His Girl Hollywood

Chapter 6

To say he was making a hash of things was an understatement. Don Lamont, the toast of Broadway, ha! So far all he’d done was step on Rita Carter’s feet about six times and trip over the lighting cords.

“Get ahold of yourself, Lamont,” he muttered under his breath. This was not the way he wanted his first day on a Hollywood movie set to go. He’d planned on walking in here, cool and confident, Eddie at his side, and wowing everyone with his footwork and panache. Instead, he was coming off like some wide-eyed kid who could barely string a sentence together.

He was sitting in a chair in the corner of the soundstage, a towel around his neck, trying to go through the steps in his head. Five, six, seven, eight, hop, turn, jump , he thought. No, that’s not right . What was it?

He buried his face in his hands, pressing the towel to the beads of sweat on his forehead. He tried to quiet his father’s voice in his head, the sneering sound of him calling Don “twinkle toes,” the mutterings that he’d never amount to anything, that his prancing fantasies would only lead to trouble. That he should grow up and realize he would have to get a real man’s job. Then, another voice, a quieter one, his own, reminded him that if this failed, everything his father had ever said would come true.

He took a breath. The problem was that this wasn’t his choreography. It was something the studio had given him, and he couldn’t find his footing. He needed Eddie. He needed room to breathe and time to let the story, and the moves, flow through him. Not this regimented schedule where he copycatted what someone else thought would look good on his body.

Rita Carter, rising movie star and legend of the Latin ballroom circuit, sat across the soundstage, engrossed in conversation with Arlene. Her right foot was in a bucket of ice and she had her stockinged left foot in her hand, massaging it with her fingers. Rita looked at him, looked down at her soaking foot, and back at him pointedly. Great, just great. His first few hours on the job and he’d already managed to turn his leading lady against him. At this point, he’d prefer Eleanor’s passive-aggressive silent treatment. Or even her dramatic weeping. He didn’t know what to do with this icy, yet unfiltered irritation.

He watched as Arlene kneeled by Rita’s side and clasped her hands between hers. Arlene was reassuring her.

He pulled the towel over his head and looked at the floor. Hell, for all he knew, Lena was telling Rita Carter she would speak to Harry and have Don replaced by tomorrow. She’d made it pretty clear last night that it hadn’t been her choice to cast him in this movie. He’d thought her involvement had been a sign. A twist of fate from the penny in his pocket. Some signal from the universe that he was finally getting his life back on track. This was the ticket away from life under Frankie’s thumb, and in some strange version of dramatic irony, it was happening because Lena Morgan wanted him in her movie. What a story he’d concocted in his own mind.

But it didn’t matter if Lena didn’t want him here. He’d earned his place, first on Broadway, then in a screen test. He would prove he deserved to be here. Even if his director and leading lady were less than pleased with his existence. He needed to take a breath, think through the steps, and let go. He was holding too tightly to the reminder of what was at stake. He needed to stop thinking about Mabel, about Eleanor, about Frankie, and just dance. Don had always been at his best in the moments where he gave himself over to the work. All he needed was the music, the steps, and a clear head.

He stood up and counted to himself aloud, “A-one, two, three, four.” He forgot the steps, letting them go as the hum of the music in his mind flooded his senses. He’d been right about one thing. This dance floor Lena had commissioned was perfect. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such spring and give. Even on Broadway. It was rare to have a floor this good outside a rehearsal room.

He did a series of step ball changes, a few pirouettes, a jeté, and then ended with a series of wings, his arms and feet going in and out, making a large circle. When he finished, he thrust his fists in the air in triumph. He hadn’t realized he’d carried himself across the dance floor and was now only a few feet from Rita and Arlene.

“That…that was fantastic.” Rita gaped at him. “Why can’t he do that when I’m dancing with him?” Yeah, why couldn’t he?

“Because those aren’t the steps,” huffed Arlene. “They’re just something he made up.”

Why was she already so exasperated with him? He didn’t know what he’d done, but it was clear they got off on the wrong foot before they’d even begun.

But this wasn’t just her movie. Or her career. It was his too. And he had a lot riding on this. “They’re not, but if I had Eddie here, we could come up with something really good. These steps, they’re not cinematic. That’s why I keep tripping on them. I’m thinking about where the camera is and where I am, and these are flat. But Eddie and I, we could—”

“Mr. Lamont, what does this chair say?” Arlene turned her chair around and pointed at the script stenciled on the back. She was glaring at him. The last time he’d seen her this mad, he’d been nine years old. His father had split his lip after he’d caught Don dancing instead of gutting a pile of fresh fish his father had brought home. Arlene had found Don crying in their shared garage. Steam practically whooshed from her ears when he told her what had happened. Then, she’d brought him inside and wiped his bleeding lip clean with a wet washcloth. The next morning his father woke up to a car with a flat tire, a rusty nail embedded in it. But that time, Lena had been on his team. He read the chair and gave her an answer.

“Director,” he muttered.

“That’s right. And whose chair is this, Mr. Lamont? Is it yours?”

“No,” he growled. “But, Lena—”

“Miss Morgan, if you please.” Her tone was suddenly harsh and high-pitched, and he could tell that for a brief moment, she’d lost her temper.

Rita had been following this back and forth between them like it was a tennis match, her head snapping between them. But she gasped a little when Lena was short with him.

He glared at Lena and gritted his teeth to avoid saying something he would regret. Why wouldn’t she talk to him? Listen to his input about the fact that these steps weren’t right for the scene. Didn’t she want this picture to be a success? What had he ever done to be treated like some hoofer without a brain in his head?

He wrapped his hands tightly around the ends of the towel still hanging off his neck. He supposed he understood why she was annoyed with his overly familiar manner. If it were any other director, he would be deferential. Just because they’d grown up together didn’t mean he could be rude or overly familiar.

“Miss Morgan, sorry. But if we could talk through—”

Arlene held up her hand, signaling that this conversation was over. She’d regained her placid sense of pointed calm. “Your reading comprehension appears to be in fine order, Mr. Lamont. So, since you seem to understand that I’m the director and you are not, let’s try the scene again. With the steps that Mr. Herman taught you. Rita, have your feet recovered enough to go again?”

Rita pulled her foot out of the ice bucket and rotated it in a circle, wincing as she hit a certain angle. “It’ll do.” She bent over to pull her T-strap heels back on her feet and buckle them.

Arlene turned and called out behind her. “Mr. Lamont needs a touch-up.” She didn’t turn back to look at him but instead marched over to the director of photography behind the camera to talk through the shot.

The hair and makeup team scurried out from their place in the shadows, dusting his face with powder and removing the towel from his neck. Don wanted to argue with Arlene. To get her to see reason. But there was no use. Besides, a homely woman with dishwater-blond hair was busy reapplying a neutral cream to his lips, so he couldn’t speak even if he wanted to.

Arlene had made it clear that they were going to do this her way. Even if her way was lackluster choreography that he couldn’t keep straight in his head because of his nerves and his discomfort dancing someone else’s steps. It was almost funny. All the times his father had railed at him for dancing to the beat of his own drum. It was coming back to bite him now. The universe had a sick sense of humor.

He didn’t know what he’d done to make Arlene Morgan treat him like he was a burr in her shoe—and a part of him desperately wanted to figure it out. To fix it. To be friends again. Besides Eddie, he didn’t have any friends. Just the cronies and hangers-on who followed Frankie around and did his bidding. After Mabel, Don realized it was safest not to get too close to anyone. Romantically or otherwise.

Don had thought that coming here, working in Hollywood, wouldn’t only be his chance at freedom. But also the chance to work with an old friend. Something he hadn’t had, well, ever. Or at least until he’d met Eddie. Clearly, Lena didn’t see it that way. When they were kids, she’d been particular, self-assured, maybe even a little bossy. But never stubborn and unreasonable.

Even if he managed to break through this impenetrable new side of her, did he have time to fix whatever the hell was broken? The longer production went on, the more likely Frankie would get wise to his plans. He wanted to scream. Again, Frankie Martino was costing him something he wanted. This time, it was his friendship with Arlene Morgan and the time he needed to repair it.

He would put his head down and try to do what she said without complaint. If he proved himself here, maybe he could choreograph his next picture. He’d be a free man then. Free from Frankie’s machinations and abuse. And free from whatever was going on with Lena.

Rita gingerly made her way out to the center of the dance floor that made up the majority of the set on this soundstage. He took his position opposite her, holding his arms in a perfect dance frame. “For what it’s worth, I like your steps better,” she murmured.

A flicker of pride flared in his belly. “Thanks. Wish her majesty over there did too.”

Rita frowned and gave him a hard look. “Hey, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Mock her. Poor kid’s got a lot on her plate. I don’t envy her. Every single one of those bastards is looking for a reason to undercut her.” Rita nodded her head at the members of the crew as she pointed them out. “The guys behind the camera, the ones there in the rafters working the lights. They think they could do a better job. And they’re certainly not happy about taking direction from a woman.”

Even though he’d never worked with a female director before, this factor had not really occurred to Don. In spite of her newly acquired curves and stylish haircut, to him Lena was just…Lena Morgan first, a woman second. Hell, he’d never even thought of her as a member of the opposite sex until he’d seen her bathed in the soft beams of the ghost light last night. This morning, every time he’d looked at her, something in his stomach felt a little squiggly. But that was him trying to wrap his head around who this version of Lena was, to adjust to her unfamiliarity. Nothing more.

“I hadn’t noticed that.” He looked at the crew, following Rita’s line of vision as she pointed them out. The guys in the rafters were talking to each other, having wandered away from their posts. Lena was talking to the groups of men behind the camera, but the only one who seemed to be listening attentively was the bespectacled script girl who was writing down everything Lena said, as if she would be tested on it later. The crew was paying attention, but there was a disconnect. Like they were only catching every other word. “But surely they have to listen to be able to do their jobs.”

“Oh, they’ll listen to her. They’ll do what she says. But if she shows even the smallest sliver of a crack in her control, they’ll start grumbling to Evets. She knows it too. That’s why she’s being so tough on you.”

Don felt like a heel. He’d been so caught up in his own plans, it had never occurred to him how Lena might be feeling. How scared she must be, and how unable to show it. He’d been proud when he found out she was going to be his director. Sure, Walter Nebbs had been less than enthusiastic about sending Don off to work with a lady director. But he figured that was the talent scout being a crank.

Arlene Morgan was born to be behind the camera. But he’d known she wanted this and that she could do it since they were teenagers. To him, it seemed like the most obvious thing in the world.

“You’re right.” He met Rita’s eyes. “We need to get it right for her.”

“We?” She raised her eyebrows.

“Okay, me. You’ve got it down pat.” Rita Carter laughed and something loosened in his chest. This connection was what he needed. Now, he could do the steps. Arlene was nervous and on guard because of what Rita had pointed out. Her sudden coldness probably had nothing to do with him. All it would take to be friends again would be to simply get it right.

“Are we ready?” Arlene called out. He and Rita raised their hands to give Arlene a thumbs-up. “Okay, rolling, sound speed…and action!”

He pulled Rita forward while she pulled back. Damn it, he’d already done it wrong. He stepped forward with his left foot to try to course correct and…stepped on Rita’s foot. He winced as she yelped. Then, he tried to lead her into a turn and his foot got stuck between hers. Before he knew it, they were tumbling to the floor. He managed to spin himself so that his body connected with the ground and Rita landed on top of him. At least he’d cushioned the blow.

“Ow!” Rita yelled. He looked down and was dismayed to find her foot twisted under his calf. It was the one she’d been icing. Shit.

“Cut,” Arlene called. She rushed out from behind the camera and over to them. “Rita, are you okay?”

“I think so?” Don scrambled to push himself away so that Rita could stretch her foot.

Arlene glared at him. “What did you do? Were you trying to do your steps?”

“No!” Why did she insist on assuming the worst of him? “I got confused.”

“Miss Morgan, it’s all right. It was an innocent mistake. Accidents happen.”

At least Rita rushed to his defense this time instead of castigating him. She tried to stand and bit her lip as she put weight on her foot. Don sprang to his feet and put his arm under Rita’s so she wouldn’t fall again. “Thanks.” She grimaced. “I think it’s only bruised. Should be fine in a few days.”

Don exhaled. Thank God he hadn’t broken his leading lady’s ankle on the first day of shooting. Just temporarily maimed her.

“You should go home,” Lena told Rita. “Put your feet up. We need you healthy.”

Rita nodded her head. “All right.”

“That’s a wrap for today everyone,” Lena called out. The crew, who had been waiting quietly, started talking to each other in hurried whispers. Don didn’t know what was worse: the idea that they were talking about him and his ineptitude, or that they could be talking about Lena. None of this was her fault. Maybe he needed the night too. If he could practice with Eddie, he’d get it right.

But if they weren’t filming with Rita tomorrow, he needed to know what to prepare for. He approached Lena gingerly, creeping toward her as if she were a hibernating bear. He felt utterly ridiculous. She was sitting in her director’s chair, furiously scribbling on a piece of paper. “Um, Miss Morgan?”

“What?” she snapped, not looking up from whatever she was writing.

“I was wondering what we’ll be working on tomorrow. So I can prepare.”

He could swear she mumbled “It won’t help” under her breath, but he chose to ignore it. Maybe she thought being rude to him would make the rest of the crew respect her. If that was the case, he’d swallow down any retort. This was both of their dreams, and he wasn’t going to make it harder for her. If being her punching bag was what it would take to get this done, then fine. Time was of the essence.

She held up the paper she was scribbling on. “Give me a minute. That’s what I’m figuring out.” She bent back over the paper and bit her lip, gripping her pencil with an undue amount of force. Don tried not to smile at the familiar stance that told him she was thinking a little too hard. “We’ll need to do dialogue scenes the next day or so until Rita’s ankle heals. I’ll have the studio call Jimmy and see if he can come in tomorrow to shoot Fred’s scenes.”

“Fred? That’s Danny’s club promoter friend?”

Arlene’s eyelids fluttered in annoyance. He could tell she was trying not to lose her temper, which only made him feel worse. It took a lot to make Arlene lose control. She was the most even-keeled woman he’d ever met. But hell, maybe that had changed in the last decade too. Maybe she suddenly had a shorter fuse. Show business could do that to people. In a tone that implied she was dealing with an idiot, she replied, “Yes, Mr. Lamont.”

She turned back to the schedule on her lap. “If we can shoot a handful of the scenes with Danny and Fred at the club tomorrow and Wednesday, then we can move the shooting days for the dance number to next week when Rita’s feeling better.” She was thinking out loud. “That’ll give you more time to get the steps down too.”

“If you’d let me bring Eddie Rosso down here to choreograph it, that would solve the problem immediately.”

Her head snapped up. “Excuse me, Mr. Lamont, did I not make myself clear? Eddie Rosso is not welcome on this set. Nor are your steps. The studio assigned Mr. Herman to this picture, and we’re going to do what he has choreographed. No matter how lackluster it may be.”

Don swallowed a laugh at that. At least she admitted the steps were lousy. Why she didn’t tell the studio that, he had no idea. But it was abundantly clear he’d be welcoming trouble with open arms if he asked her that. “Okay, I’ll review the scenes between Danny and Fred.” He loosened his tie and turned to go back to his dressing room.

“Where are you going?” he heard Lena call after him.

He turned back, nearly at the edge of the dance floor already. “You called a wrap.”

“Don’t you think you should maybe stay and get some practice?” Don couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard one of the grips snicker as he walked by. He swallowed the urge to give her a biting retort, as Rita’s words were still fresh in his mind.

“I think I’d be better off with Eddie’s help,” he muttered, turning to face her again.

He expected Lena to argue or to make a crack about bringing Eddie up again. Instead, she called out, “Practice with him on your own time all you want.” He nodded, accepting the twig-sized olive branch she offered him. “Oh, and Mr. Lamont?”

“Yes?”

“I hope you’re better at saying someone else’s words than you are at dancing someone else’s steps.”

To that he had no reply. Because it was mean. But it was true.