The Slow Rise of Clara Daniels Page 8

  A woman took her name down on a pad and waved her inside.

  “Did you bring a skirt?”

  “No.”

  Clara didn’t smile, because this woman, a woman named Phyllis, thought that smiles from extras were a liberty.

  “Wardrobe will bring one.” Phyllis waved her into the pen.

  Clara took a seat on a metal folding chair and started to observe, her internal radar on full. She had a lot to learn.

  Later that day, Clara found out later that she had snuck onto a costume drama. A wardrobe woman with two assistants came into the extra’s bullpen, dresses and robes in hand. Clara slipped into a light blue gown that almost fit and that made her eyes look blue. She let her long hair fall past her shoulders, knowing the blonde strands showed up well against the sky blue of the dress. Once the wardrobe assistant moved on to the next actor, Clara adjusted the heavy belt around her waist so it fell at a more flattering angle. If her mother had taught her anything, she had taught her how to dress well, even without a mirror handy.

  She was herded with the rest of the extras onto the set. The lights were so bright she squinted, but her eyes adjusted quickly. It was brighter than the desert at noon, and Clara smiled. She felt at home for the first time since her mother had died.

  She looked around for Pete and found him talking urgently to the first assistant director. Pete was in charge of the extras and their placement, so Clara made sure she caught his eye again and smiled just enough to remind him they had a connection, but not in a cloying or annoying way. Unlike most of the people gathered there that day, Clara was playing the long game. If this particular show didn’t help her move up, something else would. At sixteen, she had a lot of time to figure out how to work in this industry. In only five hours, she had already learned more than she’d hoped for.

  Pete flushed a little and smiled back, a quick furtive smile, as if he didn’t want anyone else to see him do it. Clara waited patiently. Then Pete called for her to come forward and placed her directly in front of the camera.

  The first assistant director spoke to them all. “The king will be coming this way. When he comes in, I want everyone to bow or curtsey, OK? Most of you won’t be in focus, but the few of you that are, I want you to look good, OK?”

  Clara met his eyes and didn’t smile. He also felt that smiling extras were too familiar. He nodded to her and she nodded back. She heard the wheels of his mind turn and watched him approach after consulting with Pete.

  “Clara. Is your name Clara?”

  Clara did smile then, but only a slight smile of acknowledgment. “Yes.”

  “When the camera pans around, I want you to curtsey deeply. The king is going to notice you and stop. Stay down until he brings you back to your feet. When he says his line, something like, Good evening, madam, or some crap like that, say, Thank you, my liege. OK?”

  “OK.”

  The director strode onto the set, and the first AD moved away. Clara would have known the director even if she hadn’t been telepathic, because an entourage of designers followed at his heels. He took in the entire set with a quick glance, and then spoke to the first AD who was suddenly at his elbow.

  The first AD nodded, and then called, “All right, people, stand by. We want to get this right on the first try.”

  Clara turned as she had been told, and curtseyed as the lead actor swept in. He stopped in front of her, as they’d said he would, and raised her to her feet.

  “The ladies at court become ever more charming.”

  She looked up at him through her eye lashes and smiled, having decided that her character was a courtesan and a secret favorite of the king.

  “I thank you, my liege.”

  The King moved on, and once he was off camera, the director called, “Cut.”

  The first AD frowned. “Was that the line?”

  Clara didn’t move but waited for the judgment of the director. He paused for a long moment, and everyone around him waited to see what he would say. Clara almost laughed as he drew out the moment for dramatic effect, thinking that a camera should be rolling to capture it. He spoke to no one in particular, as if pronouncing a judgment of deep insight and import.

  “The new line is better. Keep it.”

  “Keep it,” the first AD called in Clara’s general direction.

  Pete moved to her side and spoke low, as if she hadn’t heard the last two statements.

  “Keep the line the way you said it, Clara.”

  She nodded as if she took the entire farce seriously. “All right.”

  “Reset!” the first AD called, and there was a flurry of motion.

  Clara took a deep breath so she would not laugh out loud. If these were the people she would have to manipulate in order to become a star, she would have no difficulty.

  The camera started rolling again, and Clara sank into a deep curtsey. The scene was done fifteen times before the director was satisfied, and at the end of the process he nodded to her once, curtly, before stalking off. Clara raised an eyebrow, surprised that he would acknowledge her at all, but said nothing as Pete came to stand at her elbow.

  “Clara, you did great. I think the big boss will want you for another throw-away line tomorrow. Just come this way, and we’ll fill out the paperwork.”

  “All right.” Clara fell into step beside him, careful to hold her skirts high so she could step over the cables that covered the floor. “What paperwork, Pete?”

  “Come on, you’re no greenhorn.” Pete grinned, looking at her sideways. “You know you’ve got to sign for your pay increase. You’re SAG eligible now. You’ll need to sign for that, too.”

  Clara smiled. “I was just testing you.”

  He laughed, and she made a mental note to find out what SAG was, and if it was a club, whether or not it would benefit her to join.

  12

  New York City, 2019

  The long grey limousine was stuck in traffic on 9th Avenue. Clara had gone shopping, and now it looked as if she might be late for the taping of the Steve Stimmerman Show. She thought Steve was a prick, so she didn’t care if her tardiness made his life harder.

  In the seat in front of Clara, Donna was sucking down her second glass of bourbon, talking into her cell. She was arranging the next day’s spot on the Patsy Jo & Renaldo Show. Clara didn’t think it was a good idea, but Donna insisted that the women who watched Patsy Jo would also watch Desert Drift. They were the women who kept the paperback romance industry afloat. They were a huge market, so Clara was going to get up at 6:00 a.m. the next morning to court them.

  Donna hung up with the people at ABC and grinned. “They say Steve is shitting a brick.”

  “And how is that unusual?”

  Donna snorted, swirling the last of her bourbon in the bottom of her glass. “I just wish I was there to see it.”

  Clara touched-up her lipstick, studying her reflection in her pocket mirror. Her eyes were incredibly green today, most likely because New York was so grey. She shivered, pulling her cashmere sweater closer around her body. She missed the desert.

  They made it to ABC half an hour before the taping. Clara could see a line queuing around the front of the building.

  “Haven’t those people been seated yet?” she asked.

  “The ones getting in have. Those are the people hoping to catch a glimpse of you as you go in.”

  “Don’t they know that we pull in at the back?”

  “Evidently not.”

  Clara smiled. “Let’s give them a show.”

  “What?”

  She leaned over and hit the intercom button so the driver could hear her through the dark glass between the seats.

  “Hi. Ron?”

  “Yes, Miss Daniels.”

  “Pull up out here.”

  “In front of the building, ma’am?”

  “Yes. That’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She sighed, leaning back against the deep leather of her seat. “I love obedient
servants.”

  “Clara, I don’t think this is a good idea.” Donna swallowed hard, looking out the tinted windows at the crowd gathered outside.

  As soon as they saw the limousine come to a stop, they turned, jockeying for position to see who might get out.

  “Sure, it’s a good idea. Those aren’t press. They’re my public.” Clara smiled, her adrenalin flowing.

  She lived for moments like this. This was the reason she’d chosen showbusiness over any other career. Adoration was something she craved, like air and water. Adoration from a mass of people who didn’t know her and would never know her. Adoration from people who only knew her name and repeated it like a mantra or a prayer. Clara liked being someone else’s prayer.

  She didn’t wait for the driver to come around to open her door. She opened it herself and stepped out, smiling. The people around the car gasped when they saw her, and then started talking excitedly all at once.

  “Is it her?”

  “Oh, my God. It’s Clara Daniels.”

  “She’s much prettier in person.”

  “Look at her hair.”

  “Look at those diamonds.”

  Clara assumed that comment was directed at her earrings, which she thought were fairly modest. She stood still and let them look. The crowd left a wide berth around her, and Donna came around from the other side of the car, adjusting the tight skirt of her suit as she hurried. Clara slammed the limousine door and moved into the crowd.

  “Hi,” she greeted one of the women, who stood still and didn’t speak or smile back.

  The woman only stared at her as if she were a goddess come down to earth.

  Clara moved forward slowly, and the crowd parted for her, jostling each other to get a good view of her. There was more than one tourist in the crowd, and camera phones were raised. Clara stopped and smiled for the people with phones, so more pulled them out.

  “Miss Daniels, would you take a picture with my mother?” The little woman looked up at her, blinking as if she stood in a bright light.

  Clara smiled at her personally and spoke in her lowest, most melodious voice.

  “I’d be happy to.”

  She stood for pictures with several different people before she moved on into the building. Unlike the press, these people gave way before her. She gave a few autographs as well, smiling all the while. She fed off their energy as a vampire feeds on blood, and when she walked inside the building, she was high on it.

  “Donna, that was amazing!” Clara took her manager’s arm and drew her toward the elevator.

  Security held the door for her as they stepped into the wire mesh cage, and Clara gave him a dazzling smile. He blinked and said nothing. She could see he didn’t know what to say, and she felt a greater rush of triumph at conquering him, because she knew he saw celebrities every day, and that she was something special.

  Donna pulled out her asthma inhaler and drew in a deep breath of spray. “Dear God, Clara. What if one of those people had a gun?”

  Clara chuckled, her throaty laugh filling the elevator box. “Then they would have handed it to me and asked me to take a picture standing with it.”

  Her adrenalin flowed hot in her veins, and she knew she was flushed as if from a run.

  The Stimmerman producer was waiting for them as they stepped off the elevator.

  “So, you ladies took the scenic route, I hear.”

  He smiled, but Clara was not fooled. She could hear the contempt in his thoughts.

  “Donna, find Rich for me, will you?”

  Clara moved down the narrow corridor without sparing the producer a second glance. Donna went in search of Richard Smithson, the executive producer. The man who’d met them at the door stood alone in silence, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

  Clara was in makeup when Rich found her. He knocked on the door before coming in, as if she were his maiden aunt. She laughed at him, and he looked sheepish. He was the most boyish man she’d ever slept with.

  “Hi, Rich. Sorry we’re late.”

  “No problem, Clara.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him as the makeup woman powdered down her cheeks.

  “Well,” Rich grinned, “not your problem, anyway.”

  Clara laughed again and watched as Rich relaxed against the doorjamb. She met his blue- eyed gaze in the mirror.

  “So, I hear you’ve gone back with Barnett Studios.”

  “Temporarily anyway.”

  “It sounds like they should have taken a harder look at Desert Drift.”

  “Who says so?” Clara’s voice was noncommittal.

  “Everybody. The preview screenings went through the roof. Those women love a good love story.”

  “Well, if the film’s any good, it’s because of Chuck. God knows the script was crap.”

  “Off the record, of course.” Rich winked at her.

  “Of course.”

  “Who’s Chuck?”

  “He’s the kid director they hired out of USC to do the film. You guys should have him on the show. He’s great.”

  “Oh, really?”

  She could hear the suggestiveness in his voice. She would have known what he was thinking even if she hadn’t been a telepath. She chose to ignore the innuendo.

  “Really, Rich. He even made me look like I can act, and we both know what bullshit that is.”

  “We’re ready in five,” called a production assistant, running down the hall.

  “Thanks.” Rich nodded to the girl as she passed. “It looks like you’re on, kid.”

  “I’d better get to the green room, then.”

  She stood after letting the makeup woman pull the towel from around her neck.

  Clara nodded to her. “Thanks, Denise.”

  The woman smiled suddenly, as if lit with an inner fire. She was shocked that Clara had remembered her name.

  “You’re welcome, Miss Daniels.”

  The red light on the camera went off, signaling a commercial break. Clara leaned over to sip her water, checking her microphone as she did so. Steve smiled at her, and she braced herself for his next comment. She had effectively blocked out his thoughts. They were such a cesspool, she didn’t want to see what was coming next.

  “So, who’ve you been humping lately, Clara?”

  She smiled at him, stretching like a cat. “No one you know.”

  “You never know. You get around. How about Manley Steinbeck? You done him yet?”

  Clara sipped her water meditatively, as if she were considering his question.

  “Well, Steve, you know he’s never been the same after having you.”

  The stage manager called out, “Five seconds!”

  The girl counted out the rest of the time on her fingers, and the red light went back on.

  Steve gave her his boyish grin. “Clara, I’m really happy you could stay for an extra

  segment.”

  She flashed her one-thousand-watt smile and turned her head slightly so the camera could pick up her best angle. She included the audience in her warmth, drawing them deeper into the circle of her light.

  “Steve, you know I always love spending time with you.”

  Clara left at last, making way for the Flying Tansy Twins, who were trapeze artists and ventriloquists.

  “Steve’s really hurting for guests today,” Clara said to Donna.

  She stood still as a production assistant from the sound department unstrapped her mike. She smiled at him, and he floundered a moment before he managed to smile back.

  Rich met her in the hallway and kissed her. He fell into step beside her, and they walked toward the elevator in companionable silence, Donna trailing behind them. They were moving past the green room when a man stepped out and extended his hand to Clara.

  Rich started to step between them, but Clara simply smiled. She’d already glanced into the man’s mind earlier that afternoon. They had nearly run into each other outside makeup. She already knew what he was going to say, and she knew he wo
uld be good for a laugh.

  “Hi, Clara. I’m Will Quigley. May I call you Clara?”

  The man’s eyes gleamed manically, his bangs sticking up from his forehead. Clara noticed he had moussed them so they would stay raised, like a porcupine’s quills.

  Rich fidgeted beside her, but Clara kept smiling. Donna took a deep breath, then reached into her bag for her asthma spray. She’d seen Clara smile just that way at a mugger before she broke his collarbone.

  Clara’s voice was serene. “That all depends, Will.”

  The man plowed on, like the salesman he was. “Clara, I represent a men’s organization called the MFPP, and I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time.”

  Rich opened his mouth to tell the guy to back off, but Clara laid a restraining hand on his arm.

  “You have a few seconds before I start walking to the elevator. Go ahead.”

  The man’s grin was so big it threatened to split his face. “Great! My organization is Men For Porn Power, or MFPP. We’re a group dedicated to the continuation and support of soft core pornography all over this great U.S. of A.”

  Clara swallowed her laughter as Donna reached into her bag and drew out a flask of bourbon.

  “How interesting.”

  “We’re asking for your support at our national convention this week at Madison Square Garden. We’d be honored if you could attend and possibly give a short speech on pornography and how it relates to your life as a film star and celebrity.”

  “But I don’t do porn, Will.”

  Rich started smiling. He hadn’t seen Clara play cat and mouse in years, and he leaned back, arms folded across his chest, and watched her. He couldn’t let her savage the guy too badly, since he was the next guest on the show after the Flying Tansy Twins. He stood ready to hustle Clara quickly down the hall before she drew blood.

  Will was undeterred by Clara’s lack of enthusiasm. “Clara, if you don’t do porn, it’s because you don’t understand it. Our American porn industry gives work to hundreds, even thousands, of aspiring filmmakers every year. And the foreign sales alone—”