Love Me Page 20

  “I’d rather stand, thank you.”

  “Oh, Amanda, don’t be ridiculous.” Olive sighed. “Sit down.”

  Hating herself, Amanda did as she was told. There was no point in grandstanding now.

  “Sherry?” Olive asked, refilling her own glass.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Suit yourself.” Olive took a sip, her mouth puckering slightly from the dryness of the liquor. “Now,” she said, putting the glass back down on the desk exactly where it had been. “Let me guess. The studio dropped your contract.”

  Amanda had told herself she wouldn’t show any surprise in front of Olive. She swallowed hard. “How did you know?”

  “Amanda, dear, let’s face it. You certainly take a nice picture, but you haven’t exactly been burning up the screen.” Olive lit herself a cigarette from the gilt-edged box on the desk. “But you’ve been spending more than they paid you, and now you’re into the studio for money and you’ve got no way to pay them back, is that right?” She sat back, arms crossed over her chest in triumph, puffing away.

  Amanda looked down at her hands, her face flushed with shame. How the hell does she know? Olympus had promised not to make her termination public for a few more weeks—“to give you some leverage should you seek placement at another studio,” the employment secretary had said benevolently, as though she were bestowing on Amanda some great kindness. Gabby, bless her self-obsessed little soul, had never bothered to follow up about the results of the meeting that had filled her friend with such terror that day on the Olympus lot. Harry was unreachable, Margo was remote. Dane … well, Dane Forrest knew. He hadn’t offered any help, and she hadn’t expected him to. But she’d never expected him to go blabbing it all over town.

  Just goes to show you can’t trust anyone.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” Olive said, as though she could read Amanda’s thoughts. “Nobody’s betrayed you. It’s just such an old story. So predictable that if it were a picture they’d send it in for rewrites. For a few girls, a studio contract is a winning lottery ticket; for most, it’s a shell game. You come out worse off than you went in.” Her words were hard, but her voice was not unkind. “How much are you in for? It must be quite a lot if you came to me.”

  “Six thousand dollars.”

  “What?”

  “Six thousand dollars,” Amanda said. Just saying the number aloud made her blush with shame. “And change.”

  “My God.” Olive shook her head. “You’ve really gotten yourself into a pickle, haven’t you?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Well, I don’t give gifts, Amanda. You’re going to have to work for it. I want you back on the books immediately, and back in the house, where I can keep an eye on you.”

  “Fine.”

  “I’ll give you a small allowance, for necessities. We’ll deduct it from your earnings each week, and you’ll be on every night until the debt is clear. And I don’t want any complaints this time. You’ll go with who I tell you to, and you’ll do whatever they want.” Olive’s eyes glittered. “Whatever they want. Is that clear?”

  Amanda swallowed hard, forcing back the bile that rose to her throat at the thought of exactly what Olive meant. The endless string of dingy hotel rooms; the sour breath and wandering hands. The smug, cruel smiles of men who thought they knew exactly what they were owed.

  And worse—maybe worst of all—the expressions of everyone who saw her, their looks of disapproval and pity and disgust. The looks she wanted to punch right off their faces, the looks that made her want to scream and cry and spit You don’t know who I am! You don’t know what it’s like! You don’t know what I’ve been through. You don’t know anything at all!

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Good.” Olive tossed off the last of the sherry and allowed herself a small smile. “You can stay here tonight. I’m afraid I’ve given Lucy your old room, but you can take Dot’s at the end of the hall.”

  “What happened to Dot?”

  “Dot?” Olive’s smile disappeared. “To put it bluntly, Dot went and got herself knocked up. I do so hate to use such a vulgar phrase”—she gave a little ladylike shudder—“but when it comes to that girl there’s really no other word for it. And since she refused to do … shall we say … the practical thing, there was simply no place here for her anymore. After all, she’s no use to anyone in that condition.”

  No, Amanda thought, a shiver prickling her neck. She’s certainly not.

  “Now,” Olive continued briskly, flicking past a few pages in the ledger as she picked up her fountain pen. “What would you like us to call you? Ginger, still? Or shall we come up with something else? Something to make our clients think they’re getting someone new?”

  Ginger’s fine, Amanda was about to say, when suddenly, the door behind Olive opened and shut and the whole world changed.

  It was only for a moment. And the door only opened a crack. Just enough for a brief glimpse of a platinum blond head, the silky sash of a dressing gown, a round blue eye stretched wide, as though wondering just what the hell was going on. But there was no mistaking who it was.

  Diana Chesterfield. At Olive Moore’s house.

  And clearly quite at home.

  From the look on Olive’s face, she knew exactly what Amanda had seen.

  And exactly what it meant.

  “All right,” Olive said in a low voice. Her lips pressed so tightly together they were almost as white as the cuffs of her shirt. “What do you want?”

  What do you want? How much not to tell? How much to make sure that any breath of what you’ve seen never leaves this room? Olive was going to buy Amanda’s silence, same as Amanda herself had done countless times. All those tens and twenties to bellmen and bathroom attendants finally repaid. All she had to do was name her price and she was free. Careful, Norma Mae, Amanda thought, steadying herself, her stomach churning harder than ever. Don’t lose your nerve, but don’t overplay your hand.

  “I want a thousand dollars. Cash.”

  Olive let out a short bark of a laugh. “A thousand dollars? Darling, please. I could have you killed for a thousand dollars in cash.”

  Amanda’s hands flew to her abdomen, as if to ward off an errant knife. “Five hundred, then.” She wrapped her arms protectively around herself, doing the calculations in her head. That should do it. “Five hundred dollars. Right now.”

  Olive stared at her. Amanda felt her insides turning to water, but she forced herself to hold Olive’s gaze. Don’t back down. Don’t show weakness. Not when you’re this close.

  Finally, Olive reached into her blouse and produced a small gold key, which she slid into the lock of her desk drawer with a smooth click. Wordlessly, she drew out a thick bank envelope and began to count out the crisp bills one by one, placing them in a neat stack in the middle of the desk.

  “You know, Amanda,” she said when she had finished. “You always were a terrible negotiator. I would have gone up to seven-fifty.”

  Amanda didn’t bother to answer her, didn’t bother to come up with some smart remark. She had already swept the precious bundle into her hands and was running out of the room. Running down the big staircase with the wall sconces and the naughty pictures, through the parlor, pushing past the astonished Lucy with the radio up as loud as ever and out onto the street.

  When she reached the dove-gray coupe parked at the bottom of the driveway, she doubled over at last, crouching next to the tires, heaving the contents of her churning stomach onto the gravel. It’s the past, Amanda thought as she was sick again and again. You’re vomiting up the past. Go on. Get it all out.

  Back at the boardinghouse, the wretched Mildred was waiting for her, blocking her door like the strip of tape surrounding a crime scene.

  “Mrs. O’Malley!” she screamed as soon as Amanda’s green face appeared over the top of the stairs. “Mrs.
O’Malley, she’s here!”

  The big Irishwoman popped out from behind a corner with surprising stealth for a person of her formidable size. “So, there she is,” she trilled, wiping work-reddened hands on her calico apron. “All those bills and finally, the lady decides to grace us with her presence.”

  “Please, Mrs. O’Malley,” Amanda begged, her hand clamped to her still unsettled stomach. “I’m in a terrible hurry. I just need to get a few things out of my room—”

  “And sneak away in the middle of the night without coughing up so much as a cent? Do I look like I was born yesterday?”

  Amanda closed her eyes tightly for a moment. I have to get out of here. It doesn’t matter how. “How much do I owe you?”

  Mrs. O’Malley and Mildred shared a triumphant look. Amanda couldn’t help wondering just what Mildred was getting out of the deal. Besides the satisfaction of seeing me busted. “It’s eight weeks you’ve gone without paying,” Mrs. O’Malley said eagerly. “At twelve dollars a week. With laundry expenses and breakfast, not to mention the paper and ink for all those overdue bill notices,” she added, “we’ll make it a hundred dollars even.”

  A hundred dollars. Amanda thought of the wad of Olive’s ironed bills in her purse. Last-minute passage on the Super Chief would be at least two hundred bucks. And then there’s a hotel once I get there, not to mention meals and clothes …

  “I’ll give you fifty,” she said firmly. “In cash. And I’ll wire you the rest in a few weeks. With interest, of course.”

  “Nice try, sister.” Mildred gave a cruel bark of a laugh. “Mrs. O’Malley, I still get first pick of her clothes, isn’t that right? The hats and the bags I’ll leave for you.”

  “Oh, hush up, Mildred,” Mrs. O’Malley hissed. She took a step or two closer to Amanda. “With interest? And how do I know you’re good for it?”

  Amanda bit her lip, her mind racing, thinking of the one thing she could use as collateral. Why not? Where I’m going, I won’t need it anyway. “I’ll … I’ll leave you my car.”

  Mrs. O’Malley’s face stayed grave, but her eyes were suddenly lit from within. Score. “Your car? Not that little gray thing you’re always speeding around in?”

  “That little gray thing is a dove-gray 1938 customized Packard with all-leather interior and a state-of-the-art radio,” Amanda said, picking up steam, “and it’s yours until I come back for it. Unless I fail to wire you the money, in which case it’s yours completely. Under one condition,” she added.

  Mrs. O’Malley’s face was as alight with greed as Mildred’s was with fury. “What’s that?”

  “The first time you drive it, it’s going to be to take me to La Grande Station. The Santa Fe Super Chief leaves in an hour, and I’m going to be on it.”

  “Why?” Mrs. O’Malley was already taking off her apron, seeming, to Amanda’s delight, quite swept up in the adventure. “Where are you going?”

  Amanda closed her eyes. She could already picture the expression on Harry’s face when he saw her, feel the warmth of his arms as he clutched her to his chest, never to let her go.

  “New York City,” she whispered. “I’m going to New York City.”

  And with just a little bit of luck, I may never come back.

  Twenty

  “In the ballroom, you’re in for a real treat. I think it’s the most marvelous room in the whole gorgeous house.”

  The studio-appointed realtor’s high heels clacked like the keys of a typewriter as she threw open the curved French doors and ushered Margo and Gabby through.

  “There,” she said happily, looking around with a triumphant smile. “Now does that deserve a ‘wow’ or does that deserve a ‘wow’?”

  Margo turned slowly to take in every inch of the cavernous room. The walls were the color of desert sands, with something mixed into the paint to make it glitter. Carved marble columns, inlaid with ornate mosaics of turquoise and jasper, rose to the midnight-blue ceiling, which twinkled with hundreds of tiny stars, like diamonds against a swath of rich velvet. In one corner, a huge golden fountain etched with mysterious hieroglyphics gurgled softly, sending crystalline jets of water down the proud face of a sculpted pharaoh.

  “Wow.” Wow indeed. It looks like King Tut’s summer home.

  The realtor—Miss Perkins, Margo thought her name was—looked pleased. “You’ll note the Egyptian motif, of course, which was all the rage in the twenties but looks every bit as spectacular and unique today.” She paused, as though to allow the profundity of this statement time to sink in. “Now, the floor of this room,” she continued when she was certain Margo was sufficiently dazzled, “is particularly special. It’s genuine obsidian tile from Argentina, installed by the original builders at the suggestion of screen legend Rudolph Valentino, who insisted there was nothing like a tile floor for a tango.” She beamed, leaning forward as though she were revealing a wonderful surprise. “So in addition to being a stunning conversation piece, this floor is also of great historical import.”

  “What’s the deal with the ceiling?” Gabby asked loudly, before Margo could respond. “Is it supposed to look like the one at the Grove or what?”

  Miss Perkins regarded Gabby with the same look of anxious repellence she’d been fixing on the diminutive starlet since she’d turned up with Margo. It was clear the woman had no idea what Gabby was doing there or how she was supposed to behave toward her. Should she treat Gabby with the deference shown to an important star or the disdain shown to an unwelcome third wheel? Especially one whose playful presence (in lieu of any trace of the future master of the house) seemed to indicate that Margo was nowhere near ready to make the kind of financial commitment that would lead to a healthy commission? “Excuse me?”

  “The Cocoanut Grove,” Gabby said, even louder this time, as though Miss Perkins were deaf. “The nightclub at the Ambassador Hotel. It has a ceiling just like this.”

  “Ah. I see.” Miss Perkins tried to smile, her lips pressing together in a thin red slash, as if she had an enormous paper cut on the lower half of her face. “Well, any similarity is entirely accidental, I assure you. This ceiling—like the rest of the house—was designed by the great Wallace Neff himself. It’s an exact depiction of the night sky over Giza—which is in Egypt, of course—at the time of the pyramids.”

  Margo made a few throaty murmurs of polite appreciation. It seemed to be the only possible response. She might technically be the customer, a grown woman with an engagement ring on her finger and a huge line of credit with the Olympus bank, but something about Miss Perkins made her feel as though she were once again an Orange Grove girl in a navy boiled-wool jumper, being steered carefully (mind the nudes) around the Los Angeles Museum of History, Science, and Art on Mr. Howell’s art appreciation class’s annual field trip.

  Miss Perkins swept ahead in a cloud of sickly sweet perfume. “And now, if you’ll be so kind as to accompany me up the grand staircase, we can commence our tour of the private quarters.”

  “How did they know?” Gabby whispered as they followed the realtor back out the French doors and up the huge curving staircase.

  Whispering so the teacher won’t hear. Now we really are back at school. “Know what?”

  “About the sky. How do they know that’s what it looked like back then? In the time of the pyramids, I mean. There can’t be anyone left who remembers. That must have been four hundred years ago.”

  “More like four thousand.”

  Gabby pouted, running her tiny hand restlessly over the polished mahogany banister. “Four hundred, four thousand, what’s the difference? Dead is dead.”

  Margo dissolved into giggles. Thank goodness for Gabby, she thought, ignoring the look of alarm on Miss Perkins’s face as she glanced back to see just what was so funny. I don’t know if she does it on purpose or what, but God knows I needed a laugh.

  “Thank you for coming,” she told her
friend sincerely. “I don’t know how I could have faced this otherwise. It would have been too, too dreary on my own.”

  “Too, too!” Gabby said, imitating her. “La-di-dah. Someone’s been spending an awful lot of time with Diana Chesterfield.”

  “Honestly.” Margo rolled her eyes theatrically. “Just when I said something nice.”

  “Aw, you know I’m just kidding.” Gabby grinned. “Anyway, I was glad to come. I’m all done for now on the picture, and at least it gets me out from under Viola’s nose for a couple hours.”

  “What picture?” Margo asked. “You didn’t even tell me they put you on a picture! Gabby, that’s exciting!”

  “Aw, it’s just a revue kind of thing. The Madding Crowd, they’re calling it, although the title will probably change a million times,” Gabby said, fiddling with the handle of her purse. “They’re still shooting some of the big dance numbers and doing pickup shots, things like that. They just asked me to stick in two numbers at the last minute: ‘I Cried for You’ and ‘Ballin’ the Jack.’ ”

  They had reached the top of the stairs now and followed Miss Perkins down a carpeted corridor that seemed positively endless. If this is the way to the bedrooms, Margo thought, I’m going to have to start carrying mixed nuts and a canteen every night.

  “The ones you did after the Oscars?”

  “The very same. Same songs, same arrangements, same band. But we can’t record the sound track until Eddie gets back from New York.”

  “They didn’t make him finish the picture first?”

  Gabby rolled her eyes. “Like I said, it was last-minute. And besides, it seems he’s got some clause in his contract that says he can take off whenever he gets a live gig in a theater of a specific size. Addendum ‘Music Comes First.’ ” She snorted. “God only knows how he swung that. I never could. He’s never even been in a picture before.” She shook her head furiously, her dark brown curls bobbing from side to side. “Damn men! They let each other do whatever they want. Meantime, if I gain so much as a pound over my contract weight, the studio is fully within its rights to tar and feather me and ride me down the middle of North Crescent on a rail.”