She turned back to the hopeful face at the piano. "No dice, Dexter," she said regretfully. "Tell Eddie Sharp I'll see him at the Oscars. Until then, I'll be in my dressing room. Don't forget. I'm a star."

FIVE.

The splendor of Rex Mandalay's domain on the top floor of the Olympus wardrobe department rivaled that of any couturier's atelier in Paris.

The walls were painted the most delicate shade of lavender, decorated with snow-white moldings as ornate as the lacy trim of a gingerbread house. The enormous three-way gilt-framed mirror was designed to look like the unfurled petals of an orchid; the special pink lightbulbs in the antique chinoiserie lamps emitted a flattering rosy glow. Scattered across the plush lilac carpet were the famous tufted sofas and ottomans, upholstered in bright yellow velvet, upon which the maestro would sometimes be photographed for publicity purposes, displaying his latest round of sketches to an appropriately appreciative star.

This was the inner sanctum, the Holiest of Holies. Rumor had it that even Mr. Karp had never been allowed inside to see exactly the kind of luxury his money-or rather, New York's money-was financing. Nothing must be allowed to interfere with Rex Mandalay and his process of creation.

And what creations! There on a rack in the middle of the room hung some of the most beautiful vestments known to G.o.d or man. A ball gown of Vermeer-blue silk with a bouffant skirt of thousands of tiny individual petals, like an enormous hydrangea blossom. A shimmering halter gown as sinuous and liquid as though it had been fashioned from molten gold. Hooded white crepe with jet beading; rich red lace; a shocking-pink silk taffeta column with a matching capelet held in place with a hand-shaped clasp sporting an enormous-and very possibly real-diamond ring. All gorgeous, all virtually priceless, all one-of-a-kind.

Margo couldn't fit into any of them.

"Come on, darling!" Rex commanded, tugging at the zipper of a bejeweled forest-green satin, grunting like a man trying to push a boulder up a steep hill. Wardrobe a.s.sistants in white gloves pushed the emerald-encrusted bodice together on either side of her. "Suck in!"

"I'm sucking!"

"Suck harder! Come on!"

Margo felt her face turn purple as she tried valiantly to expel every last puff of air from her lungs. The wardrobe a.s.sistants threw their entire weight against her, pushing so hard Margo was sure they were going to crush her ribs.

"No," Rex groaned finally. He released his grip on the zipper, flinging himself on a yellow divan, his face flushed with exertion. "It's no use. For G.o.d's sake, Margo, you're going to have to reduce."

"Me?" Margo yelped. "I haven't gained an ounce. You must have made them too small, that's all."

"Darling." Rex flipped a curling lock of hair, bleached to an almost platinum shade of blond, back into place. "In my atelier, I have a dressmaker's dummy custom made to the exact proportions of every important Olympus star. And every creation you see before you was fitted to the one marked Miss Margo Sterling. Believe me, her measurements haven't changed."

"And I'm telling you, neither have mine."

"Well, you've got exactly two weeks to prove it. Unless you want to wear a burlap sack to the Oscars."

"I suppose it doesn't matter anyway," Margo muttered darkly. "I mean, it's not as if I'm going to be onstage, am I? n.o.body will be looking at me."

"Don't be defeatist, darling. It's very 'supporting player.' " Rex snapped open a gold cigarette case, took out one of the slim black cigarettes he smoked, and inserted it into a carved ivory holder. The scent of its distinctive tobacco, a kind of perfumed musk tinged with apple, filled the room.

"Can I have one of those?"

"You may not," Rex retorted. "They're imported from Egypt, and if Europe persists in this idea of having a war, who knows how many more I'll be able to get."

He took a deep drag and blew a couple of languorous smoke rings before he turned back to Margo, his voice all business. "Now. Don't look so glum. Black coffee and grapefruit until the ceremony, a couple of cleverly placed hooks and eyes, and we'll be back in business. Unless ... there's something you're not telling me?"

"Like what?"

Rex narrowed his eyes. "Well, you're not pregnant, are you?"

Margo's mouth fell open. Pregnant?

"Darling, it's hardly an unreasonable question. Everyone knows you've been shacked up in Malibu with Dane Forrest. Oh, don't look so horrified. This is Hollywood, not Hicksville. I'm not exactly going to start sewing a scarlet A across the fronts of your dresses. I just want to make sure you're being careful, that's all. Careers have been ruined by less, you know. Just look at what happened to the last one."

He's talking about Diana, Margo thought with a stab of horror.

So much time had pa.s.sed since the scandal of Diana Chesterfield's mysterious disappearance that Margo had almost forgotten how a lot of pretty important people had believed that Dane had had something to do with it. Maybe they still did. After all, to most of the world, Dane and Diana were the Great Star-Crossed Lovers of the Silver Screen, cruelly driven apart by forces and pa.s.sions greater than themselves. Only Margo knew that Dane and Diana had never been in love at all, that it was all a show for the cameras and the magazines.

But if people knew that, they'd start to ask why, and if the truth ever came out, it could ruin Dane. Picture people, fans and professionals alike, might tolerate a lot from their stars, but acting for years as though you were pa.s.sionately in love with your own sister might be a little too much for them to take. It might not exactly be incest, but it wasn't wholesome either.

"Diana was sick," Margo said stubbornly. That was the official studio line, and she was sticking to it.

"Yes," Rex mused, "but sick with what, exactly?" Deep in thought, he blew a few more smoke rings and waved them into a perfumed cloud. "Oh, it doesn't matter. Out of sight is out of mind, I suppose, and rightly so. In the meantime, you'd better run along and leave me to my labors. I've got some rethinking to do, just in case the black coffee and celery doesn't work."

"You said grapefruit," Margo said, grateful for the change of subject.

"I reserve the right to change my mind. Now shoo. But leave the fur," Rex instructed. "Maybe I'll get inspired and whip up some kind of Russian evening stole." He arched an eyebrow as he poked the end of his ivory cigarette holder into the soft golden pile. "You never know. It could be fabulously ... concealing."

"Whatever you say," Margo said.

And I've got to do it, she thought as she walked down the stairs and back out to the car. Just like Dane said. If I want to stay at Olympus, I've got to be exactly the girl they want me to be.

"d.u.c.h.ess! Over here!"

Squinting through the bright sun-she realized, too late, that she'd left her sungla.s.ses along with the fur-Margo instantly recognized the small man bounding toward her, his gait as cheerily ch.o.r.eographed and expertly spontaneous as if it were backed by an entire studio orchestra.

"Jimmy!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, you know. Photo shoot. Earning my keep. You?"

"Fitting," Margo said, gesturing toward Rex Mandalay's tightly drawn curtains.

"Real top-secret stuff, huh?" Jimmy grinned. "All done now? I'm starving. What say we go down to the commissary and grab a bite? A little bird told me they've got Boston cream pie on the dessert cart today."

Reflexively, Margo's hands flew to her stomach. "I'd better not."

"Oscar diet?" Jimmy chuckled knowingly. "You and everyone else in town. That's why G.o.d invented the fruit plate."

"Rex is serious this time," Margo said. "He's probably alerted the Olympus secret police by now. When we get to the commissary, I'll be lucky if some rebel waiter lets me have a spoonful of milk in my coffee."

"Well, in that case, why don't we do something really crazy?" Jimmy's eyes twinkled. "Why don't we leave the studio lot?"

"I love the Brown Derby," Margo said happily as the maitre d' made a big show of seating them in the booth under Jimmy's caricature, which grinned toothily, oversized top hat in hand, from between the inky likenesses of Katharine Hepburn and Adolphe Menjou. "It always makes me so happy to come here."

"Me too," Jimmy said. "It's one of the only places in Hollywood that makes you feel like you're actually living in the movies."

"Absolutely."

Truthfully, what made her the happiest was the attention she and Jimmy seemed to be getting. It had only been a matter of months since they'd been a studio-approved, loudly feted item, and if almost everyone in the restaurant knew, as Margo did, that Jimmy generally preferred the romantic company of men, they also knew that in Hollywood, the way things looked in public meant a whole lot more than anything that happened behind closed doors, and how things looked in the press meant the most of all.

And there would be press. A couple of photographers were loafing around the entranceway; Louella Parsons, Margo was pleased to see, looked alert as ever trundled into her all-seeing perch in the back. Well, let them look. It was good to be noticed. And if some headline tomorrow about her and Jimmy made Dane stand up and pay some attention to her again, so much the better.

It wasn't as though Dane had been mean lately, just a bit distant. The unexpected Oscar nod seemed to have propelled his career into a realm it had never quite reached before. Right after the nominations were announced, he'd been awfully attentive, maybe even-Margo thought guiltily-downplaying his own happiness so as not to make her feel bad.

But that had only lasted a couple of days. Now he seemed to spend hours on the phone with his agent, or in meetings with Larry Julius and Mr. Karp, or holed up in his study reading the spec scripts he kept getting from independent producers like David Selznick or that new hotshot director from England, Alfred Hitchc.o.c.k. She was happy for him-she knew she was-but still, she couldn't remember the last time Dane had taken her to the Brown Derby. She couldn't remember the last time Dane had taken her anywhere.

"So," said Jimmy, picking up a menu. "How are things with the old man?"

It was if he could read her mind. "He's fine."

"Not too high and mighty?"

"About the nomination?" Margo asked innocently. "Naturally, we're both thrilled."

"Cut the c.r.a.p, d.u.c.h.ess," Jimmy said, putting down the menu with a bang. It was just a prop anyway, Margo thought. Jimmy had a disconcerting habit of turning the most commonplace activities into portentous stage business. "It's me, Jimmy, your old friend. I've been around long enough to know that there's nothing like a lopsided awards season to wreck a happy home. Dear old Oscar is the deadliest femme fatale there is."

"Everything's fine," Margo said. "He's been busy, that's all. It's natural. Although ..."

"Although what?"

"Rex mentioned Diana today. During my fitting."

Jimmy let out a low whistle. "Jeepers creepers. How'd she come up?"

"I don't know." Margo couldn't bring herself to tell Jimmy what Rex had really said, although she wasn't sure what was more embarra.s.sing: the weight gain or how he'd a.s.sumed it had happened. Or the fact that the way he thought it happened is impossible. "Just ... just in relation to Dane, I guess."

"Well," Jimmy said, twisting his mouth in a wry smirk, "Hollywood loves a comeback."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Margo asked hotly.

"Nothing, d.u.c.h.ess. Just that what's out of sight doesn't always stay out of mind. Sooner or later, everything old is new again."

"Stop talking in riddles," Margo said crossly. "You sound like you're in a Charlie Chan movie."

Jimmy reached across the table and squeezed Margo's hand. "I'm sorry. I'm not saying any of this to hurt you. But I meant what I said. This kind of thing can be awfully tricky for a pair like you. Just to give some unsolicited advice: if you love Dane-"

"And I do!" Margo interrupted a little too quickly.

"Then don't make him choose between this"-Jimmy swept his eyes over the sea of world-famous faces grinning cartoonishly from their frames on the wall-"and you. Believe me, even if you win, you'll lose. You understand?"

"Sure I do." Margo gave him her most rea.s.suring smile. If he didn't believe her, at least he dropped her hand and picked up his menu. "So," she continued, still grinning perkily, "have you got a date for the big night?"

"I believe I'll be escorting the ravishing Miss Preston to the ceremony," Jimmy said drily, "since Larry Julius seems fanatical about arranging the red-carpet arrivals by height. Afterward, who knows? I'm up for anything."

"What about Roderigo?" The words were out before Margo could stop them. She and Jimmy had never spoken of the silent, handsome boy she'd accidentally discovered in his bed at the Chateau Marmont on the night that had effectively ended their "romantic" arrangement, but she wanted Jimmy to know that he could confide in her, that she was his friend. "Is he still ... in the picture?"

"He's gone back to Mexico," Jimmy said. "His mother's not been very well, you see."

His expression remained studiously pleasant, but a slight edge had crept into his voice, letting Margo know that this was not something he was prepared to discuss. Not now. Maybe not ever. And certainly not with Louella Parsons in the vicinity.

Margo was scanning the room, desperate to find a change of subject, when her eye fell on a familiar-looking redhead in a chic black suit at a table nearby. "Oh my G.o.d. It's Amanda Farraday."

Jimmy peered over the top of his menu with interest. "So it seems. In the flesh."

"G.o.d, I haven't seen her for ages," Margo said, noting with more than a pang of envy that Amanda appeared not to have gained so much as a stray ounce in the intervening period. If anything, she looked even thinner. Maybe it's the suit, Margo thought as Amanda lifted an enormous forkful of what appeared to be the Brown Derby's signature pork chop smothered in apricot glaze to her dainty lips. She made a mental note to buy herself a plain black suit at the earliest opportunity. "Where the h.e.l.l has she been?"

"Holed up at Gabby Preston's, if you can believe it," Jimmy said.

"You're kidding." Margo's eyes widened. As far back as she could remember, Gabby had never had a nice word to say about the gorgeous redhead-and if you wanted to know why, you just had to look at the adjective in front of the noun. "How did that happen?"

Jimmy shrugged. "Maybe times are tough and they're taking in boarders. Maybe our little songbird has finally grown a heart to go along with her ego. Maybe she just thought Amanda might have a good line on some under-the-table prescriptions. Who knows?"

"Gabby's still on the pills, huh?"

"d.u.c.h.ess," Jimmy said, "everyone in Hollywood's on some kind of pills. The difference is that Gabby likes them." He sat back in his chair. "Anyway, it's all over now. Rumor has it Viola's kicked Amanda out."

"Why?" Margo asked, ears p.r.i.c.ked.

"Once again you are asking me to comment on the motives of the inscrutable Preston women," Jimmy said. "It's a task you couldn't ask of the almighty Leo Karp himself. But in my humble opinion, I think the old lady probably didn't relish having another younger redhead around. The kind with a carpet to match the drapes, if you get my drift."

"Don't be vulgar. Who's that she's having lunch with?"

Jimmy peered at Amanda's companion, a heavyset fellow in brown pinstripes eying his lunch date with the calculated appreciation of a man who knows he wants to buy a car but clearly means to hold out for a d.a.m.n good price. "I have no idea. But that's no surprise anymore. Ever since Selznick, the town is lousy with independents trying to set up shop, thinking they'll strike gold on their own, studios be d.a.m.ned." He shrugged. "Personally, I think the jury's still out on Gone with the Wind. Don't forget what Irving Thalberg said: 'No Civil War picture ever made a nickel.' "

"What about Birth of a Nation?"

"That was a silent," Jimmy said dismissively. "This is a whole new era."

"Shhh. I think she sees us."

Sure enough, Amanda's lovely oval of a face was turned in their direction, her hand half raised in greeting. "I think she's going to come over and say h.e.l.lo."

"Not to us," Jimmy said gently. "Look over there."

Margo looked.

Harry Gordon had just entered the room.

Surrounded by an entourage of stone-faced Olympus bigwigs, Harry appeared to be as careless and rumpled as ever, although closer inspection revealed a number of small but significant changes. The sloppy sweater was now of the softest cashmere, the scuffed shoes molded perfectly to his feet, the cheap gla.s.ses replaced with genuine tortoisesh.e.l.l frames.

Like he's been turned into a Central Casting version of Harry Gordon, Margo thought.

Amanda stared at him, her face white, looking as beautiful and terrified as Margo had ever seen anyone. Harry stared back, unmoving but trembling slightly, as though every muscle in his body was clenched. An electric hush fell over the room as every diner at the Brown Derby leaned forward in his or her chair, not wanting to miss what happened next.

Amanda's lips parted. Her eyes glowed. Harry's body lurched forward; for a moment it seemed as though he was going to run across the room and into her arms.

Then he turned on his heel and went straight out the door.