“I feel like a pretzel.”
“Take my word, you don’t look like one. Your hands are in fists.
Loosen your fingers. That’s it.” He offered over-the-top compliments as he snapped shots.
The champagne began to do its work and she started to have fun. She vamped several actresses she’d always admired, hardly daring to believe she might soon be one of them. Al came down off the ladder and moved in close. “Close your eyes partway. I want a sleepy look, like Venus awakening. There you go! Beautiful!”
Mr. Moss moved in closer and gave instructions. “Arch up into a sitting position, Lena. Did you get that shot, Al? Stretch out on your side, Lena. Prop your body up a little, hands flat on the mattress. Tilt your head. There’s what I want.”
Al came in for another close-up.
Mr. Moss again, from the shadows. “Shake your hair, Lena. Lean back on your elbows. Let that hair be like a waterfall. That’s it.”
Al interrupted. “Bend one leg.”
Abra felt the satin slide and heard Al’s sharp intake of breath. “Betty Grable has some competition.” He spoke in a low, husky voice.
The fear had left Abra, the shyness. She was desirable, in control, powerful. The room felt steamy. She moved seductively and looked into the lens. “Is it getting hot in here?”
Al chuckled low. “Hotter by the minute. Hey, Matt! Wake up. Turn on the fans.”
They came on abruptly, blasting cool air. Abra’s flesh tingled. Al clicked away. She forgot her inhibitions and relished the male attention, the rain of compliments, the sense that her body held Al and Matt captive. She moved languidly into whatever pose they wanted, imagining herself as Marilyn Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor, Rita Hayworth. She smiled, pouted, looked breathless with anticipation.
“Enough.” Mr. Moss spoke roughly from behind the lights. He came forward, took her by the hand, and helped her off the mattress. “Put on the strapless ballet dress.” Leaning down, he whispered, “No red teddy. No nothing.”
Her heart plummeted.
Shelly refreshed Abra’s makeup. “Matt’s in love with you.”
“We haven’t even been introduced!”
“As if that mattered. You’re going to have hordes of men in love with you when you hit the silver screen.”
Abra’s excitement grew. Was she really going to become a star loved by thousands? Would people want her autograph? She laughed at herself. She had to be in a movie first.
Brushing her hair, she pulled it into a ponytail and wound it around into a prim bun on the crown of her head.
Mr. Moss grimaced. “What in hades did you do to your hair?”
“I’m in a ballet dress. My hair should be in a bun, shouldn’t it?”
He removed the pins and rubber band. “Shake it out.” He guided her to a low bench. “Sit knees a few inches apart, toes in and touching.” He plucked at the net skirt so it fluffed around her like a cloud of white. “Lean forward. A little more.” He stepped behind the lights. He said something low to Al, then gave Abra more instructions. “Elbows pressed against your sides. Hunch your shoulders a bit.”
She gasped, afraid she’d spill out of the front of the dress.
Click. Click.
Al said something to Franklin. “Tilt your head, Lena.” Franklin moved to one side where she could see him. “Chin down. Look into the camera, not at me. Wet your lips.”
Shelly laughed from somewhere in the studio. “Matt needs a cold shower.”
Abra felt an increasing sense of her own power as the morning wore on. She played whatever role Mr. Moss wanted, knowing she was safe as long as he stood guard.
When they decided it was time for a break, Mr. Moss had her change into a new dress Phyllis had tucked in among the gowns. He took her to the Brown Derby. Abra wasn’t quite sure whether he was serious when he said there was another Brown Derby restaurant that actually looked like the hat it was named for.
The proprietor recognized Mr. Moss, gave Abra an admiring smile, and showed them to a table, where a waitress offered Abra a menu. Mr. Moss took it and said he’d order for both of them: a French red wine for himself and water with lemon for her.
He glanced at her over the menu. “You’re having a bit of fun, aren’t you?” The possibility seemed to please him.
“Yes. I am.” She felt bold enough to admit it. “I was a little self-conscious. I think the champagne helped.”
His eyes grew amused. “And the French lingerie?”
“Until you told me to take it off.”
“You gave me the exact look I wanted: virginal fear and steamy heat.” He set the menu aside.
It had been five hours since she had eaten the small bowl of cereal and yogurt. Her stomach growled and she pressed her hand against it, embarrassed. “I’m starving.”
“I’ll feed you.” He leaned back. “I’ve known Al Russell for ten years, and I’ve never seen him sweat the way he has in the last two hours. If you can do that to a seasoned Hollywood photographer, we’re going to do very well with a few directors I know.”
“Really?”
He smiled. “Really.”
“I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank you for all you’re doing for me, Mr. Moss.”
“You can start by calling me Franklin.”
She felt an odd flicker of misgiving, but pushed it away. “Franklin. I wouldn’t have had the courage to pose like I did if you hadn’t been standing right there every minute, making sure no one made a pass at me.”
The tension eased inside her. Their wine and water were delivered. Abra squeezed the lemon. “Shelly said I’m lucky to have you as an agent.”
His eyes narrowed slightly as he sipped the wine. “I’ll have to remember to thank her.”
Abra’s gaze drifted and she drew in a startled gasp. “Is that Cary Grant over there?”
“Yes, and don’t stare.”
She tried to be surreptitious about it. On further exploration, she spotted Mickey Rooney laughing and talking with friends. John Agar, Shirley Temple’s ex-husband, sat a few tables away with his second wife, model Loretta Barnett Combs. Abra felt bubbles of excitement. She was sitting among stars!
The waitress returned for their order. Mr. Moss—Franklin—ordered two salads, a medium rare steak for himself, and grouper for her.
Abra grimaced and spoke quietly. “I’m not fond of fish.”
Franklin didn’t change the order, and the waitress left. He faced her. “Fish is good for you. It has fewer calories. Learn to like it.”
Like cereal and yogurt. She stifled the disappointment, admonishing herself. She should be thankful. He was paying; he had the right to decide. Besides, he knew better how she should look and act in order to be a star. If she had to lose five or ten pounds, so be it. It wouldn’t cost her anything. Or would it? “How much will the photographs cost?”
“Nothing for you to worry about. All bills are on my tab until you’re suitably employed. Then we’ll figure out how you can pay me back.”
How could she not worry? “And if I fail?”
“You won’t.” He leaned forward, his manner confident and paternal. “Your job is to be teachable. I can help you with a lot of things, and for those I can’t, I’ll make sure you have the right people to train you. We’re in this together. Our relationship will be mutually beneficial.”
“You’re spending the whole day with me. What about your other clients?”
“Let me worry about them.” He changed the subject. He had managed to get an invitation to the premiere of a major movie. Phyllis
would send over an appropriate gown, shoes, jewelry. The more he talked, the more excited and hopeful Abra became. Maybe everything would happen simply because Franklin Moss willed it.
Their meals were served, and Abra tried not to stare at Franklin’s succulent steak with open envy. The grouper wasn’t bad, but then a sautéed slice of cardboard would have satisfied her after so many hours with so little food. “How much weight do I have to lose?”
“No more than a few pounds.”
People stopped by their booth to greet Franklin and to be introduced to her. One mentioned Franklin’s long vacation. Another said he hadn’t seen anything of Pamela Hudson in a while. Franklin shrugged and said it would be up to Irving what she did in the future. “Not much,” came the response. Each visitor looked at her with open curiosity. One director grinned at Franklin and said he still had a good eye for what studios wanted.
Franklin smiled. “You know my number. Give me a call.” The man gave her an over-the-shoulder look before going out the door.
Franklin put his napkin on the table and paid the bill. “Time to get back to work with Al.” He helped her out of the booth and kept a protective closeness as they made their way out of the restaurant.
The one-piece black bathing suit Franklin chose was sexier than the bikini Dylan had purchased in Santa Cruz. Al positioned her in front of a wooden helm wheel while Matt pulled down a sky-blue screen painted with clouds. Al put his hands on Abra’s hips and moved her back against the wheel. She had nowhere to go and felt the warmth of his mint-scented breath on her face. “I want you right here.”
“Knock it off, Al.”
A malicious gleam came into Al’s eyes. “Pretty protective of you, isn’t he? Better watch out.” He let go and stepped back. She frowned slightly, remembering Murray’s similar remark. What were they trying to say to her? Franklin Moss behaved like a perfect gentleman.
Strictly business, he’d said. She hadn’t seen anything to indicate he wanted to change the arrangement.
“Grasp the spoke handles behind you, Lena.” Franklin gave directions.
Al winced. “Not so hard. Loosen those elegant fingers of yours.” He moved her hands to the spokes he wanted before backing off. “Put one foot against the wheel. Now stretch up on those pretty little toes.”
Franklin spoke again. “Left shoulder up, chin down. A little more. Get that shot, Al.”
“The man knows exactly what he wants from you.”
They worked through the afternoon. On the drive back to the apartment, Franklin told her they’d have time for showers and a quick change before they headed out for dinner at Ciro’s. She hoped he’d allow her to eat more than salad and fish. “You’ll see a lot of familiar faces there. Try not to look like an eager fan. When we get to the apartment, take a five-minute shower. Don’t get your face or hair wet.”
“Should I put my hair up?”
He cast an assessing look. “Brush it and leave it down.”
She did exactly as he said. The knee-length black dress he’d picked out fit perfectly. She brushed her hair quickly and went out to the living room. Franklin stood by the windows. He looked distinguished in black slacks and a crisp white shirt. His hair was still damp and slicked back.
“Do I pass inspection?” Abra turned around.
Franklin crossed the room slowly, his expression enigmatic. She noticed the lion’s head gold cuff links when he reached out to brush a wayward strand of hair over her shoulders. A matching tie tack held his black tie. He stepped back and smiled. “Classic and classy.” He gave a single nod of approval.
Abra touched her hair. “Is it all right now?” The glistening black waves hung to the middle of her back.
“Perfect.”
Franklin talked about the movie business, directors they might see, the one they had met at the Brown Derby, and how he wanted her to act when they went into Ciro’s. Abra drank in every word, eager to be a part of the exciting world he knew so well. Dylan had hidden her away. Franklin Moss wanted to show her off.
The plain exterior of Ciro’s gave no hint to the baroque interior or the glamorous patrons. Abra’s heart raced with elation as she spotted Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. Wasn’t that Frank Sinatra with Ava Gardner? Everywhere she glanced, she recognized faces of the rich and famous.
Franklin guided her as though he belonged here. As long as she was with him, she did, too. When men and women greeted him, he paused and introduced her as Lena Scott. As they moved on, Abra sucked in her breath and looked back over her shoulder at Lucille Ball and Desi Arnaz. Franklin’s hand tightened, and she almost tripped over her own feet. He steadied her as she faced a platinum blonde in a body-hugging white dress and fur stole. It took only a second to recognize Lana Turner. “Oh! Hello.” She was even more beautiful in person than on a movie screen.
“Hello to you, too.” The actress laughed softly and smiled at Franklin. “Another sweet young thing.” They exchanged quick air kisses on each cheek. “It’s good to see you again, Franklin.”
“You’re as ravishing as ever, Lana.”
“Pamela was a fool to leave you, darling. But I see now how easily she’s been replaced with something even more lovely.” Smiling, she admired Abra. “More curves than Pamela, raven hair rather than blonde, and those sea-green eyes so full of mystery.” She laughed and gave Franklin a smile that hinted at conspiracy. “Are we ready? I chose this spot because Hedda is less than twenty feet away. Her photographer is inching over.”
“I owe you one.”
Abra looked at Franklin. “Who’s Hedda?”
Lana Turner’s laughter sounded real this time. “Where did you find this innocent? At the Greyhound bus station?”
“I got her out from under the roof of Lilith Stark.”
Lana grimaced. “Lilith is a nasty piece of work.”
“Lana!” A man spoke from behind Abra. “How about a picture?”
“Of course.” Lana slipped an arm around Abra’s waist. “Smile pretty.” She turned Abra and leaned close as though they were the best of friends. A flash of bright light half blinded Abra. Lana withdrew her arm immediately and raised her hand in friendly adieu. “Have fun, you two.”
Franklin reclaimed Abra, guiding her to their table, where a waiter stood ready to take their drink orders—Scotch neat for him, iced tea for her. Abra gave a breathless laugh, her heart pounding. “I can’t believe I had my picture taken with one of Hollywood’s biggest stars!”
Laughing, he patted her hand. “We’re just getting started.” He ordered for her, salmon this time. She didn’t care. She was too happy and excited to be in Ciro’s among the stars to think about eating. They watched a floor show while finishing dinner. Their waiter cleared their table as the dance band started. Franklin took her by the hand. “Let’s dance.”
She cast a nervous look at the couples doing the rumba.
He helped her up from her seat. “Just relax and follow my lead.” He escorted her onto the dance floor and took her into his arms. He kept his eyes on her face, but she had the feeling he knew exactly what was going on everywhere in the room. He drew her closer. “Are you happier now? Even though you’re living in a fifteen-hundred-square-foot apartment with a man old enough to be your father, rather than a pretty little Beverly Hills bungalow with Dylan?”