Platinum Doll. Anne Girard
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guys was just a fluke. We’d had that quarrel after he’d had too much to drink. That’s all it was.”
Rosalie followed Harlean’s gaze across the room to Chuck. At the moment, he was telling an animated story with great gesticulations.
“Of course that was it, honey. They’re all like that once in a while. So what do you say to lunch tomorrow, just the two of us girls? I’ll show you around town.”
“Gosh, that’d be great.”
“Can we take your car? Ivor has to take ours for an early tee off time with a few of the boys.”
“Sure, but do you suppose Chuck can tag along to the golf course? I’m not sure what else he’d do around here all day while I’m gone.”
She didn’t want to say that she was nervous he’d sit alone and drink.
Rosalie’s smile faded a degree. “Gee, honey, I’d really like to tell you yes, but since they play at the country club, there has to be an invite from one of the swells over there. Real obnoxious, blue-blooded, East Coast types control everything. Ivor only just got his invitation a couple of weeks ago so he’s still on thin ice till they decide if he’s all right or not.” Rosalie lowered her voice and leaned nearer. “Between you and me, we both hate having to kiss everyone’s posterior around here, but that’s just the way it is when you’re new in town.”
“That’s okay, I understand,” Harlean forced herself to say.
She didn’t really mean it, but she wasn’t about to lose this chance with a girl who could show her the ropes. She would need determination in the coming days to get ahead with this tony group. Besides, she really did like Rosalie. She had an infectious laugh and a sweet, sincere disposition. She hadn’t grown up with many girlfriends so this meant a great deal to her.
“Let’s go see what you’ve got to wear to lunch. The Brown Derby is becoming pretty exclusive, so we’ve got to look the part if we don’t want a table back near the kitchen.”
“I thought you were an actress,” Harlean said.
“For now I’m just an extra. If I’m lucky I get a walk-on here and there. But that sure as heck doesn’t mean I can’t act! You’ll see what I mean tomorrow,” she said conspiratorially.
Even though Harlean couldn’t imagine what Rosalie meant, she was certain lunch was going to be interesting.
* * *
Harlean and Rosalie drove to lunch just before noon the next day. Chuck had washed the car until it gleamed because he knew how important it was that his wife had a friend in California and they were going off to do something together. Even though it was a warm day, she decided not to put the top down so she wouldn’t ruin the careful wave she’d given to her usually fluffy blond hair.
The Brown Derby on Wilshire Boulevard looked just like its name: it was whimsically constructed in the shape of a huge hat. She had read all about the restaurant and the stars who dined there in Photoplay magazine, so she was almost as excited to see the building as to lunch there.
“Have you a reservation?” the maître d’ asked, using a slightly snotty French accent. Harlean knew enough French from her school days to know that it was fake. The tag on this lapel read “Francois.”
Rosalie met his gaze unflinchingly. “Lady Helen Crumley, table for two. My secretary phoned. As usual, we’ll have a booth.”
Harlean watched his reserve dissolve faced with Rosalie’s hauteur and her believable English accent. “Yes, of course, your ladyship, here it is right here. Lovely to see you again. Please, follow me.”
He fumbled nervously with the menus, and Harlean was relieved that he turned away to usher them inside, or her stunned expression would have given them away. They were shown to one of the coveted booths along the side of the restaurant. After he had bid them a “bon appétit,” Harlean looked at Rosalie over the top of her menu.
“Where’d you learn to pull that off?”
“You know what they say about necessity being the mother of invention.”
“Well, I certainly believed you, and so did he.”
“People believe what they want to believe, Harlean. I’ve seen him at auditions, so I know his name is Frankie, not Francois. It mattered more to him that he might have seated some distant royalty that he could brag about than the fact that I might be the same kind of struggling, out-of-work actor he is.”
Incredulous, Harlean shook her head and tried not to smile too broadly. “I can’t believe the table, either. We can see everyone coming and going from here, and most everyone has to pass right by us.”
“Speaking of that, you’ll never believe who just came through the door.” Trying not to show the awe she felt, Harlean lifted her menu again and carefully peered over the top of it. “Jimmy Cagney himself is coming our way.”
“I may just die,” Harlean said quietly.
“Indeed you will not. Lady Crumley and her sister are never cowed by lowly Hollywood players. We, after all, are from the land of Shakespeare and Milton.”
Harlean glanced up just in time to see the matinee idol pass right beside them. The spicy scent of his cologne lingered. “Jeez, he’s handsome! But not nearly as tall as he looks in the pictures.”
“That’s because directors have been known to stand him on a crate. I saw it for myself when I was an extra last year in a picture with him.”
Harlean wished she could order a drink with lunch to tame her open sense of awe and keep it from getting out of control. Her mother had taught her to have a love of gin, although hers was not Chuck’s great passion for it, certainly.
“Don’t look now,” Rosalie said. “But that’s William Powell sitting across from us. He was just in that picture called The Last Command. And I’m fairly sure that’s Greta Garbo and Irving Thalberg with him. Thalberg is a huge producer over at MGM, even though he looks like a kid.”
Harlean was certain that Powell was the most attractive man she had ever seen, far more so than on-screen. He had a thin, perfectly groomed mustache, a winning smile, and such strikingly bright blue eyes that she could not stop staring. There was something so debonair and sophisticated about him, not matched by any other Hollywood matinee idol.
When the waiter came to take their order, Harlean could only follow Rosalie by muttering, “I’ll have the same.” She had no idea what they had ordered, and she could not have cared less. She couldn’t quite believe she was actually here.
A few minutes later, the striking ingenue Joan Crawford was shown to a table nearby. Harlean would have recognized her anywhere for all of the magazine covers she had graced this past year. She was dressed casually in loose-fitting trousers and a cardigan. It was an easy style Harlean longed to emulate. Casual elegance, her mother called it. If she were a star like Crawford, she would dress just exactly like that. Though the idea of comparing herself, even privately, to a girl like Joan Crawford was slightly absurd.
Before today, her movie idols had seemed only fantasy beings. Yet here they were, real and wonderful, eating steak and salad, chattering away at lunch tables that looked just like hers. She was a part of it all.
After lunch, they went down to the Bullocks Wilshire department store, a luxury art deco palace. The display windows along Wilshire Boulevard were full of the latest styles from New York and Paris. Inside, Harlean found a temple to fashion, complete with travertine floors and crystal chandeliers. There were as many fashionably dressed sales clerks as customers, and more attitude than ambiance. She could hardly quell what she knew was her awestruck expression.
Rosalie led the way straight through the vaulted first floor Perfume Hall as though she absolutely belonged. Harlean hurried behind her, trying in vain to match Rosalie’s confident stride.
Upstairs in one of the showrooms, Rosalie selected two dresses