The Glass Character by Margaret Gunning

Author:Margaret Gunning
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC021000, book
Publisher: Thistledown Press
Published: 2014-03-31T00:00:00+00:00

Don called me into his office the next day.

“You know Harold Lloyd, don’t you, missy?”

I swallowed the usual response of, “Oh, no, I hardly know him at all.”

“Yes, we worked together on a picture. Mind your Manners. I had a scene with Mildred Davis. Contributed to the story, as well.”

“Did you know he’s started a new one? A different sort of picture. Set in some sort of a tropical island somewhere. It’s about this rich hypochondriac, and he goes away on a holiday for his health, except there’s a revolution going on around him. Meanwhile, his nurse . . . ”

“Mildred Davis?”

“No, he has a new leading lady now. I forget her name, it’s sort of odd. Nobody can pronounce it. Anyway, she’s supposed to be sexier. And this is his first project away from Roach. They finally broke up.”

“You make it sound like a marriage.”

Fortunately, he laughed.

“I’d like to send you to the set, just to observe everything. Since you know Harold, I don’t think he’d object if you interviewed him. You know, to get the fans curious, perk up interest in advance.”

“What’s the title of it?” (Trouble in Paradise? Lovesick?)

“I think it’s called Why Worry?”

“But that doesn’t make sense.”

“Harold will make it make sense.”

It felt strange to walk onto a movie set again fter what seemed like an eternity. The atmosphere was different, more charged. Everything seemed to have accelerated. The old make-it-up-as-we-go-along method had been scrapped. Now there was an actual story, and the gags had been carefully worked out in advance. Everyone seemed to know what was expected of them, and worked together with grace and speed.

But I knew there was a tightly-wound mainspring at the core of all this frenetic energy.

When I contemplated coming face-to-face with Harold again, I was expecting one (or perhaps two) of the following responses:

He wouldn’t recognize me.

He would, but would only acknowledge me with a frosty nod. He would behave professionally towards me, but that’s all.

But there was a fourth possibility I had not allowed myself to consider. When he saw me, did a cartoonish little jump, grinned wildly, then ran over and fairly hurled himself at me. He jumped around and giggled and exclaimed “Muriel!”, before sweeping me up in his arms and giving me a lung-deflating squeeze.

So much for professional behaviour.

Though his delirious greeting wasn’t what I expected, my reaction was. He was in his shirtsleeves, the weather was hot, and beneath the clean pressed shirt-smell and faint masculine trace of bay rum, I detected the dear familiar scent of his sweat. Dear God, I reprimanded myself: are you nothing but an animal, scenting out its prey?

He was amazed and proud of my success: “Imagine that! Our Muriel, working for Spotlight, the one everybody reads. Especially producers and directors. You’re a girl reporter now, just look at you. Say, you look sensational. Did I tell you that yet?”

I certainly looked different. Like so many women of my time, I gritted my teeth and had my hair bobbed, and was immediately surprised at how much it changed my appearance.

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