The Lioness(55)

But it was the castle that mattered to the movie magazine’s art director. His vision? Shirley MacLaine and Carmen Tedesco popping out of the small turret with the nearby hole’s Eiffel Tower right behind them. “It’s perfect,” he said. “The new movie is set in Paris, you two play a couple of chippies, and the Eiffel Tower looks like a giant phallus behind you.” He said this as he stood in the awning of the snack bar, while Shirley and Carmen were seated on the snack bar stools and a pair of women applied their makeup. The young publicist from Reggie’s firm, Jean Cummings, had just brought them each a bottle of Coca-Cola.

The art director was wearing a blue blazer with a Beach Boys T-shirt underneath it. He was probably fifty and had been doing this since the end of the war. Carmen watched how Shirley responded to being called a chippie, but she didn’t seem perturbed. And so Carmen dialed down her own vexation at the word. The truth was, they were playing hookers in the movie, and so chippies was, arguably, a step up.

The photographer, a guy about the same age as the art director, was out by the castle, checking the light. He was wearing khaki pants with more pockets than Carmen had ever seen on a pair of trousers. He looked back at the snack bar and called to them. He asked if Miss MacLaine and her stylist could join him, and so Carmen was left alone with the art director, Jean Cummings, and the woman working on her face.

“Think you’ll ever be in a pic your father-in-law is directing?” the art director asked her now.

Carmen didn’t have to answer right away because the makeup artist, her breath a little sour with coffee, was finishing her eyeliner. It gave Carmen a moment to formulate her response.

“I’d be honored,” she told him after the woman had stepped back to appraise her work. “I’d be honored to be in one of my husband’s movies, too.”

“You ever see the story we did on Rex?” he asked, referring to Felix’s lion of an old man.

“I did,” she answered. She had hoped to steer the conversation back to her husband and decided to try a second time.

But Jean was a step ahead of her. The other woman began, “I think Felix—”

“You remember the photos that went with it?” the art director asked Carmen, cutting off the publicist.

“I do,” Carmen answered. “They were up at the Griffith Observatory. There was one of Rex near a telescope.”

“A massive telescope. Now that was a phallus.” He nodded, pleased that she had remembered it and proud of the image. “Yeah, those pics really worked. It was for that pseudo-science-fiction movie he did. But these ones of you and Shirley we’re getting today? They’ll be even better.”

“They’ll be fantastic,” said Jean. The publicist was wearing a sleeveless black blouse and a skirt with a pattern that looked like it belonged in a Las Vegas casino lobby. Lots of teal and pink and orange blocks bouncing like dice against a white background.

“Why?” Carmen asked. “Why will these be even better?”

“Why?” He repeated the single word, and his tone had an edge of exasperation. She realized that she should only have said something about how grateful she was. Still, she was curious.

“Yes. Why do you think these will be better?” she persisted.

“Isn’t it obvious? You and Shirley. No one really wants to look at a wrinkled old fart like Rex Demeter, no matter how many subliminal phalluses I put in the pic. But two pretty actresses and the Eiffel Tower? The subconscious will drool.” There was a tree near them with indigo flowers that reminded her of foxglove, and he picked one of the blossoms off the sleeve of his jacket. “That’s what I want. And that’s what you want.”

“To make the subconscious drool.”

“Yes, little lady. Whether you admit it or not, that’s what we do in our business. High art, low art. Good films, bad films. Good photos, bad photos. It’s all about…” His voice trailed off as he searched for the right word.

She decided to help him. “The phallus?” she suggested.

She could see in his eyes and in poor Jean’s eyes that she had just shot herself in the foot. Reggie Stout had once told her—gently, with an avuncular kindness—that a few people had hinted to him that she could be a bit of a smart aleck. She didn’t have that reputation (not yet), and while he rather liked her sassiness, there were some people who didn’t. She’d promised him that she would be more careful, and since then she had been. And so she added quickly, “I understand. I really do. It’s interesting to me how carefully you work to strike that balance between conveying what’s obvious in an image and what isn’t. Thank you.”

“Yes, thank you,” agreed Jean. “Reggie and I are so appreciative of all that you bring to the party.”

He bought it. He nodded at her and then at the publicist. She could see in his gaze that the two of them had sold it. Sometimes, she decided, she really was a pretty good actress.

And so, it seemed, was Jean Cummings.



* * *



    .?.?.

How long had she been fighting sleep? She couldn’t say, and she couldn’t bring herself to look at her watch yet again. Between ten p.m. and midnight she must have looked at it over twenty times. On each occasion, the minute hand had crept forward no more than four or five minutes, though always she had supposed that she’d waited at least ten. It had to be well after midnight now. Her head was lolling around as if she had a broken neck, and it felt so very good when she would allow it to tip toward her collarbone. The yawns felt fantastic too. She was weak and knew she should ask Reggie to toss her the bag of nuts, but she doubted she’d catch it and she didn’t want Reggie to draw attention to himself by standing.