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“This dress is hideous!”
Francesca studied her reflection in the long mirror set up at the end of the trailer that was serving as a makeshift costume shop. Her eyes had been enlarged for the screen with amber shadow and a thick set of eyelashes, and her hair was parted at the center, pulled smooth over her temples, and gathered into ringlets that fell over her ears. The period hairstyle was both charming and flattering, so she had no quarrel with the man who had just finished arranging it for her, but the dress was another story. To her fashion-conscious eye, the insipid pink taffeta with its layers of ruffled white lace flounces encircling the skirt looked like an overly sweet strawberry cream puff. The bodice fit so tightly she could barely breathe, and the boning pushed up her breasts until everything except her nipples spilled out over the top. The gown managed to look both saccharine and vulgar, certainly nothing like the costumes Marisa Berenson had worn in Barry Lyndon.
“It's not at all what I had in mind, and I can't possibly wear it,” she said firmly. “You'll have to do something.”
Sally Calaverra bit off a length of pink thread with more force than necessary. “This is the costume that was designed for the part.”
Francesca chided herself for not having paid more attention to the gown yesterday when Sally was fitting her. But she'd been so distracted by her exhaustion and the fact that Lloyd Byron had proved so unreasonably stubborn when she'd complained to him about her awful living arrangements that she'd barely looked at the costume. Now she had less than an hour before she was supposed to report to the set to film the first of her three scenes. At least the men in the company had been helpful, finding a more comfortable room for her with a private bath, bringing her a meal tray along with that lovely gin and quinine she'd been dreaming about. Even though the “chicken coop,” with its small windows and blond veneer furniture, was an abomination, she'd slept like the dead and actually felt a small spurt of anticipation when she'd awakened that morning—at least until she'd taken a second look at her costume.
After turning to view the back of the gown, she decided to appeal to Sally's sense of fair play. “Surely you have something else. I absolutely never wear pink.”
“This is the costume Lord Byron approved, and there's nothing I can do about it.” Sally fastened the last of the hooks that held the back closed, pulling the fabric together more roughly than necessary.
Francesca sucked in her breath at the uncomfortable constriction. “Why do you keep calling him that ridiculous name—Lord Byron?”
“If you have to ask the question, you must not know him very well.”
Francesca refused to let either the wardrobe mistress or the costume continue to dampen her spirits. After all, poor Sally had to work in this dreadful trailer all day. That would make anyone cross. Francesca reminded herself that she had been given a role in a prestigious film. Besides, her looks were striking enough to overcome any costume, even this one. Still, she absolutely had to do something about getting a hotel room. She had no intention of spending another night in a place that didn't offer maid service.
The French heels of her slippers crunched in the gravel as she crossed the drive and headed for the plantation house, her great hoopskirt swaying from side to side. This time she wasn't going to make the mistake she had made yesterday of trying to negotiate with lackeys. This time she was going straight to the producer with her list of complaints. Yesterday Lloyd Byron had told her he wanted the cast and crew lodged together to develop a spirit of ensemble, but she suspected he was just being cheap. As far as she was concerned, appearing in a prestigious film didn't make up for having to live like a barbarian.
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.
By late afternoon her feeling of well-being had succumbed to the stifling heat from the weather and the carbon arc lights. The fans scattered about the set did little to cool the air, especially since they had to be turned off every time the cameras rolled. The heavy corset and multiple layers of petticoats beneath her gown trapped the heat next to her skin until she thought she would faint.
“I absolutely can't do any more today,” she finally declared, while the makeup man dabbed at the tiny pearls of perspiration that had begun to form near her hairline in the most disgusting fashion. “I'm simply expiring from the heat, Lloyd.”
