CHAPTER 2

 

 

Gwendolyn Brick sat at a worktable in the corner of Twentieth Century-Fox’s costume department. It was a vast rectangular room with a row of long windows near the high ceiling that allowed California light to stream in. Eight tables sat in two rows, each offering a luxurious expanse on which to spread a seventeenth-century wedding dress or a gypsy skirt. A wall ran parallel to them, packed with bolt after bolt of the finest fabrics Gwendolyn had ever run her fingers along: Armenian needlelace, Crêpe de Chine, worsted wool, softer-than-soft mohair. Loretta Young had given Gwendolyn carte blanche to design anything she wanted, so it was all there for the taking.

She contemplated the sketches laid out in front of her: a floor-length ball gown in white lace; an organza shin-length tea dress; a Chanel-esque woolen suit; an ankle-length duster in shot silk. Gwendolyn didn’t know Miss Young well enough yet to anticipate what she’d say, so all she could do was wait.

Everyone in the department said she was one of the most professional actresses in Hollywood. The woman had a television show to put together, so she wasn’t likely to be sitting at home leafing through magazines.

Gwendolyn pulled Marcus’s latest letter from her purse. He opened with “Buona sera di Roma” in uncharacteristically wobbly penmanship—a sure sign that he had been tipsy when he wrote it.

“So sorry!”

Loretta Young sailed through the swinging doors looking chic in a dark plum pencil skirt and matching jacket, perfect hair and makeup. She held out her hand. “You must be Gwendolyn Brick?”

Gwendolyn shook it. “It’s so nice to meet you in person, Miss Young.”

“We’re going to be working closely together so you must call me Loretta.” She half-turned to the teenager trailing behind. “This is my daughter, Judy.” The girl forced a tight I-don’t-want-to-be-here smile.

Loretta pulled off her gloves and stowed them in her handbag, which she deposited on Gwendolyn’s chair. “I’m dying to see what you’ve come up with.”

Gwendolyn laid out the four sketches on her table and stood back to let the actress study them. Gwendolyn looked over at Judy, who’d parked herself in a chair next to the water cooler. She pulled out a paperback and started reading it with an air that fell somewhere between resigned and resentful.

Loretta tapped a freshly lacquered nail to her pointed chin and tsked. “I’m afraid none of these will do.”

Two days to complete four sketches for someone she’d never met was like driving at night with the headlights switched off. Not an insurmountable hurdle, but hardly the best way to get the job done.

Gwendolyn ran her finger back and forth along her collar until she had stifled the urge to scream. “When we spoke on the phone, you said I had carte blanche to create anything—”

“I don’t think I said that,” Loretta broke in.

Gwendolyn looked down at her sketches, unsure how to respond.

“But you did, Mother.” Loretta’s daughter dropped The Snake Pit into her lap. “I was there when you took that call.”

“Judy,” Loretta warned.

“Those were your actual words: carte blanche. So you can’t—”

“That’s enough.” Loretta turned to Gwendolyn. “There’s going to be a door. I’ll open it onto the set and sweep through, make a little turn to close it behind me, and then I’ll walk directly toward the camera. What I want is something that will catch the lights, flare out as I spin, and swirl about me as I move.”

Gwendolyn pointed to the ball gown sketch. “Ball gowns are made to sweep and swirl.”

“The set is a cozy little den, as though I’m inviting the audience into my home. Nobody wears a ball gown in a den.”

And that’s the sort of information that would’ve been handy forty-eight hours ago.

“In addition to which—” Loretta flicked the swatch of white lace “—the dress can be anything but white because the door I sweep through is white, so I don’t want to be lost against it. But other than that, I want you to feel free to create whatever you wish.”

But not a ball gown, a tea dress, a suit, or a duster. Or anything in white.

Loretta bit down on her lower lip as her large gray eyes narrowed in concentration. “What I meant was, anything but an empire cut. I do not look good in high-waisted dresses.”

There was nothing in Gwendolyn’s sketches that remotely suggested empire cuts.

“And when I say anything but white, I mean nothing light-colored. Nothing pale, so no pastels, either. Any sort of neckline is fine but I’d prefer no halter necks and nothing squared. One-shoulder designs are acceptable, and while I’m not a fan of Queen Anne necklines, let’s not discount them altogether. As for patterns, polka dots are rarely flattering, in my opinion. Tiny dots might be okay, but no larger than a dime. Other shapes, like stars or leaves or feathers, can work wonderfully well. That is, of course, unless—”

“Oh, Mother, please!” Judy tossed her paperback onto her chair and started crossing the room. “Like it or not, your movie career is behind you.”

Loretta looked around, relieved to see they were alone. “I hardly think you’re qualified—”

“Look who they paired you with on that last picture at Universal. John Forsythe is a nice guy, but he’s just a TV actor. Virtually a nobody.”

“Must you remind me?”

“Have you heard about Betty Grable?” Judy persisted. “I sat next to a couple of secretaries in the commissary yesterday and one of them was saying that Betty’s next movie is called Three for the Show, and they’re casting some guy called Jack Lemmon. Another TV actor.”

Loretta pressed her lips together and scratched the back of her neck, careful to look anywhere but at her daughter.

“You’re forty now, Mother. Your leading lady days?” She snapped her fingers. “Pffft!”

Loretta raised an eyebrow at Gwendolyn. “My daughter, the psychic.”

“I’m just a realist,” Judy said. “If you want to continue acting, your future’s in television. You may as well embrace it instead of putting up all these restrictions.”

Loretta and Judy glared at each other in a way that told Gwendolyn they’d had this quarrel before.

A trio of seamstresses entered the room laughing about Robert Wagner’s ridiculous wig, their arms filled with medieval costumes from Prince Valiant. It didn’t take them long to read the tension. They deposited the leather tunics and chainmail armor on the nearest workbench and hurried away.

Judy returned to her chair. “They’re doing retakes for River of No Return on Stage Seven and I’m going to watch.”

Loretta jammed her hands on her hips. “I doubt that Mr. Negulesco—”

“He told me I was welcome at any time.” Judy threw her book into her purse, and strode to the swing doors. “I’ll see you at home.”

“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” Loretta told Gwendolyn. “And on our first day together.”

“I’ve heard worse.”

Loretta ran a fingertip down the side of the tea dress sketch and along the bottom. “What do you think?”

“I think your daughter has a thing or two to learn in the art of diplomacy.”

Loretta smiled weakly. “She’s been at a loose end since graduating high school. I thought perhaps if I brought her with me to the studio, she might find . . .” She fluttered her eyelashes and let out a little sigh. “Everything changes when an actress turns forty.” Her voice took on a fragility she usually saved for the emotional scenes in her movies.

“It’s not fair, is it?” Gwendolyn said.

“If you’re Gary Cooper or John Wayne or Jimmy Stewart, who cares if you’re forty—or sixty? Those roles keep on coming down the pipeline. But once a woman steps over a certain line in the sand, they’re looking at the twenty-year-old who just stepped off the bus from Omaha. They look at you and think to themselves We could get her to play the mother.”

“This is a big change for you,” Gwendolyn said gently. You and me both.

Not too long ago, Gwendolyn had been running her own Sunset Strip boutique, famous for its signature fragrance. But then she fell afoul of a squalid rag called Confidential. She had been relieved, therefore, when Fox’s leading costumer, Billy Travilla, had hired her to work at the studio’s costuming department. He wanted her on hand to help wrangle an increasingly erratic Marilyn Monroe, as well as assist on pieces for other movies. All this on top of designing for Letter to Loretta.

What she hadn’t counted on was having to deal with a capricious star unprepared for the transition out of romantic leading roles in feature films and into hosting a television show.

“May I be frank?” Gwendolyn ventured. For my sanity as much as yours.

“By all means.”

“I believe your daughter’s not far off the mark.”

“I probably don’t want to hear this, but go on.”

“I think you’ve been handed an opportunity. Look at Lucille Ball. The other day I read in TV Guide that more people watch I Love Lucy every week than saw her last seven movies combined. If this show is a hit, you could be seen by millions. And if that’s the case, you get to make a wow of an entrance every week and countless people will see it.”

“The big entrance at the top of the show? That was my idea.”

“And it was a good one.” Gwendolyn brushed her sketches off the table and onto the floor. “Let’s start from scratch.” She took a blank sheet and drew two vertical lines down the page, then wrote YES at the head of the left-hand column, NO in the middle, and MAYBE on the right. “We make a list of what looks good on you, and what doesn’t, and what’s up for negotiation.”

Loretta’s shoulders slumped. “What if I change my mind?”

“That’s what erasers are for. We’ve got ten days to create an eye-catching gown that will allow you to make such an entrance that America will be forced to tune in the following week to see what you’ll be wearing. So tell me, what goes at the top of the YES list?”

Loretta stared bleakly at Gwendolyn’s paper. “I’d prefer my career was based on acting ability and not how I looked in a new frock.”

And I’d prefer to be designing Marilyn Monroe’s wardrobe in There’s No Business Like Show Business, but we’ll take what we can and be happy with it otherwise we’ll go nuts wishing for a life that used to be. If I can say goodbye to Chez Gwendolyn, you can say goodbye to movies.

Gwendolyn tapped the tip of her pencil on the YES she’d printed across the first column. “Shall we begin?”