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“Only one more scene, darling. Just one more. Look at the angle of the light through the window. Your skin will positively glow. Please, Francesca, you've been such a princess. My exquisite, flawless princess!”
Put like that, how could she refuse?
Lloyd directed her toward a mark that had been placed on the floor not far from the fireplace. The beginning of the film, she had gathered, centered on the arrival of a young English schoolgirl at a Mississippi plantation where she was to become the bride of its reclusive owner, a man Francesca assumed was intended to resemble Jane Eyre's Rochester, although Fletcher Hall seemed a bit too oily to her to be a romantic hero. Unfortunately for the schoolgirl, but fortunately for Francesca, Lucinda was to die a tragic death the same day. Francesca could already envision a splendid death scene, which she intended to play with the proper amount of restrained passion. She had yet to discover exactly what Lucinda and the plantation owner had to do with the main body of the story, which was set in the present time and seemed to involve a large number of female cast members, but since she wouldn't be appearing in that part of the film, it didn't seem to matter.
Lloyd wiped his brow with a fresh handkerchief and went over to Fletcher Hall. “I want you to come up behind Francesca, put your hands on her shoulders, and then lift up her hair on the side so you can kiss her neck. Francesca, remember that you've been very sheltered all your life. His touch shocks you, but it pleases you, too. Do you understand?”
She felt a trickle of perspiration slide down between her breasts. “Of course I understand,” she replied grouchily. A makeup man walked over and powdered her neck. She made him hold up a mirror so she could check his work.
“Remember, Fletcher,” Lloyd went on, “I don't want you to actually kiss her neck—just anticipate the kiss. All right, then; let's walk it through.”
Francesca took her place, only to suffer through another interminable delay while more lighting adjustments were made. Then someone noticed a damp patch on the back of Fletcher's morning coat where he had sweat through, and Sally had to bring a substitute coat from the costume trailer.
Francesca stamped her foot. “How much longer do you expect to keep me standing here? I won't put up with it! I'll give you exactly five more minutes, Lloyd, and then I'm leaving!”
He gave her a chilly glare. “Now, Francesca, we have to be professional. All these other people are tired, too.”
“All these other people aren't wearing ten pounds of costume. I'd like to see how professional they'd be if they were bloody well suffocating to death!”
“Just a few more minutes,” he said placatingly, and then he clutched his hands into fists and pulled them dramatically toward his chest. “Use the tension you're feeling, Francesca. Use the tension in your scene. Pass your tension on to Lucinda—a young girl sent to a new land to marry a man who is a stranger. Everyone quiet. Quiet, quiet, quiet. Let Francesca feel her tension.”
The boom man, who'd been preoccupied with Francesca's cantilevered breasts for the better part of the day, leaned toward the cameraman. “I'd like to feel her tension.”
“Stand in line, bro.”
Finally the new morning coat arrived and the scene was shot. “Don't move!” Lloyd called out as soon they were done. “All we need is one close-up of Fletcher kissing Francesca's neck and we'll wrap for the day. It'll only take a second. Everybody ready?”
Francesca groaned, but she held her position. She'd suffered this long—a few more minutes wouldn't matter. Fletcher put his hands on her shoulders and picked up her hair. She hated having him touch her. He was definitely common, not her sort of man at all.
“Curve your neck a little more, Francesca,” Lloyd instructed. “Makeup, where are you?”
“Right here, Lloyd.”
“Come on, then.”
The makeup man looked vague. “What do you need?”
“What do I need?” Lloyd threw out his hands in a dramatic gesture of frustration.
“Oh, ri-i-ight.” The makeup man grimaced apologetically, then called out to Sally, who was standing just behind the camera. “Hey, Calaverro, reach into my box, will you, and toss me over Fletcher's fangs?”
Fletcher's fangs?
Francesca felt the bottom drop out of her stomach.
Chapter
7
Fangs!” Francesca screeched. “Why is Fletcher wearing fangs?”
Sally slapped the odious objects into the makeup man's hand. “It's a vampire picture, sweetie. What do you expect him to wear—a G-string?”
Francesca felt as if she'd stumbled into some terrible nightmare. Jerking away from Fletcher Hall, she rounded on Byron. “You lied to me!” she shouted. “Why didn't you tell me this was a vampire picture? Of all the miserable, rotten— My God, I'll sue you for this; I'll sue you to within an inch of your ridiculous life. If you think for one moment I'll let my name appear on—on—” She couldn't say the word again, she absolutely couldn't! A vision of Marisa Berenson flicked into her mind, the exquisite Marisa hearing about what had happened to poor Francesca Day and laughing until rivulets of tears ran down her alabaster cheeks.
Clenching her fists, Francesca cried, “You tell me right this minute exactly what this odious film is about!”
Lloyd sniffed, clearly offended. “It's about life and death, the transfer of blood, the very essence of life passing from one person to another. Metaphysical events of which you apparently know nothing.” He stalked away in a huff.
