Starstruck (34 page)

The orchestra was playing outside, on the rose-bedecked ivory-colored terrace. A hush fell over the crowd as Hunter led Margo onto the dance floor below. “I guess you better get used to the stares, Margo,” he murmured under his breath, wrapping his arms around her tightly. “This is your life from now on.”

Hunter was a marvelous dancer, with grace and surefootedness that were clearly the product of a lifetime of cotillions and parties and balls. But there was a whisper of danger in the proprietary way he clasped her waist, the way he looked at her with a kind of careless fondness, as though she were a prize he’d already claimed. Margo wasn’t sure she liked that, exactly, but she liked him. She liked the idea of him. And she especially liked the idea that Dane was watching. And seething.

“
The Nine Days’ Queen
will do good box office,” Hunter was predicting. “There’s enough interest around it, due to everything that’s …” He paused for a moment. “Everything that’s happened. And it’s always exciting to see an unknown in a juicy role like that. Even if they stink, it’s still fun.”

Margo felt her stomach lurch. “You don’t mean—”

“That you stink?” Hunter laughed. “Darling, even if I’d seen the finished picture, I honestly couldn’t tell you. I’m strictly a numbers man. And right now the numbers are saying that in general, this kind of big historical picture is done.
The Nine Days’ Queen
is one of the last of its kind, and if you want to stay on top of the game, you’ve got to get yourself out of the swords-and-corsets racket, if you know what I mean.”

“And what do the numbers suggest I do instead?” Margo asked, genuinely intrigued. No one had ever spoken to her like this before, as though she had a say in controlling the trajectory of her career.

“Well, there’s a real gap in the market right now for a modern, highbrow, sophisticated leading lady. Myrna Loy, but she’s too old for the ingénue roles, or she seems like she is. Katharine Hepburn’s got the breeding and the chops, but if there’s a single red-blooded man in the whole forty-eight states who honestly wants to go to bed with Kate Hepburn, then I’m the king of the Belgians. Lombard’s the closest.” He nudged their clasped hands in the direction of the gorgeous blond star, who was wearing a hooded gown of the palest blue silk and gazing deeply into Clark Gable’s eyes. “But she can’t do drama; at least, the audiences don’t think she can. So if you ask me, the numbers all add up to a hostile takeover by Miss Margo Sterling. Of course, you could benefit from being party to some real sophistication. Not all this trashy Hollywood flash. You should spend some time in New York. Maybe London, or Paris. Spend some time with people who have had money long enough to be bored by it.”

“And I suppose you think you’re the one to take me there?” It was a bold thing to say, but Margo was feeling bold. Hunter seemed to expect it. It was as if he’d already written the script. All Margo had to do was say the lines she was given.

“I might be.” He gave her one of his careless smiles. “I’d certainly be open to discussing it further. I wonder if we might go someplace a little more private?”

Margo felt a sudden stab of fear as the image of Phipps McKendrick and his angry smirk swam into her mind. “Someplace … private?”

“Sure,” Hunter said casually. “After all, I’m not one of you Hollywood exhibitionists. You may be used to going through life being stared at, but I’m feeling a little self-conscious having everyone looking at me as though I were a trained monkey.” He grinned. “Besides, it’s for Leo. Apparently he spent a fortune setting up a gazebo and a hedge maze and all manner of English-style nonsense out on the grounds, and he’s positively livid that nobody seems to want to move very far from the booze and the food. So what do you say? Should we do the old man a favor?”

Margo felt a little dizzy. All those glasses of champagne in quick succession had gone straight to her head, just like people were always saying they would. She knew she ought to be cautious about this sort of thing after that horrible episode with Phipps, but that wasn’t Hunter’s fault. Hunter would never try anything like that. Hunter wasn’t a hormone-crazed adolescent animal like Phipps. Hunter was a gentleman, one she was pretty sure didn’t need to force a girl into anything. Nothing would happen, but just think of the look on Dane’s face when he caught a glimpse of her coming back from the hedge maze with a man who had the power to buy and sell Leo F. Karp.

“Sure,” she said finally. “Why not?”

“Why not indeed.” Hunter smiled. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll grab us a bottle of champagne, and you go wait for me down by the lily pond.” He reached out a hand and gave her right hip a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“M
iss Preston, no!” The waiter made a defensive flying leap in front of the champagne fountains, rattling the unsteady stack of glass down to its fragile foundation. “I’m so sorry, but there can be no underage drinking. Mr. Karp’s orders.”

Gabby scowled.
Why do they even invite me to these things?
She’d been so relieved to attend the party on her own—Viola was sick in bed with a cold—but they were treating her like she belonged at the kiddie table. “Margo Sterling is underage,” she pointed out. “And I just saw her guzzle down about four glasses.”

“Ah, w-well … I didn’t see that …,” the waiter stammered.
Of course
, Gabby thought bitterly. As usual, there was one rule for Margo Sterling and one rule for everybody else. Margo had just waltzed into the studio one day, practically on a
whim
, and just because she happened to be in the right place with the
right look at the right time, everyone was treating her as if she were God’s gift to the motion picture industry.

“In the meantime, Miss Preston, something else to drink?” the waiter said brightly. “A Shirley Temple, perhaps?”

Gabby’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Do not even
talk
to me,” she hissed, “about that bitch.”

Storming away from the stunned waiter, Gabby opened the gold locket she was wearing on a chain around her neck. Inside, there was just enough room for two green pills. She’d been meaning to save them—the last time she’d gone to get her prescription renewed, Dr. Lipkin had threatened to cut her off when he saw how quickly she was going through them. But God knew she needed something to help her tolerate this miserable party, and she could always convince Viola to get some more from one of those “vitamin doctors” with the dirty offices downtown. She tipped back her head and quickly swallowed the pills down her dry throat.

If only Jimmy hadn’t gone out to Palm Springs for the week. She’d asked him if she could tag along, but he hadn’t seemed to think that was such a great idea. “No, Gabby,” he’d said, fixing her with a strange, hard look. “And don’t try to telephone me either. Just let me have this time to myself, and when I get back, maybe I’ll be able to look at you again.”
Poor Jimmy
, Gabby thought, and sighed. She’d expected Jimmy would be the teeniest bit annoyed with her for making sure Margo would catch him red-handed at the Chateau that night, although if you thought about it—and she was sure Jimmy would—Gabby had really done him a favor. Margo would’ve found out about Jimmy sooner or later; wasn’t it better for everyone to know how she’d react before it was too late? Whereas when Gabby had begun
to notice that Jimmy paid a little more attention to the boys in the chorus than the girls, it hadn’t changed her feelings for him one little bit. She’d seen that sort of thing a million times, and it was usually just a phase. Boys like Jimmy all wound up with girls eventually; they had to, if they wanted to be stars. But they had to be the
right
girls, and Margo Sterling was all wrong. Jimmy knew that now, and that was enough for Gabby, whether she got him for herself or not.

Besides, Gabby thought, she knew the real reason Jimmy was so upset. The Tully Toynbee picture had finished shooting the same week as
The Nine Days’ Queen
. Where was
their
party? Why wasn’t it Gabby swanning around on Leo Karp’s arm while Dane Forrest and Hunter Payne hung on her every word?

Well, it will be
, Gabby thought. Anybody could get lucky once. Luck didn’t make you a star; talent did. And this time next year, when her vaudeville picture was finished, they’d all see who the real talent at Olympus was.

Gabby gave a little shiver of excitement.
An American Girl
. It was a perfect title. She could hardly wait to see the finished script. She had so many ideas for it: things that had happened to her in real life, little details that would make the whole thing seem so much more real. Honestly, she should talk to Harry Gordon about them. He’d probably be grateful to her. Hell, he might even give her a screenwriting credit!

There was no time like the present, Gabby decided. She’d go and talk to Harry right now. Viola was always saying that networking was the whole point of these big Hollywood parties. Excitedly, she scanned the room. Harry had been slobbering over that Amanda Farraday all night, but right now he was standing next to the ice sculpture on the buffet, looking
bored by a bunch of old accountant types in unfashionable suits. Amanda was nowhere to be seen.
Probably off with some other guy
, Gabby thought with a derisive snort,
showing him her “talent.”

Well, she’d save him. Steal him away from those dullsville squares and talk about artistic things.
He’ll be so grateful
. “Harry!” she called. “Over here!”

He turned eagerly at the sound of his name, obviously glad to have an excuse to get away from the Bore Brigade. “Oh, Gabby,” he said, walking over. “It’s you.”

“Well, of course, silly, who else would it be?” Gabby turned the full beam of her dimpled smile on him. “I figured someone ought to rescue you. Whatever those men had to say, it must have been awfully gloomy.”

Harry smiled sheepishly. “Box-office projections. Enough to depress anyone.”

“Oh, but you won’t have to worry about that!” Gabby gushed. “
The Nine Days’ Queen
is going to be a hit! How could it not be? It’s been the talk of the town for months! And of course,” she said slyly, “people are just dying to get a glimpse of Margo Sterling. How did you like working with her?”

“Me?” Harry looked uncomfortable. “Oh, she was all right, I guess. A little stiff, maybe.”

Gabby felt an inward gleam of pleasure. “Well, that won’t make any difference. Not with a script as brilliant as yours. I mean, you could probably just hire someone to sit in the theater and read the screenplay out loud like it was a shopping list, and the audience would be enthralled.”

That was laying it on a little thick, even for her, but Harry didn’t seem to blink an eye. “Do you really think so?”

Typical
, Gabby thought.
Writers say they’re insecure, but deep down they all think they’re God
. “Oh, of course,” she said eagerly. “But your biggest triumph is still to come.”

“Oh?” Harry looked intrigued.

“An American Girl
!” Gabby exclaimed. “Our vaudeville picture! Now, I know writers don’t always like to talk about their work while it’s in progress, but honestly, Harry, I’m so excited about it that I can’t sleep at night.” That, at least, was perfectly true. The blue pills had stopped working long ago. She needed to take at least five or six now to even drift off, and then it took practically an entire bottle of the green ones to get her back up again. It was much easier to just stay awake most of the time. “I have so many ideas, Harry.” The words rushed out. “So many stories you can use. Things that happened to me, things I’ve heard about backstage, things hardly anybody even knows about except for me.” She hugged herself. “For example, I thought maybe the main character should have an older sister, who’s her best friend in the world. And she’s in the act at first, but then she runs off with this magician and leaves the main character all alone, and that’s when she really starts to feel the pressure to make it, for both of them. And then another time, she thinks she’s booked into the Palace Theater in New York and she’s finally hit the big time, but then it turns out the operator got the telegram wrong and it’s actually the Palace Theater in
Newark
. And then later she’s booked into another theater, but when she gets there, it’s not a legitimate theater at all, but a hoochie-coochie parlor, so she—”

Harry held up his hands. “All right, all right, Gabby, just … just back up a minute, okay?”

“Sure,” Gabby said quickly. “I mean, they’re only suggestions.
Just some things I was thinking about. Obviously, if you’ve already finished the script—”

“It isn’t that.” Harry suddenly looked grave. “It’s just that … well …”

Gabby felt something tighten in her chest. “What?”

“Just that we, well …” Harry looked down at the carpet. “We’ve decided to go in a different direction with
An American Girl
,” he said finally. “It seemed like there was a surplus of musicals already set for next year, so the studio thought, and well,
I
thought it might work better as a … a drama.”