero, I haven’t been able to get that story you told me out of my head. All those details—the plaid dress, the haughty salesgirl—it’s a perfect allegory for what’s happening in this country. The haves and have-nots, all the people out there with nothing but their dreams. And I thought, who needs another cheerful little vaudeville picture that’s just a few lines stringing some dance sequences together? Here’s a chance to do something real. The kind of thing Odets is doing for the theater, but in the pictures, where so many millions more people will see it and be affected by it. The story of a poor girl clawing her way to the top by any means necessary. What does she leave behind, what does she have to compromise? It’s the American dream personified. It’s your story, Amanda. I wrote it for you.”

  Amanda grabbed the side of a chair for balance. “But … has Mr. Kurtzman seen it? Mr. Karp?”

  “This isn’t for Kurtzman. This needs a young director, someone who really understands America, the kind of things that are happening now. There’s a young guy called Elia Kazan doing interesting work in the theater; he might be willing to come out, with the right script. Karp’s reading it as we speak, but he’ll be on board. He has to be. I’m the golden boy right now. And then once we start shooting, and once The Nine Days’ Queen is a hit, I can renegotiate my contract, and we’ll have enough money to get married.”

  “Harry!”

  “Amanda, listen. I know it seems sudden, but I’ve been thinking a lot about this.” He held her out at arm’s length, drinking her in with his eyes. “These last months have been the happiest I’ve ever had, and it’s all because of you. Everything good in my life came because you’re in it. This picture”—he pressed his hand against the script as if he were pressing his heart—“is the best thing I’ve ever written. You’re my lucky charm, my muse. Now that I’ve found you, I don’t ever want to let you go.”

  “Oh, Harry …,” Amanda sighed. “I love you.”

  She’d never said that before, not to anyone, at least not since she was a very little girl. Suddenly afraid, she looked down at the carpet, wondering if there were some way to take it back. Harry took her chin in his hands, tilting her face to meet his. “I wish you’d let me say it first,” he said. “But I love you too.”

  They melted into each other’s arms. She felt her heart pounding … or was it Harry’s? She couldn’t tell where she ended and he began anymore.

  “There’s one more thing,” Harry murmured, when they finally broke apart. “Something I want to give you.”

  He reached under the table and pulled out a large white box tied with a black silk ribbon. Harry had never given her a present before, let alone something that looked as expensive as this.

  “Harry …”

  “Go on,” Harry urged. “Open it.”

  Amanda untied the black ribbon and lifted the lid. Beneath folds of tissue paper she saw a flash of pink silk. She carefully lifted the pink silk thing out of the box and held it up. It was an evening gown. The most gorgeous one she’d ever seen, the palest of pinks, overlaid with a shimmering spiderweb of silver lace so delicate it looked as if it had been woven by a fairy.

  “The woman in the shop said it was a Mainbocher,” Harry said shyly. “I guess that’s good. I know it’s not the sort of thing you usually wear, but I thought, if you ever wanted to give the black a rest … Do you like it?”

  “Harry.” He looked so anxious and frightened and proud that Amanda thought she would die of tenderness. “I think it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “I … I don’t suppose you’ll try it on for me, will you?” Harry whispered, taking her in his arms.

  The smile on Amanda’s face was like a rainbow breaking through a cloud. “Only if you’ll help me out of this one first.”

  “Damn it!”

  The train of Margo’s dress caught in the hinge of the small gate at the end of the pebbled path that led to the Chateau Marmont pool. Irritated, she crouched to the ground, gingerly attempting to disentangle it without damaging the delicate cloth. In the dim light, her hand slipped and the sharp edge of the hinge sliced the soft flesh of her hand, leaving behind a thin stripe of bright blood. “Damn, damn, damn!”

  This whole ordeal was really Jimmy’s fault, Margo thought as she applied pressure to her palm with her thumb. It was terribly ungentlemanly of him. The least he could have done after she’d gone to all the trouble of arranging the car herself was wait for her outside, or at least in the lobby. She had asked Arthur to fetch him, but the chauffeur had shaken his head.

  “They won’t let me in the Chateau, miss,” he had said. “Not up in any guest rooms, that is.”

  “But that’s ridiculous!”

  Arthur had let out a bitter laugh. “Maybe so. But it ain’t gonna change this evening, and nothing you can say is going to make a fool’s worth of difference.” So instead, here she was, bleeding and having to chase down Jimmy as if she were his mother. He’s going to get an earful from me in the car, she thought angrily. That’s for sure.

  Bungalow seven was on the far end of the kidney-shaped pool, nestled behind a small private grove of fragrant flowering bushes. Margo knocked gently on the door. There was no answer. Impatiently, she jiggled the knob, and to her surprise, the door swung open.

  Margo knew it was horribly rude to just barge into someone’s house like this. But Jimmy was expecting her, and Pasadena was at least forty-five minutes away. If they didn’t hit the road soon, they were going to be unforgivably late.

  The front sitting room was empty but showed clear signs of habitation: an overflowing ashtray, a couple of half-consumed glasses of watery Scotch on the coffee table. A record, having finished, spun silently on the phonograph.

  “Jimmy?” she called. “It’s me, Margo.” There was no answer, but she heard an unmistakable scuttling sound coming from the back of the bungalow, as if someone was trying to move around without being heard. “Jimmy, come on, I know you’re in there.”

  There was no answer, only a hissing noise, like someone trying to talk without being heard, coming from a closed door that she assumed led to the bedroom.

  She was just about to try the knob when the door opened a crack and Jimmy’s head popped out. “Margo!” Holding the door firmly in front of him, he flashed her a queasy attempt at his famous smile. “What are you … what are you doing here?”

  Hi
s face was damp and his hair disheveled, as if he’d just been for a run. God, Margo thought, he isn’t even dressed yet. By the time he’d taken a shower and put on a dinner jacket, they’d have practically missed Doris’s entire party. “We have a date.” Margo glowered. “You’re supposed to take me to Pasadena tonight, remember?”

  “Of course I do!” Jimmy said, a bit too quickly to be convincing. He isn’t really that good an actor, Margo thought. “Good old Pasadena, I can’t wait! It’s just … um … I’m in the middle of something … in here, so be an angel and wait in the sitting room, won’t you, darling? Or out by the pool, that’s much nicer. I’ll be out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  Margo held her injured hand in front of Jimmy’s face. “I’m bleeding,” she snapped. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom and clean up.”

  “But I’m not dressed,” Jimmy protested desperately.

  “I don’t care!” Margo could have strangled him. “I cut myself on a rusty hinge. It needs to be cleaned right away or it will get infected.”

  “Go back to the main building, then. The bathroom attendant will help you, and I’ll meet you in the lobby for a drink before we go.”

  Margo’s hand was starting to throb. “This is ridiculous. I’m going to bleed all over my dress. Just let me in!”

  “No!” Jimmy shouted.

  Suddenly, it hit Margo like a flash. The two half-drunk glasses of Scotch, the spinning record. Jimmy hadn’t been expecting her at all. He’s got someone in there, she thought furiously. Probably some chorus girl. And Gabby knew. That was why she’d told Margo to come to the Chateau. So she could catch them red-handed. “Let me in, Jimmy!”

  “Margo, no, please!”

  She seized the side of the door. Jimmy wedged his body against the jamb, trying in vain to hold her back.

  The door swung open, and so did Margo’s jaw.

  Jimmy had someone in there, all right. Lying bare-chested in the king-sized bed, entangled sexily in the musky sheets. Only it wasn’t a girl.

  It was a boy.

  “It’s … You …” Margo tried to speak, but her tongue was in knots. Tongue-tied, she thought. Now she knew what it really meant.

  The boy stared at her from the bed, calmly smoking a cigarette with long, languorous drags. The edge of the sheet was tucked below his smooth, olive-skinned chest. He’s a handsome boy, Margo thought, in spite of her shock. A very handsome boy.

  “Margo,” Jimmy said. “Go into the sitting room. Please.”

  Numbly, she did as he said and sat down on the sofa as Jimmy closed the door behind her. From the bedroom, she heard a buzz of slurry whispers, but she couldn’t make out the words. Jimmy will come out in a minute, she thought dazedly. What on earth am I supposed to do then? Orange Grove Academy for Young Ladies had prided itself on preparing its students for any possible social situation, but the proper mode of decorum for when one had just discovered an unclothed boy in one’s pretend boyfriend’s bed had been conspicuously absent from the curriculum. With her uninjured hand, she carefully arranged the folds of her gown so it draped more gracefully over the sofa. Whatever was about to happen, she thought, she’d feel better facing it in an unwrinkled dress.

  Jimmy emerged from the bedroom in his bare feet, dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt open at the neck. His damp hair was combed back slickly from his face. Wordlessly, he went to the bar and poured out two stiff drinks.

  “Here,” he said flatly, handing Margo the glass of Scotch.

  “Jimmy …”

  “Drink it.” Even his voice had changed. Gone was the cheerful, mugging Jimmy she had heard “aw shucks” his way through so many interviews and public dates over the past several weeks. This Jimmy sounded terse, matter-of-fact, almost dangerous. Awfully ironic, Margo thought, that this of all possible situations seemed to have transformed silly, tap-dancing Jimmy into Humphrey Bogart. Funny, she mused, I actually like him better this way.

  “Drink,” Jimmy repeated. “Don’t make me ask you again.”

  She tossed the liquor down her throat in a single swallow, wincing at the burn.

  “Good girl,” Jimmy said. He refilled both drinks. “Again.” He waited to speak until they’d drained their drinks for the second time. “Now tell me what you’re doing here.”

  “It was Gabby.” Margo felt dizzy, as if a warm, spreading light were shining directly into her eyes. “Gabby said—”

  “What? What did she say?”

  “She told me you said to come here. To pick you up,” Margo said helplessly. “She must have … she must have known you’d be …” She didn’t quite have the words to go on.

  “It certainly looks that way,” Jimmy said grimly. He poured himself another drink and held out the bottle to Margo. She shook her head. “She must have overheard me making arrangements with Roderigo on the phone today.”

  Roderigo. It was shocking, somehow, knowing the handsome boy’s name. Margo wondered if he was listening to them through the door. “You mean … Gabby … knows about …”

  “I don’t know what she knows and what she doesn’t. She probably thought it was a dame I was meeting. Maybe not. Gabby may act like a little kid, but she’s been around show people her whole life. She’s not exactly an innocent flower when it comes to this sort of thing.”

  “But why? Why would she do such a thing?”

  “Oh, I’m sure she had her reasons. Maybe she was bored and wanted a laugh. Maybe she was jealous, or maybe she figured it’d scare you off and she’d inherit me. Who knows what’s going through that pill-crazed little mind of hers right now?”

  “Gabby’s in love with you,” Margo said suddenly, although she wasn’t sure why she felt the need to defend her faithless friend.

  “No.” The ghost of a smile played across the shadow of Jimmy’s face. “Gabby Preston is in love with the idea of me, or more accurately, the idea of herself with me. She wants to be America’s Sweetheart, part of an iconic couple. As far as she’s concerned, this”—he gestured toward the closed bedroom door—“is no barrier to entry.” He swallowed his drink. “Don’t be sore at Gabby, Margo. However selfish her reasons, in a way it’s rather a relief you found out. Not the ideal situation, perhaps, but at least you didn’t have to hear it from someone else.”

  “Someone else? What do you mean, someone else?”

  Jimmy let out a short bark of a laugh. “Oh, come on, Margo. You don’t think it’s just by chance the powers that be oh-so-patiently nurtured our young romance into being, do you? And just after your little tête-a-tête with Dane Forrest too? One star, one ascendant: nasty gossip dogging both. Put them together and it cancels out the scandal. Publicity 101.”

  “If you don’t like what they’re saying, change the conversation,” Margo said quietly.

  “The oldest trick in the book. And as an added bonus, with a guy like me they wouldn’t have to worry about you getting into trouble. In the family way, I mean.” Jimmy smiled at her, with what looked like real kindness this time. “Poor little Margo. I bet you didn’t know this kind of thing even existed.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Margo said defensively, although she couldn’t help thinking what her father might make of this. Nervously, she fingered the gold-and-pearl pin she’d fastened at the last moment to the strap of her evening dress. It had made her feel better when she was dressing, to think she was going back to Pasadena with a little piece of it still with her; now she was just glad she had something to do with her hands. For the first time, she understood why so many people took up smoking. “I just … well, I just didn’t think I’d ever … you know, meet one in person.”

  Jimmy chuckled. “I’ll bet my bottom dollar that you’ve already met about a hundred of them. Show business is crawling with us ‘artistic types,’ I’m afraid.”

  “But isn’t it awfully …” Margo searched for the right word. “Unhealthy, I guess?”

  Jimmy’s smile faded. “I suppose the next thing you’re going to tell me is that I’m goi
ng to hell.”

  “No! I don’t think that’s for anyone to say!” Margo didn’t know what to say. She supposed she ought to disapprove, or be angry at having been deceived, but Jimmy had never made a secret of the fact that their relationship was more business than pleasure. And what really was so wrong about a man wanting to be with a man, or a woman to be with a woman? She remembered the vague, sinking feeling of entrapment she’d always felt whenever her mother began talking excitedly about her future marriage prospects. The way she felt her heart cracking in two when Mr. Karp had told her she could no longer hope for Dane. How much worse must that be for someone like Jimmy? To feel that not just one person but all of society would never allow you to be with the one you loved? The whole thing seemed about as senseless as keeping Arthur out of the stupid lobby of the hotel. “I just … well, maybe you just haven’t met the right girl,” she finished lamely.

  “Margo, I’m a movie star,” Jimmy said. “I could have any girl on the planet if I wanted. The problem is, I don’t.” Finishing his Scotch, he calmly poured himself another. “But look, I have to say, you’re taking this all very well. Like I said, it’s a relief.”

  “For me too.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Jimmy said. “And anyway, there’s no reason why we can’t carry on as before.”

  “What?” Margo shook her head. “How can we do that?”

  Jimmy came to sit beside her on the couch. “Darling, look. Ninety percent of Hollywood romances are just business anyway, whether the parties go to bed together or not. And we’re doing good business. We’ve got a public profile. We’ve got fans. There’s no need to derail all that. We might as well keep it up. If you want, we can even get married.”

  Married? “Why would I want to do that?”

  “The studio would like it, for one. Karp’s made that abundantly clear. It would keep the gossip columnists from breathing down my neck for a while. As for you, well, you could move off the lot, have some space, some privacy. I’m building a big house in Malibu, and I’ve got another one in Beverly Hills. Both of them could use a woman’s touch. And I’d make it worth your while, financially, that is. My lawyers can renegotiate your contract after The Nine Days’ Queen comes out, see that on your next picture Karp gives you what you’re worth. And Hollywood’s been good to me over the years. I’ll gladly supplement your salary with a generous allowance. And if there should ever come a time when we agree to … well, dissolve our arrangement, I’ll see that you’re well taken care of. In return for your discretion, of course.”