Fancy Pants (Wynette, Texas #1)(31)

After several inquiries, she finally located Lew Steiner, the producer of Delta Blood. He was standing in the hallway of the Wentworth mansion, just outside the drawing room where her scene was being set up for shooting. His sleazy appearance shocked her. Pudgy and unshaven, with a gold ankh hanging inside the open collar of his Hawaiian shirt, he looked as if he belonged on a Soho street corner selling stolen watches. She stepped over the electrical cables that curled across the hallway carpet and introduced herself. As he looked up from his clipboard, she launched into her litany of complaints while managing to keep a smile in her voice.

“... So you see, Mr. Steiner, I absolutely can't spend another night in that dreadful place; I'm sure you understand. I need a hotel room before nightfall.” She gazed at him winningly. “It's so difficult to sleep when one is worried about being devoured by cockroaches.”

He devoted a few moments to ogling her elevated breasts, then pulled a folding chair away from the wall and sat down in it, spreading his legs so wide that the khaki fabric strained over his thighs. “Lord Byron told me you was a real looker, but I didn't believe him. Shows how smart I am.” He made an unpleasant clicking noise with the corner of his mouth. “Only the male and female leads have hotel rooms, sweetie, and that's because it's in their contracts. The rest of the peasants have to rough it.”

“‘Peasants’ is the operative word, isn't it?” she snapped, all efforts at being conciliatory forgotten. Were all film people this sordid? She felt a flash of irritation at Miranda Gwynwyck. Had Miranda known how unpleasant the conditions would be here?

“You don't want the job,” Lew Steiner said with a shrug, “I got a dozen bimbos I can have here by this afternoon to take your place. His Lordship was the one who hired you—not me.”

Bimbos! Francesca could feel a red haze gathering behind her eyelids, hut just as she opened her mouth to explode, a hand cupped her shoulder.

“Francesca!” Lloyd Byron exclaimed, turning her toward him and kissing her cheek, distracting her from her anger. “You look absolutely ravishing! Isn't she wonderful, Lew? Those green cat's eyes! That incredible mouth! Didn't I tell you how perfect she'd be for Lucinda, worth every penny it took to bring her over here.”

Francesca started to remind him that she was the one who'd paid those pennies and that she wanted every one of them back, but before she could say anything, Lloyd Byron went on. “The dress is brilliant. Innocently childish, yet sensual. I love your hair. This is Francesca Day, everyone!”

Francesca acknowledged the introduction, and then Byron drew her aside, pulling a pale yellow hankie from the pocket of his tailored vanilla walking shorts and gently pressing it to his forehead. “We'll be shooting your scenes today and tomorrow, and my camera is going to be in absolute raptures. You don't have any lines, so there's no reason to be nervous.”

“I'm hardly nervous,” she declared. Good gracious, she'd gone out with the Prince of Wales. How could anyone think something like this would make her nervous? “Lloyd, this dress—”

“Scrumptious, isn't it?” He led her toward the drawing room, steering her between two cameras and a forest of lights to the front of the set, which had been furnished with Hepplewhite chairs, a damask-covered settee, and fresh flowers in old silver urns. “You'll be standing in front of those windows in the first shot. I'm going to backlight you, so all you have to do is move forward when I tell you to and let that marvelous face of yours come slowly into focus.”

His reference to her marvelous face eased some of the resentment she was feeling over her treatment, and she looked at him more kindly.

“Think ‘life force,’” he urged. “You've seen Fellini's work with silent characters. Even though Lucinda never speaks a word, her presence must reach out from the screen and grab the audience by the throat. She's a symbol of the unattainable. Vitality, radiance, magic!” He pursed his lips. “God, I hope this isn't going to be so esoteric that the cretins in the audience will miss the point.”

For the next hour Francesca stood still for light readings and then concentrated on a walk-through rehearsal while final adjustments were made. She was introduced to Fletcher Hall, a dark, rather sinister-looking actor in morning coat and trousers who was playing the male lead. Although she kept abreast of movie star gossip, she had never heard of him, and once again she found herself assailed by misgivings. Why didn't she recognize any of these people's names? Maybe she'd made a mistake by not finding out more about the production before she'd jumped so blindly into it. Perhaps she should have asked to see a script... But she'd looked through her contract yesterday, she reminded herself, and everything seemed in order.

Her misgivings gradually faded away as she shot the first setup easily, standing in front of the window and following Lloyd's instructions. “Beautiful!” he kept calling out. “Marvelous! You're a natural, Francesca.” The compliments soothed her, and despite the increasingly uncomfortable constriction of the dress, she was able to relax between shots and flirt with some of the male crew members who'd been so attentive to her the night before.

Lloyd shot her walking across the room, making a deep curtsy to Fletcher Hall, and reacting to his dialogue by gazing wistfully into his face. By lunchtime, when she was unlaced from her costume for an hour, she discovered she was actually having fun. After the break, Lloyd positioned her at various points in the drawing room where he shot close-ups from every conceivable angle. “You're beautiful, darling!” he called out. “God, that heart-shaped face and those wonderful eyes are just perfect. Loosen her hair! Beautiful! Beautiful!” When he announced a break, Francesca stretched, rather like a cat who had just had its back well scratched.