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JP ucky Girl
By Grace Mack
Will Chappel
INTERVIEWED in her Rolls-Royce, Miss Dawn said: "I think everybody is searching for happiness — don't you? Some people are just luckier than others about finding it. "
"Yourself, for instance,'' said the interviewer. "You have everything. "
" Yes, " agreed the girl whose name had burned up thousands of amperes in front of theaters all over the country. "I — have everything. "
Most of the time she convinced herself that this was true. Certainly she had every proof.
When she went into a shop they would sell her anything on credit, because she was Doreen Dawn. For her to wear an evening gown, a sports frock, a hat, was to make the designer
of it. If she used a cream, a powder, a perfume, its success was assured.
Her repeated presence at a restaurant or night club guaranteed its popularity. One shrewd manager always kept a table reserved for her, and the orchestra had standing orders to play that popular waltz hit, "Doreen," the moment she entered.
Admiration trailed her wherever she went. "Lucky girl," they said when they glimpsed her blonde head through the windows of her limousine. Girls less fortunate stared after her enviously and longed to touch the ermine of her wrap.
Hers was one of Hollywood's Cinderella sagas— the story of an unknown girl who had found a short cut to stardom through marriage with a great producer. Ben Silvers' financial arms were so strong that with one gesture he had lifted her high up the ladder which the world calls fame. He idolized her. She had merely to look up at him from under those long plaintive lashes and say: "Daddy, I want this—or this— or this," and it was hers.
She loved him in a way. Had it not been for him, she might have been punching a time clock as a stenographer or a salesgirl. She might have been living in a dismal hall bedroom instead of the Spanish castle, atop Hollywood's highest hill. She was grateful for all he had done for her. She did, indeed, have
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everything. But sometimes when the moon was full, sometimes when the pungent fragrance of acacia blossoms stole through her window, she wished that he were a few years younger, that the flesh on his cheeks were firmer, and that his mouth did not always taste of cigars.
The Spanish castle was his latest tribute to Doreen. " Mediterranean," the architect had called it. "Illegitimate Castilian" would, perhaps, have been more appropriate. It had that conspicuous richness which picture money buys so easily. Rare old tapestries. Soft velvet hangings. Antique furniture, some of it suspiciously Grand Rapids. Ornate bathrooms.
BUT, most conspicuous of all, was the swimming pool. "I want something beautiful and exotic," the great producer had told the contractor, "something with class — know what I mean? Something that'll make all these other pools around here look like a bunch of cheap swimming holes."
" Colored tile, I presume, " said the contractor. " How about a cool jade green? "
"Green's too ordinary," scoffed the producer. "I want gold!"