My Deja Vu Lover Read Online Free PDF Page A

clung to the perspiration on my body and legs. My crepe frock, in French blue, which I’d had to pay for myself because this studio was so cheap it only paid for the clothes for its stars, drooped in deep wrinkles.
       And I felt as weary as my garments. We had all been kept up until eleven o’clock the previous night for an “emergency” filming. Whenever they decided to work us nights they called it an emergency. We’d had four emergencies this week. My arms hung limp at my sides.
       Laurence’s fingertips barely brushed the back of my hand.
       He whispered, “Be wonderful, Silver.”
       The fragrance of his Eau de Coty shaving lotion, which I had given him, hung in the dry air.
       I turned and watched him walk away from me toward the grip-prop man. He didn’t normally speak to me on the set but he must have known how discouraged I felt.
       Watching him, I let my mind sing, “Laurence loves me,” and had I dared, I would have blown him a kiss.
       But of course I didn’t. He would be furious. Still, I was happier knowing he was on the set and my gaze followed him as he stood talking to a crew member across the street, his back to me, his broad shoulders squared proudly, his blond hair gleaming in the sunlight.
       Beside me the actress in the red dress said, “If they don’t use us soon, I am gonna pee right here on the sidewalk.”
       The two others pretended not to hear her.
       Over the clattering of the camera the director shouted, “All right, tea dance ladies, get ready to enter when I say. Remember, keep it moving, chatter, look at each other, not at the camera.”                  
       Tea dance ladies, that was us.
       I fluffed my skirt and prayed it wasn’t glued to the back of my legs, then ran my tongue between my lips and teeth to unstick them. I tried to feel my smile lift my eyes, the way my acting teacher had instructed me. The two actresses, the ones who had raised their eyebrows and ignored the woman in red, now bent over and clutched their thighs. Through the material of their skirts they pulled up on the bumps of their garters to tighten the sags out of their stockings. The woman in red casually leaned down, ran her hands up one leg to check her seam and smooth the silk, then gave her garter a quick roll above her knee to tighten it. Her skirt lifted, caught by her wrists, exposing the lacy edge of her step-ins stuck to the back of her thigh. Slowly she went through the same maneuver with her other leg.
       An assistant director appeared beside us. He combed his hair in a style identical to the director’s but lacked a mustache. He, too, wore a short-sleeved shirt, slacks, oxfords, and carried a cigarette in a casual droop between his fingers.
       He said, “Now, girls, you are four young society ladies, so try to look bright and saucy. You’re returning from an afternoon tea dance and you are very gay, very vivacious, so busy gossiping you don’t notice the soldier. Keep talking as you walk by, but keep your voices to whispers so you can hear the director. I want you in the red nearest the camera, dear. Lillian and Sally, you in front, and what’s your name, blondie?” he said looking at me.
         And then not waiting for my answer he continued, “You be on the far side turning to face the camera as you walk, dear, but don’t look directly into it.”
       The actress in red blurted, “All you’ll see is my back!”
       “The director wants a good shot of your haircut, dear. Very chic.”
       “He said that?” She looked doubtful.
       “Especially noticed you, dear, because of the haircut. We’ll get a nice profile of you as you walk by.”
       When she opened her mouth to ask another question, he held a finger to his lips and pointed toward the director.
       The director leaned back in his rocking chair, lifted his megaphone with his initials painted on it, and shouted, “Now, tea dance ladies, walk this