Is this a case of too many irons in the fire? Whatever. I watched a thing about Errol Flynn last month and am listening to Duke Ellington right now and this story came to life.
Updates will happen. At some point.
/ /
You've done it, I know you have.
You've gotten up, coffee in the pot and paper on the table, and your lips kiss his cheek.
You kiss that cheek, because that is what you must do.
His cheek was made for you, wasn't it?
Stubble and after-shave, pressing his suits and folding his socks... Isn't that the life?
The one laid out for you, spit-shined for you the moment you are born - ladled into your mouth with a silver spoon?
You've done it.
I know you have.
I've done it, too.
Maybe not now. Maybe not right this second.
I've earned the right to play my own games, haven't I?
I've earned the right to live two lives.
That's what those paychecks afford, you know... Not cars and not mink coats, though I have several of each.
That's what those funny little pictures get me, all my lines delivered with equal parts big-city charm and wounded-woman underneath... Not just my photograph in a magazine and not just a walk down the red carpet, though I am everywhere one can look these days.
I've done it, too.
I've kissed his cheek, let his hand rest against my stomach, allowed him to set up residence in my life. Like a pet I do not care for. Like a child I cannot bother with. Like a forgotten thing, tossed aside the moment it was mine.
But, lest you get the wrong idea, it's not because I cannot love.
I am no frigid girl. I come from the wilderness, raised in the woods and with red clay along my bare feet. I was just another girl, smile too wide and brown curls too pretty around my face.
I loved to make a splash. I loved to make a scene.
Now, I fill them up and now I jump into pools with my eyes closed.
Now, I am Ashley Davies - a star.
Now, I am Ashley Davies - sunglasses on as I slip away from home, past the quiet avenues and palm trees, through the lights and away from Hollywood.
I rush away from this limelight as quick as I can, pedal to the floor and every cover taken care of - because I am important and I am famous... and studio-heads will weave any tale they have to in order to milk a career.
You can be a drunk. You can take drugs. You can chase after young girls. Or boys. Or both.
You can crash your car. You can cheat on your spouse.
You can do just about damn near anything.
Just don't tell the truth about it.
Kiss his cheek. Fold those socks. Let his hands hold you in the flash of those bulbs.
And then you can race away, under the shadow of the night, back to where you come from - back to what you are.
A native lady, slipping off the skin like a snake, in her old stomping grounds - where they found me and seduced me away, where I left everything that was me behind - and I return to a world that knows to lie right along with me.
Because I am something.
And because they are... well, they are not me, are they?
They can go to jail, whereas I will not. They can be beaten and strung up, whereas I can turn to that man I call 'husband' and he'll not sell me out.
They are not safe at all.
I am protected, Fort Knox in contracts and money and my name.
And as much as I miss the freedom, I've worked too hard to let this all crumble down around me. I've worked too hard to have it all.
Even this.
Even this night, where I park my car and walk inside this place and take off my coat.
Even this moment, where I order a drink and no one asks my name and no one gushes to me about my latest film.
Even this, with my eyes scanning the dark and dusky room. With my eyes following every curve of every woman within my scope, like a dying man given a breath of air.
I've worked hard to have this.
So, I won't give up that other life that makes this one possible.
The world would have to pry it from my hands and they won't dare do that.
Because I have my illusions.
And so do they.
/ /
"Ashley, you're wanted on set."
"Tell'em they can wait. My new make-up girl and I are having a chat."
"Seriously, they need you on your marks in five."
"It'll be ten."
She lightly kicks the door to her trailer shut and the make-up girl, some little slip of a thing called Kyla, smiles at Ashley's reflection in the mirror.
Ashley smiles back, as friendly as the day will allow, and urges the girl to continue her tale of growing up in the swamps of Florida - alligators and pontoons and Indians who still send up smoke signals.
"Really, Ms. Davies, what I'm saying can't be that important..."
"Sure it is. I've heard all the other stories around here, from Mac the night-watchman* to the director of this disaster, so it's up to you to entertain me."
"'Disaster'? But I thought this was a romance."
"Exactly."
Kyla looks confused and Ashley merely smirks, glancing at her face as the vanity lights hit every angle. She appears as smooth as silk, foundation and lipstick and eye-shadow, a kind of pale goddess... Not at all the haggard visage that a war-time nurse surely has.
But her 'uniform' is starched white, nary a drop of blood on it, just another disguise.
Ashley sighs and waves Kyla away from her duties, watching the girl snap the powder case shut.
"If I had my way, Kyla, I'd never make another romance picture."
The girl looks aghast, holding the silver compact of blush to her chest.
"But why? They're such wonderful movies."
"...Are they really, though?"
"They are, Ms. Davies, I can promise you that. My sister and I really enjoy them. Every Saturday, they we are, in the front row."
Ashley wants to smile and be gracious. Because Kyla sounds like the many fan letters she receives - girls from across the country, swept away by words she didn't write and feelings she doesn't mean, wanting her tips to being beautiful and how to snag the perfect man.
How to tame Clark Gable. How to handle James Cagney. How to find a Gary Cooper.
Waves upon waves of young girls without a single thought in their heads beyond a boy's hand to hold and a lifetime of fairy-tale love ahead...
...Ashley should smile, like that camera is on her right now, lovely and false.
So she does. She smiles at Kyla and the girl cheerily smiles back.
"I suppose you are right, Kyla. And I like nothing more than giving my fans what they want."
She winks at the make-up girl and stands up, running her palms down over the skirt. She takes one last look in the mirror and the woman looking back is Nurse Jane - patriotic but still demure, the one every soldier fights for.
Ashley cannot see herself at all.
It's terrifying.
"Ashley, god-dammit, get out here now!" The muffled voice of the director cuts through the silence, followed by a pounding on the door for good measure.
She squares her shoulders, used to the real role she is playing - day in and day out, a caricature of a starlet.
She flings the door open, one sculpted eyebrow lifted.
"Is there a problem, George?"
"We are already three days behind schedule and I am not some trained monkey for RKO, so you better start showing up. And on time! Got it?"
"Oh, yes sir. I mean... it's not like I am the reason you are getting to do this film... right? It's not my name that will draw the crowds, it's yours."
His red-face, practically bubbling over with anger, is worth the act. The sound of his shoes stomping away is just icing on the cake.
Her co-star stands off to the side, shaking his head with a grin, and makes a 'tsk-tsk' motion with his hand. She merely shrugs as she calmly walks onto the set, eyes not even blinking as the over-head lights come on and hit the white sheet behind her - which will soon be turned into tanks roaring by in the background.
"You made that vein pop in his forehead, Ash."
"Then the day is a success already."
"I'd hate to get on your bad side..."
"Then don't do it, Carlin."
Glen Carlin holds his hands up in a mock surrender, looking smart in his military outfit. He seems every bit the handsome hero, curly blonde hair and dazzling smile, a candy-store medal pinned to his chest.
But then, that's RKO for you, they can make so many films per year because they don't waste cash on props. Or on sets. Or on directors.
Just on their stars. Just on their bread-and-butter. Just on their golden tickets.
And the call to action is heard. And the clap-board slaps loudly, Andrew calling out the number of this particular take.
Then, just like that, Nurse Jane is looking around frantically - amidst the sounds of war and destruction, stepping out of her world of bedside manner and into the fray... All for the man she cannot forget, the love she dare not dream of.
Out of the melee, battered but not broken, steps Captain John Harding - calling her name, shouting it just the once, and Nurse Jane turns... and she is weeping, with relief and with joy.
They run to each other as the war continues, two souls finding one another as everything else falls apart.
An embrace. A few well-chosen words. A kiss.
And end scene. Cut and print.
"Look at him, sitting there and trying to find a way to make me do it over... Self-righteous ass." Ashley mutters as she and Glen disentangle themselves.
The young man laughs a bit, fishing around for and finding a pack of cigarettes, tapping one out.
"Why do you have it out for him again?"
"It doesn't matter. Let's just finish this thing and be done with it."
The fact is, Ashley doesn't really have it out for George. She doesn't have it out for anyone, except maybe herself to a certain degree.
She plays a wife to the magazines and at parties. She plays the bitch to directors and to some co-stars. She has more lives than she knows what to do with - and none of them are truly her, none of them are truly Ashley Davies.
That girl only comes out at night, sneaking around corners like a monster, gruesome longings kept to the shadows and to a universe of dusk.
That girl cannot see the light of day. That girl is the mirage in the distance.
And that girl is drifting further away with every second that goes by.
So, a few more scenes are wrapped up. A few more actors float in and out of moments, the walking wounded one minute... and then fake bandages torn off, fake gashes wiped away.
A couple of the minors are talking about hitting a bar down the street, of making a night of it and Glen Carlin - newly appointed 'Most Popular of 1939' in all the Hollywood rags - is not one to pass up a chance to have a little fun.
This is his third film and everyone is eating him up - the girls and the boys, the gossip columnists and the public eye - and he is loving it.
Ashley knows how that feels. She recalls the heady rush of that first walk down the street, just outside the gates of the studio, and being recognized.
Being recognized and being mobbed, papers to sign and hands on her - eager touches from awed fans - it was addicting and Ashley ran after that feeling with a grin on her lips.
She set out to conquer and she did it.
Highest paid actress around and the right to demand roles, to talk back to directors, to be late to any event or any job... and the right to hide, to hold fast to a secret world all her own, to lock away every original part of herself.
Yes, it was addicting.
At first. In the beginning. But just like everything else wonderful, it tends to lose that shine after a while. And fame is not exempt from this malady.
"You should come with, Ash. I'm calling some friends down and my sister is stopping by... you could bring Aiden if you like, of course..." Glen's voice is not too deep, not too childish. It is the perfect mix of youth and age. And his eyes light up with what could be - good alcohol and endless laughs and women who will do anything to catch his eye.
In some other world, Ashley could make quite the match with Glen Carlin.
They'd paint the town red, cause a scandal or two, and still bring home the bacon with their thousand-watt smiles.
In some other world, Ashley could leave Aiden behind and take Glen Carlin to a clandestine part of the city, where you talk in whispers and there are code-words to remember... and she could show him a realm of want, a kingdom of hidden pleasures.
It would wipe that hayseed charm right off his face.
But no, too much work has gone into this piece of fiction that is her life, and Ashley won't sacrifice it just to shock a boy who thinks he knows it all.
"Not tonight, Carlin. I hate to say it, but Aiden and I are that retiring sort - slippers and pipe, rum by the fireside..."
He laughs softly, a twinkle in his gaze that suggests a bit of disbelief, and Ashley schools her expression to a place of even further innocence - the duller, the better.
"Fine, fine. Maybe some other time, though, before the picture is finished?"
"Of course. Count on it."
They smile at one another and Glen waves his good-bye. The lights slowly go down, one by one, as Ashley walks back to her trailer.
The sound of doors shutting and the murmurs of conversation move on by as she shuts the door, her fingers undoing buttons and slipping off shoes.
And Kyla is gone for the evening, sent away by some lackey that Ashley ordered around, all so she could wipe the slate clean herself.
So Ashley could watch in the mirror as her hands sweep gently over her cheeks, along her jawline and across her forehead - wiping away Nurse Jane, wiping away the artifice... stripping her down to the basics.
Brown hair hanging loosely, pins finally removed. Brown eyes set in an ivory-and-rose scrubbed face. Lips no longer deep red, just an average shade of pink.
And Ashley sighs, looking at herself, stocking up on these moments like one collects shells from the shore - a memento of a nice time, a better time, a sweeter time.
"'Bout to lock up, Ms. Davies." Mac calls evenly through her door and Ashley closes her eyes, wills away all of this - the fame, the films, this life with a husband and a house and the constant scrutiny and these never-ending lies.
But she opens them again and, as she is well aware, not a damn thing has changed.
/ / /
To Be Continued...
