Chapter 1

1

Paul clutched the telegram between tight fingers. The paper was balled up, damp, the ink running. Not that he would need to read the message again. The words were imprinted on his brain permanently. Fifty years from now, when he was an old man, living out his final years in peace on some tropical island, the words would still be haunting him. New picture. W/ Jack Wells. June release!

Paul didn’t even bother to call his agent. Josh didn’t know anything. After all, the guy was dumb enough to think Paul would want to be in a movie with Jack Wells, of all people. But that was fine. He didn’t need to ask Josh to do his dirty work. Vance Jesson produced nearly all the musicals at MGM, and Paul had no doubt he was responsible for casting Jack fucking Wells. He even knew where to find Jesson, too, and nothing was going to get in his way.

The blast of cold air greeted him as he yanked the sound stage door open. It was the only sound stage with a good, working air-conditioner, and Jesson wasn’t above using his connections and power to claim that sound stage for himself. There were dozens of people between Paul and his destination, but he ignored all of them. They didn’t exist. As far as Paul was concerned, in that moment, only three people existed in the world. And Paul wasn’t going to be happy until at least one of those people was sent back to the Cockney rock he crawled from under.

Jesson had his head bowed over a clipboard, his pen scribbling over a piece of paper. Paul thrust the telegram under Jesson’s nose without preamble. “What the hell is this?”

Batting Paul’s hand out of his way, Jesson returned to his notes. The scratch of his pen shredded the last of Paul’s nerves. “Good morning to you, too.”

“Jack Wells? Are you kidding me? Is this supposed to be some kind of joke?”

“Do you see me laughing?”

“I’m not doing a film with that…punk.” Paul spat the final word.

With a sigh, Jesson capped his pen and leaned back in his chair, resting his ankle on the opposite knee as he gazed up at Paul. The pose was deceptively casual, and if he’d been some neophyte extra on his first film, Paul might have fallen for it. But Vance Jesson had grown up in the Hollywood studio system. He was seasoned against every kind of tactic, every brand of behavior. He might be annoyed by Paul’s ire, but he would never show it.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this upset about something before,” Jesson commented. “I didn’t even think you knew Jack.”

“I don’t need to know him to know that I don’t want to work with him. There are about a hundred stories from his last shoot, and every single one of them is about what a jackass he is. Sure, he’s had a few minor hits, but let’s be realistic here. He’s not a great dancer, he has a horrible voice, and he’s not a good actor. If you like him because he’s pretty, there are plenty of other better looking guys waiting for their big break.”

“He can’t really sing, no.” The concession was unexpected, and for a moment, Paul’s hope flared. Jesson’s next statement shot it back down to earth. “But that’s why you get all the solos. And the acting is subjective. Audiences love him. His Dreaming of Angelsdidn’t make as much money as your Beholden, but review for review, he’s got you.”

The mention of the money only darkened Paul’s mood. Nobody missed the opportunity to remind him that Beholdenhad done well, but under-performed expectations. A lot. Paul decided to gloss over it. The less said about that, the better. “The reviewers don’t know what the hell they want. And acting is notsubjective. There’s good acting, and there’s whatever Jack Wells does. It’s like he thinks he’s on the stage instead of in front of cameras. Somebody needs to tell him that he’s about thirty years out of date.”

“Good. Then you’ll have something to teach him when you two report to the set next week.”

“Did you miss the part where I said I’m not going to do a film, any film, with that guy?”

Jesson didn’t blink. “Did you miss the part in your contract where you don’t have a say in the matter?”

Paul sighed. “What about Brett Dawson? He can sing. He’s talented.” And he wasn’t the least bit attractive, but Paul decided to leave that part out.

“In New York until after Christmas. If we want a June release—which we do—we need to start shooting now. You’re stuck with Jack, whether you like it or not.”

“What about Dore Schary? Did he sign off on this craziness?”

For the first time since Paul’s arrival, Jesson smiled. “Who do you think had the idea in the first place to put you two together?”

“When this film bombs with the critics and costs MGM millions of dollars, I’m going to be here to tell you I told you so.”

“It won’t bomb. The pair of you will be golden.” Something steely glinted in his gray gaze. “The studio’s counting on you to help us groom the kid, Paul. I know he’s a little wet behind the ears, but he’s got the chops to do more than a little song and dance. And you’re just the one to show him how to do it.”

“The studio thinks it can take any two-bit punk from the streets and turn him into a star. I’ll make your movie, but I’m not going to go help you groom your little pet project.” Paul dropped the telegram on the floor at Jesson’s feet and turned on his heel. Nobody could say that Paul Dunham didn’t know how to make an exit.