The Other Side of Midnight (17 page)

“Except an audience.”

As they walked along the street, they passed a castle that consisted of a facade with two by fours propping it up. Across from it was a lake, and down the block was the lobby of a San Francisco theater. No theater, just the lobby.

Catherine laughed aloud, and the girl stared at her.

“Is there anything wrong?” she asked.

“No,” Catherine said. “Everything is wonderful.”

Dozens of extras walked along the street, cowboys and Indians chatting amiably together as they walked toward the sound stages. A man appeared unexpectedly from around a corner and as Catherine stepped back to avoid him, she saw that he was a knight in armor. Behind him walked a group of girls in bathing suits. Catherine decided that she was going to like her brief fling in show business. She wished her father could have seen this. He would have enjoyed it so much.

“Here we are,” the guide said. They were in front of a huge, gray building. A sign on the side of it said “STAGE 13.”

“I’ll leave you here. Will you be all right?”

“Fine,” Catherine said. “Thank you.”

The guide nodded and left. Catherine turned back to the sound stage. A sign over the door read: “DO NOT ENTER WHEN RED LIGHT IS ON.” The light was off, so Catherine pulled the handle of the door and opened it. Or tried to. The door was unexpectedly heavy, and it took all her strength to get it open.

When she stepped inside, Catherine found herself confronted by a second door as heavy and massive as the first. It was like entering a decompression chamber.

Inside the cavernous sound stage, dozens of people were racing around, each one busy on some mysterious errand. A group of men were in Air Corps uniforms,
and Catherine realized that they were the actors who would appear in the film. At a far corner of the sound stage was an office set complete with desk, chairs and a large military map hanging on the wall. Technicians were lighting the set.

“Excuse me,” she said to a man passing by. “Is Mister Allan Benjamin here?”

“The little corporal?” He pointed. “Over there.”

Catherine turned and saw a slight, frail-looking man in an ill-fitting uniform with corporal’s stripes. He was screaming at a man wearing a general’s stars.

“Fuck what the casting director said,” he yelled. “I’m up to my ass in generals. I need non-coms.” He raised his hands in despair. “Everybody wants to be a chief, nobody wants to be an Indian.”

“Excuse me,” said Catherine, “I’m Catherine Alexander.”

“Thank God!” the little man said. He turned to the others, bitterness in his voice. “The fun and games are over, you smart-asses. Washington’s here.”

Catherine blinked. Before she could speak, the little corporal said, “I don’t know what I’m doing here. I had a thirty-five-hundred-dollar-a-year job in Dearborn editing a furniture trade magazine, and I was drafted into the Signal Corps and sent to write training films. What do I know about producing or directing? This is the most disorganized mess I’ve ever seen.” He belched and touched his stomach. “I’m getting an ulcer,” he moaned, “and I’m not even in show business. Excuse me.

He turned and hurried toward the exit, leaving Catherine standing there. She looked around, helplessly. Everyone seemed to be staring at her, waiting for her to do something.

A lean, gray-haired man in a sweater moved toward her, an amused smile on his face. “Need any help?” he asked quietly.

“I need a miracle,” Catherine said frankly. “I’m in
charge of this, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.”

He grinned at her. “Welcome to Hollywood. I’m Tom O’Brien, the A.D.”

She looked at him, quizzically.

“The assistant director. Your friend, the corporal, was supposed to direct it, but I have a feeling he won’t be back.” There was a calm assurance about the man which Catherine liked.

“How long have you worked at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer?” she asked.

“Twenty-five years.”

“Do you think you could direct this?”

She saw the corner of his lips twist. “I could try,” he said gravely. “I’ve done six pictures with Willie Wyler.” His eyes grew serious. “The situation isn’t as bad as it looks,” he said. “All it needs is a little organization. The script’s written, and the set’s ready.”

“That’s a beginning,” Catherine said. She looked around the sound stage at the uniforms. Most of them were badly fitted, and the men wearing them looked ill at ease.

“They look like recruiting ads for the Navy,” Catherine commented.

O’Brien laughed appreciatively.

“Where did these uniforms come from?”

“Western Costume. Our Wardrobe Department ran out. We’re shooting three war pictures.”

Catherine studied the men critically. “There are only half a dozen that are really bad,” she decided. “Let’s send them back and see if we can’t do better.”

O’Brien nodded approvingly. “Right.”

Catherine and O’Brien walked over to the group of extras. The din of conversation on the enormous stage was deafening.

“Let’s hold it down, boys,” O’Brien yelled. “This is Miss Alexander. She’s going to be in charge here.”

There were a few appreciative whistles and cat calls.

“Thanks,” Catherine smiled. “Most of you look fine, but a few of you are going to have to go back to Western Costume and get different uniforms. Let’s line up, so we can take a good look at you.”

“I’d like to take a good look at
you.
What are you doing for dinner tonight?” one of the men called.

“I’m having it with my husband,” Catherine said, “right after his match.”

O’Brien formed the men into a ragged line. Catherine heard laughter and voices nearby and turned in annoyance. One of the extras was standing next to a piece of scenery, talking to three girls who were hanging on his every word and giggling hysterically at everything he said. Catherine watched a moment, then walked over to the man and said, “Excuse me. Would you mind joining the rest of us?”

The man turned slowly. “Are you talking to me?” he asked lazily.

“Yes,” Catherine said. “We’d like to go to work.” She walked away.

He whispered something to the girls which drew a loud laugh, then slowly moved after Catherine. He was a tall man, his body lean and hard-looking, and he was very handsome, with blue-black hair and stormy dark eyes. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and filled with insolent amusement. “What can I do for you?” he asked Catherine.

“Do you want to work?” Catherine replied.

“I do, I do,” he assured her.

Catherine had once read an article about extras. They were a strange breed of people, spending their anonymous lives on sound stages, lending background atmosphere to crowd scenes in which stars appeared. They were faceless, voiceless people, inherently too ambitionless to seek any kind of meaningful employment. The man in front of her was a perfect example. Because he was outrageously handsome, someone from his hometown had probably told him that he could be a star, and he had come to Hollywood, learned that talent
was necessary as well as good looks and had settled for being an extra. The easy way out.

“We’re going to have to change some of the uniforms,” Catherine said patiently.

“Is there anything wrong with mine?” he asked.

Catherine took a closer look at his uniform. She had to admit that it fitted perfectly, emphasizing his broad shoulders but not exaggerating them, tapering in at his lean waist. She looked at his tunic. On his shoulders were the bars of a captain. Across his breast he had pinned on a splash of brightly colored ribbons.

“Are they impressive enough, Boss?” he asked.

“Who told you you were going to play a captain?”

He looked at her, seriously, “It was my idea. Don’t you think I’d make a good captain?”

Catherine shook her head. “No. I don’t.”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “First lieutenant?”

“No.”

“How about second lieutenant?”

“I don’t really feel you’re officer material.”

His dark eyes were regarding her quizzically. “Oh? Anything else wrong?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “The medals. You must be terribly brave.”

He laughed. “I thought I’d give this damned film a little color.”

“There’s only one thing you forgot,” Catherine said crisply. “We’re not at war yet. You’d have had to win those at a carnival.”

The man grinned at her. “You’re right,” he admitted sheepishly. “I didn’t think of that. I’ll take some of them off.”

“Take them all off,” Catherine said.

He gave her that slow, insolent grin again. “Right, Boss.”

She almost snapped, “Stop calling me boss,” but thought,
the hell with him,
and turned on her heel to talk to O’Brien.

Catherine sent eight of the men back to change their
uniforms and spent the next hour discussing the scene with O’Brien. The little corporal had come back briefly and then had disappeared. It was just as well, Catherine thought. All he did was complain and make everyone nervous. O’Brien finished shooting the first scene before lunch, and Catherine felt it had not gone too badly. Only one incident had marred her morning. Catherine had given the infuriating extra several lines to read in order to humiliate him. She had wanted to show him up on the set to pay him back for his impertinence. He had read his lines perfectly, carrying off the scene with aplomb. When he had finished, he had turned to her and said, “Was that all right, Boss?”

When the company broke for lunch, Catherine walked over to the enormous studio commissary and sat at a small table in the corner. At a large table next to her was a group of soldiers in uniform. Catherine was facing the door, when she saw the extra walk in, the three girls hanging on him, each one pushing to get closer to him. Catherine felt the blood rush to her face. She decided it was merely a chemical reaction. There were some people you hated on sight, just as there were others you liked on sight. Something about his overbearing arrogance rubbed her the wrong way. He would have made a perfect gigolo and that was probably exactly what he was.

He seated the girls at a table, looked up and saw Catherine, then leaned over and said something to the girls. They all looked at her and then there was a burst of laughter. Damn him! She watched as he moved toward her table. He stared down at her, that slow, knowing smile on his face. “Mind if I join you a moment?” he asked.

“I—” but he was already seated, studying her, his eyes probing and amused.

“What is it you want?” Catherine asked stiffly.

His grin widened. “Do you really want to know?”

Her lips tightened with anger. “Listen—”

“I wanted to ask you,” he said quickly, “how I did
this morning.” He leaned forward earnestly. “Was I convincing?”

“You may be convincing to them,” Catherine said, nodding toward the girls, “but if you want my opinion, I think you’re a phony.”

“Have I done something to offend you?”

“Everything you do offends me,” she said evenly. “I don’t happen to like your type.”

“What is my type?”

“You’re a fake. You enjoy wearing that uniform and strutting around the girls, but have you thought about enlisting?”

He stared at her incredulously. “And get shot at?” he asked. “That’s for suckers.” He leaned forward and grinned. “This is a lot more fun.”

Catherine’s lips were quivering with anger. “Aren’t you eligible for the draft?”

“I suppose technically I’m eligible, but a friend of mine knows a guy in Washington and”—he lowered his voice—“I don’t think they’ll ever get me.”

“I think you’re contemptible,” Catherine exploded.

“Why?”

“If you don’t know why, I could never explain it to you.”

“Why don’t you try? At dinner tonight. Your place. Do you cook?”

Catherine rose to her feet, her cheeks flushed with anger. “Don’t bother coming back to the set,” she said. “I’ll tell Mr. O’Brien to send you your check for this morning’s work.”

She turned to go, then remembered and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Douglas,” he said. “Larry Douglas.”

Fraser telephoned Catherine from London the next night to find out how things had gone. She reported to him the day’s happenings but made no mention of the incident with Larry Douglas. When Fraser returned to Washington, she would tell him about it, and they
would laugh over it together.

Early the next morning as Catherine was getting dressed to go to the studio, the doorbell rang. She opened the bungalow door and a delivery boy stood there holding a large bouquet of roses.

“Catherine Alexander?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Sign here please.”

She signed the form that he handed her. “They’re lovely,” she said, taking the flowers.

“That’ll be fifteen dollars.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Fifteen dollars. They’re C.O.D.”

“I don’t under—” her lips tightened. Catherine reached for the card attached to the flowers and pulled it out of the envelope. The card read: “I would have paid for these myself, but I’m not working. Love, Larry.”

She stared at the card unbelievingly.

“Well, do you want ‘em or not?” asked the delivery boy.

“Not,” she snapped. She thrust the flowers back in his arms.

He looked at her, puzzled. “He said you’d laugh. That it was kind of a private joke.”

“I’m not laughing,” Catherine said. She slammed the door furiously.

All that day, the incident kept rankling her. She had met egotistical men but never anyone with the outrageous conceit of Mr. Larry Douglas. She was sure that he had had an endless succession of victories with empty-headed blondes and bosomy brunettes who couldn’t wait to fling themselves into his bed. But for him to put her in that category made Catherine feel cheap and humiliated. The mere thought of him made her flesh crawl. She determined to put him out of her mind.

At seven o’clock that evening Catherine started to
leave the stage. An assistant came up to her, an envelope in his hand.

“Did you charge this, Miss Alexander?” he asked.

It was a charge slip from central casting and it read:

One uniform (captain)

Six service ribbons (assorted)

Six medals (assorted)