“You know I’m in
the right, morally,” Zibeline insisted. “Daddy left the company to
me—it was his dying wish!”
How
could a traditionally girly girl like Zibeline, with her soft blonde
curls and her pink and white frills, hope to equal her?
“I don’t know what I can do,”
Zibeline said with a mixture of fear and determination, “but I’m
not going to give in to you.”
Circe
raised her immaculately plucked eyebrows slightly. “That, darling,
you may come to regret.” She turned her back, revealing the peplum
behind her jacket carefully pleated to emphasise her shapely bottom,
and undulated out. “And
cut!” the director called. “Thank you everyone, that’s a wrap.
See you Monday.”
Circe, or Jean Harper who had been playing her, turned round in the
doorway and graciously inclined her head. She looked as if she was
acknowledging a round of applause, and managed to summon some from the
crew by the force of her personality. With a walk only a little less
outrageously sexy than Circe’s, for with that skirt and those heels
she really had no choice, she paced back through the set, exchanged a
few polite words with the actress who had been playing Zibeline, then
stepped carefully down off the soundstage—she had to turn a little
sideways for her skirt to allow it—and made her way through the
tangle of cameras, lights and cables towards the dressing rooms. As she stepped with care over a cable,
leaning cautiously on a tripod to make sure she didn’t fall, the
third assistant director scampered up to her. “Miss Harper, I have
to congratulate you!” “Thank you, darling, but I
have to—” “I’m sorry, this won’t take a
moment—it’s just my little girl, she’s fourteen, she watches you
every week on TV—it’d really make her day if I could have your
autograph…” “Of course. Do you have a pen?” “Um, no. Don’t you? I always
imagined Circe would carry a fountain-pen…” “Only in a handbag—a purse,
darling, remember I was brought up in England—and I don’t have one
in this scene.” “You don’t have one in your pocket,
Miss Harper?” “It would spoil the line of my
suit!” Jean Harper laughed and ran her hands up and down the
skintight houndstooth tweed that sheathed her womanly curves. “There isn’t anywhere to put even a
pen that wouldn’t show through. You should see the problems they
have finding somewhere to put the transmitter for the radio mike! No,
the best thing is to leave it with me and I’ll see to it when I’ve
changed. I can’t write with these nails anyway. What’s your
name?” “Caitlin Matukewicz, Miss Harper.
That’s M-A-T-U-K…” Jean consulted her gold and diamond
Patek Phillipe, unfortunately a stage property rather than personal.
“Listen, I’ll have to catch up with you again later. You’re the
second AD, am I right?” “Third. Miss Harper—” “We’ll all be back on Monday.
Please try and bring a pen, then this won’t happen. I must rest,
darling!” And Caitlin Matukewicz watched open-mouthed as her daughter’s idol wiggled her way out of the bright lights and into the darkness of her private life Even if Rich
Little Poor Girl was ostensibly the story of Zibeline and her
attempts to recover control of the company her late father had left
her, Circe was the unofficial star of the show, and as such Jean
Harper had the best dressing room. Her dresser, not a studio staffer
but a long-standing personal assistant, was waiting for her at the
door, and as soon as Jean had swept through she closed the door and
locked it. “Be thankful for small mercies, Miss
Harper,” the dresser replied. “You can’t wear a blouse under
those tight suits—if you were recording in London, you’d probably
be cold all the time.” “Not with my underwear,”
Jean insisted, “and while we’re on the subject, would you please
help me out of it, Susie? No, don’t do my nails first. I need to sit
down and get my breath back. I can’t sit down till I’m out of this
skirt, and I can’t get my breath back until you’ve freed me from
this straitjacket of a corselette!” By this time Susie had already started.
She unfastened the suit jacket’s single button and opened it up to
reveal a complex arrangement of ties and straps that made sure the
jacket was more than skin-tight at every point. She began slackening
them off with care. “Mr Janetta doesn’t cut corners, does he?”
she grumbled as she struggled with a knot. “When he wants something
to fit, he really gets it to fit!” “Don’t complain too much, Susie. A
lot of the show’s appeal is in the style. If I didn’t look like a
goddess, people wouldn’t worship me!” She laughed shortly, then
put a hand to her waist and added “But there are times when I wish I
hadn’t told him I still have a twenty-four inch waist…Aren’t you
nearly done?” “Getting there, Miss Harper, getting
there.” Susie had at last picked her way through the jacket’s
complex substructure and peeled it back to reveal the figure beneath,
inspiration of so many male fantasies and so much female envy,
especially from those who had reached middle-age along with Jean but
had not kept the same dramatic hourglass curves. That her figure was
sheathed in a formidable corselette, the like of which had rarely been
seen since she was a Fifties starlet thirty years earlier, would have
answered a lot of questions—but that, of course, was why the door
was locked. Susie carefully hung the jacket up, then returned to
unfasten Jean’s more than skin-tight black knee-length pencil skirt.
When it was unbuttoned and unzipped it showed no inclination whatever
to fall down. Susie began tugging at it, but very little happened. “Just grab the hem and pull as hard
as you can, Sue.” “But it’ll tear!…” “So what if it tears? It’s not as
if it’s ever going to be worn again: it’ll go straight into
storage. Jean never wears the same outfit twice. You should know
that.” “What if you want to wear it, to a
premiere or an autograph session?” “Before I could do that,
Susie, they’d have to let the skirt out. I’m hardly going to watch
a film in a skirt so tight I can’t sit down in it. They’d have to
rip the seams anyway to do that. Just give it a good pull.” Susie looked doubtful, but squatted
down, took two fistfuls of expensive pure new wool, and pulled as hard
as she could. The skirt resisted briefly; then the seam at the bottom
of the zip gave up the struggle with a loud rip, and down it came.
Jean daintily stepped out of it, and Susie picked it up to put it away
with the jacket. “Why are you looking like that?”
Jean asked her. “Like what?” “That…mournful expression. It’s
only a skirt, and not even for a special occasion at that: just for a
couple of hours’ filming, that’s all.” “It’s a shame we had to rip it,
though,” Susie said, looking at the torn seam. “Someone else could
have worn it.” Jean laughed. “Such as who? Do you
know anyone else who could fit in it, or who’d look so good wearing
it? You can’t pass it on. That suit was tailored exactly to my
figure.” “You mean,” Susie remarked softly,
“exactly to your corselette.” “It’s the same thing, isn’t it?
And talking of that, please come and unzip me before I
faint!”
“What do you think I’ve been doing
for the last three hours?” “I’m sorry…There!” “God, that’s a relief. Now the
other ones, quick, before I forget my self-discipline and pop them.” “That wouldn’t happen, would it?”
Susie said, as she tackled the right waist zip. “Back in nineteen-fifty-four, during
a screen test, that exactly did. Have you got the back zip? Oh,
that’s better!” Susie began unfastening the corselette’s six
suspenders as Jean continued. “I was wearing a low-cut gown, and my
corset was so tight that I was gasping for breath all the time. The
director said that my bosom was heaving so much it was distracting, so
I had to hold my breath all the time the camera was rolling. That
meant taking a deep breath first to keep me going until the shot was
finished. Of course, if you’re wearing an eighteen-inch corset,
taking a deep breath’s not the easiest thing in the world…Can I
sit down now?” Susie had finished with the taut
suspenders and was ready to roll Circe’s black stockings down off
Jean’s legs. “Yes, Miss Harper.”
“I was coming to that! Anyway, it’s
obvious what happened: they started the camera rolling, when the
director called ‘Action!’ I took a quick deep breath to keep me
going through the shot, and my corset gave way. Still, at least he let
me breathe the way I wanted after that.” “What film was that for, Miss
Harper?” Susie announced as she finished prying off Jean’s long
fake nails and moved on to removing the stage make-up from her face. Jean smiled beneath the cold cream.
“That I shan’t tell you. What’s more, after I had the salary and
the contacts from Rich Little Poor Girl, I got through to the
studio and paid them to destroy the out-take with the accident. No-one
will ever know, now.” “I might be able to guess,” Susie
mused, removing the wig cap and brushing out Jean’s own thin brown
hair beneath. “A very tight, low-cut dress with an exceptionally
small waist. Was it—” “No! Don’t spoil my evening. I want
to relax for a while before I get dressed and go out on the town.
I’m going out for dinner this evening, and I’ll need to look good.
I need a rest first.” “Shall I fetch your regular girdle,
Miss Harper?” “No thank you, Susie, I’d like to
get my breath back for a few minutes. It’s been a long time since
Nature intended me to have a twenty-four inch waist. Get me my
cigarettes.” Susie produced the packet and a gold
Dunhill lighter. Jean plucked out a cigarette—Circe used a holder,
but Jean felt that an affectation—and waited for Susie to light it,
then took a long drag. “Bad for me, I know,” she said, “but so
are a lot of things.” She leant back in her chair and exhaled
slowly. “All right. Now, I don’t want to do anything about it now,
but have you got everything I need when I’m ready to dress again?” “Your regular bra and girdle are
locked in the suitcase, Miss Harper. The green wool sheath and
matching jacket with the twenty-six inch waist are on the rack where
we left them. Your street wig is on the block next to the stage wig,
I’ve laid out a fresh pair of stockings, and while you were in front
of the cameras I polished the gold and olive pumps until they look
new.” “Thank you, Susie. What’s the heel
height on those shoes again?” “Three and a half inches.” “That’s good. I’ve had enough of
teetering around in high heels on the set. Of course a lady must keep
up her standards, but—” The telephone rang. “Get that, would
you, Susie?” “Miss Harper’s dressing-room,”
Susie told the caller, then listened. “Do you need to speak to her
yourself? I’ll see if she’s available—no, that’s all right.
Uh-huh. I’ll tell her. Thank you. Goodbye.” “What’s all that?” Jean asked. “The producer’s secretary. He wants
to see you in his office before you leave tonight.” “What about?” “To do with plot development through
the season, that’s all she told me.” Jean took another long drag on her
cigarette. “Oh, dear! I’m not sure I’m equal to Joe Grammer
after three and a half hours in a twenty-four-inch-waisted suit. Well,
I’ll have to face it. Fix me a drink, Susie, and let me finish this
fag; then you’d better girdle me up again and I’ll see what he
wants now.”
The intercom buzzed. “Yes?” “Jean Harper to see you, Mr Grammer,”
came his secretary’s voice from the speaker. “Ask her to wait. I’ll be ready for
her shortly.” Actually Joe Grammer had little to do,
but there were certain disciplinary issues that made a delay useful.
When you are producing a film or a TV series, there is always a danger
that performers who grow too important may develop Prima Donna
Syndrome and hold the production to ransom. Jean was showing signs of
this, and a short wait in the outer office would remind her that she
wasn’t actually in charge. It might not do wonders for her temper,
but— The door burst open. “Joseph,
darling! What did you want to see me about? I came as soon as I could:
you said it was important.” Actually Joe had not said anything of
the kind to Susie, but there was no point in arguing about it now,
just as there was no point in sending Jean out again and making her
wait. The only thing he could do was carry on and hope she didn’t
wrong-foot him again. “It’s good to see you, Jean. Please sit
down.”
When Jean was first recruited these
performances had given Joe all sorts of trouble, and some exciting but
dangerous fantasies about being unfaithful to his wife. Now he was
more used to her act, but he still had to force his mind back into
concentration. “Jean, did you see Ashe’s scene in last week’s
episode where Coleridge seduces Zibeline in her bedroom?” “I can’t say that I did, no. Is it
important? I’ve read the script, of course.” “It isn’t directly important to
you, but I need to discuss something, and it’s easier if you’ve
had an example of what I’m talking about. Watch this.” He held up a remote control, and a TV
set mounted in the wall flashed into life. There was a quick whirring
from the video recorder beneath it, and the screen focused on a
familiar set from the soundstage: Zibeline’s bedroom, pink and girly
and innocent, yet luxurious enough to satisfy the viewers’ demands
for fantasy. They watched together as Ashe Tate, delicately blonde in
a peach satin camisole, welcomed Coleridge into her room, and
nervously, regretfully, lusciously and with just the right degree of
overacting gave him her all. At the end of the scene Joseph Grammer
snapped the television off again and gave Jean a penetrating look. She
looked back at him and raised her eyebrows slightly, not enlightened. “That didn’t tell me much I
didn’t learn from the script—except that Ashe needs feeding up a
little, I think. She’s courting anorexia—not to mention pneumonia,
going about with nothing but a scrap of satin to keep her bones
warm.” “It was difficult for her, yes, but
she knew it was necessary. She has it written into her contract: so
many minutes per season in lingerie.” Jean shrugged, gesturing eloquently
with her cigarette. “So what? They all do, all the girls in this
series.” “But not you.” “I don’t need it. I’m a star
without it.” “We’ve done some research, Jean.
Some of our readers may feel they’re being short-changed. We don’t
feel Circe’s seduction scene would work if she was wearing an
evening gown or one of those pencil-skirt suits Rob Janetta makes for
you. We want a boudoir scene and lingerie, Jean.” “Why, Joseph, that’s preposterous!
That’s not Circe’s style!” “Jean, you
can’t seduce a handsome young man when you’re wearing a business
suit!” “Can’t I?”
Jean laughed lasciviously. “Just you watch me!” Experience had
shown Joe Grammer that arguments with cast members rarely work out
well: an angry leading lady in particular is not going to back down.
He took a deep breath to calm himself, then said “You, maybe, could
bring it off. All the same, though, it’s not going to happen like
that. We’ve got a draft of the scene. Circe calls Coleridge to see
her. He’s expecting to see the sexy businesswoman in the
tight power suit and killer heels, the look you’ve made famous. What
he gets is Circe in sexy underwear. He’s shocked, and she has
to work with that in the way only she can. If she’s dressed in
ordinary clothes, the whole scene takes off differently and it won’t
work.” “There is
nothing ordinary about the outfits Rob makes for me on this
show. How many women could fill them the way I do? Do you think Ashe
could look as good, with her no-tits, no-waist, no-hips excuse for a
figure? Do you think she could even walk in those skirts—even
stand up in five-inch stilettos? You’re not going to convince
me Circe lacks anything in sex appeal!” “Even so,”
Joe Grammer said patiently, and Jean sensed the battle was moving
against her, “that’s not the way the scene is going to be. What we
need is Circe in her underwear. Sexy underwear, glamorous, dignified,
but underwear nonetheless. We have to feel that Circe is showing him
something that should be kept private.” “It should
indeed! Back in the Fifties, when I was young—” Circe stopped
talking suddenly, realising she had made a fatal slip. “Aren’t
you forever young, Jean? And didn’t you just boast how much more
exciting your figure was than Ashe’s? If she can look good in her
next-to-nothings, surely you can look better!” Jean opened
her mouth to deliver a devastating retort, only to have trouble
finding one. After a few seconds she closed her mouth and looked for a
backup approach. “I won’t do it.” “Oh, you
will.” “I’ll
refuse to play the scene.” “That would
be…unwise.” “Really? And
what would you do about it?” “If
you…can’t play the scene as planned, we’ve got a backup plot
line prepared. One in which Circe is written out.” Jean’s mouth
fell open: she felt almost as breathless as she had when she was
corseted into her costume suit. “You wouldn’t dare!” she
gasped. “Do you want
to try it?” “The series
would collapse without me!” “It managed
before you came. We won’t be clumsy about it, of course. Gradually
she’ll be reduced in importance, detached from the major plot lines,
until we can remove her without disrupting anything.” “You know
I’m, I mean, Circe is the most popular character. Are you willing to
take that risk?” “If it’s
the only way to establish who’s the producer and who’s in the
cast,” Joe Grammer said, “yes.” “It’s like
that, is it?” “It is.” Jean stood up.
“I’ve never been so insulted in my life!” “You
have,” Joe Grammer pointed out tactlessly. “I’ve read some of
your reviews when you were a Rank starlet back in the Fifties. ‘Jean
Harper can only have been cast,’ Variety said, ‘for her
ability to fill a swimsuit.’” That struck
home. “I’ve…come a long way since then,” Jean said. “Yes, a long
way, and you’re an important asset to this production. Let’s keep
it this way.” Joseph stood up and extended a hand to shake on the
deal. Clearly the discussion was at an end. |
||||||
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“Thank
you.” There was no problem this time: for civilian wear Jean had
changed to a simple high-necked sheath dress with a matching
broad-shouldered, double-breasted, nip-waisted jacket. Most women
would have considered it alarmingly close-fitting, liable to reveal
any figure flaws, but with the help of the twenty-six-inch corselette
beneath Jean’s figure had none, and she looked fine, a perfectly
coordinated and perfectly tailored vision in moss-green wool. The two
rows of four gold buttons narrowed together down the front of the
jacket, emphasising its taper from the wide padded shoulders to the
narrow waist; they also perfectly matched her plain but heavy solid
gold necklace, which proclaimed to the world “I have plenty of
money, but I have the taste to handle it properly.” The skirt of her
dress was startlingly short for a woman well into her fifties, and
tight enough to bring out the shape of her legs with every step, but
at least it allowed her to sit down, even if she had to make some
allowances for the straining girdle concealed inside it. She lowered
herself into the chair gracefully, crossed her black-stockinged legs,
and took a draw on her cigarette like the gangster’s moll in a film
noir, then narrowed her eyes slightly and gave Joe a cool,
appraising look.
