# Spider Boy/Chapter 13

Mr. Deacon, I believe you're afraid of me!
Thus Wilhelmina Ford opened her conversation with Ambrose sitting beside her in the car. In ordinary circumstances this remark would have been quite sufficient to create the condition to which she referred, but Philip Lawrence had relieved Ambrose of so much immediate anxiety that for the moment he was too light-hearted to easily lose his composure.
His actual reply was: I never talk much.
You've never had much of an opportunity to talk to me, Wilhelmina remarked. The last time I saw you I told you the story of my life—what there was of it.
I remember.
I thought you would. I hope nothing I said then frightened you.
He looked at her: she appeared to be serious. Her voice sounded warm and natural. He forced a smile and muttered bravely, You couldn't mean that, what you said about. . . . He hesitated.
I did mean it. Whatever happens I shall ​always regard you as one of the great influences in my life.
Ambrose was too embarrassed to speak. Whether she was serious or whether she was poking fun at him, he could not be sure: it was bad enough either way. Fortunately, she changed the subject abruptly.
What are you doing? she demanded.
I'm writing a story for the films, he responded, deciding quite unexpectedly that he couldn't tell the whole truth and be loyal to Lawrence.
L.L.B.? I'm with them too.
So you got what you wanted?
Not without a struggle.
Pausing, she offered Ambrose an opportunity to ponder over this remark. It seemed curious to him, who had struggled so ineffectually to escape from it, that any one should have to struggle to become a part of this fantastic industry.
You see, she went on, when I came here I went right to the casting agency and a young woman in charge wanted to buy me a ticket straight back home. I told her I lived in Quebec too, she added with a smile. She informed me that there were already six thousand beautiful women in Hollywood and part-time jobs for about three hundred. I argued that there must always be room at the top and she in​formed me that no one ever began at the top. I reminded her of Zoë Claire and she retaliated by suggesting that if my relations with Schwarzstein or any other executive were as intimate as Zoë's there would be no need of my visiting a casting agency. I replied that I'd like to begin at the top without going through any of those little formalities. She telephoned to the railroad station to book my passage. While she was telephoning, I ran away.
Next I tried the studios, one after the other. No good. I asked for one director after another. Not one did I see. The boys at the door always referred me to the casting agency. I had already been there. However, I wasn't discouraged.
I should have been, sighed Ambrose.
Oh, you! You're a great author and everybody wants you, but they're fed up on beautiful women. Have you ever before seen so many beautiful women? she demanded.
I d-d-don't think I've noticed, Ambrose stammered. You see I haven't been out much. At least, part of the time I've spent at Santa Fe. I . . .
Well, the place is completely overrun with them. Girls from St. Louis and Baltimore and Portland, Maine. Girls from the Berkshires and the Everglades and the Catskills and the Black Hills. Girls ​from the plains of Nebraska, the farms of Illinois, and the plantations of Georgia. Any girl who isn't cross-eyed and hasn't a crooked nose makes tracks for California to cash in on her face. Some of 'em arrived before they put up the bars. Now they buy 'em tickets and send 'em back home, but those who got here before they adopted this plan, the six thousand, most of 'em, went to work as shop-girls in department stores or drug-stores, or as waitresses in bakeries or lunch-rooms, or as telephone girls—well, poor things, they got what they could. They look so appealingly out of their big eyes at every male who comes within the line of their vision that at first I thought they were flirting, but they're only banking on the chance that any man may be a director and hoping they'll get a break.
The more Ambrose heard about this fabulous land he was inhabiting for the present, the more he marvelled.
Is that what you did? he inquired.
Not me! Not much! They never get anything, these girls. I learned that at once. They use the wrong technique. Do you know what I discovered? Shall I tell you my secret?
Please do.
I hadn't been here three days before I began to ​understand that the only people they really want out here are the people who don't want them.
Aghast at this display of perspicacity, Ambrose ejaculated, So you too found that out!
It appeared that Wilhelmina Ford was far too interested in her own story to fathom the implications of this remark, for she merely replied, Certainly, very briskly, and continued: With this valuable bit of information inside my head I was forced to lay out an entirely new campaign. I went to stop with my friend at Pasadena. It was better anyway, as I had told my mother I was going there. Next I looked over my wardrobe and finding it extremely unsatisfactory,—I laid in a fresh supply of dresses, shoes, and hats. It's easy to get nice frocks here, there's such a demand for them. Then I got my friend to introduce me to a lot of dancing young men who were only too eager to escort me to the places I wanted to go: the Montmartre for lunch on the right days, and the Cocoanut Grove at the Ambassador for supper on the right nights. I can tell you I was no wallflower. In a week I was famous, she remarked complacently.
I should think you would have been! cried Ambrose, whose admiration for this girl increased with his wonder.
​Famous! she repeated. Besides which I was having a grand time. The young men were not much on brains, but they were long on looks and they danced like Fred Astaire. When I went to bed at night I felt more bitter than ever about all those wasted years in Kansas City. Why, if I'd stayed there another six months I'd have become a withered old lady as conventional as the next one! I tell you I love to realize that I had nerve enough to break away!
She paused to light a cigarette before she went on: I hadn't been going out for much more than a minute before the boys began to ask me if I were in the movies. I laughed scornfully. Me in motion pictures! How could they think such a thing! Nothing, I assured them, would induce me to cheapen myself to that extent. The idea appalled me. If I said this to one man I said it to forty. The women—she made a grimace—did not seem to be so curious. Well, in a few days I became a fable, a legendary character: the only pretty girl in the United States who didn't want to be a motion picture actress. It was unheard of! It was epic!
Ambrose was impressed by the magnitude of the impression he was certain she must have produced.
Then one day at the Montmartre, a handsome roughneck was introduced to me. It was Martell ​Hallam, star director for L.L.B. I was thrilled, but I didn't show it.
I hear you hate pictures, Miss Ford, he said.
I never said that, Mr. Hallam, I replied. I admire pictures very much. I enjoy going to see them. What I said was that I would never act in pictures.
Why not? I hardly seen a face so right for the screen. Let's make a test of you.
Never! I cried with as much indignation as I could assume.
Well, well, he replied, will you dance with me?
That, Mr. Hallam, I'd be delighted to do.
He danced very badly, but I didn't mind that. You can't expect a man who knows so much about screen values to be able to control his feet properly. When we returned to the table I invited him to sit down. He urged me to reconsider my decision. I pleasantly but firmly refused. Why not a test anyhow? he pleaded. I replied that I couldn't see any sense in making a test since I had no intention of going into pictures. But, he protested, if you're all wet as screen material I'll rest easy. If I don't get a test I'll always mourn your loss. We argued for some time. Finally I allowed myself to be persuaded, assuring him at the same time that I was only doing it to please him and ​certainly wouldn't go into pictures even if I filmed like Auburn Six and Imperia Starling combined.
When he made an appointment his parting words were: Don't wear white if you got anything else.
I chuckled to myself. There wasn't a trick of photography or make-up I hadn't studied.
So you made a test? Ambrose inquired.
Yes, and it was so successful that Hallam wept when I persisted that it would be quite impossible for me to join his troupe, but in the end, she concluded, I allowed myself to be persuaded.
And now, she said, as the car stopped before the Ambassador, why don't you come over to my bungalow and tell me your story while you drink a cocktail?
My story isn't very interesting, he lied. I just came out here and L.L.B. engaged me.
That's what surprised me, she remarked, as they walked under the pergola towards the bungalow. I thought surely Herbert Ringrose would get you for Invincible.
Ambrose had nothing to say on this subject, but as she turned into the walk which led to Siesta, he demanded in amazement, Do you live here?
Yes, upstairs.
​I live here too, he said in great excitement.
He was still more amazed to observe that she did not find anything unusual in this statement. Without replying, she guided him to her room on the second floor, a room too full of French dolls and framed photographs to suit her personality, he thought.
She answered his unspoken criticism: I rented this hideous place just as it is. It's Bernice Laly's apartment. She's in Europe. I guess it will do till I find something of my own. So far I've been too busy to look. Why, I haven't even got a mama yet!
Ambrose grinned. Going to get one? he inquired.
Of course. You can't be a film star and live without a mama—unless you get married. Maybe my own mother will come out. If not, I'll find something, and it'll be good too.
Does your family know you are in the movies?
No. I haven't told 'em yet. You see, I'm doing a small part with Dick Ruby, Hallam directing. I'm not a star yet. I may be rotten. I want to see how the picture turns out. They might cut me out altogether. They do that sometimes.
I don't believe they'll do it to you.
Neither do I.
​Wilhelmina tossed her hat to the top of the upright piano, combed her shingled hair before a mirror, and called her maid to order cocktails. Then leading Ambrose to her balcony over-looking the spreading lawn of the Ambassador, she invited him to be seated in a wicker arm-chair.
That's my door down there. He pointed.
Is it? she queried listlessly. Whatever are you thinking about? she asked, after a pause.
Unable to find an answer at once, he eventually brought out, I was thinking Hollywood isn't so bad, after all.
Bad! I should think not! You ought to try Kansas City for a while.
The maid came to them with two ruby glasses filled with cocktails and a shaker on a tray.
Ruth makes magnificent cocktails, Wilhelmina announced, swallowing half the contents of her glass. Now what has she put into this one, I wonder? I found a pickled walnut at the bottom of my glass last time, but it gave just the right touch. This one tastes as if it had celery in it.
Ambrose thought it did.
She poured out two more as she stared fixedly at her guest.
​Mr. Deacon, she asked, did you take me seriously when I told you I thought I might marry you?
Flushing and gulping, Ambrose emitted a hollow laugh and stammered, No-o, of course not. How could I?
She still stared at him as she declared: Well, I half meant it. Maybe I mean it still. You see, you are a kind of symbol to me.
Please, Miss Ford, he protested, adding, to his own great surprise, You are beautiful!
Apparently she did not hear this. She went on: You stand for a good deal to me. If I hadn't become interested in you I might never have found strength to drag myself out of the awful rut I was in. You see, I thought you were a great man.
But you don't any more!
Mr. Deacon, I'm a little disappointed that you have gone into the movies.
But . . .
I think it's all right for women to fool their time away in this circus. It's probably as good a thing as a woman with looks and no other way to support herself can find to do. It's all right for some men too, but you are a great writer, and I don't like to see ​you mixed up in this bowl of mush. I'm afraid you'll be spoiled.
Steadying himself, Ambrose lifted the shaker, poured out a third cocktail which he swallowed at a gulp, and demanded, Miss Ford, may I tell you a secret?
I adore secrets, she replied. Aren't you going to give me a cocktail?
In filling her glass, he spilled enough liquor to fill another.
I quite agree with you, he brought out at last.
But I don't understand. . . . A quizzical expression appeared in her eyes.
About this job. I hate it. I didn't want to do it.
Then why did you?
He couldn't answer this question without telling the whole long story again. He compromised by saying, Of course I'm not the great writer you think I am.
Ambrose—I'm going to call you Ambrose after this—I know you are a great writer. Why did you? she persisted.
Ambrose writhed. How could he tell this girl that he had been too weak to say no? Again he compromised: It's only for a little while.
​Still she stared at him. Was she laughing inside? he wondered.
Perhaps I'd like to have you stay here till I'm a star so that you could write a picture for me.
But I'm only engaged for one picture, Ambrose cried.
Oh, they'll keep you, if you want to stay. They'll probably offer you more to go to one of the other lots and then Griesheimer will double the offer. Who's going to do your first picture?
Something was said about Dick Ruby.
Then you're a hit. Dick never made a failure. You can write the dictionary if you want to. It won't make any difference. Everybody—absolutely everybody in the world—goes to see his pictures. What's your picture called, Ambrose?
Spider Boy.
What a marvellous title! she cried in delight. What does it mean?
Oh, it's all about a man who's pursued by women in broughams . . . and wagons . . . and wheelbarrows and balloons. You know, the female spider swallows the male. I don't think I ought to be telling you this—I think it's a secret.
Oh, I shan't tell anybody. I can't say I'm crazy about the idea. I don't think it's psychologically true. ​You see, I've been chased too much by men. It's even worse here than it was in Kansas City.
The penalty of beauty, he surprisingly found him self saying.
Why, Ambrose!
Wilhelmina . . .
That's not my name, she announced unexpectedly.
Not your . . . !
It will do for the present. I hate to be untruthful. I couldn't lie to you, Ambrose. I admire you too much. I didn't want to mix my family up with my professional life, so I decided to adopt an alias. I made it up out of the names of the Queen of Holland and Henry, she confessed. I think it's a very good picture name, don't you? Wilhelmina Ford in Girls Will Be Women. That'll look very pretty on the ashcans. Or Wilhelmina Ford in Fine Feathers Do Not Make Fine Flappers, or—well, you can see for yourself.
Are you serious?
I'm always serious, and let me tell you something else, Ambrose, I shouldn't be at all surprised if I carried out my original intention and married you.
I think I'd like it!
She laughed. Peut-être jamais, peut-être demain, mais pas aujourd'hui: c'est certain.
​I don't understand French.
She laughed again. I was quoting Carmen, she explained. It means, Don't be silly. Anyhow I expect you to take me to the Montmartre for lunch tomorrow.