His Girl Hollywood

Chapter 9

Mabel was standing over his bed, her scarred face contorted in pain. Her milky white eye unseeing and yet still staring at him accusatorily. “Why, Don? Why did you tell them about me?”

He raised his hands in supplication. “Please, Mabel. I didn’t, I swear. They found out. Frankie always finds out.” He closed his eyes, unable to look at what his love had done to her. What it had cost her.

“Look at me,” she pleaded. There was a desperation in her voice he had never heard before. Even when the accident had happened. When he’d vowed to stand by her no matter what. When she told him that she didn’t want that. That loving him was too dangerous. She hadn’t sounded like that even then. “I’m not here for your guilt. I’m here to warn you.”

He jolted up in the bed. “Warn me? About what?”

“You know what.”

He broke out into a cold sweat at that. Because he did know. He knew all too well. “No, I’ve hardly been here. I need more time.”

Mabel wrung her hands, a look of abject fear on her face. If he’d only been smarter, read his contract more carefully, not been so determined to spit in his father’s eye by getting a manager, any manager, Mabel would be all right. The collateral damage of his own pride was more than he could bear.

“Your time is up,” Mabel whispered. “He knows. Like you said, he always finds out.”

No, no, no, no. He couldn’t know. They hadn’t even finished a whole week of filming. Frankie could not have gotten wise to his scheme already. He’d been so careful. Don rolled over into his pillow and screamed into it, overcome with fear and frustration. He wanted to scream until he couldn’t anymore. Until his voice was raw. But someone was shaking him, grabbing at his back and jostling him hard.

He rolled back over in fury. “Let me be, Mabel!” But the shaking didn’t stop. He flailed his arms, trying to grab her, to make her stop.

“Lergh megooooo,” Mabel said. Don blinked. No wait, not Mabel, Eddie. Mabel was gone. He searched wildly around the room looking for her.

“Where is she?”

“I’m the only one here, pal. You were having a nightmare.” The words crashed into Don like a wave of relief. A nightmare. He’d been dreaming. Mabel wasn’t here. Frankie didn’t know. It was only a nightmare.

“Thank God, thank God, thank God,” Don murmured, grabbing Eddie and hugging him, noticing only then that his bare chest was soaked in sweat. So was the sheet. Eddie remained awkwardly still, patting Don’s damp bare back once with his hand.

“You’re okay,” he said, waiting for Don to let go of him. Don leaned back against the headboard and ran his fingers through his hair, still trying to make sense of what had happened. He was actually okay. Like Eddie said. For now.

Don nodded. “But why are you in here? Why aren’t you in your own room?”

Eddie looked at him like he was screwy. “You asked me to come wake you up. Said your room’s alarm clock was on the fritz. Didn’t want to be late to your early call after shaving in your dressing room three times this week already.”

“Right, right.” Don vaguely remembered asking Eddie to do that last night. But his mind was still on his nightmare.

Eddie moved from the edge of the bed and Don swung his legs over the side, gripping the carpet with his toes. He was fairly certain the carpet had a spot in the corner stained with some type of bodily fluid. But right now, he had to ground himself. Shake himself from that terrible dream. From Mabel’s haunted, terrified face. It had haunted his dreams every night this week. Every night since Eleanor had come here and asked for his help. Since she’d told Don that she wasn’t the one who had put Mabel on Frankie’s radar. That it had been Don’s fault alone. He had to pull himself together. They were filming the love scene today. Too bad he’d never felt less romantic in his entire life.

***

“Cut!” The camera operator next to her sighed audibly, and Arlene shot him a look of apology. They had made it through the rest of the week with little incident. Don had learned to hit his mark, and he’d only looked at the camera by accident three more times since Tuesday.

If she was feeling charitable, she could even admit he was quite good. Purely from the objective stance of a director observing an actor. When he got out of his head, he really had something. Not just the twinkle in his eye and the crooked charm of that dimpled scar, but something deeper, a latent emotionality she knew he could unleash if he’d only get out of his own way.

She’d thought the love scene would be their easiest scene yet. Don had a reputation as a ladies’ man, even if he’d only ever been seriously linked to Eleanor Lester. There was still no choreography involved. Plus Arlene knew love scenes like the back of her hand. She’d written plenty for Reno Rendezvous , and they’d won her an Oscar. But if it was possible, Don was even worse today than he’d been the first day. He hadn’t gotten through a take without flubbing a line, and he looked like a lost puppy with its tail between its legs.

She felt like apologizing to everyone on this set on Don’s behalf. They should’ve had this in a few takes. Arlene looked over at her leading lady. If the way Rita crossed her arms over her chest and was repeatedly blowing a strand of her hair out of her eye with a stream of air from her lips was any indication, she was not impressed with Don Lamont.

To be fair, neither was Arlene. He was nothing like the cocksure boy she’d sent off on a train. Nothing like the suave song-and-dance man she imagined he must be. Instead, he was sweaty and nervous, dropping his lines left and right, and looking at his feet rather than into his leading lady’s eyes. If things continued this way, Rita and Don would have less screen chemistry than oil and water.

Arlene took a breath and called out from behind the camera, “Okay, let’s take that again. Now, remember, Don—your character, Danny, has just come into the dance school where Lee works. You’ve pretended to be a novice to win her over, but just as her manager comes in, you wow him, earning her the bonus she needs to enter the cover-girl contest she hopes will shoot her to fame. The manager has now left and your dance turns into a clinch. You’re charming, you’re handsome, you’re irresistible. Every woman in the audience will swoon at the sight of you. Now, action!”

Don returned to his mark and awkwardly held open his arms for Rita to step into them. Rita obliged and he immediately tripped on her foot, skidding to the floor. At least this time he hadn’t brought Rita down with him. Arlene bit the inside of her cheek to resist screaming in frustration. “Obviously, that’s a cut,” she muttered.

Don pushed himself off the floor in one graceful movement. It made Arlene’s stomach whoosh, so reminiscent of the times he’d taken a tumble in their backyard only to shoot right back to his feet as if he were made of rubber. He shot Rita a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry, I’m out of sorts today. I swear I’ll get it right on the next one.”

Rita softened and gave him a weak smile. “It’s all right. My first week I stepped on another showgirl’s foot and ripped my costume.”

For the first time since they’d started filming, Don looked relieved. Seizing on the moment, Arlene set them back to one and called “Action” again. This time Don got the moves right and managed not to fall down.

“Say, you’re a pretty good dance teacher.” He grinned as he said Danny’s lines, finally letting a bit of his natural charm shine through.

Rita channeled her own frustrations into the character’s tempestuous nature. “Why, I never! That was a dirty trick if I’ve ever seen one.”

She swatted Don on the shoulder, enhancing the sweep of her hand with a flirtatious flounce. He stiffened immediately and delivered the next line with a croak. “You have to admit it was a trick that worked in your favor. Let me buy you dinner for the lesson?”

Arlene and the script girl exchanged a nervous glance. Don wasn’t forgetting his lines or tripping over himself. He was on his mark and he hadn’t once looked at the camera. But he was still hopelessly stiff.

“Cut,” she yelped.

Don dragged a hand down his face in frustration. “I got the lines right that time,” he muttered.

“You did, Mr. Lamont. But we need to believe that Danny is attracted to Lee. That in spite of the trick he played, he’s so charming that Lee is intrigued by him. I don’t think any character played by Rita Carter would want to go out with the spineless jellyfish you’re playing Danny as right now. She knows she could do better.”

Rita shot her a grin. “Ain’t that the truth.” Good, well, at least she had a more than capable leading lady. Maybe they could cut around Don.

Who was she kidding? He was the romantic lead! And this was the love scene that set the plot in motion. He needed to get it right. “Mr. Lamont, as the papers are all too keen to remind us, you’ve had a tempestuous romance with your dance partner, Eleanor Lester, for the last seven years—”

“Oh, but I—”

Arlene raised her hand. “Don’t interrupt me.” Her tone was sharper than she intended, but she noticed the cameraman straighten up a bit at the sound of her voice and couldn’t help but feel a bit pleased that having a firm hand with Don was earning her the measliest morsel of respect. Don gulped. “As I was saying, you’ve had this relationship with your dance partner. Pretend that Rita is Eleanor.”

Don kicked at the dance floor with his shoe. It was a nervous habit, but he still made it look graceful. Why couldn’t he channel that elegance, that effortless grace into his acting? “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Fine. If not Miss Lester, then someone else. Your love life is none of my business. But surely, there is some girl you’ve been sweet on in the last ten years that you can substitute in your head for Rita.”

Don winced and closed his eyes. Nuts, had she made it worse? But all he did was mutter, “Okay, I’ll try that.”

She called for sound speeds and rolling once more. The beginning of the scene was smooth, thankfully. Now, for the dialogue.

“Say, you’re a pretty good dance teacher,” Don began. It was the worst take yet. His voice was strangled as if he were choking out every word and he seemed, inexplicably, on the verge of tears.

“Cut!” Arlene yelled, struggling to keep rising panic out of her voice.

He didn’t say anything, but he balled his hands into fists and furiously kicked at the trash can at the edge of the set’s dance floor. It was a set decoration and his foot went right through it. Great, so now they’d moved on from stinking up the scene to damaging studio property. Lovely.

She needed to fix this. The movie and her career depended on it. If they could get this, they’d end the week on a high note and they could start fresh on Monday. But she didn’t want to get close to Don. Didn’t want to think about how the way he’d sprung up from the floor reminded her of the boy he’d once been. Where was that Don now? The kid pretending to make a movie while she mimed following him with a camera.

The truth was, she was the only one in this room who knew that kid had once existed. Whether she liked it or not, she needed to remind him of that version of Don Lamont, pull it out of him if she had to. And she could. She could do whatever it was going to take. She had to forget about her personal reluctance to connect with Don and be the director he needed in this moment.

“Rita, take five.” The actress gave her a wink and wandered over to the craft services table in the corner, pouring herself a cup of coffee and relaxing against a leaning board designed to let her rest while keeping her costume from getting wrinkled.

Arlene crossed from her place behind the camera to talk to Don. She lowered her voice to a whisper, not wanting to embarrass him further. “What’s going on with you, Don? I saw your screen test. I know you can do better than this.”

A look of panic flickered in his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it came. “You called me Don.”

She sighed. “Yes, that is your name.”

“I thought I was Mr. Lamont from now on.”

“Look, I’m sorry about that first night on the soundstage. I wasn’t expecting to see you. Is that what this is about? Because I don’t have patience for someone who’s gonna muck up my picture because their feelings got hurt.”

Don gaped at her, a bit of admiration in his gaze. “No, I’m sorry, Arlene. Sorry, Miss Morgan, it’s not that.”

She noticed he called her Arlene, not Lena. Just as she’d asked. But her heart still gave a little pang at the loss of her pet name. Damn it, this was exactly why she needed to keep her distance.

“So, what is it then? How can I help you?” She asked him only as his director. Not his friend. Certainly, not the girl who’d once loved him.

He looked pensive, genuinely considering her question. “I don’t know. I’m just in my head, I guess. That thing you said about someone I was sweet on, it…brought up some bad memories. I didn’t sleep well last night because I was thinking about her. And look, we can both agree this hasn’t been a banner week for me. But I have to get this right. Hollywood is my last chance.”

Arlene wanted to tell him he was being ridiculous. If this picture didn’t work out, he could go back to Broadway and act as if nothing ever happened. It was her career that hung in the balance. She was the one who wouldn’t get another chance if this wasn’t a smash hit. But telling Don that would only make things worse. He didn’t need her anxiety on top of his own. Calming him down, getting him to focus—that was what mattered. “You’re making it much harder than it needs to be. Forget about the cameras, the lights, all of it, and imagine you’re dancing alone. For yourself only.”

“But I’m not dancing! I’m making love to Rita Carter!”

Arlene laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “Is that what’s got you so worked up? Surely, you’ve made love to a hundred girls as pretty as Rita. Don’t worry about her. She’s a professional. Do your job well and you’ll be aces in her book.”

He squeezed his lips together in a moue of frustration. “Not really off to a bang-up start on that front.”

“No,” she agreed, trying to flatten a smile tugging at the edges of her lips. At least he had some self-awareness. “But seriously, Don, imagine the blocking, the lines, the kiss as if it’s one of your more difficult pieces of choreography. Like the steps you were making up on Monday. Visualize it, execute it, and voilà. That’s all it really is.”

He tensed and closed his eyes, blowing air in and out his nose, clearly counting each exhalation. He gritted his teeth and she barely heard what he said next. “There haven’t been hundreds.”

“Okay, dozens then.” He laughed, loud and halting, not much mirth in it, and caught Arlene’s gaze. She was startled at the hurt there, the confusion. The other night she had thought Don arrogant and cocky, elbowing in on her authority. Now, he seemed like a lost little boy. “I guess even pretending to make love to someone is hard for me. Because when I care for someone, they…” She was startled to hear him choking back a knot of emotion. “They tend to get hurt.”

She could tell that each word cost him. She wanted to ask him to elaborate because frankly, that didn’t make any sense. Was he telling her he was a cad? That he’d left a trail of broken hearts in his wake? As much as he seemed to think it was some soul-baring confession, that wasn’t exactly a shocking revelation to her. After all, she was a card-carrying member of the Don Lamont Broken Hearts Club. Regardless, she didn’t have time to coach him through his issues with women right now. Which left one option—walking him through the scene physically until he got it.

“Don, look at me.” He met her eyes again, and she tamped down the flurry of butterflies in her stomach. It’s an old habit, that’s all, she told herself. Muscle memory, nothing more. She swallowed and pushed on. “I am right here watching. There’s a whole crew here. It’s just make-believe. No one’s going to get hurt. I’ll show you. Put your arms around me.”

Don did as he was told, and Arlene instantly regretted it. He had one arm around her waist and another resting on the nape of her neck. How many nights had she dreamed of this? Imagined what it would feel like? She’d resolved to be careful. To keep things professional. That was all she was doing, wasn’t it? Being a director who helped her leading man get a scene right by any means necessary. Hell, he had his arms around her only so that she could teach him how to hold another woman.

“That’s perfect, just right,” she told him, careful to keep her voice steely, authoritative but kind. “Now, give me the lines.”

Don’s eyes met hers and something sparked there. “Say, you’re a pretty good dance teacher.” He hadn’t ever delivered the line like that before. It was low and in the back of his throat, a purr of desire beneath it. It made her shiver with want, and how she hated herself for it. She clenched her jaw together, almost cracking a tooth with her need to prevent the slightest physical tell of what his voice did to her. He was acting. Finally.

He held her a bit more tightly and she arched an eyebrow. “What do you think you’re doing?” He had the audacity to wink at her. All his nervousness was gone. It was replaced by a twinkle in his eye and that cocksure grin that turned the scar on his cheek into a zigzagging dimple. It would make audiences swoon. She knew because she was having trouble keeping her knees from giving out—but she could not let that happen. Because if they did, well, she’d never hear the end of that. She leaned into Don, bracing her knees, hoping no one noticed how wobbly she felt. John Sidell coughed from behind the camera. Shit, he’d definitely noticed.

“It’s your line,” Don whispered. Arlene was suddenly aware that the set was very quiet. Everyone—the cameramen, the electricians, even Rita Carter herself—had their eyes glued to the two of them.

“Why, I never!” The line came out like a croak and she cleared her throat, desperate to regain control of herself and the room. “That was a dirty trick if I’ve ever seen one.” She swatted at him with a little more force than necessary, a reminder more for herself than for him. She used the movement to shove him away ever so slightly, putting distance between them. The crew needed to see that she was merely giving him instruction as rote as if she were stirring a sugar cube into a cup of tea.

Don responded to her attempt to get some breathing room by grabbing the hand she’d swatted him with, knitting his fingers with hers. Then, he gripped her more tightly, eliminating even the smallest sliver of daylight between them, and pressed her against his chest, adding a possessive tension to the hand on her neck. One that seemed to say Mine .

“But,” he drawled, a sexy new languor in his voice, “you have to admit it was a trick that worked in your favor. Let me buy you dinner for the lesson?” The way he said buy you dinner was downright filthy. Like he was offering instead to slowly undress and lick every inch of her. She gulped and looked pointedly down at her feet, determined to disengage. She didn’t want that anymore. She couldn’t.

He chucked her by the chin and locked eyes with her, refusing to lessen his grip. She squirmed, trying to nudge his hand that was drifting dangerously close to her bottom further up her back. She should slug him. But he was making progress, and she needed him to see he could do the scene as written. It would only confuse him further if she slapped him for doing exactly what she asked of him.

It was her line now. Before production had begun, she’d memorized the entire script back to front lest anyone accuse her of being unprepared. The moment called for her, no—not her —Rita’s character to look up at him through her downcast eyelashes, meeting his flirtatious inquiries with one of her own. Arlene ignored that stage direction, steadied her face, and delivered the line as dryly and matter-of-factly as she could. “What if I require something else?”

Studying her face, Don smiled. No, not Don. Danny Garnett. A character. A fantasy. “That can be arranged.” His voice was as intoxicating and smooth as her father’s favorite brand of whiskey. She realized with dismay that his hand was still clasped over hers, and he raised it to his cheek. Cupping his jaw, she ran her finger over the scar in his dimple; she couldn’t help herself. It had been so long since she had touched him, even casually.

Before she knew what was happening, he pressed his lips to hers. This time her legs did give out, as she gave herself over to the kiss and melted in his arms. This is right. This was how it was always supposed to be.

He raised his hand from her neck to tangle his fingers in her hair, and she let out a little puff of air, suppressing a moan. He bent her head back a bit, giving him a different angle, and licked ever so slightly at her lips. She started to open for him, losing herself completely, when a voice from the back of the soundstage brought her to her senses.

“I think he’s got the hang of it now.” It was Rita Carter, and Arlene could hear the smirk in her voice. It punctured her temporary bout of insanity. Because that’s all it was.

She immediately sprang back, pushing her hands into Don’s chest and shoving him away from her. She reached for her hair, frantically smoothing it. “Damn it,” she muttered so only he could hear. This was exactly what she’d pledged not to do. Let him under her skin, let her memories and their former fondness for each other make her forget herself. They were here for one reason—to make a movie. Which she had been helping him do, helping make sure that he didn’t cut this thing off at the knees. He’d made it through other dialogue sequences this week, but this was the most important one by far. She’d merely intervened to insure this didn’t become another wasted day and she’d been carried away by the moment—the lights, the dialogue. She had always been a hopeless romantic after all. Why, if this had been Dash Howard or, hell, Flynn Banks, she probably would’ve reacted the same. That was the power of the movies.

She could not entertain that any part of herself, even the tiniest sliver of her heart, had cracked open to grant him the space to wriggle his way back into it. She knew better than to allow that.

She looked at him and was sucker punched by the dazed look of bemusement on his face, as if he too was unsure of the time or place that he found himself.

“Yes,” she squeaked, embarrassed by how affected she still was by the kiss. She recovered herself, trying to imbue her voice with a steeliness she did not feel. “Yes, that’s perfect. Just like that, Mr. Lamont.”

She marched back to her director’s chair, pretending that nothing had happened and hoping the rest of the crew would follow suit. He called after her, “Thank you, Miss Morgan. That was very…instructive.”

The way he said the word instructive made her stop in her tracks. It was dripping with the promise of something more, the suggestion that, for him at least, the kiss had been something besides merely educational. But she refused to acknowledge it more than she already had, resuming her determined stride to her safe haven behind the camera.

She’d only meant to get him to loosen up, to show the abundant charm she knew he could possess on-screen. They weren’t supposed to get to the end of the scene. He wasn’t meant to kiss her. Or, whispered a small voice she loathed, did you kiss him? Had she? No. He definitely had kissed her. It was his fault entirely.

Did it matter though? As an assistant to Joan Davis, she’d witnessed what Hollywood gossip columnists could do. How they could twist things. Leda Price might still be “on sabbatical” licking her wounds somewhere, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t another vulture waiting to pick at the fresh carrion Leda had left behind. Arlene blinked back hot, angry tears, imagining headlines accusing her of sleeping her way into the director’s chair. Never mind that she was the only Oscar winner on this soundstage. She’d be damned if anyone failed to take her seriously.

She resisted the urge to run back to her place behind the camera and walked to her chair, the one stenciled with her name and her job title. She placed her fingers on the lettering, drawing strength from the designation, forcing herself to remember why she was here. How much was at stake. She straightened her spine and called out to the set, “Okay, let’s try the scene again, if you’ll resume your place, Miss Carter.”

Her fingers ghosted over the word Director once more. That was who she was. Who she was born to be. The only dream that had ever really mattered. Romance was fleeting, but movies… They were forever.

“All right, try that again, Mr. Lamont. This time with Miss Carter. We’re ready?” she called out to the rest of the set. “Then, sound speeding…and action!”