Hollywood sirens, p.1
Hollywood Sirens, page 1
Hollywood Sirens
By Camille Oster
Copyright 2016 Camille Oster
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the work of the author's imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Camille Oster – Author
www.camilleoster.com
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Camille-Oster/489718877729579
@Camille_Oster
Camille.osternz@gmail.com
Chapter 1
Hollywood, 1937
“Because I’ve loved you, I tell you, from the moment I set eyes on you. I might not have realized it at first. I’ve been a chump about it all, haven’t I?” Barbara Cosgrove said, her eyes positively sparkling under the blazing lights. It made the curls of her blond hair glow like spun silk.
Mac kissed her, aware he had the right angle for the camera. His tight grip on her arms showed the passion his character felt. Her lips were soft and welcoming. She was known for those lips, the perfect bow shape and the coral lipstick she tended to wear.
“Cut,” Harold called and Mac broke the kiss, aware he had coral lipstick smeared over his lips. A girl handed him a tissue and he wiped it off.
“How’d it go, Harold?” Barbara called. “Did we get it?” Her eyes sparkled at Mac with naughtiness. They’d had more than enough practice in her dressing room. Granted, neither of them would mind a few more takes of the scene.
“Not sure you could beat that one, kid,” Harold called.
“Can we break for a while? It’s almost lunch and we’re famished,” Barbara pleaded, knowing full well the crew would wonder exactly what she was famished for. Their affair wasn’t exactly a secret.
“Sure. Take an hour. We need to change the sets anyway. Someone get Marvin and his boys in here.”
One of Harold’s assistants put down his clipboard and ran off, while Harold conferred with the cameraman, talking about the upcoming shots and how they would move the heavy, black beast of a camera.
Running his hand through his dark hair, Mac stepped away from the lights and blinked, accosted by near darkness for a moment.
“You coming, darling?” Barbara cooed.
“Sure, give me a minute,” Mac said, taking out his cigarette box and tapping one on the brass cover. He sat down in one of the canvas chairs while Barbara walked off to her dressing room, her blond curls bouncing and her ass wiggling delightfully in the impossibly tight skirt. It made her derriere fantastic, but she could barely walk in it. Still, the costumes weren’t made to be practical.
Breathing the smoke out, Mac took his jacket off and undid the tie the dressing girls had spent a good half hour getting right. After lunch, they would have to do it all again. If this business was anything, it was building castles in the sand over and over again.
The tobacco hit his bloodstream and he closed his eyes, which still stung slightly from the bright lights. The chaos around him unfolded, released from the silent stillness of their last shoot.
Set boys were already carrying portions away, revealing seams that would never be noticed on screen. If people realized how flimsy some of the sets were, they’d be shocked. He was just glad that this time, they weren’t constantly crashing down.
“Can I get you something?” Lola asked, appearing in her pencil skirt and woolen sweater, a tiny belt at her waist.
“No, I’m fine. Why don’t you go grab some lunch?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Darren. I can grab something for you, if you wish.”
“Yeah, a sandwich or something.”
The cafeteria was mayhem this time of day and he wasn’t in the mood to tackle it. Instead, he sat and smoked while the apartment in front of him was being disassembled. They’d just shot one of the final scenes of the movie, but they were far from done. They had a club scene coming up and then location shoots at some farm up north.
“Hi, Mr. Darren,” a soft voice said and he turned to see a smiling face. He could tell immediately the women who adored him, or rather, the characters he played. He was the tough but romantic guy, the guy who finds and is changed by love. That was what the audience wanted to see, the formula that worked, and that was what they got. Slightly on the rugged side, but apparently, that served him.
The girl smiled more and her eyes lowered with embarrassment. Even here, with every star around, the girls were still star struck. “How can I help you, Miss—”
“Peggy. Peggy Holmes,” she said. She was pretty and decidedly average, but Mac didn’t doubt she was good at her job. Publicity if he were to take a guess. These girls were clever and efficient, and typed at astronomical speed, but some of them never really lost their bewilderment when seeing a star.
“Mr. Alfie asked if I could find you,” she said. “Apparently, he would like a word.”
Mr. Alfie was really Alfred Costano, but most called him Mr. Alfie. The man liked being informal, but as he was the big boss, people settled on Mr. Alfie. Because, let’s face it, people rose and sank on Alfie’s opinion. The only thing that could outweigh Alfie was the fervent desire of the public. Saying that, even the brightest star was cautious of losing Alfie’s good favor.
“Sure thing, kid,” Mac said and dropping his cigarette into Harold’s ashtray. Why Alfie wanted to see him, he didn’t know. Maybe there was a new role he was being considered for. His contract wasn’t up for a while yet, so he wasn’t overly worried.
Contract season was a tense time at Majestic Studios. It was the big reshuffle of who was in and who was out. Tears and joy, and earth shattering drama. Someone should make a movie about that sometime, but Hollywood could not afford to be honest about its dirty laundry. And there was plenty of it around.
Walking out of the studio hall, Mac stepped into the bright sunshine of early spring in Los Angeles. It never really got cold here, just different degrees of warm, and this time of year, the weather was downright pleasant. Not warm enough to swim, but maybe they’d go for a ride up the coast this weekend.
Costumed girls passed, dressed in silver waistcoats and small, black hot pants. There was a musical in the next hall, decked out in more ostrich feathers than he’d ever seen anywhere. Vanessa Munchen was starring in that one, a hot new star with unparalleled hoofing technique.
Musicians grappled instruments and the costume department ran with materials bundled in their hands. They could be set. It was hard to tell sometimes. Not that it mattered to Mac as he walked along with his hands in his pockets, whistling some song that had gotten stuck in his head.
Hopefully, Alfie had put him in one of the tougher roles. Being a tough guy for the ladies, and a tough guy for the guys was a whole different thing, and he had the capabilities of playing both. Still, these things were hard for casting. They knew when they had a good thing and hated dicking with the formula. But he really wanted to play the tough role, the wizened detective, maybe even a dogged lawyer. Being the romantic lead was getting dull.
It was nearly half a mile to the executives’ offices and Mac finally reached the building, designed to be the nicest building on the lot. Clean lines, glass and chrome. Alfie hadn’t spared expense on his own office. But then, he wanted to impress any guests. Mac himself had been impressed when he’d first been asked to come to the studio. It had all appeared like a dream, a massive playground, where the magic happened—as they say.
Taking the steps two at a time, Mac made his way up to where Betty sat, Mr. Alfie’s blond and gorgeous secretary. She was pretty enough to be on film, but her voice was a shocker, squeaked like an ungreased wheel. Her voice had really let her down, but Alfie had liked her enough to keep around.
Her blue eyes rose to his. “Mac,” she said in her high-pitched voice. “Good to see you. Looking stunning as always. Make a girl nervous looking all dark and brooding like that.”
In fact, he wasn’t all that dark, but film made him look more so. Some said he actually looked better on screen than in real life. “Betty, my darling. How are you today? Ravishing, I see. Is the big man in? You know what this is about?”
“Not sure, Mac. He didn’t say anything to me other than he wants to see you. Mr. Johnstone is in there with him.”
Charlie Johnstone was head of publicity and if he was involved, then it couldn’t be a new role. “Guess I better see what they want.”
“Go on in,” Betty said with a smile. Mac winked at her. Blond hair and red lips were her signature traits and she didn’t change. She’d found her look and stuck with it.
Pressing the brass handle, Mac walked into Alfie’s cavernous office, the carpet thick and lush, absorbing every one of his footsteps.
“Mac, you sun of a gun. We were just talking about A Valentine Caper,” he said, referring to the movie he was currently filming with Barbara. “Come in, sit down. You want a drink?” Alfie said and walked his large bulk over to the bar at the very back of the room.
If they were bribing him with drinks, there was something they wanted. Johnstone looked sharp and skinny sitting on one of the chairs by Alfie’s massive desk. “Mac,” he said in acknowledgement.
“We’ve been talking,” Alfie started. “Your dalliance with Miss Cosgrove hasn’t gone unnoticed and Bertha Green over at Film Today has written a piece speculating about it.”
Surely Alfie couldn’t be all that shocked. It wasn’t the first co-star he’d been dallying with, after all. “I wasn’t aware we have b
Alfie handed a glass over to him. “We can quash it with no problems, but first, we were wondering how things are going in that department.”
Charlie continued. “You are a very good-looking couple, and people want to see you together. If people knew this film is where you met and fell in love, it will drive people to see it.” No one liked Charlie, but he was vital. He kept the machine going, the star-making machine. It was him that organized all the stories, the photo shoots and the appearances. Without him, none of this would happen. The relationship with the public was the most important of all, and Charlie definitely had something in mind.
“You want us to go public?” Mac asked, surprised as he accepted the drink from Alfie.
“It will do wonders for the picture,” Alfie said, sitting down heavily in his chair.
“A few dates here and there, a ring maybe,” Charlie said. “It would be one hell of a story. Even a break up after would have the news hounds braying.”
Did hounds bray? Mac asked himself, but then pushed the distraction away.
Alfie crossed his arms. “Doesn’t have to be permanent, nothing around here is, although from what I hear, Barbara thinks you’re fillet mignon wrapped in bacon. You two have been cozying up quite regularly.”
It wasn’t surprising that Alfie knew. He made it his business to know everything that went on in his lot.
“Obviously, you don’t like something like this to be pushed on you. It’s just a suggestion, but it’s a good one. I would consider it if I were you.”
There it was, one of Alfie’s suggestions. Mac hadn’t received one of them before, but he’d heard of them. Most notable when Robert Willers and Amanda Blunt—both definitely not overly interested in each other or anyone else of the opposing sex—were asked to marry each other. Granted, it had worked out well; they’re actually steadfast friends, it seemed.
But for him, this sat awkwardly. Technically, he had nothing against Barbara; they were getting on like a house on fire, probably to the point where they hadn’t been terribly discreet on set. And Barbara wasn’t exactly chump change. She was one of the biggest stars Hollywood had ever seen, but the idea of being asked to take their relationship public didn’t feel good. “I don’t know,” Mac said. “Barbara might not want the publicity.” Even as he said it, he knew it couldn’t be further from the truth.
Chapter 2
The bus stopped in front of the studio gates and Lorraine looked up through the glass. The gate itself seemed in outlandish proportions, sparkling with copper and chrome, the well-known logo of the studio with its crown at the very top.
“Majestic Studios,” the bus driver announced as if anyone was confused, and she wasn’t the only one who got up. About a dozen girls rose, all in their best dresses, gingerly walked down the middle of the bus to steps in the front. The bus driver eyed their legs appreciatively and Lorraine gave him a chiding look.
It was warm outside, the breeze blowing down the street. A woman came out of the gate carrying a clip board. “General casting call this way,” she yelled and then turned without answering any questions. Lorraine guessed they had no choice but to follow in through the gate. Tropical plants with large foliage lined the walkway they were led down.
Everything looked sparkling new and she couldn’t suppress the excitement she felt. It had been a long journey there, taking trains across the entire country from Pennsylvania. The hotel by the train station had been modest but clean enough, and that was all she’d required.
They were taken to a hall full of chairs, where they were asked to write their name, their dimensions and any specialties on a clipboard being passed around. Some girls were taking their time, annoying others in the line. “Get a move on,” the girl in front of Lorraine said, apparently eager to get to the chairs.
The excitement in the hall was undeniable and girls started talking amongst each other, introducing themselves. Lorraine was too nervous to talk, even as the girl next to her seemed eager to chatter. Eventually, another joined them and they started a conversation excluding her.
A man appeared and the hall quieted. He wore a homely vest and glasses, his dark hair neatly combed.
“Alright girls,” the woman with the clipboard said. “When I call your name, go introduce yourself to Mr. Helmot.”
Giggles broke out and the first girl was called. She half walked, half ran to appear in front of the table where Mr. Helmot had seated himself.
Lorraine hadn’t expected there would be quite so many people. Back at the University of Pennsylvania, her theater program had been quite exclusive and they had talked at lengths about what they would do after graduating. Her dream had always been to come to Hollywood. She loved the pictures and went at least once a week. Many in the theater program still looked down on the pictures, saying real art lay in the theater. But to Lorraine, nothing could beat the glamour of the silver screen. Not that she deluded herself to think it was all glamour. No, it was likely much harder work than they made it look. The theater was harder than it looked.
Girl after girl presented themselves with coquettish voices and embarrassed giggles. Mr. Helmot was seemingly quite charming, smiling to the girls and encouraging them to tell him why they were there.
After the first dozen, Lorraine, along with most others, stopped paying attention and it took her by surprise when her name was called. Her heartbeat speeding up, she rose, taking the photos she’d had professionally done back home and walked to the table.
“Excuse me a moment,” the girl with the clipboard said, stopping her in her tracks. “This will only take a moment.”
A man was then waved forward followed by a stunningly beautiful colored girl, with long eyelashes, cheekbones that gleamed like polished bronze and what looked like green eyes.
“What do you want, Roger?” Mr. Helmot said. It seemed they knew each other.
“I had to introduce Peaches to you. She is utterly stunning, the whole package. She can sing like the angels, dulcet tones like a deviless tempting the hapless, dances like she’s on fire and a smoking hot body. She can act, Ed.” The man wore a cream-colored suit and had taken his hat off.
Mr. Helmot sighed and took his glasses off, rubbed along the bridge of his nose.
“You can see she’s stunning. The best looker in this whole damn room,” the man continued.
“I can see, Roger, but you know I can’t sign her. I have no roles for her.”
“Roles can be written, Ed. You know that. There are servant roles.”
“Servant roles for large black mamas. I can’t put a colored girl like that on the screen. What woman wants to go to the pictures and have their date salivating over a colored girl? I wish I could tell you we were more progressive, Peaches, but we’re not,” he said, turning his attention to the girl. “You should go to Paris; it’s a whole other story over there. Berlin a couple of years back, but things are a bit shaky there, from what I hear.” He turned his attention back to Roger. “Don’t bring me girls I can’t sign, Roger.”
Peaches looked crestfallen, her lashes lowered. She really was stunning and Roger led her away.
“Next,” Mr. Helmot called.
“This is… ” The woman checked her clipboard. “Lorraine George.”
“Hi Lorraine,” Mr. Helmot said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “Why are you here?”
“Well,” Lorraine started, tucking her light brown hair behind her ear, almost feeling like she was stealing his time. “I am a graduate from the University of Pennsylvania’s performing arts degree.”
“So, you can act?”
The question almost stumped her. “Of course. This is a call for actresses, isn’t it?”
Mr. Helmot looked up. “Can you dance?”
“Ten years of tap.”
“Show me.”
“I didn’t bring my shoes,” she said with uncertainty, but Mr. Helmot didn’t look like he cared. She performed a shuffle routine from one of the latest productions.
“That’s enough,” he said. “Leave your number with Daisy and we’ll be in touch.”
That was it, it was over. She had traveled days and days and it was over.
