Nothing at home compared to the heat here. On days like this, my dream seemed so far away, even though it was a few short miles from the diner where I worked. I tried not to think about managing thirty dollars at the most in tips a week and eating like a bird to make ends meet.
I entered Joe’s Diner and grabbed my apron. “Hi, Rose.”
“Heya, Eleanor. How’s tricks?”
My tall, platinum blonde co-worker said the same thing to me every morning. Every morning, it struck me what a silly question it was.
“No dillydallying,” Stella shouted from the kitchen.
“That woman needs to get laid,” Rose said under her breath as she brushed past me.
The typical morning crowd came. Al and his wife Tonya asked for their usual—scrambled eggs, bacon, two glasses of orange juice. I only wished something would change. Anything to break up the monotony.
“Eleanor! Phone!”
Stella handed over the receiver and pointed at me with a thick finger. “Two minutes, tops. We’re too busy to have you chatting.”
“Hello?”
“Eleanor, it’s Hal Marker. Good news. I’ve snagged a reading for you for tomorrow afternoon. They’re in the middle of filming the picture but want to go another route with the casting of one of the extras. They’re looking for a Brit, and you fit the bill. Can you get to TGM’s lot by two?”
An immediate swarm of butterflies assaulted my stomach.
“I’ll have to ask Stella, but I think so. I can take my lunch then.”
“Got a good feeling about this one, kid. Get there a little early if you can.”
I hung up the phone and stared at it as if in a trance.
“Eleanor! Back to work. Table six, remember?” Stella glared at me.
“Right. Sorry.” I fetched the coffee pot, thankful now for the mundane to keep my mind occupied for the next several hours.
* * *
Tuesday, 22 August 1950. “Miss Eleanor Burnett?” The young man glanced up from his clipboard.
I rose from my chair and smoothed my skirt before following him into the studio.
“You stand there.” He pointed at a white X on the floor.
A man with greying hair spoke from his director’s chair. “Miss Burnett, I’m Frank Teller. Please try to relax and read the line on the script that Tom’s handing you. You’re the cocktail waitress. Janet will be reading with you.”
I took the dog-eared script from Tom. A red-haired woman in a tight-fitting blouse and trousers popped her gum at me while gazing down at her own copy.
“Go ahead, Janet,” Teller said.
One more gum pop prefaced her line. “Hey, sugar, I need a Scotch next time you swing by.”
As I was about to deliver my line, a woman appeared in the back of the studio. She sauntered up to the empty chair beside Teller, sat down, and crossed her legs. Her skirt hiked up high on the side with the movement.
Oh my God. Daphne DeMonet. She placed a cigarette between her lips. Teller flicked a lighter and held it toward her. She cupped her hand around his and took a long drag. The smoke obscured her face. But those legs. You couldn’t mistake them for anyone else’s. I’d read once she’d insured them for a million dollars, and I thought it ludicrous. Until seeing them in the flesh…
“Miss Burnett?” Teller prompted. “This is where you speak your line.”
“Oh. Forgive me. Can we try again?” I tore my gaze away from Miss DeMonet and attempted to concentrate.
“Again, Janet.”
Janet repeated her line.
“On the rocks or straight up?” There. At least I didn’t stumble.
Miss DeMonet leaned over and said something to Teller.
“That’s fine, Miss Burnett. We’ll call Marker if we’re interested.”
My heart sank. Other directors had dismissed me in the same manner so many times before. The only calls I received from Mr. Marker started with, “Sorry, Eleanor. They’re looking for someone a little taller… a little plumper… a little older.” It didn’t matter what followed. The phone call always began with, “Sorry, Eleanor.”
On the bus back to the diner, while sitting in the stifling, stagnant heat, I thought about Father’s last letter. He’d sent money. I wish I could send it back to him to show him I could stand on my own two feet. But I needed the money. He told me to use it to come back home. I watched the palm trees flash by my window and made a vow. If Mr. Teller didn’t offer me this part, I’d heed my father’s advice.
* * *
Thursday, 24 August 1950. “Eleanor! Phone!” Stella handed me the receiver. “Second call this week. Try not to make this a habit, okay?”
“I’m sorry.”
She grunted and pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen.
“Hello?”
“You got the part,” Mr. Marker said, his voice bubbling with excitement.
Shocked, I sat down on a stool at the counter. “I did?”
“Yes, you did. You need a nice gown lickety-split. Do you have one? Or do you need me to advance you some money?”
I remembered the cash my father had sent me. “No, I have money, but why do I need a new gown? Won’t I be costumed for the movie?”
“There’s a party tomorrow night at DeMonet’s house. She throws a shindig for every one of her movies. You’re invited.”
“Why would she invite me? I’m only an extra.”
“I don’t know. What I do know is you need to be there and look your best. Let me give you the address.”
I pulled the pen down from behind my ear and scribbled the information on a napkin.
“It’s at seven. You can be fashionably late at eight, but don’t push it. I suggest taking a taxi.”
My mind spun as I replaced the receiver. Where could I get a decent gown with the money Father had sent me?
Rose breezed by with a full tray.
“Rose, can you help me tonight?”
* * *
Friday, 25 August 1950. I arrived at the gated entrance to Miss DeMonet’s Beverly Hills home at seven-thirty, gave my name to the attendant, and followed others garbed in elegant tuxes and party dresses down the winding path to her home. I glanced down at my attire and wondered again about my choice. Rose had helped me find a soft blue satin gown that fell to my knees.
“It brings out the blue in your eyes,” she’d said.
But it also showed plenty of cleavage. I felt exposed and checked around before tugging the front a little higher.
The sprawling Spanish-style mansion was everything I expected it to be. The sun was descending in the western sky, and its dying golden rays suffused the white stucco in a soft orange light.
A doorman again stopped me to check off my name. After passing inspection, I moved from the foyer into the large living room overflowing with beautiful people. Searching where to stand to blend in, I spotted a small alcove by the hors d’oeuvres table and bar. It seemed safe enough.
I approached the bartender. “A glass of white wine please.”
An excited murmur rippled through the crowd. I craned my neck to see Daphne DeMonet enter the room. Her smile lit on everyone she turned to while her gaze held them in place. A glowing aura surrounded her. I blinked, thinking it must be the lighting. A silver, jewel-encrusted barrette pushed her dark hair back on the side; the rest cascaded onto her bare shoulders. A slit in her white, sequined gown, rising almost to her hip, allowed a generous view of one tanned leg as she moved through the crowd.
My mouth felt suddenly dry. I took several sips of wine and tried to tear my eyes away from her, but I failed in the effort.
A group of four or five young, handsome men descended upon her and surrounded her, preventing her from walking farther. One handed her a drink, leaned in to kiss her cheek, and pressed his lips to her ear. She threw her head back as she laughed at something he must have said. My gaze was drawn down her long neck to her cleavage below.
I snapped my eyes up when I realised where I’d been looking and held back a gasp.
Daphne DeMonet was still laughing with the men surrounding her, but she was staring at me.
I took another long drink to finish off the rest of my wine and searched for a place to set down the glass. When I turned around, my heart leapt to my throat.
Daphne was walking slowly toward me and seemed to be sizing me up, like a lioness hunting a gazelle on the plains of Africa.
“Hello,” she said in that famous, husky voice that was almost a growl. “I was in the studio when you read this week. Eleanor Burnett, right?”
I nodded, unable to find enough saliva to utter a word.
“I know you can speak. I heard you read your line,” she said in a teasing tone.
I swallowed. “Ye-yes. I’m surprised you remember me, Miss DeMonet.”
“Oh, I never forget names.” She locked in on my eyes. “Or pretty faces.”
Fire heated my cheeks.
“Why don’t we go someplace a little quieter to chat?” Not awaiting my reply, she took my hand and led me through the throng. She allowed several actors to give her air kisses along the way. She manoeuvred me to the backyard to a cement bench ensconced within a beautiful flower garden. “Sit with me.”
There wasn’t much of a choice as she pulled me to her side.
“So, Ellie… may I call you Ellie?”
“Yes.” I don’t know why I agreed. No one had ever called me that. Mesmerised in her presence, it was as if a pixie had sprinkled magic dust upon my head and rendered me helpless to do anything but what she bid.
“I love your accent.” She pressed her leg against mine. “I’ve been to England a time or two. Where are you from?”
“Banbury in Oxfordshire.”
“A long way from home, hmm? I imagine it gets lonely.” She placed her hand on my knee. It felt like a red-hot poker had seared through my dress.
“S-sometimes,” I stuttered. My skin ablaze, my body reacted in ways it never had before. Only two young men had sat this intimately with me. I had felt nothing with them but a sense of dread as to what happened next. With her, I felt fear and something else unforeseen… longing.
Her gaze dropped to my mouth. She questioned me with one upraised eyebrow as she drew even nearer.
I took a breath before her lips pressed into mine. Her long, thin fingers entwined into my hair and pulled me closer.
“Daphne DeMonet is kissing me” ran through my mind until a second thought hit me like a hammered spike. A woman is kissing me. And I’m kissing her back. Oh my God.
I yanked my mouth away with a soft cry and jumped to my feet.
“Miss DeMonet, I… I…”
The dimming light from the setting sun captured the amusement on her face. “I think you can call me Daphne after a kiss like that.”
Terrified and shaken, I fled from her and from the conflicting emotions raging inside of me.
“Wait! I’m sorry!”
I heard her gown rustling behind me as she rushed to catch up. Just as I made it to the back door, she grasped my wrist.
“I’m sorry. I thought you… well, I thought you…”
“You thought I what?” I asked with tears streaming down my cheeks.
Her cheeks grew flushed, and her dark eyes pleaded with mine for something I knew I wasn’t able to give.
“I’m so sorry. Please don’t think ill of me. I presumed something, and I took advantage of you.”
I stared at her hand still holding my wrist in its tight grip. She let go.
“Please, you won’t tell anyone, will you?” Gone was the sleek huntress, replaced by a frightened young woman concerned about her reputation… and most likely her career.
“No,” I answered quietly. “No, I won’t tell anyone. But you must know I’m not that way.” A sudden thought came to mind. “The reason I got the part. It wasn’t because of this, was it?”
She hesitated. Enough for me to know the answer.
Anger boiled inside of me. “You and Mr. Teller can find someone else for your Brit.” I barged through the back door of the house and shoved past anyone in my path, not caring who it was nor what kind of dark looks I received.
Before I left, I couldn’t help myself. There was such a pull to turn back to her as if I were the ocean tide and she the moon. Her admirers had surrounded her once again, all vying for her attention.
But Daphne DeMonet only had eyes for me.