Lucky Star

Marriage clause? Her contract had a marriage clause?

Get your own agent, your own lawyer, your own publicity man, said the little horn-rimmed voice at the back of her head. The one that said, Yes, it's DON LOCKWOOD! It's Monumental! And first impressions don't lie.

"We love you kids; but let's not look a goldmine in the mouth, let's not kill the horse we rode in on, let's not..."

"Let's remember we've just lost Lockwood and Lamont."

"Let's give them a little romance, a little time to get to know you. Let's have a little Love before the Marriage, a little horse before the carriage."

Let's see if it lasts. "Marriage lasts," she said. "You haven't lost Lockwood, you've gained Selden. We love each other." And Don said, "See here, R. F., I'm gonna marry this gal." And Cosmo did a crown roll with his hat and winked from behind Don's back. Reassuring her, she was sure.

One movie, she agreed at last. Don agreed, with her hand clasped in his, with his arm around her waist, standing on her left, chin up. One more with music and dancing, a chance to see the lovebirds together on the screen. Then a wedding, honeymoon, the works. They'd have been engaged for a while, anyway. No need to rush. And she'd read the script. And she liked Don's reading of the lines, those things he, his character, said about her, when they tried it out a little in his living room. With Cosmo making notes and jokes. Without Cosmo, on the couch, Don singing a little tune into her neck and his hand inside her garter, kind of nice until she had to sit up. A girl can't be too careful, even if it's love. "Secret wedding," he said, then. "Come on, we can drive to Mexico, be back before they know." Looking deep into her eyes, "Don't you want to?"

And not really liking her No to that, and No to anything north of that garter, south of her neck before a good, proper wedding with her family present. But he stood it well. Funny, he hasn't produced a ring. Neither had the character in the script. She thought about asking Cosmo to pencil it in.

He must have forgot.

Twelve months and two movies later she bought her own ring. She drove to Don's house, she banged on his door, she said haul it out here, Buster. We're not due on set till next week. Let's make a break for it. She said Cosmo could meet them. He said Tijuana sounded like fun. He was the consummate pro, as always, when the press showed up.

She didn't lie to him again. There was no need. There was nothing to hide. There was nothing. She cried on Cosmo's shoulder, once, over nothing. He wasn't much help. She always liked Cosmo. So did the little voice at the back of her head.

* * *

How long is it exactly till the stars grow cold? For Lockwood and Selden, those glistening meatballs in the celestial stew, it was five years or nine pictures, depending on where you put the thermometer. Sooner, if you knew another place to stick it.

Was I surprised? Surprised they were married at all. Don Lockwood, tying the knot at thirty-eight? To a girl less than half his age? A girl with fan magazines still under her bed? Well. There's that. And there's the Studio publicity department, when two of their headliners are discovered crossing the border, un-chaperoned. Ring out, wild bells. It's Love, it's Fate, it's legal, now.

Not that Don was ever a heel or a cad. He didn't play those roles. He was always the Star, the Hero, the Good Guy. And Kathy was all right: sweet on the outside, tough as a rubber chicken underneath. She was young, but she had plenty of spirit--spunk, the publicity department called it. (No sense of humor, those guys.) A good little sister, she might have been, back on the Vaudeville circuit. Good as a foil with the Comic Relief, good to flesh out the act. A real workhorse, Roscoe said, in one of his kinder moments. A hoofer. A good sport. The Girl. But here's the thing about the act: you don't have to live with The Girl. Sure, you sing, you dance, you sashay to the chapel door, but that's where the number ends.

No, Hollywood ain't Vaudeville. I never made it Up There, through the lens, in the can, on the screen. I write the score. I write the jokes, when they're stuck, I lay out the plot. Once, once I filmed a specialty with Don, together again, eggs to his bacon, rye to his ham. He'd been asking more often if he really had it. If he was as good as everyone told him he was. We'd started doing numbers at parties, for the crew on the set, when Kathy was on location or working a different schedule. He loved the laughs, the live applause, the audience where he could see their teeth. One day there was a hole in the second act; somebody's dog act died or the chicken lady threw a vocal cord. Time was money and Don was running the show, then. He had Wardrobe dredge up a couple of convict uniforms and some balls and chains, and we did an old knockabout routine. Killed the crew; damn near killed me, the third time through. Somehow, though, it ended on the cutting room floor. Kathy made a point of telling me how great it was. Good kid, solid to the core.

She was smart. She was generous. She even cut Lina some slack. Remember Lina? At the end there, when Kathy was leaving Don; when her contract was up for renewal; when she had a new house picked out and a nice starring role in her sights, she said that Lina had taught her a lot. Not how to be a barracuda, not how to believe her own press--she learned enough about that from Don--but how to keep a sharp eye on her own interests and the Studio's pretty ways. She said she had sympathy for Lina. It's not so hard to speak well of the dead.

She was always sunny to me. She didn't last long in the musicals. Spunky young hoofers were a dime a dozen, and she and Don weren't the Castles, were they? On her own, she played The College Girl, The Working Girl, The Cowgirl, and even The Married Girl, and when she was thirty, her contract wasn't renewed. We get Christmas cards every year from New York.

It's twelve years now since The Dancing Cavalier. The women come and go (he's the Good Guy, don't forget) but he never remarried. He still needs to hear how good he is. He still credits me when it's right. He still uses bits from the old routines to show up the kids in chorus, now and then. I'm still here. You can lose The Girl, but without the Comic Relief, you got no act.

* * *

What happens after the picture's over?

After you fade to black, after the credits roll, after the last freeze frame of the Star's gleaming face and dazzling grin? You make another picture. You start another story, all over again; even the same old story's new if it's starring you. Same sets, different girl. Same girl, different name. Same song, new steps. There's always something different.

It's Show Business.

It's Life.

And I love it.