Love Me (2 page)

That’s the trouble with arrivistes
, Gabby thought.
They always have way too much awe for those who never needed to arrive
.

This was supposed to have been Gabby’s year. Last spring she’d been all set to headline in
An American Girl
, the picture Harry Gordon was going to write for her. It was supposed to have been the big one, the role of a lifetime, the picture that would finally make her a big star. She was the one whose phone was supposed to ring at sunrise this morning with a call from Larry Julius in the Olympus press office. She was the one who was supposed to have a truck pull up outside with one of the six-foot-tall foil-wrapped Oscars Mr. Karp, the head of the studio, was said to have specially commissioned from his personal chocolatier in Beverly Hills for every Olympus nominee. She was supposed to have stacks of congratulatory telegrams from the likes of Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy and Claudette Colbert, and weeks’ worth of consultations with Rex Mandalay, the famously tempestuous (and tight-panted) Australian who was Olympus’s most revered costumer, about the gorgeous gown he would design just for her.

But none of that was going to happen now. Those dreams had died that horrible night when Harry Gordon had told her he was taking the part—
her
part—in
An American Girl
away
from her. It was a wound that hadn’t quite healed, and Margo’s inevitable nomination would only pour salt in it.

There’s always next year
, Viola would say. Everybody would say it. But Gabby had been in Hollywood long enough to know that the more people said those things, the less they believed them.

And besides, they weren’t even making the picture now.
An American Girl
might have been the role of a lifetime, but it was dead as a doornail as far as production was concerned. That was some small consolation. If Gabby couldn’t play that part, at least nobody else would.

“Gabrielle.”

The low whisper came through the keyhole. This was Viola’s latest affectation, conveniently forgetting that “Gabby” wasn’t short for anything, that it wasn’t even a real name. “Gabrielle, are you awake?”

The door swung open before Gabby had time to decide what her answer would be. Her mother stood framed in the doorway, her stout body wrapped tightly in a lavender chenille dressing gown, her newly hennaed hair protected by a large square of white silk pinned over the tight marcelle waves. For years, Viola had had plain brown hair, just like Gabby’s. Then the hairdressers at the studio had started putting a chestnut rinse in Gabby’s curls and suddenly, Viola had decided she needed a reddish tint too.

“I saw your light on,” she said, pushing one of the pins at the edge of the silk back into place. “Don’t tell me you’ve been up all night again.”

“What does it matter if I’m asleep? I’m resting, aren’t I?”

Sighing, Viola sat down on Gabby’s neatly made bed, making a face as she ran her hand over the pale satin of the bedspread. She had spent what seemed like hours in the linens department of Bullocks trying to talk Gabby into buying what she termed a more “age-appropriate” cotton coverlet printed with pink and yellow strawberry blossoms, but Gabby had refused to budge. Now Viola hated the bedspread for the same reason her daughter adored it: it represented one of the only arguments Viola O’Halloran Preston had ever lost. “You need sleep. Why didn’t you take a pill?”

“I did. They’re all gone.”

“
All
of them? There were six left in the bottle when we finished dinner last night.”

Six?
“No. There couldn’t have been that many.”

“Gabby, I counted them myself.”

The last time Viola decided Gabby was taking too many pills, she’d ripped up her prescription, and Gabby had spent the whole week feeling as if bugs were crawling under her skin, eating her from the inside out, until Dr. Lipkin, the studio doctor, had saved the day.
Think of something
, Gabby thought desperately.
Anything
. “Amanda must have taken them.”

“Amanda?”

“I know she’s been having trouble sleeping lately,” said Gabby as sincerely as she could. Delivery was important with Viola; she had been blessed with what she liked to think of as a peerless nose for bull.
Lucky I’m such a good actress
, Gabby told herself.

“That girl,” Viola groaned. “That girl is becoming a
problem
.” A dangerous rasp had crept into her throat.

“It’s not Amanda’s fault.” This was the trouble with telling
even one lie to someone like Viola. You always had to tell so many more. “I said it was okay. She wouldn’t have taken them otherwise. It’s just a misunderstanding.”

“Gabrielle, those pills aren’t
jelly beans
. You can’t just hand them out to be friendly. They’re your
medication
. What Dr. Lipkin and the studio have decided you need to take to be able to
work
.”

“But Amanda—”

“Amanda’s career isn’t my concern,” Viola interrupted. “Frankly, I don’t care about her one way or another.”

That’s not how it used to be
, Gabby thought bitterly. When Amanda Farraday first started hanging around the house on Fountain Avenue, looking for a hot meal and a shoulder to cry on in the wake of her breakup with the red-hot screenwriter Harry Gordon, Viola had seemed quite swept off her feet. Gabby had watched with a mixture of bemusement and jealousy as her normally curt mother stayed up late into the night sitting at the kitchen table with the glamorous redhead, drinking hot tea with whiskey while poring over the latest issues of
Vogue
and
Harper’s Bazaar
and tearfully commiserating over the awfulness of men.

Sometime between Thanksgiving and Christmas, when Amanda started complaining about the hotel she’d been staying at since Harry left, Viola, in a fit of sudden holiday spirit, had invited her to stay in the spare room for as long as she liked.

She hadn’t even bothered to ask Gabby first, although it wasn’t like Gabby could object, since Amanda’s broken heart was just the teensiest bit her fault. Gabby had gotten so mad when Harry Gordon told her he was thinking about getting the starring role in
An American Girl
reassigned to his girlfriend
that Gabby had accidentally-on-purpose-but-mostly-on-purpose just happened to tell him Hollywood’s best-kept secret: that the ravishing Amanda had once worked for the notorious Olive Moore, the self-styled “concierge” of Hollywood’s most infamously lavish house of ill-repute.
Oops
.

Harry Gordon had reacted just like Gabby thought he would. For all his radical-socialist utopian bluster, he was a pretty traditional guy at heart, already a little worried about just how he was going to present a bombshell like Amanda to his little Jewish
mamaleh
back in Bensonhurst. The news that until fairly recently, the property of which he considered himself the sole occupant had been widely available for rent hit him like the proverbial ton of bricks. It was all he could do not to hit Amanda with a literal one.

Their relationship had been doomed from the start. Anyone with half a brain could see that. Still, Gabby had been startled by the volcanic force of Amanda’s grief.

“You’d think a girl like Amanda Farraday would have a whole army of understudies waiting to step into the newly vacant leading-man role,” Jimmy Molloy had said, after what was supposed to have been a fun group outing to the movies ended abruptly with Amanda crying her way into a full-fledged asthma attack when she caught a whiff of a man in line for the theater wearing the same aftershave as Harry. “But whaddya know? Turns out she really loves the guy.”

The whole thing made Gabby feel uncomfortably—not to mention uncharacteristically—guilty. Not to the point where she’d actually considered fessing up, because what good was that going to do anyone? But letting Amanda, aka the world’s sexiest watering can—who, Gabby was pleased to note, was
covered head to toe in a coating of very imperfect freckles when she didn’t bother to dress or put her face on, which these days was frankly most of the time—hide away in her spare room and help herself to the remnants of the icebox seemed like the least Gabby could do.

Besides, the truth was Gabby kind of liked having Amanda around. It was nice to have another girl in the house, no matter how mopey she was. Someone to talk to, to make little jokes with, to deflect some of Viola’s suffocating attention. It was almost like when her sister, Frankie, had been around, before she’d gotten so sick and tired of the Fabulous Preston Sisters and their not-so-fabulous vaudeville gypsy life that she’d run off with Martini the Magnificent, the magician who opened for them on their double bill, and left Gabby all alone.

Figures
, Gabby thought, taking note of the malevolent sparkle, hard and all too familiar, that had come into her mother’s eye at the mention of Amanda’s name.
Just when I get used to having Amanda around, Viola’s going to run her off. So long, Amanda Farraday. Nice knowing you
.

“Aren’t you listening to the broadcast?” Viola dropped Gabby’s hands abruptly. The
Viola Preston Nurturing Mother Variety Hour
was over for another day.

“What broadcast?”

“Gabrielle,
please
. You know exactly which one.”

“It’s not on for another hour at least.”

“Still, I don’t know why we bought you that expensive radio if you’re never going to bother using it.”

“You mean the radio
I
bought,” Gabby said hotly. “And I do use it. Just not in the middle of the night. It’s called having consideration for other people. You should try it sometime.”

Viola shrugged, but there was a crafty gleam in her eye. “It’s not because of that Sterling girl, is it? Because honestly, Gabby, you’re going to have to get over that. It only makes you look small. Margo Sterling is going to be nominated for the Oscar this morning, and when the newspapers call, you’re going to tell every one of them how thrilled you are for her. After all, the two of you are the best of friends, and there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be. It wasn’t Margo who stole your part in
An American Girl
, was it?”

Gabby felt her jaw clench. Viola always knew how to land a punch.

“No,” her mother continued, answering her own question, “
that
fast little piece is right here, sleeping under your very own roof.”

“And you invited her.”

“God knows what I was thinking.” Viola sighed. “I’ve got too big a heart, I guess. Never could refuse shelter to a stray, that’s me.”

“Right. You’re a regular Christian martyr.”

“But there’s no telling what she’ll have up that Paris-cut sleeve of hers next,” Viola continued. “I just think it’s an unnecessary risk. Why keep her around, soaking up the spotlight?”

Gabby felt an angry flush spring to her cheeks. “You think I can’t hold my own next to Amanda?”

“I know the cheapest rhinestone sparkles more than the rarest pearl,” Viola said calmly. “It’s only once you’ve taken it home that you realize it’s worthless. I’m simply thinking of what’s best for you. You’re the real talent, Gabby. I just want to make sure you get your chance to shine.”

Viola’s eyes were shining now, bright with unshed tears, and
not for the first time Gabby thought her mother was the one who should have been the actress.
Deep down, I’m pretty sure she thinks the same thing
. “Me too.”

Smiling beatifically, Viola fixed her moist gaze on the clear glass vial of green pills on Gabby’s vanity. “I don’t suppose you’re going back to sleep, are you?”

Gabby snorted. “I don’t suppose so.”

“Where’s that Eddie Sharp record? The one the studio sent over?”

Shrugging, Gabby pointed toward the stack of records on the polished lid of the cherrywood radio. Viola rummaged through them until she found the one she was looking for, buried near the bottom.

“Gabby!” she exclaimed, holding up the brown paper sleeve accusingly. “It’s still sealed! You haven’t even
opened
it.”

“So what?”

“So
what
?” Viola’s eyes blazed. “You think Olympus puts any old bandleader under contract? They know what they’re doing. Eddie Sharp is going to be the next big thing. Bigger than Glenn Miller. Bigger than Benny Goodman.”

“So what?”

“Say ‘so what’ again, Gabrielle, and I’m going to knock you one, I swear it,” Viola hissed. “You may think you’re too high and mighty to care about him, but believe you me, Leo Karp cares. And if Leo Karp asks you to sing at the Governor’s Ball, whether it’s with the New York Philharmonic or some jug band they dug up out of the swamp, you better care about that too.”

The Governor’s Ball
. It was the most glittering evening of the Hollywood social calendar, an invitation even more coveted than one to the awards ceremony itself. Gabby had imagined
making her grand entrance in the Crystal Ballroom of the Biltmore Hotel with a golden statuette gleaming in her hand. Instead, she was going to be crouched in the darkness in some hastily arranged backstage holding area, waiting to be shoved in front of the glamorous crowd to perform like a trained monkey. “He just asked me to sing a couple of songs,” Gabby said. “It’s no big deal. It’s not like it’s an
audition
.”

Viola gave a short bark of a laugh. “Oh, but, my dear, that’s
exactly
what it is. That room is going to be filled with every important person in Hollywood. Powerful people. People who could give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of, or take it all away for good.” She seized a silver letter opener from the leather blotter on Gabby’s unused secretary desk and shoved it roughly into her daughter’s hand. “Open that record and get to work. You’re rehearsing with him tomorrow, and you’d better know the music.”

“But I want to get some sleep,” Gabby said. “I’m tired.”

“Oh, darling.” Viola flashed her most charming smile. “So what?”