His Girl Hollywood

Chapter 13

Arlene slid onto a red leather stool in the infamous Back Room at Musso and Frank Grill, as Joan slid a drink in her direction. An Aviation. Her favorite. “Here, kid, you need a drink.”

“That I do.” The rest of the week had passed with relatively little incident. Don had seemed to find his rhythm with Eddie on set, and they’d avoided any more surprise visits from Harry Evets. But Arlene still felt in a constant state of heightened anxiety, worrying about the picture, about what her crew thought of her, and yes, against her better judgment, about Don and the complicated feelings their kiss had awakened.

Joan and Dash were already nursing a gin stinger and a Scotch on the rocks, respectively. “Hey, what about mine?” asked a voice with the dulcet tones of a British accent that could only belong to Flynn Banks, who took a seat behind her.

“You can buy your own drinks, and we all know that very well,” grumbled Dash.

But Arlene swiveled on the stool, leapt up, and threw her arms around her favorite swashbuckler. “Flynn!” He was a cad. And a boozehound. And a womanizer. And a massive thorn in Harry Evets’s side. But she liked him anyway. He was Dash’s best friend, and that had to count for something. They’d only met for the first time three months ago, when she and Flynn had played maid of honor and best man for Dash and Joan’s elopement.

Joan had warned her to avoid getting so drunk on the merriment of the evening that she ended up in Flynn’s bed. But Arlene didn’t need the warning. She didn’t make a habit of one-night stands. Or any-number-of-nights stands, if she was being honest. Oh, she’d had boyfriends. She’d even slept with one of them. Because she’d been twenty-five and it had felt like something she should get over with. The experience had been lackluster. With every man she’d entertained letting into her heart, the space occupied by Don always got in the way.

Besides, from the moment they’d met, she and Flynn had been fast friends. Falling into a give-and-take that was like the teasing banter of siblings, with nothing remotely romantic sparking between them.

“Well, at least someone’s happy to see me,” Flynn muttered over her shoulder in Dash’s direction.

Arlene let him go and turned to offer him her drink. “Here, have mine. I can order another.”

“I couldn’t possibly.” He winked and slid onto the stool next to her, waving for his favorite bartender. Charlie knew Flynn’s drink order by heart, and within moments, a sweating martini was propped on the mahogany bar, waiting to be knocked back by Hollywood’s most inveterate drinker.

Arlene sipped at her Aviation, letting the unique blend of the crisp gin and the floral palette of the crème de violette slide down her throat, taking some of her worries with it. She turned to her former boss, now best friend. “You invite Monty too?”

Joan pouted. “Yes, but he’s out of town. Research for a part, he says. But I think he’s still heartsick.”

Dash elbowed her to hush, and she did, but she gave Arlene a meaningful look. It wouldn’t do to spill the matinee idol’s secrets, even if Musso and Frank was notorious for discretion when it came to their starry clientele.

“Aw, he’s had plenty of time to get over you, Joanie,” retorted Flynn. He was the only one sitting here who didn’t know Monty Smyth’s secret—that Monty had entered a sham engagement with Joan last year to hide the fact that he was in love with Western star Jerry Scott. That’s what Joan meant when she said Monty was heartsick. After Monty and Joan’s fake engagement was announced last summer, Jerry had refused to speak to Monty. Even after Joan had called it off and married Dash instead. But if Flynn thought Monty was heartsick over Joan, they weren’t going to disabuse him of the notion.

“He should do what I do.” Flynn lifted the cocktail pick in his glass and slid a briny olive into his mouth.

“Oh, come off it. You’ve never been heartsick in your life,” quipped Dash, at the same time that Arlene asked, “And what’s that?”

Speaking through his mouth full of olive, Flynn retorted, “My dear, in order to get over someone, you simply have to get under someone else.”

Arlene choked on her drink, while Joan broke into peals of laughter. That was classic Flynn Banks.

“Well, now that that’s established,” interrupted Joan, “how were your first two weeks, Madam Director?”

“Yes, cheers to Arlene’s big weeks,” called out Dash. They all raised and clinked their glasses. Arlene was filled with a rush of emotion. She was surrounded by three of the most famous people in Hollywood. People that the average person would’ve killed to have a drink with. And they were here, toasting her . The anxieties of the past two weeks lessened as another sip of booze hit her tongue and the gentle melody of clinking glass serenaded her.

These people believed in her. Championed her. Forget the fact that her crew was one wrong move away from outright mutiny. Forget that working with Don had brought all her teenage insecurities roaring back. Forget that her head was a muddle—from that kiss, yes, but even more from Don’s kindness. The ways he’d stood up for her and protected her with Harry, even if she should have had the fortitude to stand up to him herself. Forget that everything was far more complicated and confusing that it should be.

She’d known one thing with absolute certainty for most of her life: She was born to make movies. But these past weeks had made her doubt herself at every turn. Made her fear that the naysayers were right. That she wasn’t cut out for this. She frowned, thinking of it, and Dash paused. “What’s wrong, Arlene?”

He’d always been far more emotionally perceptive than the gossip rags had given him credit for. She sighed. “It’s nothing. Just a long couple of weeks, that’s all.”

“She’s sweet on her leading man,” interjected Joan.

Arlene swallowed the sip of her drink in a gulp and choked out, “I am not.”

Joan shook her head and reached for her stinger, her brunette waves bouncing around her head in an artful fashion that Arlene would’ve said was purposeful if she didn’t know better. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.” Joan waggled her eyebrows at Arlene over the lip of her glass.

“I am not sweet on Don Lamont,” grumbled Arlene. “It’s complicated, that’s all.”

“The only thing I’ve ever found complicated is knotting my tie after I’ve had a few,” quipped Flynn. His words broke the tension and Arlene burst out laughing. The bartender looked at them and immediately started mixing a second round without any of them having to ask. He knew Flynn and Dash and their tendency to imbibe.

“Oh of course, what could be more complicated than that?” muttered Dash, before turning to Arlene. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Arlene started to say no. That she wanted to move forward. Take the weekend and leave the solid week of work behind her to clear her head, enjoy family dinner at her parents’ house on Sunday, banishing all her anxieties over Don with a hearty meal and a few good nights’ rest so she could go into the next week fresh. But instead, she said, “He was someone I loved a long time ago.”

Dash nodded knowingly. “And now his being back here has you all twisted up?”

Bless Dash Howard. He could put her inner turmoil into words more effectively than she could ever voice it. She was the writer here, for heaven’s sake. But she’d always found it impossible to put her feelings for Don into words. “Yes. Don and I grew up together. For most of our adolescence, Don and my directing dreams were knit together. We both wanted to make good, and we talked about doing it as a team. When he left for New York a decade ago and didn’t look back, I decided that was what I’d needed all along. To pursue my dream with a single-minded focus. But having him back in my life as that’s all finally coming to pass… It’s a lot to process.”

“Well, we’ve all had plenty of experience falling for our coworkers,” Joan chimed in.

“Speak for yourself,” added Flynn. “I have never suffered from such an affliction.”

“I can’t wait until the day you fall in love,” retorted Joan.

“Hah, never. Doesn’t agree with my stomach.”

Joan and Dash exchanged a knowing glance as he leaned over and brushed a kiss against his wife’s cheek. Joan looked lovingly at Dash, her eyes filled with the admiration and affection that she reserved only for him.

Arlene was startled to find herself on the verge of tears. She’d always been a hopeless romantic—and no matter how tempestuous the journey to Joan and Dash’s happy ending had been, the love they shared was something she longed for. She wasn’t like Joan had been before she met Dash, refusing to believe in love. Thinking that love wasn’t for her. Arlene still hoped that it would happen someday. But she’d long stopped wanting it to be Don. Hadn’t she?

She drained her glass and eagerly reached for the fresh Aviation the bartender had left for her on the glossy bar. Her reflection swam up at her from a small pool of spilled drink, the grain of the wood streaking across her face.

If she really thought about it, this week had gone well. After their rocky start, they’d gotten great stuff, and the picture was on its way to being a success. She needed to change the subject, lest her friends think she was lovesick or something. “Anyway, that’s a minor distraction. Everything else is going swimmingly. Rita Carter is divine. She should be twice the star she is already.”

“I’m sure she will be after your picture,” added Joan, clinking her glass against Arlene’s fresh cocktail.

Arlene blushed. “You’re just saying that because you’re my friend.”

Joan gave her a stern look. “I am not. For nine years I wanted an Oscar, and who finally got it for me? You. And your stellar script.”

“Oh, Joan, you won it for yourself.”

“No, I didn’t. And you’ve got the Oscar to prove it.”

“But—”

Dash raised his hand to interrupt. “I’ve had this argument with her before. Just tell her she’s right.”

Arlene laughed, but an uneasy bead of dread slunk into the back of her mind. Oscar or no Oscar, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was off her game and distracted. And that it was all Don Lamont’s fault. “Oh, all right, fine. Joan, I won you your Oscar. Happy?”

“Very.” Joan preened and sipped at her gin stinger. Arlene tilted her head at a sound in the other room. God, she really needed to get ahold of herself. She could swear she’d heard Don’s voice floating over the bar from the restaurant’s red vinyl booths into the Back Room. Now she was hearing him when he wasn’t even there? Maybe the second drink was a bad idea.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she muttered, getting up to make a beeline for the ladies’ room. Some cold water splashed on her face should set her right. And then she could go back to enjoying her evening with her friends. A few normal hours of boozing and talking shop in Musso and Frank’s Back Room—a standard Hollywood Friday night.

Lost in her thoughts, she bumped into someone in the narrow walkway that ran between the bar and the bathrooms. “I’m so—” Her apology caught in her throat as her outstretched hands made contact with a soft, if somewhat careworn sweater, and she looked up to see Don Lamont.

“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘sorry.’” He grinned, grabbing her hands and helping to set her firmly back on her feet. “But if anyone should be apologizing, it’s me.”

The words stung, surprisingly, reminding her of how he’d apologized to her for the kiss. When she had been equally as culpable. No matter how she tried to excuse it or blame it on an overzealous acting choice.

All Don had done since the moment he’d arrived was try to make the picture as good as it could be. She’d built her walls so high, and she’d refused to climb their battlements and see the truth. That Don—no matter how he’d hurt her when he’d left and never written, never phoned—was trying his best. Wasn’t that really all she could ask for? “What are you apologizing for? It was your quick thinking and creativity that saved my neck this week. I should really be thanking you.”

“Oh.” He waved it off. “No, that was for both of us. I want this picture to be a success as badly as you do.”

He’d said that to her before. But she hadn’t really believed him until this moment. She’d assumed that he’d go running back to Broadway if the picture was a flop. He had a perfectly good career waiting for him in New York. But maybe she ought to start believing in him again. A dangerous prospect, for certain, but if they kept it strictly a professional belief, there was no harm in that, was there? Maybe they could be friends again. On equal terms, instead of the strange unevenness of his brotherly affection and her teenage longing. She could give him that and still keep her heart safe.

“No, it’s nothing to do with the picture.” He gave her a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry for crashing your party. I knew you were coming to Musso’s tonight.”

“How—”

“You and Joan settled your plans while I was in your office, remember?”

She nodded. She’d forgotten he’d heard that. The notion that he’d come here for her landed in the pit of her stomach like a stone. This was exactly the type of thing she needed to avoid. “Did you come here to find me? Because I’ve told you, Don, we’re making a film together. That’s all. How many times do I have to tell you that we can never go back to what we once were?”

A look of hurt flashed in his eyes, and she regretted being so blunt. But he didn’t seem to be taking the hint.

“Eleanor and I were at the Clover Club.”

Eleanor. The sound of her name was like being doused with a bucket of cold water. Arlene had no reason to be jealous of her. After all, at this point, Eleanor Lester knew Don Lamont better than she did. But for some reason, the reminder that Eleanor was here—that she was Don’s creative partner and lover, exactly the type of partnership Arlene had once believed she wanted most in this world—rankled. She craned her head over Don’s shoulder to see if she could spot the familiar shock of Eleanor’s platinum blond hair in the dining room. Don seemed to read her mind. “It’s me and Eddie here tonight. Eleanor was tired.”

“I’ll bet,” Arlene muttered under her breath, envisioning Don and Eleanor in a multitude of compromising positions. God, what was wrong with her? They were adults. The two of them could take whatever position they liked as many times a day as they saw fit. “So, what, then? The Clover Club wasn’t good enough for Don Lamont?” Don sighed heavily, and she realized she was doing it again. Judging him. Treating him like an interloper instead of a professional equally committed to making this picture a success. “Sorry, that was uncalled for.”

“I know you think the worst of me, Arlene. But I didn’t come here to disrupt your evening. Eddie really wanted to come here tonight. To toast our number and celebrate the first two weeks of filming. I told him we shouldn’t. I told him we could go anywhere else: the Cocoanut Grove, Chasen’s, the Trocadero. I wanted to stay at the Clover Club and eat there. But Eddie insisted we come here. I couldn’t really argue with him since he saved my neck this week. Plus it’s walking distance from our hotel.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’re at the Starlight Inn,” she said without thinking.

“How do you know that?” Don’s repentant air disappeared at her words, replaced by defensiveness. Or was it fear? She couldn’t say. Either way, it was an odd response.

“Ida, Harry’s secretary, told me,” she replied. “I wanted to talk to you that first night. After everything went so wrong. He told me where to find you.”

Don grimaced and muttered something like “Harry’s secretary sure is blabby.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know it was a secret.” She should move on, go to the bathroom and let him be. He seemed as frazzled to bump into her here as she was to see him.

“It’s not. Well, not from you anyway. But I didn’t realize that the studio was handing my address out like I’m in the yellow pages.”

“They’re not. It’s—”

Don interrupted her. “I never saw you that night. And they didn’t say I had any messages when I checked at the desk.”

Arlene felt her cheeks pink at his line of inquiry. “No, I–I didn’t end up stopping by. You seemed otherwise engaged.” She didn’t want to say the name. It left a sour taste in her mouth.

Don rolled his eyes. “Eleanor.”

“Yes, well, I thought it best to leave you to your…dance partner. Hoped it might help you work out some of your nervous energy.”

Don gave her quizzical look. “Eleanor isn’t exactly the ideal partner for working out nervous energy. She tends to generate it, more like. Anyway, I really did try to convince Eddie to go somewhere else. I didn’t want to bother you or your friends.”

He looked over her shoulder and nodded in the direction of her party, still seated at the bar and completely oblivious to the fact that she’d walked straight into an awkward situation in the hall. “But he seems to have this idea in his head that I’m attracted to you, so I didn’t want to tell him you’d be here or it would’ve only made him more insufferable.”

“So, you’re not attracted to me?” she blurted out. God, what was she doing? Why was she asking him this? Had the gin gone to her head that quickly?

“No, I… No, sorry, I didn’t… No…” She hated to admit it was kind of adorable watching him stumble over his words. He’d always seemed so cocksure that it bordered on arrogance. It was fun seeing him fumbling for the right words for once. Particularly after her sticking her foot in her mouth talking about the hotel. “I didn’t mean that. You’re beautiful, Arlene. Any man would be a fool not to notice it. It’s just, well, you’ve made it clear we’re to keep things strictly professional. And Eddie can be a little obnoxious when it comes to matchmaking.”

Arlene blushed, hearing Don call her beautiful. How many sleepless nights had she imagined him saying those words? Not once had she ever imagined it happening in a dark hallway next to a noisy kitchen. But then again, life was not a movie. She darted her eyes to Joan and Dash. “I’m familiar with friends and that problem.”

Don laughed. “Anyway, sorry. Eddie and I will have one drink and we’ll go. I can’t afford to eat here anyway.”

Arlene scrunched her face in confusion. “The studio isn’t paying you enough to go out for a nice dinner?”

“Uh, no, they are. It’s complicated, that’s all. Ignore me. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

She wanted to push, to know more. Like why he was staying in a dive of a hotel when the studio tended to put their stars up at the Roosevelt or the Chateau Marmont or even the Beverly Hills Hotel until actors found a more permanent living situation. Why was Don living hand to mouth like a starving artist? Instead of a man who’d recently starred in a Broadway hit and who was receiving a weekly salary from Evets Studios. She was dying to ask him, but she honored his request to ignore him. “Well, you and Eddie should stay as long as you like. It’s a public restaurant.”

“No, I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable. This was supposed to be your night to unwind with your friends.”

Arlene started to protest again, but just then, Joan slipped into the hall and tapped her on the shoulder. “Dash wants to go home, so we’re leaving.” Joan looked meaningfully at Don. “But you should stay.”

Arlene sincerely hoped that she had been more subtle last year when she’d been trying to get Joan to realize she was in love with Dash. “Can’t you stay until we finish this round? Then we can all go.”

Joan made a show of waggling her eyebrows. “I really can’t wait to get home. It’s an emergency—a female emergency,” she hissed, casting her voice to a sotto voce register that wasn’t a whisper so much as a waving red flag.

Arlene rolled her eyes. “Fine, all right, let me use the ladies’ and I’ll go with you.”

But Joan was already walking away, calling over her shoulder, “No, darling, I don’t want to spoil your evening. Stay.” In the distance, Arlene could hear muttering that sounded distinctly like Flynn Banks complaining about being separated from his favorite bar.

She knew when she’d been beaten. She had two options. She could go home, throw the world’s most pathetic pity party, and turn in before most of Hollywood had even really started their night. Or she could stay. Here. With Don. Who had already spent part of his evening dancing with the woman he’d been dating for the last several years.

She wasn’t sure which was the worse idea. But she didn’t feel like going home and tucking herself beneath her chenille bedspread before eleven o’clock. She’d had one and a half cocktails, and she was weary of her responsible, sensible, career-first lifestyle. Tomorrow, she could be pragmatic Arlene again. But tonight, maybe she could have some fun.

She had to be careful with Don; she could never risk losing her heart to him again, not least because he was already spoken for. But they were working together, whether she liked it or not. And if she was honest with herself, her sense of self-preservation had made her unreasonable. Some might even say unduly harsh.

She hadn’t trusted Don and his eager insistence on dancing back into her life. But he seemed to genuinely want to get to know her as she was now. Not pick up where he’d left off with the girl she had been. She might as well let him. Hell, it would make directing the picture smoother and easier in the long run if she didn’t perpetually feel the need to hold him at arm’s length.

She cast one last look at her friends, resisting the urge to laugh as Dash practically grabbed Flynn by the neck to steer him toward the exit. Joan looked over her shoulder and gave Arlene a knowing wink, which she was dead certain Don also saw. She shook her head and smirked at Don. “What was it you were saying about meddling, obnoxious matchmaking friends?”

He laughed. “They always think they know better, don’t they?”

And then she surprised even herself, asking, “You want to grab a booth and a bite to eat? My treat. I’ll put it on the studio’s tab.”