The following evening, while Catherine and Fraser were having dinner at the Jockey Club, Fraser told her that he had to go to London for a week. "While I'm gone," he said, "I have an interesting job for you. They've asked our office to supervise an Army Air Corps recruiting film they're shooting at MGM studios in Hollywood. I'd like you to handle the picture while I'm gone."
Catherine stared at him incredulously. "Me? I can't even load a Brownie. What do I know about making a training film?"
"About as much as anyone else," Fraser grinned. "It's all pretty new, but you don't have to worry. They'll have a producer and everything. The Army plans to use actors in the film."
"Why?"
"I guess they feel that soldiers won't be convincing enough to play soldiers."
"That sounds like the Army."
"I had a long talk with General Mathews this afternoon. He must have used the word 'glamour' a hundred times. That's what they want to sell. They're starting a big recruitment drive aimed at the elite young manhood of America. This is one of the opening guns."
"What do I have to do?" Catherine asked.
"Just see that everything runs smoothly. You'll have final approval. You have a reservation to Los Angeles on a nine A.M. plane tomorrow."
Catherine nodded. "All right."
"Will you miss me?"
"You know I will," she replied.
"I'll bring you a present."
"I don't want any presents. Just come back safely." She hesitated. "The situation's getting worse, isn't it, Bill?"
He nodded. "Yes," he said. "I think we're going to be at war soon."
"How horrible."
"It's going to be even more horrible if we don't get into it," he said quietly. "England got out of Dunkirk by a miracle. If Hitler decides to cross the Channel now, I don't think the British can stop him." They finished their coffee in silence, and he paid the check.
"Would you like to come to the house and spend the night?" Fraser asked.
"Not tonight," Catherine said. "You have to get up early, and so do I."
"All right."
After he had dropped her off at her apartment and she was getting ready for bed, Catherine asked herself why she had not gone home with Bill on the eve of his departure.
She had no answer.
Catherine had grown up in Hollywood even though she had never been there. She had spent hundreds of hours in darkened theaters, lost in the magic dreams manufactured by the film capital of the world, and she would always be grateful for the joy of those happy hours.
When Catherine's plane landed at the Burbank airport, she was filled with excitement. A limousine was waiting to drive her to her hotel. As they drove down the sunny, broad streets, the first thing Catherine noticed was the palm trees. She had read about them and had seen pictures of them, but the reality was overwhelming. They were everywhere, stretching tall against the sky, the lower part of their graceful trunks bare and the upper part beautiful and verdant. In the center of each tree was a ragged circle of fronds, like a dirty petticoat, Catherine thought, hanging unevenly below a green tutu.
They drove by a huge building that looked like a factory. A large sign over the entrance said "Warner Bros." and under it, "Combining Good Pictures with Good Citizenship." As the car went past the gate, Catherine thought of James Cagney in Strawberry Blond, and Bette Davis in Dark Victory and smiled happily.
They passed the Hollywood Bowl, which looked enormous from the outside, turned off Highland Avenue and went west on Hollywood Boulevard. They passed the Egyptian Theater and two blocks to the west, Grauman's Chinese, and Catherine's spirits soared. It was like seeing two old friends. The driver swung down Sunset Boulevard and headed for the Beverly Hills Hotel. "You'll enjoy this hotel, miss. It's one of the best in the world."
It was certainly one of the most beautiful that Catherine had ever seen. It was just north of Sunset, in a semicircle of sheltering palm trees surrounded by large gardens. A graceful driveway curved up to the front door of the hotel, painted a delicate pink. An eager young assistant manager escorted Catherine to her room, which turned out to be a lavish bungalow on the grounds behind the main building of the hotel. There was a bouquet of flowers on the table with the compliments of the management and a larger, more beautiful bouquet with a card that read: "Wish I were there or you were here. Love, Bill." The assistant manager had handed Catherine three telephone messages. They were all from Allan Benjamin, whom she had been told was the producer of the training film. As Catherine was reading Bill's card, the phone rang. She ran to it, picked up the receiver and said eagerly, "Bill?" But it turned out to be Allan Benjamin.
"Welcome to California, Miss Alexander," his voice shrilled through the receiver. "Corporal Allan Benjamin, producer of this little clambake."
A corporal. She would have thought that they would have put a captain or a colonel in charge.
"We start shooting tomorrow. Did they tell you that we're using actors instead of soldiers?"