The chill crept in through her gauzy dress and tickled her skin. She shivered. “Do you,” she hesitated. “What?” the other woman asked. She took in a short breath. “Do you ever feel like looking over your shoulder?” The other woman, a shorter woman with brown hair swished back into stocky-set curls, looked at her blankly. “Well, do you?” asked the first woman. Her hair was longer, as she was taller, and set in loose waves like Veronica Lake. It had to be this way. Every day, rain or shine, blackout drunk or dry sober, she set her hair before going to bed. Most mornings she woke up without remembering setting her hair. But every morning, she woke up, turned over on her satin sheets and clumsily grabbed a cigarette from the shiny pearl case that sat next to her bed. She picked up the gold lighter with a shaky hand, lit the cigarette she held between her shaky lips, and exhaled as she cast a glance over her shoulder, a lingering chill hanging in the bedroom. But no one knew that. “No,” said the shorter brunette. “No, I don’t. Do you?” Her eyes were blank as she stared at the blonde woman. It had been this way ever since her last film. She’d played a woman who wore only off-the-shoulder gowns who was haunted by the ghost of the husband she’d killed for his money. The film had ended with the ghost’s hand touching the woman’s bare shoulder and a blood-curdling scream. She screamed beautifully, or so the critics said. And every morning, she woke up from a dream where a man’s hand reached out to touch her shoulder. This was why she lit a cigarette. The blonde woman blew smoke out from between her lips and let the cloud hang in front of her face as she said, “Of course not,” and laughed awkwardly. She stubbed her cigarette in the ash tray and batted the cloud of smoke away with her hand. The brunette woman stared at her for another moment and turned back to the sheet of paper in front of her. “So you’re dining at The Brown Derby on Saturday with the boys from RKO, and Grauman’s on Sunday.” “Right,” said the blonde. “What’s the Brown Derby dinner for, remind me.” “Talking up your next film.” The blonde woman nodded her head almost frantically. “Of course, of course.” Then she hesitated. “And Grauman’s is…?” The brunette looked at the blonde woman quizzically. “The premiere.” “Right, yes.” The blonde woman picked her purse up off the floor and fished the pearl case out of its depths. “The premiere,” the brunette woman repeated. “Have you met with the dressmaker yet?” The blonde woman was quiet. Her hand rested on the watch on her right hand, turning it back and forth on her wrist. “Dressmaker,” she whispered. “Yes!” she said suddenly. “Yes, last Thursday.” The blonde woman opened the pearl case and lit another cigarette. The brunette woman nodded and checked something off of her list. She smiled at the blonde woman and leaned toward her conspiratorially. “Do you love it?” The blonde woman smiled back and exhaled, “I haven’t seen it yet, but it should be,” she smiled and raised her eyebrows as she exhaled smoke. “You know Mamie. I told her to go nuts with it.” The blonde woman blew another puff of smoke out of her mouth and tugged at the skirt that was inching up above her knees. She’d only given Mamie one instruction for the gown – sleeves. The brunette woman giggled and nodded. “Boy, I hope you know how lucky you are.” The blonde woman turned her head to the side. “How so?” “You’re,” the brunette woman paused and sat up tall in her chair waving her hand in the air as she thought of the words, “Lena Hill.” Lena laughed. “What does that mean?” “People know your name, know your figure,” the brunette woman pointed at Lena’s tiny waist with envy in her eyes. “They want to know you.” “Sandy, honey, I’m an ok actress in b-list pictures,” she held her cigarette between her lips as she picked up her gloves and her bag from the table. “Lena Horne’s the one they want.” She winked at Sandy. “Any fame I have comes from people mishearing my name.” Sandy shook her head. “See you tomorrow?” Lena shook her hair back over her shoulder. “You betcha.” Her curved red lips spread into a smile as she walked out the door. Lena swung her way down the narrow hallway like she did every hallway – her hips shifting back and forth with her weight, the height of her heels chosen to capitalize on this. The walls were a taupe that made the paint, redone just a few months ago, look old and dingy. Her steps faltered as she reached the end of the hall. She put her hand on the railing that led down the staircase and paused. She inhaled a shaky breath and closed her eyes. She turned her head to the left, the curtain of shiny blonde curls draping over the side of her face, her eyes still shut. She swept her hair over her shoulder with a swipe of her hand and opened her eyes to look behind her. She exhaled. Nothing. She smiled weakly and shifted on her feet. She took a breath and started down the stairs. The door at the bottom of the staircase swung open, and the sun blinded her for a moment. She stopped in the open doorway, letting the sun warm her hair. She closed the door and rubbed her clammy hands together before wiping them on her skirt. She took a deep breath in, eyes closed, and felt her heart slow back down. Her sleeve slipped off her shoulder as she took a step forward, and as she reached for the fabric to pull it up, her fingers met a cold hand. She screamed beautifully.
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