Starstruck (9 page)

“No, of course not, I’m sorry—”

With a hollow click, the original operator got on the line. “Please deposit five cents for an additional three minutes.”

Oh God
. Frantically, Margaret searched her pockets for change. Larry Julius’s laughter echoed down the line. “Duchess, are you calling me from a pay phone?”

A trickle of sweat raced down Margaret’s face from her hairline and fell directly into her eye. “I … I guess so.”

Larry Julius was still laughing. “And the Great Depression has finally reached the hallowed streets of Pasadena. All right, you win. Gladys?”

“Yes, sir?”
Has his secretary been listening all this time?
Margaret wondered.

“See if there’s a soundstage available a week from Thursday. Tell Kurtzman we’ll need him to direct. Margaret, you call to confirm. That is, if you can come up with another nickel.”

“Oh, Mr. Julius—” Margaret began, but she was interrupted by Mary Ann Nesbit, banging furiously on the side of the phone box.

For on the horizon loomed the unmistakable receding hairline of Miss Cumberland the gym teacher. Mary Ann was already running down the hill to safety, Claire Prince in hot pursuit.

“Margaret!” Doris screamed. “Run! Run!”

Margaret ran. She jumped over the gate and under the box hedge; she ran the length of the hedgerows and down the hillock. She ran all the thoughts of Hollywood and Larry Julius and Diana Chesterfield clear out of her head. She ran so fast and so furiously she didn’t even notice Evelyn Gamble crouching on the floor of the phone box, quietly pocketing a small square of crumpled card.

O
lympus Studios was like another world.

Set on the side of a hill, it was partially hidden by fat clouds, like some artist’s rendering of the mythological home of the Greek gods that was its namesake. Rows of fragrant eucalyptus trees flanked the winding path that led to a tall outer wall of glittering pink stone. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, Olympus’s chief rival studio, had a famous slogan: “More Stars Than There Are in Heaven.” Maybe MGM had more stars, Margaret thought, gazing up at the enormous wrought iron gate, worked in an Art Deco motif of moons and shooting stars. But what did it matter, when entering the gates of Olympus was like entering the gates of heaven itself?

Margaret had awoken that morning at the crack of dawn. Her parents were still snoring away in their separate bedrooms just down the hall when she crept out of bed, quiet as a mouse.
She scrubbed her face and neck with cold water from the porcelain washbowl on her dressing table—she couldn’t risk the noise of the running water from the bath—and carefully undid the big hot rollers she’d put in all around the bottom of her hair and covered tightly with a piece of pink netting the night before.

From her dresser drawer, she took out the apricot silk slip with lace insets that she’d secreted from her mother’s drawer a few days earlier. The latest issue of
Picture Palace
had run an interview with Joan Crawford in which the star waxed rhapsodic for several paragraphs about the importance of beautiful lingerie. “For me,” Joan had said, “it is the most important thing I put on. A modern American woman knows her most impenetrable armor is an exquisite foundation.” Joan Crawford wasn’t Margaret’s favorite actress, not by a long shot. When Margaret was a child, her mother used to say she would always catch her being naughty because “I have eyes in the back of my head.” For some reason, Margaret had pictured Joan Crawford’s eyes staring out from just above Mrs. Frobisher’s smooth marcelled chignon, a deeply unsettling image she’d never quite been able to shake. Still, Joan Crawford always seemed confident. Terrifying, but confident. And today of all days, confidence was what Margaret needed most.

Over the slip, she put on the brand-new suit her mother had bought her at Bullocks on Wilshire Boulevard: a gorgeous cerulean crepe with a diamond-shaped velveteen panel down the front of the jacket. She was supposed to be saving it for her debutante wardrobe, but it made her waist look about ten inches around. Her little pearl pin went on the jacket, of course. Then a swipe of Scarlet Crush, a spritz of Evening in Paris perfume—
contraband and, like the lipstick, surreptitiously paid for with weeks of unused milk money—and finally, she dared to look at her finished reflection in the mirror. Not bad, not bad at all. But a movie star?

Well
, Margaret thought,
that’s what I’m going to find out
.

There was a little security hut off to the side of the main gate. She was nervously whispering her name to the noticeably sleepy guard when an extremely thin young man with an undone bow tie flapping around his scrawny neck leapt toward her. “Miss Frobisher?”

“Yes?”

“Welcome! I’m Stanley, one of Mr. Julius’s assistants. I’m here to see that you get where you need to go.”

“Thank you, Mr. Stanley. That’s very kind.”

“Oh, no, Miss Frobisher. Stanley’s my first name.”

“It is?” Margaret blushed. She was hardly accustomed to being on a first-name basis with strange men. “And you don’t mind my calling you that?”

“Unless you can pronounce Cimenoczolowski.”

“I guess Stanley it is.”

Stanley guffawed, a bit more loudly, Margaret felt, than her feeble joke deserved, even locating a skinny knee inside his loose tweed slacks to theatrically slap. “You’re a keen one, Miss Frobisher, that’s for darn sure. Mr. Julius sure knows how to pick ’em.”

’Em?
Margaret wanted to ask.
Which ’em? How many of ’em?
But she held her tongue. After all, a true star—a Diana Chesterfield sort of star—wouldn’t ask such questions.
Confidence
, she thought.
Just think of your underwear and you can do anything
.

“Do you have an automobile?” Stanley asked.

Margaret shook her head. “I took the streetcar.”

Stanley nodded approvingly. “That’s good. Mr. Karp will like to hear that. He likes a practical girl.”

Margaret suddenly felt dizzy. The idea of Leo Karp, the president of Olympus Studios, being even remotely aware of her existence made her stomach flip dangerously. “We’re not going to see Mr. Karp now, are we?”

“Oh gosh, no, Miss Frobisher! Hardly anyone gets in to see Mr. Karp. I haven’t even met him, and I’ve been working here for more than three years. I did get to wash his car once.” Stanley’s eyes took on a dreamy cast. “A ’36 Duesenberg. Absolutely gorgeous. Cream exterior, leather seats the color of butter. I rubbed it with a cloth diaper after and it gleamed like a South Sea pearl.” Abruptly, he cleared his throat, shaking himself out of his reverie. “But that’s Leo Karp for you. Likes to have the best of everything, no matter what. That kind of attention to detail is an ethos you’ll see repeated, ah, repeatedly throughout the Olympus grounds.” Straightening his bow tie, he tentatively proffered an arm. “Now, Miss Frobisher. Please allow me to welcome you to the Dream Factory.”

The Dream Factory
.

Margaret had heard that phrase a thousand times; she’d always thought it was one of those hazy terms, like Tinseltown or La-La Land, that movie magazines and gossip rags like to toss around to make it seem as if Hollywood were a land apart, a through-the-looking-glass kind of place where the rules of the real world did not apply. She’d never considered that it might have something to do with the fact that being on the studio lot felt a lot like stepping into a dream.

Yet that was exactly how it felt. For example, here they were walking down a broad paved street lined with stucco bungalows and neatly kept flower beds. It was a scene that would not have been out of place in any middle-class Southern California suburb … until a man in full cowboy regalia appeared on the sidewalk, swinging his lasso absentmindedly behind him like a tail. The clattering pickup truck that came driving by couldn’t have been more prosaic, except for the gaggle of Marie Antoinette–style courtesans piled in the back, cigarettes dangling from their rouged lips as they held their towering powdered wigs in place. On an ordinary park bench, a very large man dressed as a pirate sat calmly sharing a sandwich from a paper bag with his companion, who was dressed in blue maintenance coveralls and holding a large broom. Olympus was like a fantastical dream, but it was real.

“The main grounds of Olympus—what we on the lot call the Village—are laid out to resemble the prototypical American small town,” Stanley was saying. He gestured toward a row of cheerful-looking white stone storefronts punctuated by old-fashioned lampposts and a red and blue striped barber’s pole. “We are now walking down Main Street, where one can find the studio’s own full-time barber shop, dentist’s office, doctor’s office, a general store, an all-access branch of the First National Bank, and a post office. We even have our own zip code.”

“My goodness!”

“That’s right. Everything one needs for a healthy civic life. Olympus is primarily a place of business, but it’s also a thriving community. And that, of course, includes all types of fun and games. Outside the Village, we have a year-round ice-skating rink, three Olympic-sized pools, tennis facilities, and extensive
horse stables. These are all open to Olympus employees, providing they aren’t being used for filming. Our world-famous studio commissary serves gourmet breakfasts, lunches, and dinners from five a.m. until midnight. To your right you’ll see the Olympus movie theater, which features five showings a day of beloved pictures from the Olympus vaults for anyone who needs an hour or two of happy relaxation, or perhaps a reminder of why we’re all here, doing what we do.”

Margaret’s gloved hand flew to her mouth. “You mean you can just watch movies again and again?” How often had she longed to see a favorite movie one more time after it had left the theater for good? The idea was positively magical.

“Sure thing. It’s a different picture every day. And it only costs a dollar.”

“A dollar?”
The movie theater in Pasadena cost twenty-five cents, and that bought you a double feature with the newsreel and the cartoon. On Thursday nights, they even threw in a small box of popcorn. Margaret shook her head. “I knew it was too good to be true.”

Stanley grinned. “Not a
real
dollar. An Olympus dollar. The only currency accepted by any establishment on the Olympus lot.”

Taking out a worn leather wallet from his pocket, he handed Margaret a small, rose-colored bill. It was smaller and printed on more delicate paper than regular money, and trimmed all around with silver foil. One side was printed with the Olympus logo of a lightning bolt surrounded by a crown of laurel leaves, beneath which was the Olympus motto:
Like Heaven Itself
. On the other side was a miniature portrait of Diana Chesterfield in a diamond tiara. Her image, limpidly beautiful as always,
was encircled by a narrow ribbon upon which was engraved in elaborate cursive so minuscule it could have been written by a fairy:
Diana Chesterfield, Box Office Queen 1937
.

God
, Margaret thought,
she’s even on the money. If only she were here in real life
.

“You get issued a certain sum every payday, along with your paycheck,” Stanley continued. “The props department prints up a new batch every January first, with the faces of the stars who did the biggest box office the previous year. Mr. Karp started it up ten years ago, when the silents went out. Everyone was awful blue back then, and he thought it would help morale. You know, incentive. Your pictures make money, you get your face on it.” He took in Margaret’s rapt expression. “I’m guessing you’re a fan of Miss Chesterfield’s?”

“Oh yes.” Margaret nodded fervently. “She’s my absolute favorite actress of all time.”

“You don’t say. Well, in that case, you can keep that one. I can never spend ’em all anyway.”

“You don’t think we’ll
see
Miss Chesterfield, do you?” Margaret asked hopefully.

Stanley’s eyes darted sharply to the side. “What do you mean by that?”

Margaret’s heart leapt in her chest. It had slipped her mind in all the excitement.
Wally the soda jerk was right
, she thought.
There
is
something fishy going on with Diana
. “N-nothing,” she stammered. “Just that I’m a huge fan, and it would be such a thrill to meet her.”

“Well, perhaps we can arrange something. In the future, of course.” Stanley gave her a tight smile. “But look at the time!
We’ve got to get you into wardrobe or there’s going to be trouble. Hey, watch it!”

There was a loud skidding noise, and a golf cart pulled up beside them, nearly plowing Margaret over. A round-faced man in a flat cap hung out the side.

“Jesus, Al!” Stanley exclaimed. “Watch where you’re driving that thing!”

“Whatever you say, Chimney,” said Al. He looked Margaret up and down with his beady eyes. “Who’s the twist?”

“Tryout. Stage fourteen. I’m the walker.”

“Ditch her. I’m on orders. Julius needs you in publicity stat. We got a major SOS regarding the Ice Princess, and the boss says there’s no time to lose.”

SOS?
Margaret glanced down at the bill she still clutched in her hand. Diana’s crowned image was drained of color, but you could still somehow feel the clear ice blue of her eyes.
The Ice Princess?
Were they talking about Diana?