Prologue
Matinee
STEP INTO A PICTURE house on a sunny afternoon, and you can suspend time. Popcorn-scattered carpet under rows of tired velvet—the movie theater is the same the world over. Berlin or Los Angeles, it doesn’t matter.
Cigarette smoke unfurls into the projector light. The usherette leans against the wall and gazes up at the screen, a rerun of Casablanca. Ingrid Bergman is luminous; Bogart cuts a dash. This girl must have seen the movie a dozen times, but each time, she’s swept away—she slips into another life, shrugs off her own like an old coat.
In Casablanca, Victor Laszlo wants Rick to join the fight, and Ilsa is torn between her two lovers. The nitrate print is gorgeous: the highlights sparkle, the dark tones are deep and rich, all the detail in the textures. Up on-screen the characters are evading Nazis, still trapped in Vichy-controlled Morocco. Outside the theater, people are dancing in the streets.
May 8, 1945. Victory in Europe. The war is over.
Chapter One
Girl Friday
CLARA RACED UPSTAIRS AS though pursued, taking the steps two at a time, grabbing the handrail without needing to look, one final leap to the landing—she could have been flying.
The corridor was lined with cutting rooms on either side. She could hear the whir and babble of competing film soundtracks—glorious—like an orchestra tuning up. Her heart hammered in her throat as she reached Sam’s door. Right before knocking, she caught herself—there’s nothing more exquisite than wanting something when you’re so close to getting it.
The editor was not alone in his cutting room. The head of postproduction, Mr. Thaler, and the screenwriter, Mr. Brackett, flanked him; dialogue crackled from the speaker. Clara paused in the doorway, ready to back out.
Sam turned. “Clara, come in. With you in a moment.”
Clara perched on a stool by the film bench, folding her long limbs over one another. She heard Gil’s teasing in her head: Tall and not worried about it. Clara pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. He had told her she was a shoo-in, he had told her she’d nothing to worry about. She straightened, rolled her shoulders back, head up—confident, or feigning it at least. Had she made enough of an effort? She’d chosen her smartest skirt and decent shoes, the peach suede pumps. She should have worn lipstick, but makeup made her feel like a clown, and jewelry was discouraged. It could get caught on the film equipment—she’d read that in the postproduction manual.
The men parted slightly, and Clara peered past Sam’s shoulder to the Moviola, a metal contraption for viewing film footage, like an industrial sewing machine operated with a foot treadle. There was a close-up of Barbara Bannon frozen on the small screen. Glamorous Miss Bannon was the star of Letter from Argentan—famous for her side-sweep of ash-blond hair and husky voice.
“If I’m going to sell it, we need more pieces, some close-ups,” said Sam. “Her hands pushing him off, her feet scrambling, she reaches for the letter opener—that kind of thing. Right now the struggle is too quick. We need to draw out the suspense.”
Clara’s ears pricked up. Nothing studio people said when it came to filmmaking was irrelevant to her. She hoarded information like this.
“I hear she’s difficult,” said Thaler. “Hates her co-star. Gives Howard a hard time too. Changing lines, storming off set.”
Mr. Brackett smoothed his mustache. “She wants the widow character to be stronger. Less of a limp noodle.” Impeccably dressed, he brushed a fleck off his dark navy suit. “I believe that is the expression she used.”
Thaler shook his head. “She’s playing a war widow, not a femme fatale. We’re not making Gilda.”
Clara had read about these rumors in Hedda Hopper’s gossip column.
Director Howard Hawks and leading lady Barbara Bannon reunite for Letter from Argentan, Bannon’s first role since the death of her husband and costar, Gregory Quinn. Hawks is also producing the picture for Silver Pacific, with principal photography under way. Sources tell me that the production is off to a bumpy start, with thesps clashing on set. Rumor has it that Bannon’s new costar, erstwhile matinee idol Randall Ford, resents being cast as the villain in the suspense drama. The stakes are high all around. In this test of her star power, will audiences respond to Babe Bannon without her leading man (and box-office draw), Gregory Quinn, by her side?
Sam sighed. “I’ll talk to Howard about the inserts. The studio won’t be happy; we’re already behind.”
Clara cleared her throat. “Couldn’t you use the stand-in?” The men turned. Mr. Thaler blinked at her as if the furniture had started talking. A flush spread up her neck. “I mean for the close-ups of her hands and feet,” she said.
“This is Clara Berg from the film archive,” said Sam apologetically, pushing up his shirtsleeves. “I think I mentioned her.”
“Ah,” Mr. Thaler barked. “So she’s the one.” He stood astride, feet planted, hands on his hips, like a sheriff in a Western. “Sam tells me you applied for the apprentice editor position?”
Clara stood up; this was her moment. “That’s right.” She raised her chin and maintained eye contact even though her legs felt like jelly.
“Quite the career move for a young lady—a union position with the promise of promotion.” His voice boomed unnecessarily. She was only a few feet from him.
“That’s the plan, sir,” said Clara. Her breath was shallow, and her pulse ticked up. Please say yes, please say yes, she silently implored.
“And our boys back from the war”—Thaler frowned, a pause of disapproval—“with families to support.”
“Thaler, it’s 1946,” said Mr. Brackett. “War’s been over for a year.” He winked at Clara.
Mr. Thaler ignored him. “How old are you?” he asked. His eyes ran over her, and she folded her arms, wishing she were wearing a cardigan over her thin blouse. Miss Simkin, the film librarian, had warned Clara about Thaler—he didn’t promote women.
“Eighteen. Nineteen in the fall,” she added.
“And once we’ve trained you up, who’s to say you won’t take off and get married—that’s my concern.”
A jungle cat began to pace inside Clara. She took a step toward him. In her pumps they were the same height. “I’m not getting married anytime soon, Mr. Thaler,” she said firmly. “I’ll be too busy working my tail off in the cutting room.”
Mr. Brackett chuckled and slapped Mr. Thaler on the back. “Never heard of the modern woman?” He nodded toward Clara, and his oiled hair gleamed under the light. “We’ve got a ‘Girl Friday’ on our hands.”
She bit down on a smirk, grateful to the screenwriter for taking her side. She wondered if it was because she was friends with Gil. He and Brackett were partners, after all.
“Clara is well versed in postproduction,” said Sam, chiming in. “She has a sharp eye and is quick to learn. Already helped us out on the bigger days when we were drowning in footage.” He nodded a smile, reassuring her. “She’s very keen.” His eyes darted back to his boss, and he pushed his glasses up, a nervous tick she’d noticed before.
“Go on, Thaler. Give the gal a chance.” Roger Brackett was enjoying this.
Mr. Thaler shrugged. “Well, Sam,” he said reluctantly. “If you’re happy with it.” He relaxed his cowboy stance. “Okay, Miss Berg.” He smiled like the Big Bad Wolf pretending to be Grandma. “We’ll give you a shot.”
Clara beamed. “I won’t let you down.” She knew there would be no second chances.
—
Clara floated downstairs to the film archive a new person—older, more sophisticated. It was the same way she felt on her birthday, like something had invisibly changed, as though she’d been reinvented. Apprentice editor.
“Well done, Clara.” Lloyd, the other vault runner, pumped her hand, his mop of strawberry-blond hair grazing his eyelashes in a way that made Clara blink and sweep her own hair away from her face.
“Thanks,” she said. His surprise at her promotion made her feel a tinge of regret—she hadn’t told him she was applying for the job. And truthfully Lloyd was no competition. He had little interest in film editing; his sights were set on casting or publicity. He reminded her of a golden retriever, too exuberant, sometimes annoying but generally harmless.
Not even Miss Simkin could dampen her mood. “Congratulations, Clara,” she said, rearranging her mouth to form a tight smile. “I suppose we’ll need to make the most of you while we still have you—there’s no shortage of work to be done.” Her eyes traveled to Clara’s feet, and she noticed the peach pumps. “What are you wearing?” said Miss Simkin. “Appropriate footwear, please.” She marched back to her office, her bobbed hair as rigid as a helmet.
From under her desk Clara retrieved the regulation saddle shoes and contemplated the ugly lace-up flats. With a glance at Simkin’s office, she tossed the work shoes back out of sight. Today she would flaunt the rules.
For the rest of the day the colors of Silver Pacific studios were sharper and brighter, and everyone she passed was smiling. Clara could have leapt into song like in an MGM musical. It was Thursday, which meant just one more day under Simkin, one more day running reels of film back and forth from the cutting rooms to the vaults. And by Monday everything would be different. The world had given her what she wanted, as smooth as oiled gears sliding her future into place.
Well, almost everything.
Clara chewed her lip and glanced at the clock. It was nine p.m., and she was alone in the film archive waiting for Gil to call. To kill time she had a stack of Argentan dailies to watch. She had helped herself to the Moviola in Miss Simkin’s office—it was used to check prints for flaws or to identify unlabeled reels. Clara’s plan was to be familiar with as much footage as possible before Monday. Apprentice editor. She rolled the syllables over her tongue. It was still a thrill.
It was getting late for after-work drinks. But she wasn’t about to let her triumphant day fizzle. She would give him another twenty minutes. How long could it take to fix a few script pages, anyway? All that white space, it was hardly any words at all.
—
The first time she’d met Gil, a rainstorm had drenched the Southland. The lot was deserted; everyone else at the studio was indoors staying dry. Clara had taken shelter under the awning of the Writers’ Block (pun intended), not minding that her shoes and the edge of her skirt were getting wet. As the rain hammered the asphalt, she craned her neck and tilted her cheek to feel the raindrops, unaware that she wasn’t alone.
“Watching the show?” When he spoke, she spun around like a skittish horse, and he apologized.
She laughed at herself, then nodded to the rain. “I like the change. A reprieve from endless sun.”
“I like it too,” he said, and stood next to her at the edge of the awning, hands in pockets. “Makes the city more honest somehow.” A gust of wind took down a husk from a palm tree. He pulled up the collar on his suit jacket. A side glance, and Clara caught a flash of his dark hair, his jawline.
Normally she would have resented small talk with a stranger at a moment like this. But she could tell he was sharp, and she liked his wry turn of phrase. They stood there together for a while, just—as Gil said—watching the show.
—
Clara loaded the last reel of Letter from Argentan into the Moviola. It was a suspense melodrama, a woman’s picture. A rich young widow (played by Barbara Bannon) is preyed on by a handsome stranger (Randall Ford) claiming to have served as a sergeant with her husband’s unit in France. The sergeant brings her a letter, supposedly written by her husband after the battle of Argentan. The sergeant is, of course, a grifter, an AWOL coward, trying to swindle the rich widow. He charms her and takes advantage of her grief. When she finally figures out what he’s up to, her life is in danger.
Clara had the script open in front of her. INT. Drawing room—Night. The widow reads the letter. Clara pressed the foot treadle on the Moviola and watched the footage. The widow—in a black sheer cocktail dress—is seated by the enormous fireplace, dying embers glowing in the hearth, shards of moonlight behind her. Opposite sits an empty armchair, her husband’s chair. A few wide shots, and then the close-ups.
Clara consumed every frame, cutting the scene in her head, imagining which takes she would use if she were the editor. In the close shots Bannon was backlit, just the edge of her blond hair catching the light, her eyes glittering out of the darkness. Clara decided she would linger on that last shot of Bannon staring at the empty armchair. There was no dialogue—the scene didn’t need any. All the emotion played on Bannon’s face.
By the time Clara checked the clock, it was nearly nine-thirty. One last chance: she picked up Miss Simkin’s phone and asked the operator to connect her to Gil’s extension in the writer’s building. She cradled the receiver under her chin, hearing the buzzes and clicks, listening for Gil’s voice.
“No answer, miss,” said the switchboard operator without sympathy. “Can I connect you to someone else?”
“No, thanks.” Clara hung up and rolled her chair back abruptly, trying to shrug off her disappointment. So Gil had gone home. Their plans hadn’t been set in stone. And he could be like that sometimes—distant and hard to pin down.
It was time to call it a night. Clara returned the Argentanreel to its canister and turned off the Moviola. She didn’t relish a trip to the film vault in the dark, but Miss Simkin would kill her if she didn’t return the reels. The evenings were cool, so she put on her cardigan, slung her purse over her shoulder. With the Argentan reels balanced on her hip, she locked the office.
—
The film vaults were housed in a concrete building a short walk from postproduction. Clara’s footsteps rang out on the asphalt; the studio was dead quiet at this time of night. A waft of jasmine—the scent stronger at night—tasted like honey in the back of her throat.
She reached the vaults, a long corridor open on both ends, with a series of doors at short intervals. Sprinkler pipes snaked overhead. The nitrate film stock was flammable and unstable—the smallest spark could ignite an inferno. The vaults were designed to contain a fire and prevent it from spreading. She passed a large no smokingsign plastered on the wall, as if anyone would be stupid enough to light up in the vaults.
Clara’s footsteps were muffled now, insulated by inches of concrete. She reached the correct door—vault four—and spun the combination on the lock. (She had the combinations memorized, unlike Lloyd, who needed a cheat sheet.) The door opened outward to reveal a second door, which she pushed inward, and then stepped inside. The storage vault had a narrow aisle, just wide enough for one person, with floor-to-ceiling film racks on either side.
A memory—a flash of Gil in the vaults. He had come with her once, a few weeks after they met. She’d been asking him something about story structure—they talked film all the time—and he had offered to walk with her. Other than the rainstorm, it was the first time they’d been alone together.
“It’s so quiet,” he marveled, and moved to the back of the vault to check out the air shaft. When he brushed past her in the tight space, her stomach flipped. “Look at those cobwebs.”
She came up behind him, explaining automatically about the fire risks and the purpose of the vent. He wasn’t wearing a suit jacket, and she could feel the heat of him through his shirt. His dark hair was cropped short, and she could see his scar, a neat swooping curve from behind his left ear to the nape of his neck. Her eyes traveled along the line of his shoulders and down his back. She squeezed her fists to resist reaching out and touching him. She wanted him to turn around. She wanted him to kiss her, right there against the film racks.
Standing there alone, Clara flushed at the memory. He hadn’t kissed her in the vault that day. Or any day after that. They were work friends, and that suited her fine.
Clara found the empty slots for the Argentan reels and slid them back roughly, banging her elbow against the metal upright. “Damn it.” She rubbed her throbbing arm and blamed Gil for no reason.
Clara closed both doors and spun the dial to lock the vault. She hit the switch on the wall, and the bar of light on the floor disappeared. Up the corridor something glinting caught her eye. It was poking out from under the door of the next vault. She took a couple of steps closer. It was silvery white—a piece of trash? Miss Simkin would not approve. Who’s been littering in the vaults? Clara bent down to pick it up. As soon as she touched it—soft and silky—she recoiled, cutting off a breath. It wasn’t trash. It was a tuft of pale blond hair.
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