Girl In The Mirror. Mary Monroe Alice

her chin, then passed the secretary, entering Walen’s office after a brisk three knocks on the door.

      The room was determinedly masculine with its brown leather chairs and sofas and heavy, square-cornered dark wood desks and tables. A spectacular marlin arched over the sofa and golf clubs slouched beside it. Golf trophies were placed at prominent positions throughout the room. Freddy Walen was a man with an ego.

      Charlotte scanned the black-framed photographs that filled the opposite wall. Some of the stars in the frames she knew. Some big names—mostly long forgotten names, either dead or has-beens. Had she not been an old movie buff, she’d never have recognized a few of them. There were a number of character actors with familiar faces but names she couldn’t remember. Nowhere was there a face of a young, hot actor.

      Charlotte pursed her lips and, shifting her gaze, noticed other telling details: the worn leather, the dust bunnies in the corner, the dying dieffenbachia by the window. This looked more like an office of someone on the way down, not up. After all, it was hard to kill a dieffenbachia.

      “Welcome to California, Miss Godfrey” came a voice from the corner.

      Turning her head, she saw a barrel-chested man nearing fifty years of age, leaning casually against the wall studying her. He was handsome, in a polished, older sort of way, she thought. The kind of man who wore slip-on shoes, flowing, tailored slacks and cashmere sweaters that showed off his muscular chest and arms.

      “Sit down.”

      Charlotte startled at the brusque command. Play the part, she ordered herself, then strolled to the sofas with a practiced elegance that Grace Kelly would have envied. In her mind’s eye she could see what he saw: the too-wide lapels on her suit jacket and her out-of-date heels. She’d considered purchasing new shoes, but thought it best to eat instead. She walked, however, as if she were wearing couture. It’s not what you wear, but how you wear it, she remembered reading in a magazine one day.

      The sofa sighed as she sat on the leather and carefully tucked her skirt beneath her thighs. Mustn’t perspire and stick to it.

      A smile curved his lips, raising his black mustache, making her suspect that he’d guessed all this was an act and was playing along. He had dark blond hair interspersed with gray and wore it slicked back. It was his facial hair, however, that gave him such an intimidating appearance. His thick dark brows and mustache contrasted with his blond hair and accentuated the paleness of his blue eyes like bold punctuation marks. When he looked over his dominant nose to stare at her, Charlotte felt pinned.

      “You’re tall, have a beautiful face and you’ve got nice teeth,” he said as an opener, striding across the room. He sat on the sofa directly opposite her, leaning far back into the cushions, spreading his arms out across the cushions in a position of command. “But your feet are big, and you walk like a man.” He flipped his palms up. “All in all, I’d say Harmon was right. You have potential.”

      Charlotte’s mouth slipped open and her mind went blank except for the vision of her big feet.

      “You’re from Chicago, right? Good theater there. Says in the letter that you did quite a bit of off-Broadway kind of stuff.”

      “Yes, that’s right.” Sort of, she thought to herself, tightening her hands in her lap.

      “Lessons, studio work?”

      “Of course. I have my portfolio with me.” Charlotte bent at the waist to shuffle through her bag.

      “Just set it on the table. I’ll get to that later.” He brought his hand to his face, stroking his jaw while he studied her. Then he asked her a few basic questions about roles she’d played, her range, her methods. Questions she’d prepared for on the long flight from Chicago to L.A. She answered carefully. Dr. Harmon and she had agreed that her plastic surgery would remain private. She didn’t want to be just another Hollywood makeover, or worse, a freak. Dr. Harmon had warned her that if the gossipmongers found out, they’d never take her seriously as an actress, they’d be so occupied searching for scars.

      “Come, come, this isn’t the time for nervousness,” Freddy said, mistaking her hesitation for shyness. The corners of a smile emerged from under his mustache and his eyes sparked. “Your voice is good, too. Very sexy.”

      She shifted, a slight movement that created distance. Was he trying to pick her up? Most men did when they met her these days. Young and old alike, they lit up like Christmas trees. Freddy Walen wasn’t looking at her breasts, however, or moving into her personal space. He looked at her the way Dr. Harmon had—clinically, professionally. He looked directly into her eyes.

      “I’ve been told that before,” she replied coolly.

      “I’ll just bet you have. And a lot more.” His smile disappeared as quickly as it had come. “But it doesn’t matter if the guy who bags your groceries, or your hometown boyfriend, or even your parish priest thinks you’re the greatest thing since white bread. In this town what matters is that the right person—a connected person—thinks you’re special and introduces you to other right people. It’s all who you know. And—” he leaned back in the cushions and crossed his legs; his eyes delivered a challenge “—it helps if you have talent.”

      Charlotte leaned back in her sofa and met his gaze straight on, accepting the challenge. On this point, she felt supremely confident. “I have talent.”

      Their gazes met and held.

      He was keenly interested.

      She was eager.

      He had the resources.

      She had the ability.

      The tumblers clicked.

      He stroked his chin for a moment, then picked up his phone and buzzed his secretary. “Has Melanie Ward found a new roommate yet? No? Tell you what. Call her now and tell her I’ve found one for her. Charlotte Godfrey. Yeah, the lady here. Give Mel the details and tell her I’ll drop her by soon. Good. Get right on it.”

      Charlotte heard all this with widening eyes. Even if he didn’t sign her as a client, at least Dr. Harmon’s letter of introduction had secured her a place to stay.

      “Got a nice place lined up for you,” Freddy Walen said, hanging up the phone. “It’s a small rental house up north. You’ll have to lease a car, but then again, welcome to L.A. Melanie’s a little loose in the attic but all right. She’s one of my clients. Been around for a long time. She might not be smart in the bookish kind of way, but she’s smart in things that you need to learn about. Things like publicity, promotion, who’s who in town. She’s not doing so well in her career right now.” He shrugged. “Things are slow for aging starlets. So she could use a roommate. Works out well for both of you.”

      “I see. Thank you.” She cleared her throat, ashamed for the question she had to ask. “Excuse me, but how much is the rent?”

      “Don’t worry about it. Jacob’s got you covered.”

      “Dr. Harmon? Why…” This was the first time she’d heard of this arrangement. Pride kicked in. It would be the last. “No,” she said in a clipped voice. “That’s not right. He…”

      “Look, honey, it’s done all the time.”

      “Not by me, it isn’t,” she snapped, putting an end to all speculation about casting couches or whatever kind of lure he was using. “I’ll pay my own rent, thank you.”

      Freddy’s eyes took on that amused gleam again and something else that she hadn’t quite figured out yet. “No problem,” he replied easily. Again that look. “It’s between you and Melanie, then.”

      “Thank you, Mr. Walen,” she began, choosing her words. “If I could prevail upon you one more time. I—I need a job. Right away. Any job that’s decent and provides minimum wage. I’m trained as an accountant and I can get you excellent references. But, in the meantime, I can do just about anything. Secretarial, phones…”