Page 15 of His Girl Hollywood

“That’s a wrap for today everyone,” Lena called out. The crew, who had been waiting quietly, started talking to each other in hurried whispers. Don didn’t know what was worse: the idea that they were talking about him and his ineptitude, or that they could be talking about Lena. None of this was her fault. Maybe he needed the night too. If he could practice with Eddie, he’d get it right.

But if they weren’t filming with Rita tomorrow, he needed to know what to prepare for. He approached Lena gingerly, creeping toward her as if she were a hibernating bear. He felt utterly ridiculous. She was sitting in her director’s chair, furiously scribbling on a piece of paper. “Um, Miss Morgan?”

“What?” she snapped, not looking up from whatever she was writing.

“I was wondering what we’ll be working on tomorrow. So I can prepare.”

He could swear she mumbled “It won’t help” under her breath, but he chose to ignore it. Maybe she thought being rude to him would make the rest of the crew respect her. If that was the case, he’d swallowdown any retort. This was both of their dreams, and he wasn’t going to make it harder for her. If being her punching bag was what it would take to get this done, then fine. Time was of the essence.

She held up the paper she was scribbling on. “Give me a minute. That’s what I’m figuring out.” She bent back over the paper and bit her lip, gripping her pencil with an undue amount of force. Don tried not to smile at the familiar stance that told him she was thinking a little too hard. “We’ll need to do dialogue scenes the next day or so until Rita’s ankle heals. I’ll have the studio call Jimmy and see if he can come in tomorrow to shoot Fred’s scenes.”

“Fred? That’s Danny’s club promoter friend?”

Arlene’s eyelids fluttered in annoyance. He could tell she was trying not to lose her temper, which only made him feel worse. It took a lot to make Arlene lose control. She was the most even-keeled woman he’d ever met. But hell, maybe that had changed in the last decade too. Maybe she suddenly had a shorter fuse. Show business could do that to people. In a tone that implied she was dealing with an idiot, she replied, “Yes, Mr. Lamont.”

She turned back to the schedule on her lap. “If we can shoot a handful of the scenes with Danny and Fred at the club tomorrow and Wednesday, then we can move the shooting days for the dance number to next week when Rita’s feeling better.” She was thinking out loud. “That’ll give you more time to get the steps down too.”

“If you’d let me bring Eddie Rosso down here to choreograph it, that would solve the problem immediately.”

Her head snapped up. “Excuse me, Mr. Lamont, did I not make myself clear? Eddie Rosso is not welcome on this set. Nor are your steps. The studio assigned Mr. Herman to this picture, and we’re going to do what he has choreographed. No matter how lackluster it may be.”

Don swallowed a laugh at that. At least she admitted the stepswere lousy. Why she didn’t tell the studio that, he had no idea. But it was abundantly clear he’d be welcoming trouble with open arms if he asked her that. “Okay, I’ll review the scenes between Danny and Fred.” He loosened his tie and turned to go back to his dressing room.

“Where are you going?” he heard Lena call after him.

He turned back, nearly at the edge of the dance floor already. “You called a wrap.”

“Don’t you think you should maybe stay and get some practice?” Don couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard one of the grips snicker as he walked by. He swallowed the urge to give her a biting retort, as Rita’s words were still fresh in his mind.

“I think I’d be better off with Eddie’s help,” he muttered, turning to face her again.

He expected Lena to argue or to make a crack about bringing Eddie up again. Instead, she called out, “Practice with him on your own time all you want.” He nodded, accepting the twig-sized olive branch she offered him. “Oh, and Mr. Lamont?”

“Yes?”

“I hope you’re better at saying someone else’s words than you are at dancing someone else’s steps.”

To that he had no reply. Because it was mean. But it was true.

Chapter 7

Arlene sipped at her whiskey and closed her eyes. She was usually a gin girl, but when she needed to clear her head, she turned to Irish whiskey. Paddy’s to be exact. It was what her father had favored, and she’d learned to drink whiskey from him. Today had not gone the way she’d hoped.

Don was a mess and her crew barely tolerated her presence. Don questioning her authority openly, in front of a group of men who already disdained her, didn’t help matters. Then, what she’d said to him as he was leaving, about being better about his dialogue than his steps, God! That was the cruelest thing she’d ever said in her life. Another reason to wish this picture starred anyone else. Don was making her unkind, and that was the one thing she’d swore she’d never be as a director. She sighed and waved over the waiter, ordering a corned beef sandwich.

She looked around the room, at the cardboard shamrocks lining the ceiling and bearing the names of the bar’s more famous patrons that had frequented it since it opened on Wilshire Boulevard last year. The honey wooden paneling gave the entire space a homey feeling, and she let the heat of the whiskey pooling in her belly warm her from the inside while she soaked in the welcoming environs. The Horseshoe Tavern was the only truly proper Irish pub in the city, and it had become a fast favorite. When she neededcomfort and didn’t have the energy to make the drive south to her childhood home, she came here. Their food wasn’t as good as her mother’s, but it was close.

A loud laugh from the back of the bar caught her attention. She stood and peered through the smoky pub to assure herself that she wasn’t hearing things. But damn it, no, that was Harry Evets all right. Smoking a cigar and sipping at whiskey. She’d assumed the Horseshoe was a safe bet tonight. Men like Harry usually rubbed elbows at Chasen’s, the Polo Lounge, or the bar at the Chateau Marmont. But no, to put a sour cherry on top of her rotten day, Harry had chosen the one restaurant in Los Angeles where she could drown her troubles in relative anonymity.

“Arlene Morgan!”

She ducked down. Nuts, he’d seen her. The only thing worse than being at a bar with her studio head after a disastrous first day on set was having him spot her there. She sipped at her whiskey and tried to figure out what to do. He’d clearly seen her; he’d called her name. But maybe after she’d ducked down, he’d realize he was wrong. Confused someone else for her.

Her waiter approached her. “Excuse me, miss? That man in the back. He wants you to come see him.” No such luck.

She sighed and nodded. “Can you send my sandwich back there then?” Without waiting to see if the waiter agreed, she rose and made her way to the back of the room to face Harry Evets.

The studio head grinned at her as she approached, and she prayed that maybe he hadn’t heard about her first day yet. “Miss Morgan, that was you! I knew it. Come, sit down.”

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