American Blonde (4 page)

This made him laugh. “I thought I’d seen your face before. It’s a face you don’t forget. You’re the war hero.”

Before I could reply, a man came striding toward us. He looked like a madman, shirt untucked, ink stains on his fingers, eyes wild behind glasses, early forties on a good day. His gaze lingered on me for a fraction of a second before he thumped his copy of the script with the cigar he was holding. “The pacing is wrong. Mallory has a monologue on seventy-nine, and by eighty-seven she has one again. We need to cut one of them, but make sure we keep the information about Joseph’s whereabouts.” His hair was brown except for a single white streak, which bobbed and shook across his forehead as he talked.

Sam sighed. “Until next time,
Velva
Jean.” He stood, gave a little bow, and then, walking backward, watching me, he followed the madman, expertly dodging wires and ladders as if he had eyes in the back of his head.

The madman was now talking to the director. “Silence, everyone.” Little by little, they fell quiet. “I’d like to introduce Sam Weldon, the writer of this fine book. Without him, none of us would be here.” I glanced down at the book in my lap. There was his name below the title:
Samuel Weldon
.

Over the sound of halfhearted clapping, Sam said, “Now you know where to aim the gun.”

The madman continued, “He’s agreed to come on at this late stage and give us some help with the script. Actually, we’ve had him holed up here for a couple of months already, working away on a new draft for you.”

“What made you decide to do it?” someone called out.

“Other than the money, you mean? The way I see it, everyone from Groucho Marx to William Faulkner to the President’s dog has had a crack at this script. I figured it’s my story, I might as well see what I can do. I certainly can’t make it any worse.”

Mudge lived on a palm-tree-lined Beverly Hills street in an enormous white farmhouse with window boxes of pink roses, a rolling lawn, and a white picket fence. A policeman was parked out front. As we gathered our things from the backseat, she said, “He’s only a precaution. Whitey Hendry assigned us guards for the run of the shoot.” Inside, the rooms were spacious and cheery, lots of whitewashed beams and vases of pink and red flowers and overstuffed couches and throw pillows. The dining room was dark wood and mirrored walls, an enormous grandfather clock in one corner. There was an office, a game room, a sunroom, a breakfast room, five bathrooms, and five bedrooms, not including the maid’s quarters.

We ate dinner on the broad brick patio that stretched off the back of the house, trellises of purple flowers climbing up toward the second story. Mudge’s housekeeper, Flora Anderson, a wiry black woman with hair the color of a ripe tomato, served the food before leaving. Because of racial covenants, she wasn’t allowed to live in the house, but traveled home at the end of each workday to Leimert Park, ten miles away.

When Flora was gone, Mudge said, “They wanted to put you up in a hotel, but I said oh no. I’ve got a great big house—bigger than I need, now that I’ve kicked out husband number three—and I just rattle around in it like an old spinster. I’m nearly thirty, if you can believe it, because I certainly can’t, and that means I’ve got about four more years before they start making me play mothers and harridans. You can stay as long as you want, Hartsie.”

“Tell me more about the guard out front.”

She dropped her napkin onto the plate and lit a cigarette. She stared out toward the pool and the hedgerow beyond, the smoke curling up around her face. “There are a lot of crackpots out there, especially since I took the role of Mallory Rourke.” She sighed. “Everyone’s got an opinion about who should play her. And apparently they don’t all agree I’m the best choice. ‘We want Lana Turner,’ ‘We want Greer Garson.’ Well that hurts my feelings, especially when they try to climb in my windows or leave threatening notes on my front step.” She sighed again, flicked the ash onto the ground. “I’m starting to wish I could give them Greer Garson. I’ve had two days off in the past eight months—
two
. I’m tired, Hartsie. I wasn’t this tired in the WASP. Sometimes I think I’m too old to do this.”

“My sister-in-law says it’s going to be bigger than
Gone with the Wind
.”

“Mayer certainly hopes so. From what I’ve seen of the dailies, though, the film creeps along like a rich old uncle who refuses to die. It’s either going to be the greatest movie ever made or the biggest bomb in box office history. But I wanted this part more than anything and I try not to forget it. Some days that’s harder to remember than others, but with any luck I’ll come out of this knowing I could do it, no matter what they said.” She stubbed out the cigarette, took a drink. “I’m sick of talking about me. One thing you’ll learn as an actress is that it’s all anyone expects you to do. You’ll get so you can’t stand yourself. Tell me about you, Hartsie.” She asked me about the past year—where I’d been, what I’d done—and then we started in on the other girl pilots we knew in common and where they were now.

When my eyes grew heavy, she finally said, “You go on up, honey. I could talk your ear off. It’s just so good to have you here. I’ve missed you. I miss the WASP. I miss flying. It was a good thing, what we did.”

“It was.”

My room was at the top of the stairs, looking out over the swimming pool and garden. The wallpaper was a cheerful pink and green, and the bed, which faced two broad windows lined with matching window seats, looked large enough to sleep eight. A vanity table took up part of one wall, and the rest of it was given over to a door that opened into a small bathroom tiled in pink and black.

I unpacked my suitcase and hung my clothes in the wardrobe. Then I sat down and flipped open the script I’d been given to learn.
Under the Moon
was the story of a dull mouse of a girl who, for years, is overlooked by the man she loves, until the day of his wedding, when she finally tells him how she feels. I paced up and down and read her lines out loud, but no matter how I said them they sounded flat and forced.

After a few minutes, there was a knock on the door, and Mudge poked her head in. “How’s the studying?”

“I don’t have any idea what I’m doing.”

She walked over and picked up the script. “Believe it or not, this is the same story I tested with, thirteen or fourteen years ago. The writing wasn’t any fresher then.”

“I’m trying to figure out why this Jane character would sit back and let the man she loved get away. All my life, I’ve been fighting for things I believed in. I don’t know how to play a girl like this.”

“Sure you do.” Mudge sat down next to me. She’d washed off her makeup, and now I could see the dark shadows under her eyes. “She’s just another role, like pilot or spy. And maybe she doesn’t seem like us, Hartsie, and maybe you don’t think you’ve got anything in common with her, but at the end of the day, all she wants to be is loved, and who can’t relate to that?”

Hours after we finished running my lines and I’d gone to bed, I woke. The room was dark and still, and for a moment I didn’t know where I was. Then I smelled the gardenias, the ginger, the warm salt air. I could hear voices coming from the backyard. Mudge was still up. But then there was a man’s voice, deep and rumbling.

I opened the window and leaned out, but I couldn’t see anything except the trees and the sky. All this life. All this color. It was hard to believe there was ever a place where the sun didn’t shine every day, the houses weren’t enormous, the lawns weren’t manicured, the flowers weren’t blooming, and the people weren’t beautiful. I thought, That is a California sky filled with California stars and soon you’re going to be one of them.

I
arrived at Stage 8 early. Casting director Lucille Ryman was around fifty, attractive, and dramatically blonde, while director Jack Conway was a good ten years older than that. He said, “Velva Jean Hart. The war hero. I’ve seen the newsreel.” Then he barked, “She needs more makeup.” A man rushed forward, carrying a small suitcase in his arms. He opened it as he stood there, and I could see brushes and pots of rouge and powders, and tube after tube of lipstick.

Ms. Ryman said, “Not too much. I want her to look like herself.” She stood back, arms folded.

Mr. Conway said, “Fine, but we need to darken the lipstick.”

The stage was made up like a Victorian home, the rooms laid out side by side. Through the doorway of one, a staircase led upward. Mr. Conway told me he wanted me to come down the stairs, and that I, as Jane, would find the man I loved waiting for me. That I only had a few precious moments to profess my love once and for all, before it was too late, but that I was frightened because this was the bravest thing I’d ever done. He went up the stairs himself and came down fast, nearly running, and then the rest of the way slowly, as if he was trying to be controlled and calm. He crossed into the living room, stopping in the doorway. He leaned against it, cleared his throat, and said my first line.

He moved again. “Then you cross to here. Then here and here, as if you’re not sure where to land. You just flit about.” He moved around the room, straightening the curtains, rummaging through a crystal candy bowl. “Then, finally, over to him. You don’t have much time! He has to leave any minute for his wedding!”

I could hear footsteps clattering on the cold concrete as more people arrived. “Places!” Mr. Conway waved at me to get up the stairs.

I walked through the hall, feeling the bright heat of the lights. I went up the stairs, one at a time. Fourteen steps up, the staircase ended at a tiny little platform. I stood on the stair next to the top and waited. I waited and waited. Finally, he shouted: “Action!”

I tripped down the stairs, nearly somersaulting to the bottom, but caught myself just in time. I swore without thinking and then smoothed my hair and glided the rest of the way. A man sat on the couch, his gold head gleaming under the lights. He checked his watch, tapped his shoe. I leaned in the doorframe and cleared my throat and said, “Thank you for coming.” I tried my best to flit. I flitted to the curtains, to the candy bowl, and then to the couch.

The man with the gold head didn’t turn around because he was too busy pulling out a cigarette. “You said it was important and that it couldn’t wait.” His accent was British, and he sounded impatient.

I flitted a little more and then I sat down beside the man, this stupid man, this man I loved, and the minute I looked into his blue eyes—the deepest, truest blue I’d ever seen—I forgot to be mad. I also forgot every single line that came next.

My God.
It was all there: the darkly golden hair, the twinkling eyes, the devastating smile.

Nigel Gray said, “There’s only one thing to do in this situation.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the doorway, as if he was making sure we were alone. Then he gazed into my eyes and took me in his arms and kissed me.

When we pulled apart, I said, “The moon.” Something about the moon. The kiss should have been on the piano bench. We were supposed to sing a song.

He laughed and grabbed me by my arms, just above the elbows, and pulled me to my feet. He shook me once, twice. In that famed British accent, his voice husky and low and just for me, he said, “Jane, don’t you see? Don’t you know?”

“Don’t I know what?” My voice was a whisper. My lines were gone, but for some reason I could remember every word I’d read about him in the fan magazines.
Nigel Gray is an only child from London, son of the Duke of Sutherland. He is married to glamorous German actress Pia Palmer, who is currently in England making a picture.

He laughed and kissed me again. This time it lasted longer. I tried to breathe with his lips against mine. I tried to breathe under the hot, hot lights. His grip tightened, as if to steady me, but it only made my head go lighter. At last he let me go and the room tilted, just a little, and I waited for it to right itself.

How many kisses were there? I’d only noticed one in the script. I said, “I love you.”

He laughed again. Then I remembered this wasn’t my line at all. I was supposed to let him know I loved him without telling him so. I covered Jane’s poor face, which was actually my poor face. He said, “Darling, I love you too.”

“But Maisie . . .” I was saying anything now. My lines were far, far gone.
Nigel Gray is impossible not to like. Give him a chance and it’s easy to see that, beneath his beautiful exterior, he is a rock-solid fellow, the kind of gent you’d be lucky to have for a brother, a friend, or a fishing partner.

“Hang Maisie. Don’t you know it’s always been you?”

His eyes searched my face, running over my forehead, my nose, my lips, back to my eyes. I thought he was going to kiss me again and then instead he crossed to the piano. He sat down and played a few notes. “Do you remember the song I sang to you, back when we first met?”

“I could never forget that.” I walked over to the piano bench and sat beside him.

He began to sing and play. He had a rich voice, a decent voice, and he played well. Suddenly I remembered the words. I sang a verse with him and then another by myself, and then the chorus. My voice bounced off the rafters of the soundstage, echoing around us. I closed my eyes, blocking everyone out. I kept singing.

I don’t know when Nigel Gray stopped playing, but suddenly I could only hear myself. I opened my eyes and he sat watching me. There was something behind his eyes, as if he were studying me and taking me in. The charming smile, the twinkle behind the blue dropped away, and I felt as if I could see the real him—not the actor him, but the man. I stopped singing and, without thinking, took his hand, as if he was lonely and needed comfort.

He said, “Don’t you know it’s always been you?” I couldn’t remember if it was what he was supposed to say or if he was making it up now too. At that moment, it didn’t matter because he leaned in and kissed me again.

When it was over, Mr. Conway said, “That was fine, Miss Hart, just fine.”

Lucille Ryman shook my hand. “We’ll be in touch.”

Then Nigel Gray stood, eyes on me as he pulled a cigarette from a flashing silver case. “I’m going to keep my eye out for you, Jane.” He tucked the case away, twirled the cigarette into his mouth, lit it with a flashing silver lighter, and, with a wave and a wink, swaggered off.

Two days later, I still hadn’t heard from the studio. I told myself: That’s it. You forgot your lines and nearly fell down those stairs and made a fool of yourself in front of Nigel Gray and Lucille Ryman and everyone else. I tried to put it out of my mind, but every time the telephone rang I jumped.

On Sunday night, Mudge and I ate a late dinner by the pool—shrimp cocktail, chicken à la king, asparagus, baked potatoes, fruit, salad. She had come directly from the set and was still wearing Mallory Rourke’s studio makeup and hair. I’d barely seen her all weekend because her days on the picture lasted fourteen, sixteen, eighteen hours, and sometimes the studio added promotional appearances on top of everything else.

I could tell there was something on her mind. When I asked her about it, she smiled a little sadly. “At the end of the day, they’re all the same.” I tried to pass her the plate of shrimp, but she said, “I’m allergic. I asked Flora to make them for you.”

As I ate, I thought, I could get used to this. “Who’s all the same?”

“Men.” She pulled something out of her pocket. It glinted silver in the light. She unscrewed the cap and drank—the same flask she used to carry with her in the WASP, the one where she’d hidden her gin. She offered it to me, but I shook my head.

I said, “Hal MacGinnis is handsome.” Hal had been a fighter pilot and captain. He’d earned the Medal of Honor, the Silver Star, the Bronze Star, and the Distinguished Flying Cross. He’d been a star before the war, but was an even bigger star now.

“He is.” She sighed, pulling her legs up onto the chair, sitting cross-legged. “Do you ever wonder why we haven’t been able to stay married to anyone, Hartsie? Maybe I shouldn’t lump you in with me. At least you only tried it once.”

“If I’d stayed home with Harley Bright, I never would have gone to Nashville or become a WASP. I never would have gone to war. I’d never have come to California. I’d be living in Devil’s Kitchen cleaning up after Harley and his daddy and worrying about what to fix for dinner.”

“Do you think you’ll ever get married again?”

I stared out toward the pool and tried to picture myself married, and then I tried to picture a man who would make me want to want to be married. “I don’t know.”

“I will. I can’t seem to help myself. But the thing I want to be remembered for is being a pilot. Being in the WASP. That’s the best thing I’ve ever done. It was the closest I’ve ever come to being truly good.” The words seemed to echo in the night air. “Until now. Until Mallory Rourke and this picture. Still, at the end of the day, I think I’d give it all away—the studio, the clothes, the cars, the house—for a good husband and a home full of children.” She stubbed out her cigarette and smiled. “Of course, if you ever repeat that to anyone, I’ll tell them you’re a liar.”

Just after eight o’clock, we were interrupted by the jangling of the telephone. Mudge jumped to answer it, asked who was calling, and waved the handset at me. “It’s the studio.”

On the other end of the line, Lucille Ryman said, “Congratulations, Velva Jean Hart. The newsreel didn’t lie. I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock at the Thalberg Building. Tell the receptionist you’re there to see Billy Taub about your contract.”

As I hung up, Mudge was watching my face, her eyebrows raised, the corners of her mouth curved upward. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

She clapped her hands together, handed me her drink, and took the phone from me. She cradled the receiver between her ear and shoulder as she dialed a number. “Redd, it’s me. . . . Don’t flatter yourself. I’m about to ask a favor. A friend of mine has a contract she needs looking at and a career that needs tending. It’s going to be a big one. . . . Because as much as I detest you, Mayer detests you more, and it’s good to keep him on his toes, especially with something”—she looked at me—“that he’s taken such an interest in. Besides, I trust you. And that’s awful hard to find in this town.”

She set the receiver down with a bang. “Redd Deeley is the best agent in town. Just as long as you don’t marry him.”