Platinum Doll. Anne Girard

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      She watched him dash past the line of would-be actresses and inside the casting office, and then she sank against the car seat and slipped on her sunglasses, feeling entirely embarrassed by the encounter.

      When she looked up again, the young man was hurrying back toward her car with Rosalie and two other men. They were older, serious looking, and they were staring at her with the most curious expressions, even Rosalie.

      “See what I mean?” she heard the first one say to the others as they approached.

      “So then, what is a dame who sparkles like you doing sitting here if you’re not trying to break into pictures?” one of them asked.

      She glanced over at Rosalie, whose usually cheery smile seemed hidden behind something that looked like a glimmer of envy.

      “I was just waiting for her, that’s all. Tell ’em, Rosie.”

      Rosalie was silent.

      “Well, miss, whatever your story is, I want you to take this,” the shorter of the two men said as he began to write something on his clipboard.

      Harlean saw Rosalie look away.

      “It’s a letter of introduction to the Central Casting Bureau. All three of us are gonna sign it.”

      “That’s awfully nice of you, but, honest, I’m not—”

      “Listen, sweetheart, everyone has a story, so you don’t need to sell us. Dave is definitely gonna want to see you.”

      “Dave Allen is the top guy over at Central Casting. It’s at the corner of Hollywood and Western Avenue. Head over there right now and give his secretary this letter.”

      She didn’t want to be seen. It was really the last thing she wanted but she had been raised always to be polite. “Thank you,” she said as she took the letter and pressed it into her handbag. “Are you ready, Rosalie?” she asked, then stepped back into the car and started the engine.

      As they drove off the Fox lot and back out onto Sunset Boulevard, she could feel Rosalie’s reproving glare. “I’ve been trying to get that kind of attention in this town for over a year. All you do is sit there and they come to you like three foxes about to raid the henhouse.”

      “I didn’t do a thing, Rosie, I swear.”

      “I know. And that’s what makes it so damn frustrating! And where do you think you’re going? This isn’t the way to Central Casting.”

      “You’re right, it isn’t. I’m going home. I told them I don’t want to be an actress, and that’s the truth.” It was certainly flattering to have been noticed like that, and to have had three studio executives see her as something unique. Secretly, it was even a bit enticing. However, the heartbreaking disappointment and struggle most actresses endured dampened any real enthusiasm she might have had.

      “Well, what the hell do you want to do? Bake cakes and have babies?”

      “Maybe write a novel.”

      Rosalie stared at her. “A novel? You?”

      “I know it sounds silly but I’ve always wanted to try.” She felt herself flush. “I love all kinds of books. I read everything, poetry, even some of the German philosophers—Hegel and a little bit of Nietzsche.”

      Rosalie’s expression remained one of incredulity. “I’ve never even heard of those guys.”

      “I read them but I didn’t really like it,” she amended and blushed. “I really love poetry, Shelley especially.”

      “Now, him I’ve heard of,” Rosalie said, sounding relieved.

      “I read his poems over and over when I’m sad or when I’m lonely. And Keats, I just love Keats.”

      Rosalie shook her head. “Wow, who’d have guessed you were so well-read?”

      Harlean had never told anyone about her love for Keats, her passion for reading in general, or about the novel she was starting to formulate in her mind. She wasn’t sure why she had confessed it now to someone she didn’t know all that well. Even Chuck did not fully understand the dear companions her books had become in the lonely hours of her childhood. They were both quiet for the next few blocks.

      “So, a writer, hmm? Like Jane Austen or something?”

      “More like George Sand. Now there was a gutsy woman.”

      “George Sand wasn’t a man?” Rosalie asked, and Harlean could tell that she meant the question.

      “No, Rosie, she wasn’t a man. But she did have to figure out how to make her way in a man’s world. Anyway, don’t tell any of our neighbors about me wanting to write, okay? They would have a real good laugh at my expense.”

      “Now, why on earth would I tell those magpies anything, honey? At least you do want to do something with your life. You’ve got goals, anyway,” Rosalie said. “I don’t think I could stand it if I thought there was nothing more than washing Ivor’s dirty socks and cooking his dinner for me to look forward to.”

      “There’s more to marriage than just that. Personally, I’m pretty fond of the more intimate parts.”

      “Is that a fact? I already find those pretty damn repetitive,” Rosalie giggled.

      “Then you sure aren’t doing something right.”

      “Not everyone is as free-spirited as you, Harlean. You’re this stunning young gal with an amazing head on your shoulders. No wonder Chuck’s always all over you, and mad-jealous to boot. Especially after the awful way his parents died, he probably lives his life terrified he’s gonna lose you.”

      Rosalie had been so kind to her on the cruise that night when she’d been so upset with Chuck’s drunkenness. When Harlean had told her about the tragic death of his parents, she had offered sympathy and advice.

      “Well, that isn’t gonna happen,” Harlean declared. “Whatever you think I am, first and foremost I’m Harlean McGrew, now and forever.”

      “What you are, honey, is a plain old-fashioned contradiction.”

      Harlean felt a smile begin to lengthen her lips at the sound of that. “I don’t mind being a contradiction as long as I know my own mind. And I can write a book anytime as long as I have my husband with me. Chuck really is the only thing that matters to me when it comes right down to it.”

      After she dropped Rosalie off, Harlean rushed home. She burst through the door and called out for Chuck, eager suddenly for the assurance of his arms around her again, but the only sound that came in answer was from Duke Ellington’s orchestra. Chuck had forgotten to turn off the radio before he’d gone out.

      As she glanced around she saw that he hadn’t even left her a note. There was only the Saturday Evening Post spread open on the sofa and a half-empty cup of coffee on the floor in front of it. She worked hard to press back her disappointment. She wondered what he would think if she told him about what had happened earlier at the Fox studio but of СКАЧАТЬ