Love Me Page 5

  Viola sputtered, “But … but don’t you know who I am?”

  “Lady, I don’t care if you’re Eleanor Roosevelt, Eddie Sharp rehearses with musicians only. If you ain’t a musician, you ain’t coming in. Them’s the breaks.”

  “Well.” Viola looked around, as though at any moment she expected someone to come bursting out of the bushes to tell her this was a prank. “Well. I want to speak to the music department. I want to speak to Herman Steiner.”

  “Talk to whoever you want,” the man said, in as airy a tone as a six-foot-four gorilla could muster. “I don’t know about any Herman Steiner. I work for Eddie Sharp, and how he wants it, that’s how I fixes it.”

  “Well,” Viola repeated. “We’ll see about that. Come along, Gabby.”

  Gabby snatched her hand out of her mother’s grasp.

  “I would, but it’s getting late, Vi. Why don’t you just go? I’m sure it’s only a misunderstanding. By the time you get back, we’ll be all rehearsed and you can tell us how swell it sounds.”

  With a final scowl, Viola stormed off in the direction of Mr. Steiner’s office. She was wearing a net hat dotted with small white blossoms that stood out vividly against her bright red hair, making her look for all the world like a plump spotted mushroom from a Walt Disney cartoon. The gorilla stepped aside to let Gabby through, and as she squeezed past him, she could have sworn she saw him wink.

  Meant to be, Gabby thought. Wherever he was, Eddie Sharp understood her even better than she dreamed he would.

  Studio 16 was one of the larger practice rooms on the Olympus lot, big enough for a rehearsal piano with plenty of room to tap, but Gabby had never imagined what it would look like playing host to a twenty-piece orchestra. The scene inside was chaos. Black instrument cases were stacked haphazardly on every available surface; a forest of metal music stands, some overturned, spilled reams of annotated sheet music onto the floor. The musicians, seemingly oblivious to the mess, stood around the room in groups, thick blue clouds of cigarette smoke forming as they talked and laughed and argued, occasionally bringing an instrument to their lips to tootle out a note or two, as if to prove a point.

  But which the hell one is Eddie Sharp?

  Smoothing her dress nervously, Gabby spotted a tallish figure at the far end of the room with his back to her. He sported a black porkpie hat tilted at a rakish angle and had a thick blue winter scarf made of some kind of fuzzy cashmere material wound snugly around his neck. He was speaking animatedly to a group of men clutching brass instruments. They seemed to be hanging on his every word.

  Bingo, Gabby thought.

  Her excitement mounting with every step, she walked toward the broad back and cleared her throat loudly.

  The man turned around. Gabby gasped. Clearly, she had made a mistake. First of all, this guy was holding a saxophone, and Eddie Sharp didn’t play the sax.

  Second of all, Eddie Sharp wasn’t black.

  “Gabby Preston!” the man exclaimed, flashing her a smile that made his eyes crinkle around the edges in a way that was disconcertingly adorable. “You’re here. Sorry, you’re catching us on one of our breaks.”

  “That’s all right,” Gabby said, flashing her dimples to try to disguise her surprise—the last thing she wanted to do was to make the poor guy feel self-conscious over her mistake.

  Yet surprised she was. Not at seeing a Negro sax player—God knew there were plenty of those. But here at Olympus, it wasn’t exactly your usual bowl of chicken soup, so to speak. … Olympus, like all the major studios, put famous black performers into its so-called race pictures, designed for Negro audiences. Some producers, like David O. Selznick, had even begun to give them bigger roles in mainstream films—word on the street had it that Hattie McDaniel was going to be so good in his Gone with the Wind that she might even be in contention for an Oscar next year … that is, if the Biltmore would allow her to attend a ceremony. But to have a black performer play a servant in the film adaptation of a bestselling book was one thing; to have one playing alongside white musicians in a band was quite another. Not that Leo Karp had anything against Negroes. But like practically ever other studio head in Hollywood, he was a Jew, and in the eyes of bigots like Father Coughlin and the Ku Klux Klan, that already made his products suspect, so Mr. Karp, with a worship of Traditional American Values that bordered on fetishistic, was even more wary of integration than most. As far as Leo Karp was concerned, politics were politics and business was business, and he was in the business of giving people what they wanted and making money doing it. An integrated picture might be banned from playing in half the theaters in the country, and if it couldn’t play in the South, it might as well not play at all.

  “That’s all right,” Gabby repeated. Her smile was starting to stiffen. She tried to refresh it by thinking about things that made her happy, like her acting coach had taught her when she first came to Olympus. Puppies, she thought. Driving lessons. Lemon meringue pie. Singing. Gershwin. Eddie Sharp. “That’s perfectly all right.”

  “Glad to hear it.” The man’s smile didn’t look the slightest bit feigned. “Well, I think we’ve been breaking long enough. We can get this party started any time you want. Your song’s all set.”

  “My song?” Gabby’s rictus smile crumbled. She hadn’t told them what she planned to sing—hell, she hadn’t decided herself. “What do you mean, my song?”

  “The one Eddie marked up for you.” He shuffled through a packet of paper on a nearby music stand and handed her a creased sheet. “You read music?”

  “At least as well as I read English.”

  Technically true. Gabby snatched the paper from him, willing herself to make sense of either the tangle of notes or the tangle of letters dancing before her eyes on the page, with no hope of her brain ever catching up to them.

  “Aw, you know it.” Almost as though he could sense her frustration, the guy broke easily into song. “First you put your two knees, close up tight … then you swing ’em to the left and you swing ’em to the right.” Lifting his horn to his lips, he played the next couple of bars.

  “Ballin’ the Jack,” Gabby snapped. The knowing look in his eyes was getting on her nerves. “Of course I know it. Why would I want to sing that old thing? It’s kid stuff.”

  “Maybe, but so is ‘A-Tisket, A-Tasket,’ and Ella Fitzgerald did pretty well for herself with that. Eddie thinks you sound like her.”

  Gabby pulled herself up to her full four feet eleven inches. “Watch it, buddy. I’m Gabby Preston. I don’t sound like anyone.”

  He laughed. Why the hell is he so damn smiley? “Believe me, if someone says you sing like Ella, I’d take it.”

  “Where is Eddie?” Gabby said. “I want to talk to him.”

  “Oh, Eddie never rehearses with the guest vocalists. That’s my job.”

  “Oh. Well, who are you?”

  “Dexter Harrington,” he said, tipping his hat. “Lead horn, side man, and second in command, I guess you could say.”

  “Well, I want to talk to Eddie,” Gabby demanded. “If I have to sing with Eddie Sharp, then I want to rehearse with Eddie Sharp.”

  “I told you, baby, Eddie’s not here,” Dexter Harrington said. “Eddie’s gone.”

  Baby? Gabby was furious. Just who did this Eddie Sharp character think he was, anyway? First he wanted to make her sing that stupid song, and then he didn’t even have the decency to be there to sell her on it.

  Figures. Just when you got your hopes up about a guy, he turned out to be a louse like all the others. And as for this Dexter Harrington, well, no side man was going to call her “baby” and get away with it. Not at her studio.

  “Fine,” Gabby said. “Then I’m gone too.”

  Turning on her heel, she started to march toward the door, kicking over a music stand for good measure. It fell to the ground with a heavy thud, practically crushing the feet of a
couple of trombone players standing nearby. Good, Gabby thought meanly. Maybe now they’ll notice I’m here. She kicked over another one, scattering paper and pencils all over the floor.

  “All right,” Dexter called after her. “I get the point. But suppose this: before you rip the place apart any worse than you already have, suppose you tell me what you want to sing.”

  In her fury, the reasonableness of his request took Gabby by surprise. “Is this some sort of trick question?”

  He held up his hands, sax and all. “No trick, I swear. Come on. What’s your favorite song to sing? If you could sing anything in the world.”

  Gabby blinked. “I don’t know. ‘I Got Rhythm,’ maybe. Or ‘Someone to Watch Over Me.’ ”

  “Gershwin.” Dexter nodded seriously. “Now we’re talking.” Without taking his eyes from Gabby’s face, he sat down at the piano and, betraying not even the slightest hint of hesitation, brought his hands down into the first crashing chords of Gershwin’s famous Rhapsody in Blue. In spite of herself, Gabby closed her eyes for a moment as the music enfolded her, letting the sensual yearning of the familiar melody shut out everything else.

  “Poor George,” Dexter said sadly, shaking his head. “I felt like they ripped my heart out when I heard he passed. They don’t make ’em like that anymore. And the nicest guy you could ever hope to meet.”

  “Wait—wait a minute,” Gabby stammered. “You knew George Gershwin?”

  “Sure.” Dexter’s fingers never left the keys. “That’s tragedy for you. Tumor of the brain. Cut down in the prime of life. Sure, look at everything he accomplished, but there could have been so much more. And like I said, that cat was the genuine article. A genuine Grade-A genius. But I guess I don’t have to tell you.”

  “Where did you know him from?”

  “Paris,” Dexter said easily. Without missing a beat, his fingers tripped seamlessly into the opening of An American in Paris. “You know.” He winked. “That city they keep over in France.”

  “You were in Paris? With George Gershwin? George Gershwin was in Paris?”

  “Of course. Where do you think he wrote this?”

  He had skipped ahead a bit now, to the part of the opening movement that reminded Gabby of a bunch of forgetful soldiers scrambling to their places on patrol—da-da-da-da-da-dee-duh, da-da-da-da-dee-duh. “So what do you say, Gabby Preston?” Dexter continued. “How about we put these lazy bums here to use and give ‘Ballin’ the Jack’ a try? Okay?”

  Okay, Gabby wanted to say. The other musicians had slowly advanced on the piano, instruments in hand. What was it she’d heard that British actor say on the radio, about music having charms that could soothe the savage beast? Gabby knew she could be a beast, all right, and she also knew that if Dexter could play this way, she wanted desperately to hear the rest of them. She wanted to sing, to let loose and match them note for note, to really show them what she could do.

  And maybe she would have. If she hadn’t at that moment turned her head toward the window and seen a gleaming white limousine pull up outside the wardrobe department across the street. A uniformed chauffeur hopped out to open the passenger door, and out came Miss Margo Sterling herself, wearing a beatific smile and about a thousand bucks’ worth of blond fox fur that perfectly matched her golden hair. Rex Mandalay, the temperamental genius behind the Olympus fashion machine, leapt out of the doorway to greet her, practically kneeling before her custom-made alligator pumps as he bent to kiss her hand.

  Like she’s a goddamn princess, Gabby thought. Viola’s words swam into her head, the very ones Gabby had repeated so many times herself, not least of all to Margo Sterling herself on her very first day at Olympus: If you want to be a star, you’ve got to act like one.

  She turned back to the hopeful face at the piano. “No dice, Dexter,” she said regretfully. “Tell Eddie Sharp I’ll see him at the Oscars. Until then, I’ll be in my dressing room. Don’t forget. I’m a star.”

  Five

  The splendor of Rex Mandalay’s domain on the top floor of the Olympus wardrobe department rivaled that of any couturier’s atelier in Paris.

  The walls were painted the most delicate shade of lavender, decorated with snow-white moldings as ornate as the lacy trim of a gingerbread house. The enormous three-way gilt-framed mirror was designed to look like the unfurled petals of an orchid; the special pink lightbulbs in the antique chinoiserie lamps emitted a flattering rosy glow. Scattered across the plush lilac carpet were the famous tufted sofas and ottomans, upholstered in bright yellow velvet, upon which the maestro would sometimes be photographed for publicity purposes, displaying his latest round of sketches to an appropriately appreciative star.

  This was the inner sanctum, the Holiest of Holies. Rumor had it that even Mr. Karp had never been allowed inside to see exactly the kind of luxury his money—or rather, New York’s money—was financing. Nothing must be allowed to interfere with Rex Mandalay and his process of creation.

  And what creations! There on a rack in the middle of the room hung some of the most beautiful vestments known to God or man. A ball gown of Vermeer-blue silk with a bouffant skirt of thousands of tiny individual petals, like an enormous hydrangea blossom. A shimmering halter gown as sinuous and liquid as though it had been fashioned from molten gold. Hooded white crepe with jet beading; rich red lace; a shocking-pink silk taffeta column with a matching capelet held in place with a hand-shaped clasp sporting an enormous—and very possibly real—diamond ring. All gorgeous, all virtually priceless, all one-of-a-kind.

  Margo couldn’t fit into any of them.

  “Come on, darling!” Rex commanded, tugging at the zipper of a bejeweled forest-green satin, grunting like a man trying to push a boulder up a steep hill. Wardrobe assistants in white gloves pushed the emerald-encrusted bodice together on either side of her. “Suck in!”

  “I’m sucking!”

  “Suck harder! Come on!”

  Margo felt her face turn purple as she tried valiantly to expel every last puff of air from her lungs. The wardrobe assistants threw their entire weight against her, pushing so hard Margo was sure they were going to crush her ribs.

  “No,” Rex groaned finally. He released his grip on the zipper, flinging himself on a yellow divan, his face flushed with exertion. “It’s no use. For God’s sake, Margo, you’re going to have to reduce.”

  “Me?” Margo yelped. “I haven’t gained an ounce. You must have made them too small, that’s all.”

  “Darling.” Rex flipped a curling lock of hair, bleached to an almost platinum shade of blond, back into place. “In my atelier, I have a dressmaker’s dummy custom made to the exact proportions of every important Olympus star. And every creation you see before you was fitted to the one marked Miss Margo Sterling. Believe me, her measurements haven’t changed.”

  “And I’m telling you, neither have mine.”

  “Well, you’ve got exactly two weeks to prove it. Unless you want to wear a burlap sack to the Oscars.”

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway,” Margo muttered darkly. “I mean, it’s not as if I’m going to be onstage, am I? Nobody will be looking at me.”

  “Don’t be defeatist, darling. It’s very ‘supporting player.’ ” Rex snapped open a gold cigarette case, took out one of the slim black cigarettes he smoked, and inserted it into a carved ivory holder. The scent of its distinctive tobacco, a kind of perfumed musk tinged with apple, filled the room.

  “Can I have one of those?”

  “You may not,” Rex retorted. “They’re imported from Egypt, and if Europe persists in this idea of having a war, who knows how many more I’ll be able to get.”

  He took a deep drag and blew a couple of languorous smoke rings before he turned back to Margo, his voice all business. “Now. Don’t look so glum. Black coffee and grapefruit until the ceremony, a couple of cleverly placed hooks and eyes, and we’ll be back in bu
siness. Unless … there’s something you’re not telling me?”

  “Like what?”

  Rex narrowed his eyes. “Well, you’re not pregnant, are you?”

  Margo’s mouth fell open. Pregnant?

  “Darling, it’s hardly an unreasonable question. Everyone knows you’ve been shacked up in Malibu with Dane Forrest. Oh, don’t look so horrified. This is Hollywood, not Hicksville. I’m not exactly going to start sewing a scarlet A across the fronts of your dresses. I just want to make sure you’re being careful, that’s all. Careers have been ruined by less, you know. Just look at what happened to the last one.”

  He’s talking about Diana, Margo thought with a stab of horror.

  So much time had passed since the scandal of Diana Chesterfield’s mysterious disappearance that Margo had almost forgotten how a lot of pretty important people had believed that Dane had had something to do with it. Maybe they still did. After all, to most of the world, Dane and Diana were the Great Star-Crossed Lovers of the Silver Screen, cruelly driven apart by forces and passions greater than themselves. Only Margo knew that Dane and Diana had never been in love at all, that it was all a show for the cameras and the magazines.

  But if people knew that, they’d start to ask why, and if the truth ever came out, it could ruin Dane. Picture people, fans and professionals alike, might tolerate a lot from their stars, but acting for years as though you were passionately in love with your own sister might be a little too much for them to take. It might not exactly be incest, but it wasn’t wholesome either.

  “Diana was sick,” Margo said stubbornly. That was the official studio line, and she was sticking to it.

  “Yes,” Rex mused, “but sick with what, exactly?” Deep in thought, he blew a few more smoke rings and waved them into a perfumed cloud. “Oh, it doesn’t matter. Out of sight is out of mind, I suppose, and rightly so. In the meantime, you’d better run along and leave me to my labors. I’ve got some rethinking to do, just in case the black coffee and celery doesn’t work.”