The beautiful young woman called Samantha Pennywhistle sat in front of the opal mirror of the modestly decorated hotel room and carefully applied her lipstick. She pursed her lips together and, reaching for her hairbrush softly stroked her recently shampooed hair until her locks shone with radiant flair. Placing the brush to one side of the September edition of 'Silver Screen' Samantha adjusted the low neck line in her hired purple crepe gown so that a teasingly amount of her perfumed cleavage peeked from behind the beaded collar. The fake pearl necklace around her neck complimented her sumptuous boobs perfectly, though she was unsure if she should wear it or not, current fashion be damned.
Getting to her feet Samantha slipped on two arm length, soft white leather gloves and pressed the gown down over her curvaceous body which was poured into the gown. She turned to the mirror and examined her ass which rode the taut material like a second skin; jeez, how sexy was that? Or was the dress one size too small? Yes, it was rented, but if she if accomplished what she set out to do here today then she could open an account at Bloomingdale's and have all the clothes she wanted. As Samantha walked across the room, balancing herself in the high heels her best friend had lent her, she felt the suspender holding up black stockings on her right thigh rustle against the tight gown. Cursing under her breath, she lifted her foot onto the seat in front of the vanity mirror and lifted her gown to adjust her discomfort. No sooner had she done so, her almost naked, stocking thigh exposed for the world to see than a male voice behind her said, "Now there's a welcome worthy of Ava Gardner!"
Startled, Samantha dropped her leg and clamoured the folds of the gown over her leg. She looked over to the open door to see a stocky, flashy-suit wearing, cigar-smoking fellow grinning from ear-to-ear as he leant, cock-sure, against the door post.
"Don't be scared, little lady," the stranger said, closing the door behind him, locking it, too, "I'm the guy you're here to meet."
"So you're Mister -- "
"Steadman, that's right," he replied, taking off his hat and flinging it onto the neatly made yet untouched double bed. It landed with a soft thud. His bald plate was contrasted with a neatly trimmed beard beneath his square chin. "I see you found the place," he commented.
Samantha thought; what an odd thing to say. "Yes, as you said, just two minutes from the train station."
"Fancy a drink?" he asked her, rummaging though the drink's cabinet.
"No, no thank you," she replied. This wasn't a date.
"So, toots," he said, as he poured himself a bourbon, "you wanna be a star."
"I'd like to be in pictures, yes," Samantha answered, sitting back down on the vanity chair. She placed her hands on her knees, as if she were in Church.
"Sure you would," Steadman said, taking a sip from his glass, "but lemme tell yer, it's not an easy business to get into". He stubbed his cigar out on a clean glass ashtray.
"I'm aware of that," Samantha said, though she wasn't, really. This was all new to her -- new but very, very exciting.
"You gotta have something special to get into movies," Steadman continued, "or, alternatively, you gotta know the right person, which is why I'm here."
He was but a phone call away, this talent scout, Samantha calling Steadman's Agent to the Stars agency once she hit Big City. It was a cliché, but as long as she could remember she had always wanted to be a star. Veronica Lake, Ingrid Bergman, Lauren Bacall, she admired and loved and lived their lives up on the silver screen and one day swore that she would join them.
"I can't thank you enough for seeing me," Samantha said.
"Hey, as soon as I saw your photo with your letter," he replied, smiling, "I knew I had to see you."
"Thank you," Samantha blushed. This was going well, wasn't it?
"So, down to business," Steadman said, finishing his drink, "did you find the script I left for you?"
"Of course," she said, producing a few stapled pages from the inside of a 'Silver Screen' magazine. She had arrived an hour earlier so had time to read over her lines before getting ready for her meeting. "Would you like me to start at the top?"
"Sure," Steadman shrugged, "it's as good a place to start as any."
"And you'll play Eddie?"
"That's how it works."
"Ok ..." she began.
"And you're comfortable with kissing me? The script does call for it."
Samantha blushed. "Yes, Mr. Steadman," she replied, smiling, her face flushed. If this wasn't a professional setting she wouldn't mind kissing him, regardless. He was cute.
Samantha gently coughed and readied herself for her big chance. Standing up, she stole a glance at the title of the script; a film noir entitled Light at the End of the Tunnel. From what she could gather she would be playing, if she was offered the part, a woman called Nancy Pickle, the worried girlfriend of the main character who becomes involved with mobsters. Very riveting!
"But Eddie!" she suddenly exclaimed, launching into character, "you can't go back, I won't let you!"
"You can't talk me out of it this time, Nance," Steadman retorted, dry as the Sahara, "there're men out there who play for keeps, and if I don't show my face they'll keep me from breathing."
