Scene Stealer by Elise Warner Page A

‘do.’ That was when she thought that Barton was serious. Of course, he dropped her. A man would have to be desperate to stick with Lorna. Besides Barton likes to date women who either get their names in the gossip columns or advertise the freshness of youth.”
    â€œMrs. Leigh was upset?”
    â€œDarling,” the hairdresser said as he tucked a tendril of hair behind my ear, “she makes Lady Macbeth look like Goody Two-Shoes.”
    Before I could ask another question, he turned and shouted through the open door, “Anyone need to be touched up?”
    Harding offered his hand and I descended the steps feeling every inch a society matron. Amazing, I thought, what a little make-up and a costume could achieve. Eyes, teeth, hair, complexion. Never before had I been so conscious of my appearance.
    â€œHarding,” I asked, “when do we begin?”
    â€œIt’s hurry up and wait in the picture business, darling.”
    Outside a third trailer, a glowing adolescent was being fussed over. Her hairdresser finished combing the last strand of the child’s auburn hair and her make-up man, after deliberating over a small case filled with powders, brushes and creams, stepped in and began to paint her face.
    â€œIs that young lady Willow Leigh?” I asked Harding.
    â€œGussie! What planet have you been living on? Of course that’s dear Willow.”
    â€œDo you know her?”
    â€œI make it my business to know everyone,” Harding said. “Contacts are extremely important in the motion picture industry.”
    â€œI would appreciate an introduction, Harding.”
    An older version of Willow, still beautiful but slightly faded, stood watch; a sentry at her post.
    â€œYou can’t just walk over and talk to a star, Gussie. Lorna doesn’t like strangers hovering around,” he said a bit pompously.
    â€œIf you introduce me to Mrs. Leigh, Harding, I won’t be a stranger.”
    Harding was about to refuse when Mrs. Leigh beckoned to him. Forgetting my presence, he walked, as rapidly as his small feet would allow, to her side. I followed.
    â€œGood morning, darl…” he began.
    â€œHarding,” Mrs. Leigh interrupted. “I can’t find a PA anywhere. The little gophers are never around when you need one. Would you be a love and get my sweater? It’s in our trailer.”
    â€œCertainly. My pleasure, darling.”
    I cleared my throat. Harding’s lips pursed with annoyance but he made the introduction.
    â€œThis is Gussie Weidenmaier, new to our business. I’m taking her under my wing, so to speak. This lovely lady, of course, is Mrs. Leigh.” Harding bustled off then glanced back, apparently surprised at my not dogging his heels.
    I crossed my fingers and smiled at Mrs. Leigh. “I find myself doing the most extraordinary things to get a story. I have been wanting and waiting to interview you.”
    Mrs. Leigh acknowledged me, a glimmer of interest in her eyes.
    â€œA short article, in first person, on film making in New York City.” I lowered my voice to a confidential whisper. “ New York Magazine”. I flashed my library card at Mrs. Leigh. The woman had no idea what it was; I had guessed right that she was too vain to wear glasses.
    â€œAuthor’s Guild of America,” I said—fabricating again. “And then, of course, there is my book. Meeting you is most fortuitous. Could you spare me a few minutes of your valuable time?”
    â€œWhy?” Mrs. Leigh placed a cigarillo between her carmine lips. Willow’s make-up man jumped to her side and offered his lighter.
    â€œI’m writing a book about the people who nurtured and encouraged the legends of yesterday, the stars of today, tomorrow’s legends. I’ve already completed a chapter on Mozart’s father and Napoleon’s aunt.”
    â€œYou want to interview me?” She managed to sound both skeptical and