Page 5 of His Girl Hollywood

“I think you mean ‘Thank you, Mr. Evets,’” Harry said, winking at her.

“Oh, uh, of course, thank you, Mr. Evets.” Arlene locked her knees, resisting the urge to curtsy a second time. Instead, she bobbed her head. That still didn’t explain the half a jury’s worth of men in the room silently judging her.

But Harry answered that next. “Meet your crew.”

Arlene swallowed. She needed to impress them. Prove she was up to the task and looking forward to working with them. As teammates and equals. “Nice to—” she squeaked. She thought of the grip who’d tried to pick her up in the hallway and lowered her voice. “Nice to meet you.”

The only one who replied was the man she didn’t recognize.“A pleasure,” he replied, sounding like it was anything but. The cinematographer, John Sidell, refused to meet her eyes, and the man from the art department was glaring at her, as if daring her to say something to him.

“I’m looking forward to working with you all,” she continued, trying to inject a strain of something painfully chipper into her voice. She couldn’t show them she was intimidated. They clearly were already dismayed at the idea of working with a female director, and if she gave them even the slightest indication that she was nervous, they’d dismiss her immediately as not being up to the task.

Damn it, why had Harry ambushed her like this? She needed time to prepare, to show them that not only was she ready for this, but she’d been dreaming and planning for it her entire life. She supposed Harry Evets didn’t think anything of throwing her into the deep end with a room full of resentful men. Because when he gave assignments to other directors, male ones to be precise, they didn’t feel a burning need to prove themselves. Her life would be so much easier if she’d been a man. But she enjoyed being a woman. She only wished men would let her enjoy it too, without having quite so many feelings about what she should and shouldn’t do.

“And, erm…” She took a step toward Harry and then stopped as the heads of the crew snapped to her. She stood awkwardly now in the center of the room but plowed ahead. “What is the picture?”

Harry steepled his hands beneath his chin. “Still being worked out. Sid over here is going to write something new.”

That made her light up with excitement. “Oh, Mr. Mannix, I have so many ideas. I’ve been wanting to write a script about—”

Harry coughed and Sid simpered at her. “I think I can handle it on my own, Miss Morgan.”

“Of course, I… Of course. I didn’t mean—”

“You’re not the only screenwriter at this studio with an Oscar,” he replied. She didn’t say anything else, just nodded.

“Sid, c’mon, you’re scaring the poor girl,” Harry said, with a hint of amusement in his voice. This was all a joke to them, she realized. A lark to let her direct a picture to shut Joan up before Harry quietly sent Arlene back to her typewriter. If they even let her continue screenwriting when she finished this project. Well, she’d be staying if she had anything to say about it. She’d show them—not only that she could direct, but that she deserved to. That it was what she’d been born to do.

“Well, when Joan’s back, I’ll start talking to her about it right away—and who should be her costar.”

Harry looked confused. “Joan? What do you mean?”

“I assumed—” Arlene stopped and noticed with dismay that Gary Clarence from the wardrobe department was smirking at her.

“You know what they say about assuming,” Sid Mannix drawled. She gulped.

“I think, after her little declaration at the Oscars, that it’s best we give Joan a little time off, don’t you?” Harry asked. The other men in the room tittered with laughter. Joan had admitted at the Oscars that she had appeared in a stag film before she’d been a movie star. She’d confessed it to free herself from the clutches of gossip reporter Leda Price. “But you said you stood by her—”

“I do. But the public has a short memory, and we should give them a little time to forget.”

That made sense. “Okay, so Ann Bennett then? She’s not as good as Joan in a women’s picture, but with the right script—”

“Who said anything about a women’s picture?” Harry asked. He didn’t mean it unkindly. But she’d just won an Oscar for writing a women’s picture; surely, Harry would want her to direct something similar. “You’re making a musical.” Harry nodded at the manshe didn’t recognize. “This is your choreographer. I thought you’d be thrilled. Joan told me musicals are your favorite.”

They were. Or they had been, once. In those early days of the talkies, when she’d imagined Don coming home, the toast of Broadway, ready to star in a big-budget Hollywood musical. But that had been a fantasy, a dream she’d nurtured when she still believed that Don Lazzarini was the love of her life. A dream that had faded more with each passing year, each Christmas without a card or a telegram. Any small flickers of hope had been extinguished three years ago when Don had proven that he’d forgotten her, forgotten her family. She’d realized then that the Don Lazzarini she’d loved was gone. Maybe never really existed. Replaced by a man she didn’t recognize—Don Lamont.

“Don Lamont.” Wait, what? Why was Harry saying Don’s name? As far as she remembered, she had never mentioned him to the studio boss. Or anyone else in Hollywood, for that matter. Don was a big success on Broadway like he’d always dreamed, earning acclaim for his performance inPal’ing Around. Her mother still clipped every story about Don and his dancing out of the paper. Much to Arlene’s chagrin.

“What about Don Lamont?” she asked, not caring if it was obvious that she’d been daydreaming.

“He’s going to be the star of your picture. I owe a guy in New York a favor.” Harry winked at the man who was apparently going to be the choreographer on this still unwritten musical. “It’s not such a raw deal at that. Walter called me from New York and said he’s the real McCoy. That it’s our chance to get in on the ground floor with a guy who could be the next big musical star.”

The room was spinning and black spots dotted Arlene’s vision. It couldn’t be. Not now, after all this time. She’d accepted, nay, welcomed the thought that she would never see or speak to DonLazzarini again. Now, he was going to be the star of her picture? Her knees gave out beneath her and she whispered, “I’m sorry,” as she crumpled to the floor of Harry Evets’s office.

Chapter 3

Don Lamont Hoofing to Hollywood

Daily Variety, July 1937