Starstruck (28 page)

Except when it came to Harry. Now, there was irony for you. The one person she wanted to share everything with was also the only one who could never know the truth.

“Amanda!” Harry answered the door. “You’re here!”

“Sure, I’m here. I told you I was on my way.”

“I know.” Harry smiled sheepishly. “But I was worried you were sore at me. You are sore at me, aren’t you?”

“I was a little … perplexed, that’s all,” Amanda said carefully. That was the understatement of the year. She’d been racked with terror when Harry had failed to be in touch for a few days, certain he’d found her out somehow and didn’t know how to face her. When at last she’d heard from him that afternoon, she’d nearly wept with relief, until the thought occurred to her that maybe he had only summoned her to break up with her, and she was terrified all over again. “But I know a man needs his space sometimes,” she said, her stomach tying itself in knots. “I … I just wish you’d told me what you were doing.”

“Well, Miss Farraday, step inside and all your questions will soon be answered.”

He ushered her into the room. A luxurious suite with a long terrace and a dazzling view of the Sunset Strip, it was a far cry from his cramped, paper-strewn office in the writers’ building at
Olympus. An enormous bouquet of roses and peonies perfumed the air; a small table against the wall held a series of room service trays covered with silver domes. Beside the table, a bottle of champagne cooled in a silver bucket.

“What’s all this?”

“Dom Perignon.” Harry walked to the table and lifted one of the silver domes. “And caviar. And lobster. And profiteroles. Basically, everything I could find on the room service menu that was obscenely expensive and wasteful. You know, all the things you like most.”

“Are you feeling okay?” Amanda said. “Do we need to call the doctor?”

“Absolutely not.” Harry grinned. “This is a private celebration.”

“Oh.” Amanda took a step closer to Harry. “And may I ask what we’re celebrating?”

“My movie, of course.”

“The
Nine Days’ Queen
?” Amanda frowned. “I thought that didn’t finish shooting until next week.”

“Not
The Nine Days’ Queen
.” Harry lifted the last, largest dome. On the tray beneath it was a script. Neat and freshly bound, it was so new Amanda could smell the ink on the page.

“The Gabby Preston picture!” Amanda looked up at Harry with a smile. “You finished it! Oh, darling, that’s wonderful!”

“I finished it, all right.” Harry stroked the title page lovingly
with an ink-stained finger. “But it’s not a Gabby Preston picture. Not anymore.”

“Oh, Harry.” Amanda slipped her arms around his waist. “Don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll change her mind. And if not, you can take it over to Metro. I know a producer there who says they’re desperate for something for Judy Garland.”

Harry placed a finger over her lips. “I don’t need her to change her mind. And I’m not taking it to Metro.” He paused to take a deep breath. “
An American Girl
is not going to be a Gabby Preston picture because … it’s going to be an Amanda Farraday picture.”

“
What?
” Amanda gasped. She thought her heart would stop.

“You heard me.”

“But, Harry, you can’t be serious. How can I headline a musical? I can’t sing, I don’t dance really, I—”

Smiling, Harry shook his head. “It’s not a musical anymore. I rewrote the whole thing. That’s what I’ve been
doing
, holed up here all this time.” His eyes were alight with excitement. “Ever since that night at the Trocadero, I haven’t been able to get that story you told me out of my head. All those details—the plaid dress, the haughty salesgirl—it’s a perfect allegory for what’s
happening
in this country. The haves and have-nots, all the people out there with nothing but their dreams. And I thought, who needs another cheerful little vaudeville picture that’s just a few lines stringing some dance sequences together? Here’s a chance to do something
real
. The kind of thing Odets is doing for the theater, but in the pictures, where so many millions more people will see it and be affected by it. The story of a poor girl clawing her way to the top by any
means necessary. What does she leave behind, what does she have to compromise? It’s the American dream personified. It’s
your
story, Amanda. I wrote it for
you
.”

Amanda grabbed the side of a chair for balance. “But … has Mr. Kurtzman seen it? Mr. Karp?”

“This isn’t for Kurtzman. This needs a young director, someone who really understands America, the kind of things that are happening now. There’s a young guy called Elia Kazan doing interesting work in the theater; he might be willing to come out, with the right script. Karp’s reading it as we speak, but he’ll be on board. He has to be. I’m the golden boy right now. And then once we start shooting, and once
The Nine Days’ Queen
is a hit, I can renegotiate my contract, and we’ll have enough money to get married.”

“Harry!”

“Amanda, listen. I know it seems sudden, but I’ve been thinking a lot about this.” He held her out at arm’s length, drinking her in with his eyes. “These last months have been the happiest I’ve ever had, and it’s all because of you. Everything good in my life came because you’re in it. This picture”—he pressed his hand against the script as if he were pressing his heart—“is the best thing I’ve ever written. You’re my lucky charm, my muse. Now that I’ve found you, I don’t ever want to let you go.”

“Oh, Harry …,” Amanda sighed. “I love you.”

She’d never said that before, not to anyone, at least not since she was a very little girl. Suddenly afraid, she looked down at the carpet, wondering if there were some way to take it back. Harry took her chin in his hands, tilting her face to meet his. “I wish you’d let me say it first,” he said. “But I love you too.”

They melted into each other’s arms. She felt her heart pounding … or was it Harry’s? She couldn’t tell where she ended and he began anymore.

“There’s one more thing,” Harry murmured, when they finally broke apart. “Something I want to give you.”

He reached under the table and pulled out a large white box tied with a black silk ribbon. Harry had never given her a present before, let alone something that looked as expensive as this.

“Harry …”

“Go on,” Harry urged. “Open it.”

Amanda untied the black ribbon and lifted the lid. Beneath folds of tissue paper she saw a flash of pink silk. She carefully lifted the pink silk thing out of the box and held it up. It was an evening gown. The most gorgeous one she’d ever seen, the palest of pinks, overlaid with a shimmering spiderweb of silver lace so delicate it looked as if it had been woven by a fairy.

“The woman in the shop said it was a Mainbocher,” Harry said shyly. “I guess that’s good. I know it’s not the sort of thing you usually wear, but I thought, if you ever wanted to give the black a rest … Do you like it?”

“Harry.” He looked so anxious and frightened and proud that Amanda thought she would die of tenderness. “I think it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I … I don’t suppose you’ll try it on for me, will you?” Harry whispered, taking her in his arms.

The smile on Amanda’s face was like a rainbow breaking through a cloud. “Only if you’ll help me out of this one first.”

“D
amn it!”

The train of Margo’s dress caught in the hinge of the small gate at the end of the pebbled path that led to the Chateau Marmont pool. Irritated, she crouched to the ground, gingerly attempting to disentangle it without damaging the delicate cloth. In the dim light, her hand slipped and the sharp edge of the hinge sliced the soft flesh of her hand, leaving behind a thin stripe of bright blood. “Damn, damn, damn!”

This whole ordeal was really Jimmy’s fault, Margo thought as she applied pressure to her palm with her thumb. It was terribly ungentlemanly of him. The least he could have done after she’d gone to all the trouble of arranging the car herself was wait for her outside, or at least in the lobby. She had asked Arthur to fetch him, but the chauffeur had shaken his head.

“They won’t let me in the Chateau, miss,” he had said. “Not up in any guest rooms, that is.”

“But that’s ridiculous!”

Arthur had let out a bitter laugh. “Maybe so. But it ain’t gonna change this evening, and nothing you can say is going to make a fool’s worth of difference.” So instead, here she was, bleeding and having to chase down Jimmy as if she were his mother.
He’s going to get an earful from me in the car
, she thought angrily.
That’s for sure
.

Bungalow seven was on the far end of the kidney-shaped pool, nestled behind a small private grove of fragrant flowering bushes. Margo knocked gently on the door. There was no answer. Impatiently, she jiggled the knob, and to her surprise, the door swung open.

Margo knew it was horribly rude to just barge into someone’s house like this. But Jimmy was expecting her, and Pasadena was at least forty-five minutes away. If they didn’t hit the road soon, they were going to be unforgivably late.

The front sitting room was empty but showed clear signs of habitation: an overflowing ashtray, a couple of half-consumed glasses of watery Scotch on the coffee table. A record, having finished, spun silently on the phonograph.

“Jimmy?” she called. “It’s me, Margo.” There was no answer, but she heard an unmistakable scuttling sound coming from the back of the bungalow, as if someone was trying to move around without being heard. “Jimmy, come on, I know you’re in there.”

There was no answer, only a hissing noise, like someone trying to talk without being heard, coming from a closed door that she assumed led to the bedroom.

She was just about to try the knob when the door opened a crack and Jimmy’s head popped out. “Margo!” Holding the door firmly in front of him, he flashed her a queasy attempt at his famous smile. “What are you … what are you doing here?”

His face was damp and his hair disheveled, as if he’d just been for a run.
God
, Margo thought,
he isn’t even dressed yet
. By the time he’d taken a shower and put on a dinner jacket, they’d have practically missed Doris’s entire party. “We have a date.” Margo glowered. “You’re supposed to take me to Pasadena tonight, remember?”

“Of course I do!” Jimmy said, a bit too quickly to be convincing.
He isn’t really that good an actor
, Margo thought. “Good old Pasadena, I can’t wait! It’s just … um … I’m in the middle of something … in here, so be an angel and wait in the sitting room, won’t you, darling? Or out by the pool, that’s much nicer. I’ll be out in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

Margo held her injured hand in front of Jimmy’s face. “I’m bleeding,” she snapped. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom and clean up.”

“But I’m not dressed,” Jimmy protested desperately.

“I don’t care!” Margo could have strangled him. “I cut myself on a rusty hinge. It needs to be cleaned right away or it will get infected.”

“Go back to the main building, then. The bathroom attendant will help you, and I’ll meet you in the lobby for a drink before we go.”

Margo’s hand was starting to throb. “This is ridiculous. I’m going to bleed all over my dress. Just let me in!”

“No!” Jimmy shouted.

Suddenly, it hit Margo like a flash. The two half-drunk
glasses of Scotch, the spinning record. Jimmy hadn’t been expecting her at all.
He’s got someone in there
, she thought furiously. Probably some chorus girl.
And Gabby knew
. That was why she’d told Margo to come to the Chateau. So she could catch them red-handed. “Let me in, Jimmy!”

“Margo, no, please!”

She seized the side of the door. Jimmy wedged his body against the jamb, trying in vain to hold her back.

The door swung open, and so did Margo’s jaw.

Jimmy had someone in there, all right. Lying bare-chested in the king-sized bed, entangled sexily in the musky sheets. Only it wasn’t a girl.

It was a
boy
.

“It’s … You …” Margo tried to speak, but her tongue was in knots.
Tongue-tied
, she thought. Now she knew what it really meant.

The boy stared at her from the bed, calmly smoking a cigarette with long, languorous drags. The edge of the sheet was tucked below his smooth, olive-skinned chest.
He’s a handsome boy
, Margo thought, in spite of her shock.
A very handsome boy
.

“Margo,” Jimmy said. “Go into the sitting room. Please.”

Numbly, she did as he said and sat down on the sofa as Jimmy closed the door behind her. From the bedroom, she heard a buzz of slurry whispers, but she couldn’t make out the words.
Jimmy will come out in a minute
, she thought dazedly.
What on earth am I supposed to do then?
Orange Grove Academy for Young Ladies had prided itself on preparing its students for any possible social situation, but the proper mode of decorum for when one had just discovered an unclothed boy in one’s
pretend boyfriend’s bed had been conspicuously absent from the curriculum. With her uninjured hand, she carefully arranged the folds of her gown so it draped more gracefully over the sofa. Whatever was about to happen, she thought, she’d feel better facing it in an unwrinkled dress.