Page 13 of His Girl Hollywood

She found her strength here, in the arms of her mother and the warmth of this kitchen, the heart of their home. She was ready. To face Don. To prove to Harry Evets his faith in her was not misplaced. To show the world what a woman with a movie camera was made of.

Chapter 6

To say he was making a hash of things was an understatement. Don Lamont, the toast of Broadway, ha! So far all he’d done was step on Rita Carter’s feet about six times and trip over the lighting cords.

“Get ahold of yourself, Lamont,” he muttered under his breath. This was not the way he wanted his first day on a Hollywood movie set to go. He’d planned on walking in here, cool and confident, Eddie at his side, and wowing everyone with his footwork and panache. Instead, he was coming off like some wide-eyed kid who could barely string a sentence together.

He was sitting in a chair in the corner of the soundstage, a towel around his neck, trying to go through the steps in his head.Five, six, seven, eight, hop, turn, jump, he thought.No, that’s not right. What was it?

He buried his face in his hands, pressing the towel to the beads of sweat on his forehead. He tried to quiet his father’s voice in his head, the sneering sound of him calling Don “twinkle toes,” the mutterings that he’d never amount to anything, that his prancing fantasies would only lead to trouble. That he should grow up and realize he would have to get a real man’s job. Then, another voice, a quieter one, his own, reminded him that if this failed, everything his father had ever said would come true.

He took a breath. The problem was that this wasn’t hischoreography. It was something the studio had given him, and he couldn’t find his footing. He needed Eddie. He needed room to breathe and time to let the story, and the moves, flow through him. Not this regimented schedule where he copycatted what someone else thought would look good on his body.

Rita Carter, rising movie star and legend of the Latin ballroom circuit, sat across the soundstage, engrossed in conversation with Arlene. Her right foot was in a bucket of ice and she had her stockinged left foot in her hand, massaging it with her fingers. Rita looked at him, looked down at her soaking foot, and back at him pointedly. Great, just great. His first few hours on the job and he’d already managed to turn his leading lady against him. At this point, he’d prefer Eleanor’s passive-aggressive silent treatment. Or even her dramatic weeping. He didn’t know what to do with this icy, yet unfiltered irritation.

He watched as Arlene kneeled by Rita’s side and clasped her hands between hers. Arlene was reassuring her.

He pulled the towel over his head and looked at the floor. Hell, for all he knew, Lena was telling Rita Carter she would speak to Harry and have Don replaced by tomorrow. She’d made it pretty clear last night that it hadn’t been her choice to cast him in this movie. He’d thought her involvement had been a sign. A twist of fate from the penny in his pocket. Some signal from the universe that he was finally getting his life back on track. This was the ticket away from life under Frankie’s thumb, and in some strange version of dramatic irony, it was happening because Lena Morgan wanted him in her movie. What a story he’d concocted in his own mind.

But it didn’t matter if Lena didn’t want him here. He’d earned his place, first on Broadway, then in a screen test. He would prove he deserved to be here. Even if his director and leading lady were less than pleased with his existence. He needed to take a breath,think through the steps, and let go. He was holding too tightly to the reminder of what was at stake. He needed to stop thinking about Mabel, about Eleanor, about Frankie, and just dance. Don had always been at his best in the moments where he gave himself over to the work. All he needed was the music, the steps, and a clear head.

He stood up and counted to himself aloud, “A-one, two, three, four.” He forgot the steps, letting them go as the hum of the music in his mind flooded his senses. He’d been right about one thing. This dance floor Lena had commissionedwasperfect. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such spring and give. Even on Broadway. It was rare to have a floor this good outside a rehearsal room.

He did a series of step ball changes, a few pirouettes, a jeté, and then ended with a series of wings, his arms and feet going in and out, making a large circle. When he finished, he thrust his fists in the air in triumph. He hadn’t realized he’d carried himself across the dance floor and was now only a few feet from Rita and Arlene.

“That…that was fantastic.” Rita gaped at him. “Why can’t he do that when I’m dancing with him?” Yeah, why couldn’t he?

“Because those aren’t the steps,” huffed Arlene. “They’re just something he made up.”

Why was she already so exasperated with him? He didn’t know what he’d done, but it was clear they got off on the wrong foot before they’d even begun.

But this wasn’t just her movie. Or her career. It was his too. And he had a lot riding on this. “They’re not, but if I had Eddie here, we could come up with something really good. These steps, they’re not cinematic. That’s why I keep tripping on them. I’m thinking about where the camera is and where I am, and these are flat. But Eddie and I, we could—”

“Mr. Lamont, what does this chair say?” Arlene turned herchair around and pointed at the script stenciled on the back. She was glaring at him. The last time he’d seen her this mad, he’d been nine years old. His father had split his lip after he’d caught Don dancing instead of gutting a pile of fresh fish his father had brought home. Arlene had found Don crying in their shared garage. Steam practically whooshed from her ears when he told her what had happened. Then, she’d brought him inside and wiped his bleeding lip clean with a wet washcloth. The next morning his father woke up to a car with a flat tire, a rusty nail embedded in it. But that time, Lena had been onhisteam. He read the chair and gave her an answer.

“Director,” he muttered.

“That’s right. And whose chair is this, Mr. Lamont? Is it yours?”

“No,” he growled. “But, Lena—”

“Miss Morgan, if you please.” Her tone was suddenly harsh and high-pitched, and he could tell that for a brief moment, she’d lost her temper.

Rita had been following this back and forth between them like it was a tennis match, her head snapping between them. But she gasped a little when Lena was short with him.

He glared at Lena and gritted his teeth to avoid saying something he would regret. Why wouldn’t she talk to him? Listen to his input about the fact that these steps weren’t right for the scene. Didn’t she want this picture to be a success? What had he ever done to be treated like some hoofer without a brain in his head?

He wrapped his hands tightly around the ends of the towel still hanging off his neck. He supposed he understood why she was annoyed with his overly familiar manner. If it were any other director, he would be deferential. Just because they’d grown up together didn’t mean he could be rude or overly familiar.

“Miss Morgan, sorry. But if we could talk through—”

Arlene held up her hand, signaling that this conversation wasover. She’d regained her placid sense of pointed calm. “Your reading comprehension appears to be in fine order, Mr. Lamont. So, since you seem to understand that I’m the director and you are not, let’s try the scene again. With the steps that Mr. Herman taught you. Rita, have your feet recovered enough to go again?”

Rita pulled her foot out of the ice bucket and rotated it in a circle, wincing as she hit a certain angle. “It’ll do.” She bent over to pull her T-strap heels back on her feet and buckle them.

Arlene turned and called out behind her. “Mr. Lamont needs a touch-up.” She didn’t turn back to look at him but instead marched over to the director of photography behind the camera to talk through the shot.

The hair and makeup team scurried out from their place in the shadows, dusting his face with powder and removing the towel from his neck. Don wanted to argue with Arlene. To get her to see reason. But there was no use. Besides, a homely woman with dishwater-blond hair was busy reapplying a neutral cream to his lips, so he couldn’t speak even if he wanted to.