Fancy Pants

Chapter 6

The limousine was a 1971 Chevrolet without air conditioning. This was especially irksome to Francesca because the thick, heavy heat seemed to have formed a cocoon around her. Even though her travels in the United States had until that day been limited to Manhattan and the Hamptons, she was too preoccupied with her own misjudg-ment to show any interest in the unfamiliar landscape they had passed since leaving Gulfport an hour earlier. How could she have blundered so badly in her choice of wardrobe? She glanced down with disgust at her heavy white woolen trousers and the long-sleeved celery-green cashmere sweater that was sticking so uncomfortably to her skin. It was the first day of October! Who could have imagined it would be so hot?

After nearly twenty-four hours of travel, her eyelids were drooping from weariness and her body was covered with grime. She had flown from Gatwick to JFK, then to Atlanta, and from there to Gulfport where the temperature was ninety-two in the shade and where the only driver she'd been able to hire had a car without air conditioning. Now all she could think about was going to her hotel, ordering a lovely gin and quinine, taking a long, cold shower, and sleeping for the next twenty-four hours. As soon as she

checked in with the film company and found out where she was being lodged, she'd do exactly that.

Pulling the sweater away from her damp chest, she tried to think of something to cheer herself up until she reached the hotel. This was going to be an absolutely smashing adventure, she told herself. Although she had no acting experience, she'd always been a wonderful mimic, and she would work very hard in the film so that the critics would think she was marvelous and all the best directors would want to hire her. She would go to wonderful parties and have a lovely career and make absolutely scads of money. This was what had been missing from her life, that elusive "something" she'd never quite been able to define. Why ever hadn't she thought of it before?

She pushed her hair back from her temples with the tips of her fingers and congratulated herself on having so neatly cleared the hurdle of finding enough money to cover her air fare. It had been a lark, actually, once she'd gotten over the initial shock of the idea. Lots of socialites took their clothes to stores that bought designer labels for resale; she didn't know why she hadn't done so months before. The money from the sale had paid for a first-class airline ticket and settled the most pressing of her bills. People made financial matters so unnecessarily complex, she now realized, when all it took to solve one's difficulties was a little initiative. She abhorred wearing last season's clothes, anyway, and now she could begin buying an entire new wardrobe as soon as the film company reimbursed her for her ticket.

The car turned into a long drive lined with live oaks. She craned her neck as they rounded a bend and she saw a restored plantation house ahead, a three-story brick and wooden structure with six fluted columns gracefully set across the front veranda. As they drew nearer, she noticed an assortment of twentieth-century trucks and vans parked next to the antebellum home. The vehicles looked just as out of place as the members of the crew who wandered about in shorts with T-shirts, bare chests, and halter tops.

The driver pulled the car to a stop and turned to her. He had a large round American Bicentennial button affixed to the collar of his tan work shirt. It read "1776-1976" across the top, with "AMERICA" and "LAND OF OPPORTUNITY" at the center and bottom. Francesca had seen signs of the American Bicentennial everywhere since she'd landed at JFK. The souvenir stands were loaded with commemorative buttons and cheap plastic models of the Statue of Liberty. When they passed through Gulfport, she'd even seen fire hydrants painted to look like Revolutionary War minute-men. To someone who came from a country as old as England, all this celebrating of a mere two hundred years seemed excessive.

"Forty-eight dollar," the taxi driver announced in English so heavily accented that she could barely understand it.

She sifted through the American currency she had purchased with her English pounds when she'd landed at JFK and handed him most of what she had, along with a generous tip and a smile. Then she climbed out of the cab, taking her cosmetic case with her.

"Francesca Day?" A young woman with frizzy hair and dangling earrings came toward her across the

side lawn.

"Yes?"

"Hi. I'm Sally Calaverro. Welcome to the end of nowhere. I'm afraid I'm going to need you in wardrobe right away."

The driver set the Vuitton suitcase at Francesca's feet. She took in Sally's rumpled India print cotton skirt and the brown tank top she had unwisely chosen to wear without a bra. "That's impossible, Miss Calaverro," she replied. "As soon as I see Mr. Byron, I'm going to the hotel and then to bed. The only sleep I've had for twenty-four hours was on the plane, and I'm frightfully exhausted."

Sally's expression didn't change. "Well, I'm afraid I'm going to have to hold you up a little longer, although I'll try to make it as fast as possible. Lord Byron moved up the shooting schedule, and we have to have your costume ready by tomorrow morning."

"But that's preposterous. Tomorrow's Saturday. I'm going to need a few days to get settled in. He can hardly expect me to start working the moment I arrive."

Sally's pleasant manner slipped. "That's show biz, honey. Call your agent." She glanced at the Vuitton suitcases and then called to someone behind Francesca's back. "Hey, Davey, take Miss Day's stuff over to the chicken coop, will ya?" '

"Chicken coop!" Francesca exclaimed, beginning to feel genuinely alarmed. "I don't know what all this is about, but I want to go to my hotel immediately."

"Yeah, don't we all." She gave Francesca a smile that bordered on being insolent. "Don't worry, it's not really a chicken coop. The house where we're all staying sits right next to this property. It used to be a convalescent home a few years back; the beds still have cranks on them. We call it the chicken coop because that's what it looks like. If you don't mind a few cockroaches, it's not bad."

Francesca refused to rise to the bait. This was what happened, she realized, when one argued with underlings. "I want to see Mr. Byron at once," she declared.

"He's shooting inside the house right now, but he doesn't like being interrupted." Sally's eyes flicked rudely over her, and Francesca could feel her assessing the mussed clothes and inappropriate winter fabric.

"I'll take my chances," she replied sarcastically, staring at the wardrobe mistress for one long, hard moment before she pushed her hair back and walked away.

Sally Calaverro watched her go. She studied that tiny, slim body, remembering the perfect makeup and the gorgeous mane of hair. How did she manage to flip her hair like that with just a little shrug? Did gorgeous women take hair-flipping lessons or what? Sally tugged on a lock of her own hair, dry and frizzed at the ends from a bad perm. All the straight males in the company would start behaving like twelve-year-olds when they caught sight of that woman, Sally thought. They were accustomed to pretty little starlets, but this one was something else, with that fancy-schmansy British accent and a way of staring at you that reminded you your parents had crossed the ocean in steerage. During countless hours in too many singles bars, Sally had observed that some men ate up that superior, condescending crap.

"Shit," she muttered, feeling like a fat, frumpy giantess firmly entrenched on the wrong side of twenty-five. Miss High-and-Mighty had to be suffocating underneath her two-hundred-dollar cashmere sweater, but she looked as cool and crisp as a magazine ad. Some women, it seemed to

Sally, had been put on earth just for other women to hate, and Francesca Day was definitely one of them.

Dallie could feel the Dread Mondays descending on him, even though it was Saturday and he'd shot a spectacular 64 the day before playing eighteen holes with some good ol' boys outside Tuscaloosa. Dread Mondays was the name he'd given the black moods that seized him more frequently than he wanted to let on, sinking sharp teeth right into him and sucking out all the juice, In general, the Dread Mondays screwed up a hell of a lot more than his long irons.

He hunched over his Howard Johnson's coffee and stared out the front window of the restaurant into the parking lot. The sun wasn't up all the way and other than some sleepy-eyed truckers the restaurant was nearly empty. He tried to reason away his lousy mood. It hadn't been a bad season, he reminded himself. He'd won a few tournaments, and he and PGA Commissioner Deane Beman hadn't chatted more than two or three times on the commissioner's favorite subject-conduct unbecoming to a professional golfer.

"What'll it be?" asked the waitress who came up next to his table, an orange and blue hankie tucked in her pocket. She was one of those squeaky-clean fat women with sprayed hair and good makeup, the kind who took care of herself and made you say that she had a nice face underneath all that fat.

"Steak and home fries," he said, handing her the menu. "Two eggs over easy, and another gallon of coffee."

"You want it in a cup or should I shoot it straight into your veins?"

He chuckled. "You just keep it coming, honey, and I'll figure out where to put it." Damn, he loved waitresses. They were the best women in the world. They were street smart and sassy, and every one of them had a story.

This particular waitress took a few moments to look at him before she moved away, studying his pretty face, he figured. It happened all the time, and he generally didn't mind unless they also gave him that half-hungry look that told him they wanted something from him he damn well couldn't give.

The Dread Mondays came back in full force. Just this morning, right after he had crawled out of bed, he had been standing in the shower trying to get his two bloodshot eyes to stay open when the Bear had come right up next to him and whispered in his ear.

It's almost Halloween, Beaudine. Where are you going to hide yourself this year?

Dallie had turned on the cold water faucet as far as it would go, but the Bear kept at him.

Just what the hell does a worthless no-account like you think you're doing living on the very same planet with me?

Dallie shook away the memory as the food arrived along with Skeet, who slid into the booth. Dallie shoved the breakfast plate across the table and looked away while Skeet picked up his fork and sank it into the bloody steak.

"How you feelin' today, Dallie?"

"Can't complain."

"You were drinkin' pretty heavy last night."

Dallie shrugged. "I ran a few miles this morning. Did some push-ups. Sweated it off."

Skeet looked up, knife and fork poised in his hands. "Uh-huh."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't mean nothin', Dallie, except I think the Dread Mondays been gettin' to you again."

He took a sip from his coffee cap. "It's natural to feel depressed toward the end of the season-too many motels, too much time on the road."

"Especially when you didn't come within kissin' distance of any of the majors."

"A tournament is a tournament."

"Horse manure." Skeet returned to the steak. A few minutes of silence passed between them.

Dallie finally spoke. "I wonder if Nicklaus ever gets the Dread Mondays?"

Skeet slammed down his fork. "Now, don't start thinkin' about Nicklaus again! Every time you start thinkin' about him, your game goes straight to hell."

Dallie pushed back his coffee cup and picked up the check. "Give me a couple of uppers, will you?"

"Shoot, Dallie, I thought you was going to lay off that stuff."

"You want me to stay in the running today or not?" " 'Course I want you to stay in the runnin', but I don't like the way you been doin' it lately." "Just lay off, will you, and give me the fucking pills!" Skeet shook his head and did as he was told, reaching into his pocket and pushing the black capsules across the table. Dallie snatched them up. As he swallowed them, it didn't slip past him that there was a halfway humorous contradiction between the care he took of his athlete's body and the abuse he subjected it to in the form of late nights, drinking, and that street-corner pharmacy he made Skeet carry around in his pockets. Still, it didn't really matter. Dallie stared down at the money he'd thrown on the table. When you were born a Beaudine, it was pretty much predestined that you wouldn't die of old age.

"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, but 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 her-seif, 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."

"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.