“Sure,” Hilliard said with a shrug. “Who hasn’t?”
“You certainly never seem to complain about it.”
“I figure I can handle a bad situation for a few months. That’s the longest they usually last anyhow. I’m not typically cast in those epics or musicals that take forever.”
“Well, I guess I’ll take a shot at reading it today,” Monty conceded as he poured himself a cup of coffee.
“Want me to pick you up for the party tonight?”
Monty turned and stared at him. “What party?”
“The Powells’ party. We’re all invited.”
Monty groaned. “God, I hate those. Their house gives me the creeps. It’s too big.”
“You’re one to talk.”
“Hey!”
Hilliard grinned and bumped his hip against Monty’s. “I’m kidding. Your mansion is a perfectly respectable size.”
Monty took a sip of the coffee. “I think I’ll drive myself, thanks. If I’m lucky, I won’t leave alone.” He waggled his eyebrows.
Hilliard shook his head but he was smiling. Something loosened in Monty’s chest at the sight. Things were going to be okay after all.
Monty did not read the script. Instead, he spent the entire day agonizing over what he would say when Joan Dupree came to visit him for the interview. He practiced sitting on the sofa, offering her a drink, showing her the kitchen. He didn’t completely ignore the script, though. He kept moving it around with him as he practiced, placing it at an angle that would look enticing or responsible. The biggest issue was that throughout his mock interviews, he could feel his magic bubbling under the surface. It took a concerted effort to shove it back down, even though no one else was around.
By the time he was getting ready for the party, he was exhausted, not only from his rehearsals and the strain against his magic, but from the guilt of not reading the script, yet again.
Jack and Kay Powell lived in a sprawling Spanish-style estate tucked into the hills overlooking Los Angeles. The smooth stucco exteriors and clay barrel tile roofs fit effortlessly within the palm fronds and cherry trees. Past the arched entry gate sat a cobbled courtyard with a centerpiece fountain that would make the groundskeepers at Versailles look twice.
Monty parked his car on the side of the long driveway and got out, his stomach fluttery with nerves.
After giving a footman his hat and coat, he strode inside, nodding in greeting at the crowd of guests as he passed. He usually looked forward to these sorts of events: a chance to schmooze a bit, make connections, and impress some people. But he was now hyper-aware of how people perceived him. Had everyone always thought his charm was too much?
One of the waitstaff offered a tray of assorted cocktails. Monty grabbed a highball without even thinking, sipping the cool drink to soothe his unsettled state. But when he caught a few surreptitious glances in his direction, the glass felt heavy in his hand. How many people were aware that he was on thin ice with the studio? How many people had read about his antics at the Pink Peacock? How many were waiting for him to fail?
He very nearly put the drink right back down, but instead opted to wander to a less crowded part of the house. The garden was set up with a jazz band and a paved dance floor. Chinese lanterns were strung up across the space, offering a soft glow for the dancers. It was an inviting sight. Hollywood parties, and especially the ones thrown by the Powells, were often used as opportunities to show off a bit. People liked to prove that they were excellent dancers, could hold an audience’s attention. Sometimes the parties turned into unofficial audition spaces, with prime roles being offered on the sidelines. Monty had partaken in that exercise many times. It had even garnered him his first role in an Ezra Allen production.
But he wasn’t looking to impress anyone tonight, so he simply watched as the dancers moved across the floor.
“Montgomery!”
He turned and immediately straightened at the sight of Kay Powell gliding toward him. She was a beautiful woman in her forties who looked as though she hadn’t left the decade prior. Her brown hair was cut into a bob and styled meticulously into finger waves, her lips painted into a perfect Cupid’s bow, and she was wearing a shimmery drop-waist dress under a fur-lined satin Poiret cocoon coat. Only Kay Powell could wear fashion ten years out of date and still look glamorous as hell.
She planted air kisses on either side of his face and leaned back to give him a once-over.
“I heard the tour went well.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, feeling his face get hot at the thought of what Ezra probably reported.
She beamed and tucked her hand around his arm, leading him down the walkway. “And I heard you found us some fresh talent.”
“Yes, Jesse Morgan. Have you met him?”
“Not yet, but I’m hoping to tonight. He had a feature in The Stargazer this morning. A handsome young man.”
“Yes.”
