Platinum Doll. Anne Girard

Чтение книги онлайн.

       Chapter Seven

      She decided to leave a note for Chuck saying that she was going off for the day with Rosalie and she was taking the car. Then she left before anyone was awake. She didn’t trust herself with them about this yet—her mother would be pushing for one side and her husband would be dead set against it on the other. After all, she kept reminding herself, it was rare to actually be chosen for work from the huge pool of extras they called in. For luck, she had just pinned Irene Mayer’s brooch squarely onto the collar of her dress and, before turning from the mirror’s reflection, she had admired her ingenuity in obtaining it. Ah, Irene’s face when she had presented the business card to her and demanded payment had made the entire adventure worthwhile. Of course she would return it in time, but for now the brooch was a symbol of her having set out to prove something to herself, setting a goal and then achieving it.

      Always finish what you start. It was another thing her grandfather regularly said, and the maxim came to her as she walked across the studio lot with a renewed purpose. She wondered, with a spark of amusement, if he would think that applied to his only grandchild trying to wade into the turbulent, highly competitive waters of Hollywood. She already knew the answer to that, of course.

      Skip Harlow would be livid.

      Two men in silk top hats and tails, each carrying scripts, walked by her with bearded men in plaid shirts and cowboy boots. A group of actresses in dance-hall costumes stopped them to talk. Others wearing ponchos, sombreros and great false mustaches passed her by as she made her way through the bustling Paramount back lot. There was such energy to the atmosphere that she hadn’t seen when she was younger, and there was a touch of mystery to it. Harlean hadn’t expected to be drawn in by any of it today, but being in the center of everything, and on her own, suddenly felt exciting.

      After she checked in at the casting office with a hundred other extras, the women were all shown to a huge room, the walls lined with mirrors, where they could change into the evening attire they had brought with them. Most of the women kept to themselves as they primped, straightened and pinned themselves together. They ranged from stout-looking matrons to slim ingenues. Her mother and Rosalie had both told her that if the hopefuls received a nod in the next few minutes it would mean a day’s wages to actors who were more than a little down on their luck. She could hear several of them murmuring prayers and affirmations to themselves as they filed back outside to line up around the soundstage.

      While they all waited together, Harlean began to feel as if she were trapped in a crushing jungle of competition and desperation. Most of it was costumed in stained, faded or mended satin, or taffeta and fake fur. The actresses around her gossiped, smoked cigarettes and cracked chewing gum to lessen the strain and pass the time.

      Harlean fluffed the rose silk evening dress she had worn on the cruise. It was couture and had cost her grandfather a small fortune. She guessed that hers was the only dress that had actually come from a Paris designer as she compared it to the faded costumes around her.

      A no-nonsense-looking woman and man, both in gray business attire, surveyed the long line. The man quickly assessed each hopeful extra and only occasionally said “you.” The woman wrote down the person’s name on the clipboard she carried, and they moved steadily on.

      He had chosen at least thirty by the time he came to Harlean. To her surprise, she felt her heart begin to pound. Suddenly, she desperately did not want to be passed over. It was a curious sensation—one that felt unnervingly like a growing sense of ambition.

      When he stopped in front of her, Harlean saw that he was a remarkably young and fresh-faced man for the job. However, his gaze held the critical stare of a professional who had been at this a while.

      “You, what’s your name?”

      “Harl... Jean Harlow, sir.”

      “Quite a looker. The director will want you, for sure.”

      She was uncertain whether or not she was meant to respond.

      “Follow the others,” he said with no inflection in his voice. He moved along down the line and, just like that, her moment was over.

      The chosen extras were herded inside a vast soundstage. Cloth-draped tables encircled a large dance floor and huge Georgian-style faux windows, covered with silk draperies tied back with claret-colored cords, gave the illusion of an elegant restaurant dining room.

      There was a group of tuxedo-clad actors standing around joking as Harlean and the others came in. The extras were each told to take a seat, then wait for an assistant director to move them around in what felt to Harlean like a game of musical chairs. After everyone was settled, she found herself wedged tightly at a table beside a stout, white-haired woman wearing a rhinestone tiara and a long necklace of amber-colored glass beads.

      “Any idea what the picture is called?” Harlean asked the older woman as she took out a cigarette and casually lit it with a gold lighter.

      “Not a clue. But a paycheck is a paycheck. Lula Hanford,” she said in a slightly graveled, no-nonsense tone.

      Harlean was struck by the unique name. It was lovely.

      “Jean Harlow.”

      “You’re new around the lot, aren’t you?”

      “Does it show that much?”

      She knew she probably sounded as green as grass, and looked it, as well.

      Lula gave a raspy chuckle and exhaled a cloud of smoke as a production assistant began to fill water glasses on each of the tables, and another was shouting to the assistant director. “It only shows to an old broad like me. I’ve been around a long time, and I’ve worked with ’em all—Buster Keaton, Mary Pickford, John Barrymore...”

      “No kidding?”

      “Sure. They put their pants on one leg at a time just like you СКАЧАТЬ