The Picture Show Annual (1932)

3b Picture Show Annual The Story of a Substitute Star by W. Bristow M arla Grant lounged decoratively on the deep sofa, a cigarette glowing between her first and second fingers, as she scanned the long, closely scrawled letter. She was extra- ordinarily lovely, even for a film star, with a clear, fine skin, sleekly-waving hair, rather heavily-lidded grey-green eyes that could look unutterable things while their owner was thinking of nothing in particular, and a figure that she was in terror of losing. Nature had done well by Marla, and Marla, in her turn, felt it was up to her to do as well by Nature. Her originally brown hair was bleached to a fairness that was almost white, her lips, at the moment inartisti- cally smeared with red that had slipped a bit at one side of her upper lip, giving her a slight sneer, were usually a triumph of carmmed art ; her nails polished to almost painful brilliance ; her eyebrows plucked to an irre- proachable hair. “ Gosh, even the prospect of a title and the fact that he s making a little money shouldn’t be an excuse for any man to write miles of drivel like that, ” she said. “ Especi- ally when he used to say so little. ” She swung her slender legs on to the floor and, tapping over the floor in her gay red Chinese sandals, she tossed the letter on to the table. ** There you are, ” she said to her secretary. “ I don’t know what you’ve been saying in your letters, but it seems highly satisfactory to friend Michael, and when it calls forth an eight-page letter from a man who never wrote me more than three in his most enthusiastic moments, 1 think you ought to pay the penalty of reading it through. I’m afraid I’ve only got to the middle of the second page—there—where it says he thinks it’s wonder- Stick to it, " said Marla, and if the title ever comes my way, you shall be brides- maid and have the best cottage on whichever of the various estates you prefer.” ful of me to find time to write such long letters to him, considering how busy I must be. ” She laughed. Poor dear, wouldn’t he get a jolt if he knew the wonderful one was you. Well, stick to it, and if the title ever comes my way, you shall be bridesmaid and have the best cottage on whichever of the various estates you prefer. She raised her head and looked at her reflection in the long wall-mirror with critical complacence. “ You know,” she went on, it was rather clever of me to spot the likeness between us. No one else would. I’m certain, with your hair its own colour and your eyebrows as Providence handed them out. I suppose