CHAPTER 43

 

 

Gwendolyn ran a finger along the panels of white satin laid out on her worktable and tapped her cheek with a finger. “I don’t know,” she told Billy Travilla. “A six-inch slit at the back will only let her take the smallest steps.”

Billy nodded. “I’ve already pointed that out to Marilyn, but she said she was fine with it.”

“I hope her limo isn’t slung too close to the ground. She’ll have a devil of a time getting out all ladylike.”

“The press will have a field day if she can’t.”

“The press always has a field day at her premieres, but especially for this one. I hope The Seven Year Itch can live up to its publicity.”

“It will if she brings—” Billy cut himself off and kept his eyes on the table between them.

“Do you know who she’s bringing as her date?” Gwendolyn already knew, but wasn’t sure if Marilyn had confided in Billy.

Marilyn had been AWOL from Fox for a year. It was a hell of a long suspension, but it was self-imposed—a declaration that she couldn’t care less. She was glad to have escaped the stifling goldfish bowl that Hollywood had become and was thriving in New York. In her most recent letter, Marilyn had dropped one or two broad hints that she and DiMaggio weren’t completely over and that she might bring him as her date.

“We spoke long-distance on the weekend,” Billy said archly.

“I got a letter.”

The two of them looked at each other, their eyes wide with unasked questions. They started talking at the same time.

“Joe DiMaggio?”

“What is she thinking?”

“With everything she’s been through?”

“That night she filmed the subway scene—”

“I heard she got bruised—”

“And now she wants to start up again?”

“Sounds masochistic if you ask me.”

The telephone rang in Billy’s office. He told her to start with the bodice and they’ll figure out the bust later.

He returned a minute or two later. “You’ve been summoned.”

* * *

Irma sat at her typewriter, her back straight as a fence, her fingers a blur as she banged out yet another memo. When she saw Gwendolyn, her mouth melted into a smile.

Gwendolyn wondered if she was about to hear good news, or if Irma’s instructions were to soften her up. “Reporting for duty.”

Irma consulted the board of lights next to her intercom. “He’s still on a call. Won’t be long.”

“I don’t suppose you can give me a hint about why I’ve been subpoenaed.”

“And spoil the surprise?”

After the events of the past six months, Gwendolyn wanted to settle back into her costuming job and sew attractive clothes for attractive people. Was that too much to ask?

One of the lights on Irma’s board went out. “You can go in now.”

Gwendolyn opened the door to Zanuck’s office. Above his desk hung a grayish-white cloud of expensive cigar smoke. “Boy, oh boy! I’m about to put a great big smile on that beautiful dial of yours.” He motioned for her to take a seat.

She lodged herself on the edge of the chair facing Zanuck’s vast desk.

He drew a long pull of his cigar and let out one perfectly shaped “O” after another. “Remember when I said I’d make it up to you?”

Of course I do, you big-talking clod. But that was weeks ago and I never heard anything. Not that I expected to. “Yes, I remember—”

“Hold onto your hat, because I’m about to do it.”

“Okay.”

“That television test went better than we expected.

“I’m glad to hear it; the crew was pretty jumpy that day.”

He beamed wider than the Hollywood sign. “Honey, you’re a natural!”

“A natural what?”

“You came across like a goddamn real-life goddess. The camera loves you.”

Gwendolyn fought off a sinking feeling. “Excuse me, Mr. Zanuck, but I find that hard to believe.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve seen myself twice on film and both times I was awful. No, honestly! I stunk.”

“When you were acting, maybe. Could’ve been you were trying too hard, or could be you’re just a lousy actress. But trust me: television cameras love you. When you’re being yourself, you’re adorable and lovable and so goddamned appealing. People are gonna eat you up, so I want you to be the host.”

“Of what?”

“Fox Fanfare. You do a little spiel at the start, introduce the movie, maybe share some of the behind-the-scenes gossip—we’ll figure it out later. You’ll come back after the movie finishes, a few trivial facts, maybe show some stills, tell them what movie we’ll be presenting the next week and boom, you’re done.”

Gwendolyn maintained a honeyed smile as she figured out a nice way to say Not on your ever-lovin’, pea-pickin’ life, fella.

“Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Zanuck, but I’m going to say no.”

He vaulted to his feet. “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? I’m offering you the job of a lifetime. You’ll be seen in more homes every week than someone like Marilyn Pain-In-My-Ass Monroe has been seen in her entire career!”

And look where it’s gotten her. “Not everybody in Hollywood wants to be famous.”

“What I’m talking about is a hand-in-glove perfect fit.” He tapped the contract he’d pushed toward her. “This is your calling.”

“My calling is a gorgeous white dress currently sitting on my worktable back in Costuming—”

“Bullshit! Listen, I’ve built my career by judging people on their ability to become other people. This business of being yourself on camera is new to me, but everyone I’ve shown your test footage to agrees: you’ve got it.”

It was time to end this ridiculous conversation. Gwendolyn stood up, smoothing her skirt. “I appreciate the offer and the vote of confidence, but the answer is still no. It won’t be hard to find someone else to—”

“Let me show it to you. Your audition, I mean.”

“I wasn’t auditioning; I was filling in.”

Zanuck was on his feet now. “I want you to see what I saw. And that’s an order.”

Memories of her Scarlett screen test and Maltese Falcon cameo circled like hungry vultures, but as much as Gwendolyn hated to admit it, Zanuck’s dogged insistence sparked the tiniest flame of curiosity.

She trailed behind Zanuck as he marched down a short corridor and into a screening room with seven rows of ten seats. He flicked the lights on. A large television set stood at the front. Zanuck led her to the middle seats in the first row and switched on the set.

Gwendolyn pictured herself in that frightful panda-bear makeup. I should have said no on the basis of that alone. She buried her face in her hands. The trumpets of the famous fanfare sounded woefully shrill through the set’s tinny speakers.

“Hello, and welcome to Fox Fanfare.”

Gwendolyn let out a tiny gasp. Was that MY voice?

“Each week, we’ll be bringing you one of the many Twentieth Century-Fox motion pictures that you’ve loved so much over the years.” She spread her fingers and peeked through the gaps. “But first, let me introduce myself. My name is Gwendolyn Brick and I do hope that we’ll become the very best of friends as I present a new picture—that is, a new old picture—for you to enjoy. For all of us to enjoy!”

Parts of that had been ad-libbed. She couldn’t say she was Betty Grable, nor could she say they were new pictures because some of them were twenty years old. So she had improvised, and after that, ignored the cue cards.

Gwendolyn’s hands dropped away as she examined the girl on the TV screen. Where was that god-awful panda-bear makeup? This woman looked charming. Where were her trembling hands and twitching fingertips? She seemed relaxed and confident, and so very at home in that makeshift den. This warm, personable version of herself waved at the camera and told her viewers to be sure to tune in next week for The Ghost and Mrs. Muir.

The television screen went black.

Zanuck took a drag of his cigar. “And this is with an inexperienced crew. Imagine how it’s going to look when the camera, lighting, makeup, and sound guys know what they’re doing.”

“I—I—” Gwendolyn groped for words, but they eluded her.

“You’re floored that you could be so delightful that all of America will want to invite you over for dinner?” He turned to face her. “Here’s my offer. Two-fifty a week, with an increase every season and a run-of-the-show contract.

“What about wardrobe?” The question popped out of its own accord.

“What about it?”

“I want full on-camera wardrobe approval.” Look at you, Gwendolyn scolded herself, and suppressed a giggle. Not even on the air and already making demands.

“I suppose you want Travilla to design it, too.”

He was being snarky, so she told him yes.

“Done.” He reached out to shake her hand. “Welcome to television, Miss Brick.”