Fancy Pants

Francesca refused to let either the wardrobe mistress or the costume continue to dampen her spirits.

After all, poor Sally had to work in this dreadful trailer all day. That would make anyone cross. Francesca reminded herself that she had been given a role in a prestigious film. Besides, her looks were striking enough to overcome any costume, even this one. Still, she absolutely had to do something about getting a hotel room. She had no intention of spending another night in a place that didn't offer maid service.

The French heels of her slippers crunched in the gravel as she crossed the drive and headed for the plantation house, her great hoopskirt swaying from side to side. This time she wasn't going to make the mistake she had made yesterday of trying to negotiate with lackeys. This time she was going straight to the producer with her list of complaints. Yesterday Lloyd Byron had told her he wanted the cast and

crew lodged together to develop a spirit of ensemble, but she suspected he was just being cheap. As far

as she was concerned, appearing in a prestigious film didn't make up for having to live like a barbarian.

After several inquiries, she finally located Lew Steiner, the producer of Delta Blood. He was standing in the hallway of the Wentworth mansion, just outside the drawing room where her scene was being set up for shooting. His sleazy appearance shocked her. Pudgy and unshaven, with a gold ankh hanging inside the open collar of his Hawaiian shirt, he looked as if he belonged on a Soho street corner selling stolen watches. She stepped over the electrical cables that curled across the hallway carpet and introduced herself. As he looked up from his clipboard, she launched into her litany of complaints while managing

to keep a smile in her voice.

'… So you see, Mr. Steiner, I absolutely can't spend another night in that dreadful place; I'm sure you understand. I need a hotel room before nightfall.' She gazed at him winningly. 'It's so difficult to sleep when one is worried about being devoured by cockroaches.'

He devoted a few moments to ogling her elevated breasts, then pulled a folding chair away from the wall and sat down in it, spreading his legs so wide that the khaki fabric strained over his thighs. 'Lord Byron told me you was a real looker, but I didn't believe him. Shows how smart I am.' He made an unpleasant clicking noise with the corner of his mouth. 'Only the male and female leads have hotel rooms, sweetie, and that's because it's in their contracts. The rest of the peasants have to rough it.'

' 'Peasants' is the operative word, isn't it?' she snapped, all efforts at being conciliatory forgotten. Were all film people this sordid? She felt a flash of irritation at Miranda Gwynwyck. Had Miranda known how unpleasant the conditions would be here?

'You don't want the job,' Lew Steiner said with a shrug,

'I got a dozen bimbos I can have here by this afternoon to take your place. His Lordship was the one who hired you-not me.'

Bimbos! Francesca could feel a red haze gathering behind her eyelids, but just as she opened her mouth to explode, a hand cupped her shoulder.

'Francesca!' Lloyd Byron exclaimed, turning her toward him and kissing her cheek, distracting her from her anger. 'You look absolutely ravishing! Isn't she wonderful, Lew? Those green cat's eyes! That incredible mouth! Didn't I tell you how perfect she'd be for Lucinda, worth every penny it took to bring her over here.'

Francesca started to remind him that she was the one who'd paid those pennies and that she wanted every one of them back, but before she could say anything, Lloyd Byron went on. 'The dress is brilliant. Innocently childish, yet sensual. I love your hair. This is Francesca Day, everyone!'

Francesca acknowledged the introduction, and then Byron drew her aside, pulling a pale yellow hankie from the pocket of his tailored vanilla walking shorts and gently pressing it to his forehead. 'We'll be shooting your scenes today and tomorrow, and my camera is going to be in absolute raptures. You don't have any lines, so there's no reason to be nervous.'

'I'm hardly nervous,' she declared. Good gracious, she'd gone out with the Prince of Wales. How could anyone think something like this would make her nervous? 'Lloyd, this dress-'

'Scrumptious, isn't it?' He led her toward the drawing room, steering her between two cameras and a forest of lights to the front of the set, which had been furnished with Hepplewhite chairs, a damask-covered settee, and fresh flowers in old silver urns. 'You'll be standing in front of those windows in the first shot. I'm going to backlight you, so all you have to do is move forward when I tell you to and let that marvelous face of yours come slowly into focus.'

His reference to her marvelous face eased some of the resentment she was feeling over her treatment,

and she looked at him more kindly.

'Think 'life force,'' he urged. 'You've seen Fellini's work with silent characters. Even though Lucinda never speaks a word, her presence must reach out from the screen and grab the audience by the throat. She's a symbol of the unattainable. Vitality, radiance, magic!' He pursed his lips. 'God, I hope this isn't going to be so esoteric that the cretins in the audience will miss the point.'

For the next hour Francesca stood still for light readings and then concentrated on a walk-through rehearsal while final adjustments were made. She was introduced to Fletcher Hall, a dark, rather sinister-looking actor in morning coat and trousers who was playing the male lead. Although she kept abreast of movie star gossip, she had never heard of him, and once again she found herself assailed by misgivings. Why didn't she recognize any of these people's names? Maybe she'd made a mistake by not finding out more about the production before she'd jumped so blindly into it. Perhaps she should have asked to see a script… But she'd looked through her contract yesterday, she reminded her-seif, and everything seemed in order.

Her misgivings gradually faded away as she shot the first setup easily, standing in front of the window and following Lloyd's instructions. 'Beautiful!' he kept calling out. 'Marvelous! You're a natural, Francesca.' The compliments soothed her, and despite the increasingly uncomfortable constriction of the dress, she was able to relax between shots and flirt with some of the male crew members who'd been so attentive to her the night before.

Lloyd shot her walking across the room, making a deep curtsy to Fletcher Hall, and reacting to his dialogue by gazing wistfully into his face. By lunchtime, when she was unlaced from her costume for an hour, she discovered she was actually having fun. After the break, Lloyd positioned her at various points in the drawing room where he shot close-ups from every conceivable angle. 'You're beautiful, darling!' he called out. 'God, that heart-shaped face and those wonderful eyes are just perfect. Loosen her hair! Beautiful! Beautiful!' When he announced a break, Francesca stretched, rather like a cat who had just had its back well scratched.

By late afternoon her feeling of well-being had succumbed to the stifling heat from the weather and the carbon arc lights. The fans scattered about the set did little to cool the air, especially since they had to be turned off every time the cameras rolled. The heavy corset and multiple layers of petticoats beneath her gown trapped the heat next to her skin until she thought she would faint.

'I absolutely can't do any more today,' she finally declared, while the makeup man dabbed at the tiny pearls of perspiration that had begun to form near her hairline in the most disgusting fashion. 'I'm simply expiring from the heat, Lloyd.'

'Only one more scene, darling. Just one more. Look at the angle of the light through the window. Your skin will positively glow. Please, Francesca, you've been such a princess. My exquisite, flawless princess!'

Put like that, how could she refuse?

Lloyd directed her toward a mark that had been placed on the floor not far from the fireplace. The beginning of the film, she had gathered, centered on the arrival of a young English schoolgirl at a Mississippi plantation where she was to become the bride of its reclusive owner, a man Francesca assumed was intended to resemble Jane Eyre's Rochester, although Fletcher Hall seemed a bit too oily to her to be a romantic hero. Unfortunately for the schoolgirl, but fortunately for Francesca, Lucinda was to die a tragic death the same day. Francesca could already envision a splendid death scene, which she intended to play with the proper amount of restrained passion. She had yet to discover exactly what Lucinda and the plantation owner had to do with the main body of the story, which was set in the present time and seemed to involve a large number of female cast members, but since she wouldn't be appearing in that part of the film, it didn't seem to matter.

Lloyd wiped his brow with a fresh handkerchief and went over to Fletcher Hall. 'I want you to come up behind Francesca, put your hands on her shoulders, and then lift up her hair on the side so you can kiss her neck. Francesca, remember that you've been very sheltered all your life. His touch shocks you, but it pleases you, too. Do you understand?'

She felt a trickle of perspiration slide down between her breasts. 'Of course I understand,' she replied