Bridge to Haven (30 page)

The restaurant was small with an open-air feel to the dining room, which flowed together with potted ferns tucked here and there. The manager recognized Franklin. “This way, Mr. Moss.” Abra felt his hand at her back again, warm and gently guiding. He greeted several people casually in passing. He made no introductions. When they were seated, he ordered for both of them. She didn’t like fish, but didn’t argue. Her neck and shoulders ached with tension.

Mr. Moss kept telling her what to do. “Turn your body a little to the right. . . . Cross your legs. Slowly. We’re in no hurry. . . . Tilt your head a little to the left. That’s it. . . . Smile as though I’ve said something witty. . . . Lean forward. Look at me. . . . Breathe, little girl. Breathe.” Abra wished he would stop calling her that.

“We’re about to have some company.” A conspiratorial smile touched his lips. “Albert Coen is one of the biggest producers in Hollywood. He’s had his eyes on you since we walked in the door. Don’t speak. Stay seated. When I introduce you, nod graciously and smile. And don’t look surprised when I say Lena Scott. That’s your new name.”

She drew in a soft gasp of protest. “Why did you change my name?”

“It suits the new you.” His eyes held a glint of warning, though he looked calm and self-possessed, all business. “Get used to it.” He lifted his fluted glass of champagne. “To the Franklin Moss and Lena Scott partnership.” When she lifted her champagne glass of orange juice, he touched it lightly.

A man’s deep voice spoke and Franklin glanced up, feigning surprise. “Albert. It’s good to see you.” Standing, he shook hands with a balding man with a dark mustache and a nice suit. The man looked
at the other chair, but Mr. Moss didn’t invite him to join them. Abra smoothed her skirt over her knees and folded her hands loosely in her lap. She acknowledged the introduction with a slight nod and a remote smile. She crossed her legs. Mr. Moss was pleasant, but offered little information. When Coen asked a question about her, he expertly changed the subject.

In the last twenty-four hours, the girl who had run away from Haven with Dylan Stark had completely disappeared. She looked different. She felt different. She had a new name.
Who am I? Who am I going to be?
Whatever story Franklin Moss made up for her, she doubted it would be anything close to the truth. He would get around to telling her soon. He’d have to if she was going to play the role that would make her into the person they both wanted her to be. A movie star. Someone desirable. Someone people would remember. Someone no one would ever forget. Or want to throw away.

Norma Jeane Mortenson had become Marilyn Monroe, hadn’t she?

She drew in a slow, deep breath as the men talked above her, and let it out slowly.
Abra Matthews is dead. Long live Lena Scott.

CHAPTER 9

A pedestal is as much a prison as any small, confined space.

GLORIA STEINEM

A
BRA
JOINED
M
R
.
M
OSS
for breakfast, trying not to grimace when she saw the box of Post Grape-Nuts and a container of yogurt waiting for her. He’d told her the camera added five to ten pounds. Better to be under rather than normal weight, as long as it didn’t lessen her other attributes.

Mr. Moss closed
Daily Variety
and tossed it on the table. “We have a busy day ahead of us: pictures with Al Russell, lunch at the Brown Derby, dinner at Ciro’s. Eat quickly.” He glanced at his Vacheron Constantin. “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”

“I don’t know what to wear, and I’ve only brushed my hair.”

“Your hair is fine. A makeup artist will be at the studio, and Phyllis is sending over a wardrobe. Now, let’s move.”

She finished her bowl of cereal. He put the box in the cabinet and the yogurt in the refrigerator. She guessed she wouldn’t be having any more than a cup of food before tackling a full day.

Al Russell didn’t look much older than Mr. Moss, and he was equally lean and fit in casual slacks and a button-down blue shirt unbuttoned at the collar, a tie pulled carelessly loose. Mr. Moss made the introductions. Abra held out her hand, and Al took it, an amused smile touching his lips. He held on to her hand as he scrutinized her from head to foot. “She’s got that special something, hasn’t she?”

Mr. Moss looked noncommittal. “We’ll see. Everything arrive?”

“Racked and ready in the dressing room. Shelly’s laying out her war paint and brushes as we speak, but I don’t think this girl is going to need much to make her camera ready.”

Mr. Moss led her past the receptionist watching them, through the gallery of framed photographs of famous actors and actresses, and into a large studio with partitioned sets, cameras on tripods, mounted lights, reflective umbrellas, fans, and props. He knew his way around. “Over here.” He opened a door into a small room where a brunette with a flawless, polished-perfect face stood dressed in a white-belted red polka-dot dress and high heels. A carrying case lay open, displaying a vast array of beauty supplies.

The woman smiled brightly. “Franklin! It’s so good to see you again.”

“And you, Shelly.” He drew Abra forward between then. “This is Lena Scott. We’re working on a full portfolio today. Go for the siren look.”

The woman studied Abra’s features with a professional air. “Nice cheekbones, patrician nose, flawless skin, mouth a little full, and eyes to die for.”

“Make her sizzle.” He closed the door as he left.

Shelly shook her head. “I would have suggested ingenue. You have that wide-eyed look right now. When did you sign with Franklin?”

“A few days ago.” Since then, he’d changed the color of her hair and her name.

“Well, Franklin seems to have made up his mind what he wants
to do with you.” She waved Abra into a raised chair and draped her with a shiny black cape. “Where did he find you? Waiting tables at a restaurant? Carhopping on skates?”

“We met at one of Lilith Stark’s parties in Beverly Hills.”

Shelly looked surprised. “So you were already in the business and had connections in high places. Not his usual modus operandi.” Shelly stared intently at her in the mirror, waiting for more information.

What story did Mr. Moss want Abra to tell about Lena Scott? She didn’t think he’d want her to admit she’d been Dylan’s live-in girlfriend and he had tricked Franklin with a bet he couldn’t refuse. She could say she was part of the hired help. It was partially true. She’d had room and board as long as she kept Dylan happy and snooped for Lilith, until her conscience got in the way. Abra felt Shelly’s silence and knew she had to say something. “I was just visiting.”

Shelly began wiping away the makeup Abra had applied. “Well, wherever Franklin discovered you, he’ll know exactly how to market your talent.”

“I’m not sure I have any talent.”

“Oh, honey, you have plenty.” Shelly laughed before turning to look over the various shades of foundation. “Look what Franklin did with Pamela Hudson, not that she ever appreciated his efforts.”

“Did you know her?”

“I still know her. She’s beautiful and ambitious, and I thought she was smart until she dumped Franklin and married Terrence Irving, one of the top directors in Hollywood. I’d bet a million dollars she’ll never star in another one of his movies.”

“Why not?”

“Because he only casts the best, and she’s barely mediocre.”

Hadn’t Shelly just said Mr. Moss could spot talent a mile away?

Shelly applied foundation, her expression serious as she got down to work. “I must say, you have lovely skin. You wouldn’t believe the
spots and blemishes some stars have.” She mentioned a few and then turned to her brushes, tubes, compacts, and pencils.

The time passed quickly as Shelly regaled Abra with stories of the private lives of well-known young actresses she knew. Abra decided never to tell Shelly anything she didn’t want spread around.

“You’re lucky to have an agent like Franklin Moss,” Shelly said. “You won’t end up being a five o’clock girl.”

“A five o’clock girl?”

“Under contract to a studio and under an executive or producer at five in the afternoon, if you know what I mean. Pretty girls are a dime a dozen in Hollywood, honey. Hundreds arrive starry-eyed and hopeful for any part in any movie. They come hoping to be discovered. Some smarten up and go home. Some end up with a contract and get no further than a casting couch. Precious few end up with an agent who knows what he’s doing. Sad fact of life in Tinseltown.” Shelly stepped back to survey her work. “You are absolutely gorgeous. I can definitely see your face on the silver screen and your name on a marquee.”

“If Mr. Moss knows what he’s doing.”

“Take a little advice from someone who’s been around and seen a lot. Give Franklin free rein, and he’ll get you where you want to go.” She winked. “He’s the best sugar daddy anyone could have.” She laughed. “You’re not going to ask me what that means, too, are you?” She removed the cape from around Abra and gestured toward the mirror. “So? What do you think?”

Abra stared at the stunning girl in the mirror. “Is that me?”

Shelly laughed. “That’s all you with just a bit of my magic.”

Mr. Moss was deep in conversation with Al Russell when Abra came out of the makeup room. Both men glanced her way and then stared, Mr. Moss with paternal pride, Al grinning boldly. “I can’t wait to get to work on that face!”

Shelly touched Abra’s arm and showed her into a dressing room
furnished with a full-length mirror and a rack of evening gowns, swimming suits, and airy lingerie, along with several shoe boxes. On top sat a gold foil box tied with a red ribbon. Mr. Moss had followed her into the dressing room. He stepped around her, flipped through the hangers, and pulled out a black satin gown. “This one first.” He hooked the hanger on the mirror. He picked up the gift box and offered it to her. “First photo shoots can be unnerving. This is a little something from Paris to help get you in the proper mood.”

Untying the box and opening it, Abra lifted a red teddy out with one finger and stared, heat filling her face. “You want me to wear this? In front of Al Russell?”

His smile was almost tender. “He won’t see it, but what a woman wears underneath her clothing shows in her eyes.” He tipped her chin. “It’ll be our little secret.”

“But . . .”

He put two fingers over her lips. “You promised to trust me. So trust me. Get dressed.” He closed the door behind him when he left.

The murmur of men’s voices outside the door fell silent when she came out. The black satin gown fit every curve of her body. Feverish with nerves, Abra felt Al’s and his assistant Matt’s eyes fixed on her. She remembered Mitzi’s training and breathed in through her nose, exhaling slowly through parted lips. She tried not to hunch her shoulders.

Mr. Moss poured her a glass of champagne. “It’s early, but this will help you relax.” He leaned close. “Roll your shoulders back. Chin up. A little more. That’s it. Try to remember that from now on.” The champagne tickled her nose and warmed her stomach. “Drink it all.” He jerked his chin. “Al’s ready.”

Abra downed the champagne like soda pop and handed him the glass.

“Wait.” Mr. Moss turned her around. “You look like you just came from a beauty salon.” He raked his fingers into her hair. “I
want it tousled, a bit wild.” He lifted her hair and shook it gently. “That’s my girl.”

Al stood deep in conversation with Matt, who lost concentration as Abra approached. Al noticed and turned to face her. “You look loaded for bear.”

Abra lifted an eyebrow. “Where do you want me?”

Matt blushed crimson. Al gave a throaty laugh. “That’s a dangerous question from a girl who looks like you.” His gaze swept over her. “And dressed like that.” He pointed her toward a mattress covered in waves of white satin. “I want you on your back in the middle of that.”

She tried not to show panic when she looked around. “Where’s Mr. Moss?”

“I’m right here, Lena. It’s all right. Do what Al says.”

Al chuckled. “Better give her another glass of champagne, Franklin.”

“Better give me the whole bottle,” Abra muttered, earning a laugh from both men.

“Good girl!” Al winked. “She’s going to do just fine, Franklin. You can go now.”

Mr. Moss spoke from the darkness. “I’m staying so I can keep an eye on things.”

Abra breathed in relief as Al climbed a ladder to the scaffolding above. Gathering her courage, she hitched up the ankle-length satin gown and crawled to the middle of the mattress. She lay on her back, legs crossed, arms outstretched. She looked at Al. “Like this?”

“You look like you’re about to be crucified.” Al gave quick, businesslike instructions. “Curve one arm; turn your head to the right, body to the left; stretch out your left leg, right leg bent over the left. Relax. Point those pretty toes. Look at me. Now smile as though you’re hoping I’ll come down and join you on that mattress.”