Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (76 page)

Mrs. Anderegg's eyes were glassy hard and appraising, and her voice was clipped. 'Miss Boralevi.' She inclined her silver-
haired head ever so slightly.

'I'm pleased to make your acquaintance,' Tamara said.

'Ah, and we mustn't overlook Mr. Katzenbach,' Skolnik said
from his chair, his lips smiling thinly. 'Art historian, adviser,
purveyor of beauty, and salesman nonpareil. Many are the times I wish he'd work for me, selling motion pictures to the
public instead of talking me into buying expensive painted
pictures for myself.'

'But this time you have no intention of buying,' the art
dealer countered shrewdly. 'You lured me here for the sole purpose of judging Miss Boralevi's beauty, I take it?'

'Guilty.' Skolnik partially raised both hands in surrender but looked at Katzenbach with newfound respect. Then he gestured for a chair to be pulled up and smiled at Tamara.
'Have a seat, my dear. We are having champagne. Of course,
if you'd prefer something else, I'm known to have the best-
stocked bar in this city. Not moonshine, either, mind you.
French champagne and the best liquor money can buy. Now
adays I find a good rumrunner to be as important as a good
marketing analyst, and nearly as hard to find as a treasured
butler.'

'Well-said!' Milton Ivey, the attorney, interjected warmly.
Ivey's cheeks, a network of florid burst blood vessels, shone
redly. Clearly, despite Prohibition, liquor was not all that dif
ficult to come by.

'A little champagne, please,' Tamara said softly, 'though
this is a first for me.' She smiled artlessly. 'I've never drunk
anything alcoholic before.'

Skolnik nodded approvingly. 'And well that you should be
cautious about drinking.' He glanced momentarily up at
Milton Ivey, who quickly looked away. 'But I think you'll like
that champagne. It's Dom Perignon, the very best. And with
dinner, I propose a bottle of 1898 Château Latour. I've been
saving it for a special occasion.'

'Is this a special occasion, then?' Tamara asked boldly, unable to keep silent any longer about her chances of a stab
at stardom.

Skolnik laughed. 'Every day is special, especially one graced
with the presence of such a beautiful, talented young woman.'

The words were sweet music, and she revelled in them.

'I must have seen your screen test thirty times,' he con
tinued, 'so this occasion certainly warrants celebration. I must
tell you, though, that your photographed image does not do
you justice—you are even more beautiful in person than on the
screen. You see, Miss Boralevi . . . may I call you Tamara?'

She smiled brightly, glad to be rid of the awkward surname.
'I'd be delighted.'

'Good.' He looked pleased. 'And you must call me O.T.,
as everybody does. As I was about to say, it is not every day
that a potential star joins the IA stable.'

'Then . . . then you're really hiring me?' she asked huskily,
barely daring to speak.

'That depends,' he replied vaguely. 'Not to crush your
expectations, but I'd like you to see your screen test first; then
you'll hear our proposal and decide.'

Tamara's stomach lurched and all glimmers of hope dulled.
'Oh, then there are . . . problems?'

'Not problems, just a few . . . minor details, none of which
are insurmountable, I assure you.' He spied his ever-present
butler approaching soundlessly. 'Ah, here comes your cham
pagne. Enjoy it and try to relax. I have a rule of never discussing business on an empty stomach; too many good meals have
been ruined that way. After dinner we will get down to it.'

She wished they could have done away with dinner alto
gether; as it turned out, despite her nervousness, she found
herself enjoying it immensely. It was an entirely new experi
ence: a meal to remember, a fugue for the senses. Every detail was perfectly orchestrated by the small army of soundless ser
vants, so soundless that she was almost certain they were
required to wear rubber-soled slippers. She would never have
believed that such intoxicatingly aristocratic cooking could
exist. For an appetizer, the Filipino waiters trouped in and placed two small plates and a bowl in front of each guest—
quail served three different ways: paper-thin sliced breast of
quail with sauteed shallots, a satiny quail consomme, and a
perfect tiny leg of quail in a round pool of rich red wine sauce. Over the main course of three different freshwater fish served in a duck-liver sauce and accompanied by the palest, youngest
green asparagus tips she had ever seen, Skolnik and the others
regaled her with anecdotes of stars she'd seen on the screen or
read about; at regular intervals everyone at the table casually threw questions at her, shrewdly prying from her everything they might need to know about her background, a subtle but clever tactic. The smooth champagne and impressive, velvety
dinner wine made it seem less an interrogation than a social
event. By the time dessert arrived—a trio, of course,
raspberries, blueberries, and strawberries served with crème
fraiche—Skolnik and his handpicked top rank knew enough
about her to have something to go on. The fact that her mother
had been a great Russian stage actress and the favourite of a
prince excited them; thanks to the wine loosening her tongue,
she had even let it slip out that she and her guardian needed
money rather badly.

'Bruce,' Skolnik asked as the butler came around with a
humidor of Cuban cigars, 'do you have enough for your pub
licity department to start work on?' He lit his pipe, foregoing
a cigar.

Tamara's scalp prickled. So they
were
serious!

Bruce Slesin grinned, selected two cigars, and pocketed
them. 'More than enough!' he crowed. 'This little lady's
background is dynamite. A little embellishment here and
there, and we have a history like you wouldn't believe. For instance, we'll simply say her mother was a great Russian
actress and her father was a bona fide prince. No one will
come forward and contest that, believe me. In my experience,
people believe what they want to believe, and they'll want to
believe this for sure. Anyway, as far as I know, most of the
White Russians who escaped the revolution are either too busy
trying to plot their return to take time out to rat on her, or
else they're scared stiff the Bolshies will find them, so they're
staying hidden. What we'll do with Tamara, here, is give her the royal treatment. Don't forget, having a prince for a father
makes her a princess.'

'A princess, eh?' Skolnik mulled that over and smiled. 'I
like it.'

'I don't.' Tamara leaned across the table, her perfect arched
brows drawing sharply together. 'It's . . . it's simply not
true!'
she insisted in a vehement whisper. 'I'm
not
a princess! I never
was! And my father wasn't a prince!'

Slesin grinned easily at her. 'Sure he was. And sure you
are.'

She stared first at him, then at Skolnik, shocked at how
easily they could spin a web of half-truths. Was everything she
had ever read about the stars of Hollywood only partially
true . . . perhaps even total fiction?

Skolnik turned to the head of his talent division. 'Carol?
Any comments?'

'Except for the details we discussed yesterday, I believe she seems to fit most of the requirements we've been looking for,'
Carol Anderegg said carefully without committing herself.

There it was again, Tamara thought with a sinking feeling,
another mention of those damn 'details', whatever they might
be.

Skolnik's piercing eyes bore in the direction of the art direc
tor. 'Claude?'

Claude de Chantilly-Siciles nodded slowly. Gone now was
the flippancy, the continental demeanour he liked to affect;
things had obviously come down to brass tacks. 'I think we could structure a whole new look, a total
style
around her,' he
said thoughtfully, toying with his rococo teaspoon. 'From what
I have seen of the screen test, her acting could use some spruc
ing up, but that's the director's problem, not mine.' He
glanced at Ziolko, who sat there impassively. 'On the whole, I'd say she has that elusive star quality that instantly makes
you sit up and take notice.' His eyes flicked around to the
others, who nodded silently. 'And I like that princess angle,'
he continued. 'It gives us something definite to shoot for. She's
regal, but not overly so. She's charming and fresh—sexy,
even—but she doesn't mock these attributes; indeed, there's
nothing blatant about her, just enough of a hint, which is far, far more effective than any blatancy. I think our watchword
with her should be "class", because she's definitely got it, but
we must be careful to exploit it without overexploiting it. What
it boils down to is this: I think she has all the makings of a
glamour queen. I see her all white—almost white-blonde hair,
white wardrobe, white furnishings, white sets, sparkling jew
els, white furs . . . white borzois on a leash . . . that kind of thing. I think we can create the film sensation of the thirties
if, and I repeat if, she decides to play along with us and agrees
to our suggestions.'

Skolnik sat back and puffed leisurely on his pipe for a few
moments. For her part, Tamara managed to sit through the
discussion with quiet poise and dignity. Tight-lipped, she
looked around the table. She was at once fascinated by the
workings of these creative minds, able to witness firsthand the
gears of the industry brains swiftly clicking and turning, and
at the same time she seethed with monstrous anger. Her hands
were clenched in her lap in two red balls, a hidden barometer
of her emotions, which rose and plunged alternately with
euphoria, anger, humiliation, and fervent hope. She struggled
to keep her face carefully composed, but the corners of her
lips were pinched, beginning to show her growing anger and
annoyance. On the one hand, she basked in all this attention, but on the other, they were discussing her as dispassionately
as a convention of butchers talking about a skinned steer, and
that caused her blood to boil. Who did they think they were,
jabbering on and on without even once stopping to consult
her! And there hadn't even been a whisper of a contract yet.
She was ready to burst into tears of frustration.