Page 6 of His Girl Hollywood
A certain hoofer, the prince of the Great White Way, is finally coming to Hollywood. Don Lamont, toast of Broadway and star ofPal’ing Around, is trading in footlights for spotlights. Though he’s been steadily on the rise as a dancer in New York and touring Europe, Lamont is headed west at last. Evets Studios has snatched him up, hurrying him into production on his Hollywood debut,The “It” Factor, opposite Rita Carter.
Lamont rose to fame as half of a dance duo, Lamont and Lester, alongside Eleanor Lester. But since Lamont broke out on his own inPal’ing Around,Lester has been conspicuously absent from his side when he’s hit the town. Will he be tempted by the lustrous red locks of his new costar? Only time will tell.
The project marks another substantial screendebut as well. Arlene Morgan, who won an Oscar for writingReno Rendezvousa mere few months ago, is stepping behind the camera for the first time. It’s not often we see a lady in the director’s chair, but Harry Evets has always preferred to do things his way. Will she have the “it” factor the job requires?
The soundstage was dark, except for a single ghost light at its center. Arlene looked around the shadowy space and took everything in: the dance studio set they’d film the first scenes on tomorrow, the miles of cable strewn about the room for lights and cameras, and best of all, the director’s chair in the center of the room. She walked to it and ran her fingers over the stenciled words on the back, tracing them with the reverence of a saint. “Miss Morgan,” it read, and below that in smaller type, “Director.”
That word in smaller type sent a shiver down her spine. She’d dreamed of this moment for ages. Since she was a little girl. A camera, a crew, actors—all hers to direct. The pictures that flickered on the screen in a tiny, dark room hers to create. Tomorrow, it would all be real. She wrapped her arms around herself and fought off a shiver. Whether it was dread or excitement, she couldn’t be sure. She knew the task before her was monumental. For starters, the last two months of preproduction had hammered home the barely veiled disdain her all-male crew held for her.
She hadn’t helped matters, fainting in Harry Evets’s office at the sound of Don’s name. She’d blamed it on hunger, said she had forgotten to eat that morning. That had been half-true. She’d been too nervous to eat before the meeting. But it wasn’t the lack of food that had sent her reeling; it was the prospect of having to spend several weeks working intimately with a man she’d rather forget.But she shook the thought away. Don could not, would not be a distraction.
She stepped deeper into the soundstage, touching everything to assure herself it was all real and not a dream. She ran her hands down the ballet barre that stood at the center of the set, constructed by the best carpentry team money could buy.
She closed her eyes and remembered seeing her first picture show.Cinderella.She’d been eight years old. The images of Mary Pickford’s long curls and her beautiful gowns had captured Arlene’s imagination. But something else had grabbed ahold of her that afternoon and never let go. The faces of the people around her. The gasps, the smiles, the radiant looks of happiness in their eyes. She’d decided in that moment that she wanted to be the one to create those images.
She inhaled, trying to calm her nerves. Tonight, she could be nervous. Tomorrow, well, she couldn’t give any indication of how afraid she was that she’d cock this up somehow. The little fainting episode would be her only sign of weakness. It had to be.
Cool, calm, collected, and confident was the only way to run a set and to provoke the same from your crew and your actors. She could never be cruel. Some directors ruled with an iron fist, but that wasn’t her approach. Kindness, respect, collaboration—those were the keys to running a successful set. Even if respect was going to be difficult to earn from the men assigned to her team.
She swept out her arm while holding the barre with her other hand and tucked her heels together into first position. Memories came rushing back: Don trying to teach her ballet in their shared backyard, the elaborate dances he’d concocted, the metal cylinder off her father’s old boat engine she’d used as a fake camera lens to “film” his musical numbers, each more elaborate than the last and fairly damaging to the camellia tree in the backyard when he’dturned it into a lamppost. She giggled in spite of herself and then bent her knees, attempting a plié.
Arlene was only twenty-eight years old, but the action made her knees creak and her lower back protest. She wobbled, using her hand on the barre to steady herself. A voice from the shadows startled her and she toppled over completely. “You never were any good at that.”
She hadn’t heard that voice in ten years, but she’d recognize it anywhere. Don Lazzarini. Her best friend. The object of her teenage fantasies. The one that got away. That left and never looked back. “What are you doing here?”
She wasn’t supposed to see him until tomorrow. She was supposed to have time to prepare. To brace herself. So much for that—he’d sent her tumbling to the floor with his unexpected presence.
He was at her side in an instant, extending his hand as if it were an olive branch. “What do you mean, what am I doing here? I thought we were making a movie together.” He grinned.
The twinkle in his dark-brown eyes and the familiar crinkle of his dimple, disrupted by his scar, sent a rush of butterflies to her stomach. Nothing had changed then. Nothing except his last name. Ten years, and it was as if she was standing on that train platform all over again.
She reluctantly took his proffered hand and tried to ignore the tingling sensation that raced up her arm as she touched him for the first time in a decade. He brought out the romantic streak in her. She’d always been the practical sort, levelheaded in a crisis. Joan complimented her for her pragmatism. But Don unsteadied her. A few moments in his orbit and he’d robbed her of her common sense, and apparently her ability to stand on her own two feet. That was twice now. Once at the mere mention of his name. If she wasn’t so shaken, she’d roll her eyes at her own stupidity.
What a hand fate had dealt her. At last, she was realizing her childhood dream of directing a movie. A dream Don had encouraged, so much so that she’d given room to the fantasy and let it root itself in her heart. Now, he was to be her leading man. Once upon a time, she would’ve called it kismet. Now it just seemed like the universe’s way of laughing at her. She was suddenly struck by the notion that she was very likely standing on a railroad track with a speeding train rushing toward her—and yet, there was nothing she could do about it.
She stood and quickly snatched her hand away, trying to hide the effect he had on her by smoothing her trousers. “I didn’t mean what are you doing here in Hollywood. I meant why are you here on the soundstage? We don’t start until tomorrow”
“Would you believe me if I told you I couldn’t wait another minute to see you?” If he had slugged her, it would’ve hurt less.
“No,” she whispered, looking down at her feet. She toed at the scuffs in her favorite pair of work shoes. They contrasted sharply with the gleaming black of his dress shoes, the hint of a colorful sock poking out from under the upturned edge of his slacks. Their reflections swam and merged in polished shoes, and she looked up to catch a flicker of hurt pass through his eyes.
She resisted the urge to comfort him. Of course she didn’t believe him. He hadn’t spoken to her in ten years. Never bothered to call, to write, to send the odd telegram. Not even when she’d needed him most. So, no, he wasn’t here because he wanted so badly to see her. She’d scoff at him, if the thought of it didn’t so very much make her want to cry.
“No?” he asked, biting his lip with a sheepish grin and shrugging as he shoved his hands in his pockets.
She shook her head, hoping he didn’t notice her bout of furious blinking. If he had, he didn’t say anything, instead taking her dissent in stride.
“You got me. You always could see right through me, Lena.”
The pet name struck her like an arrow in the heart, and before she could stop herself, she snapped, “It’s Arlene.”
He peered at her, searching for something, and she gave him a hard look back. She was starting to recover a sense of herself. This was her set, her studio, and she wasn’t going to let him turn her into some meek, lovesick creature. She had an Oscar, for heaven’s sake! But he just smiled a half smile and said, “Okay, okay. Arlene then.”
“Good, that’s…good. Thank you.” She didn’t know what to say to him. Ten years she’d saved up stories to tell, jokes to repeat, heartbreaks to recount, victories to celebrate—and it all turned to ash in her mouth. Instead, they stood in an awkward silence, the early-evening hush of the soundstage deafening in its quiet. She licked her thumb and leaned down to rub at one of the scuff marks on her shoes. She didn’t like this, feeling shabby in his presence. They’d been equals once. Or so she’d liked to believe.
“So…” he started.
“So, why’d you come here tonight then? I know it wasn’t because you were dying to see me. You’ve waited ten years. What’s one more night?”