Hello fans of golden-era Hollywood, Turner Classic Movies, Gone with the Wind, Vivien Leigh, David O. Selznick, Rebecca, and all things 1939! Last week, I revealed the title, cover art, and description of my upcoming novel, Selznick’s Spotlight.
I’ll be releasing that novel in June 2025. (Or maybe even in May – I managed to deliver the manuscript to my editor a couple of weeks earlier than planned.) And so now I’m ready to share with you the first chapter.
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SELZNICK’S SPOTLIGHT
Book 2 in the Hollywood’s Greatest Year trilogy
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CHAPTER 1
Los Angeles, California
March 1939
Late-morning light splintered through the plate-glass facade of Schwab’s Pharmacy, turning suspended dust into floating gold. Amelia Hartley kicked the cupboard beneath the lunch counter, not caring if her heel left a dent in the worn wood. The sharp pain in her foot was almost welcome—at least it was a distraction she could feel, along with the maddening itch in her throat.
An innocent target had to bear the brunt of her frustration, and the cupboard was hidden from her regulars: Randy, a plump gag writer from Hal Roach Studios who couldn’t get enough malted milkshakes, and an RKO backdrop painter called Cobb. They sat perched on their usual stools, their shadows stretching across the floor like sundials.
Randy’s eyes crinkled with amusement over the rim of his chocolate malted. “It’s killing you, isn’t it?”
She mustered a pinched don’t-get-me-started smile. It was all she could do. And forget about talking over the honking horns and squealing brakes of the Sunset Boulevard traffic.
Stupid laryngitis. How was she supposed to sass customers when they ordered the same old stinky liverwurst sandwich? Or pretend to serve them Postum instead of the frosted root beer they’d asked for? Everyone knew the cheeky waitress with the bold copper-red hair would treat them to a good time if they were lucky enough to be seated in her section. It was as much her trademark as the starched tan uniform and comfortable shoes.
And today, of all days, too.
For months now, a regular had been coming in three times a week, reliable as the Santa Fe Super Chief. Dark blue suit, white shirt, necktie with birds or flowers. Sociable and courteous, if somewhat distant. Good tipper. The quiet type with attentive eyes. Always watching. Always alert. Taking in nuance, details, gestures, unguarded moments, and jotting them all down in the open notepad he kept by his coffee cup.
For all his vigilance, Amelia doubted he’d noticed her watching him. But she had. Oh yes, she most certainly had—especially after she’d learned that he was second-in-charge of casting at Paramount. And that made him the sort of person she should be laying the charm on—thick, but not too thick. Casting guys were aware of all the ammo in the arsenal of ambitious hopefuls trying to finagle their way past the studio guards and inside the gates.
She needed a sure-fire opening line—one he hadn’t heard before. The boom would fall later, but first came rapport without setting off alarm bells. For days she’d wracked her brains until she had devised the perfect hook.
“Say, mister,” she’d drawl, casual as a porch swing in August, “that fountain pen of yours—it’s a Waterman, right? The same model that Zanuck uses?” Then she’d adjust her paper waitress cap. “I saw it in a photo spread in Variety last week, and I thought to myself, ‘Hey, I know someone who’s got one of those.’”
Today was one of his regular-as-clockwork days, and any minute now he’d walk through those doors for his noontime lunch. And damn it all to blazes, she couldn’t make a peep. Or could she? Did laryngitis clear up as quickly and mysteriously as it appeared?
Amelia opened her mouth to force out a sound. Any sound—a croak, a wheeze, even a gurgle—would give her hope—but the dreaded silence remained.
She tucked her pencil behind her ear as the crowd swelled, the air thickening with the scents of fresh-brewed coffee and hot mustard, Lucky Strikes and Old Spice, seasoned with generous splashes of exasperation. After four months, she could serve this place pie-eyed with one foot in a three-wheeled roller skate, dodging the elbows of typists on their afternoon breaks and flat-broke actors nursing nickel cups of joe. But even if Mr. Paramount Casting didn’t show today, how could she work the lunchtime rush without a voice? Impossible. She wouldn’t even have come in if they hadn’t been two waitresses down and obliged to pull Betsy-Ann from retail.
The ceiling fans spun in lazy circles, stirring the air as Amelia scribbled on a paper napkin. This no talking business is killing me! She held it up for Randy and Cobb to read and was flashing her best Pepsodent smile—the one she’d practiced in front of her mirror at home for Mr. Paramount Casting’s benefit—when Leon Schwab came to her defense. His bow tie was slightly askew, as usual, and his round spectacles glinted in the overhead lights.
“Now, boys, we’re all well aware she’s a chatterbox, but be nice. There’s no predicting what she might slip into your eats. But, of course, that’s a practice this fine-dining establishment would never condone.” He tossed off a broad stage wink at the three of them before heading for the pharmacy counter, where a chorus line of amber bottles waited to be filled.
One of the cooks called through the service window, his voice carrying over the clatter of pots and pans, to announce that Randy’s shrimp salad and Cobb’s banana split were ready. The kitchen’s heat rolled out in waves, carrying with it the mingled aromas of grilled onions and toasting bread.
Randy’s right, she thought, dodging Betsy-Ann at the dairy cabinet. Being voiceless during the midday rush was torture. The daily routine of serving coffee and sandwiches without a snappy comeback felt like dancing without music.
She had, however, discovered an upside.
Being forced to keep her trap shut had meant listening more, observing more—not unlike Mr. Paramount, now that she thought about it. Had Cobb always possessed that slight stutter? When had Randy stopped wearing his wedding band? And how hadn’t she noticed that no one over forty ordered the Schwab’s Zombie, and nobody under forty chose Ry-Krisp over a sweet roll? It dawned on her now: this place was like a movie set, with its own cast of characters and daily dramas playing out between coffee refills and sandwich orders.
She gave Schwab’s a brief survey. No Mr. Paramount yet, but he couldn’t be far away. He was a man who found comfort in a routine.
Gosh, what she wouldn’t give to regain her voice, but now she wondered what else she’d been missing all this time. And like every girl in Hollywood with a bright smile and a scrap of pizzazz, harboring hopes of making it as an actress, she knew she ought to keep that in mind. Listen to people instead of standing around waiting for their lips to stop moving.
Balancing Randy’s shrimp salad and Cobb’s banana split, she pondered whether getting into the picture business was as birdbrained an idea as she suspected it to be. The morning trade papers were full of stories about Gone with the Wind and The Wizard of Oz, but for every Vivien Leigh or Judy Garland, how many girls ended up with nothing but worn-out dreams and a one-way ticket back to Kentucky? What was that expression her father liked to quote? “Many are called, but few are chosen.”
By the time she’d set down the plates—the shrimp salad glistening with mayonnaise, the banana split a masterpiece of chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry ice cream crowned with whipped cream—she had decided that if she was going to pursue a movie career, she needed to up her game. Though she enjoyed being a Schwab’s waitress, it was hardly the lifetime career she had in mind. Enough waiting for all the Mr. Paramounts in town to wander in. And that agent who’d said he might represent her, Farley Winchester—he hadn’t shown his puss around here of late. That shiny nickel in her pocket, she decided, was destined for the payphone. And soon.
The bell above the front door cut through the hurly-burly with a cheerful jingle.
“SERVICE, PLEASE!”
Amelia’s roommate, Polly Maddox, had been laid up since breaking her leg in a tumble. She’d landed on top of a particularly nasty studio boss whom nobody in filmdom liked, and the incident had become legend up and down the Hollywood grapevine. After weeks of devouring every book, magazine, and newspaper in their apartment, Polly was keen to report for work back at the Selznick studios. She propped her crutches against the counter, took the offered hand of their mutual pal, Luddie, and hoisted herself onto the stool.
Amelia’s grin spread wide before she even spun around and raised her eyebrows.
David Selznick’s favorite girl Friday smiled with relief. “Only four more weeks till this cast comes off—assuming I don’t tangle with any of Scarlett’s hoop skirts.”
With Selznick’s sweeping epic still in production, Amelia knew Polly’s boss, Marcella, was counting the days, too. Polly was the only girl who could keep pace with the producer’s rapid-fire dictation, and whose fingers flew over the typewriter keys quicker than a concert pianist’s at the Hollywood Bowl.
Polly smoothed her skirt over her knees, careful of the bulky cast underneath. “I wanted a Schwab’s lunch before I flung myself back into the maelstrom.”
Trust her to use words like “maelstrom” in everyday conversation. Would her vocabulary rub off on Amelia one of these days? Probably not. Amelia mouthed the words, “Chili con carne and club number five?” The familiar order fit into their routine as seamlessly as the morning paper and evening radio shows.
“Aw, jeez.” Polly winced. “Still no voice, huh?”
Over Polly’s shoulder, Amelia saw Mr. Paramount Casting enter the retail area and start wending his way through the shelves. Yep, right on time. I shouldn’t have doubted him. Now that Polly and Luddie were here, she had only two open seats. Please take one of them. Please. This wasn’t the day to lay her opening line on him, but was there a way to turn this pesky laryngitis to her advantage? Scribble a quip, perhaps? I’m not giving you the silent treatment. I’ve got laryngitis, so it’s all sign language today!
Amelia shook her head at Polly and showed Luddie that she had already written down his standard order: number four club sandwich, Vermont maple jumbo soda, and Black Beauty chocolate ice cream. She winked at him. Luddie was as much a fixture at Schwab’s as the chrome-edged counter and the shelves of patent medicines.
It was at this same lunch counter that Amelia and Polly had first caught sight of Luddie keeping company with one of his clients, a woman who had been, as they nearly always were, older than him, richer than him, and keenly in dire need of his charms—even if it meant having to pay for them. But Ludlow Sinclair always ensured the wives of prominent Hollywood heavy hitters got their money’s worth by lavishing them with wit, flattery, and sinuous dance moves.
“I may have mastered mahjong and the tango,” he said, adjusting his monogrammed cufflinks, “but how you remember everybody’s favorites is a marvel of the modern age.”
Amelia acknowledged his compliment with a quick salute and had headed for the kitchen to put in their orders when the tinkle of cutlery against crockery and the babble of late-morning chatter dimmed perceptibly, as though someone had lowered the volume on Lux Radio Theatre.
Polly and Luddie had already swiveled their stools. The din of Sunset’s traffic roared in with the entrance of a woman who stood ramrod straight, her waist cinched by a black belt tight enough to throttle her innards. The pale blue cashmere sweater was pure Bullock’s Wilshire; Amelia would’ve bet her last twenty bucks the woman had chosen it to showcase her impressive bosom. Her skin glowed with whipped-cream radiance direct from the movie magazines, her lips were cotton-candy pink, and a halo of blonde spun-sugar curls tumbled to her shoulders.
“Who is that?” Polly’s whisper carried over the muted buzz of conversation.
Amelia wished she had a buck for every time she had to tell people Lana Turner wasn’t discovered here. But at least this girl was a cut above the typical Pocatello High School cheerleaders she had to deal with. She watched the dish lower her curvaceous behind onto the free stool in Amelia’s section. And wouldn’t you know it? Right next to Mr. Paramount Casting.
Mr. Schwab let out a low, low whistle. “She used to work here. Back then, her hair was dark chestnut, and she wore it much shorter.”
“And her bust?” Luddie asked, his immaculate eyebrows rising toward his hairline.
“Yeah.” Schwab tugged at his bow tie as if it had grown too tight. “It was always an eyeful.”
Amelia thought of her own first weeks on the job. Good lord, the wandering eyes! She’d had no idea. But it hadn’t taken her long to learn how to balance plates while deflecting compliments and pickup lines without endangering a decent tip after she’d served coffee and apple pie. It was a skill, and a handy one at that.
“Now she’s positioned it even more prominently.” Schwab was still glued to the vision that had captured everyone within a hundred-foot radius. “But her face. Something’s awry there.”
“The nose.” His head cashier, Ida, had crept up beside them, her voice carrying the authority of someone who tracked Hollywood gossip like other people studied horse races. “I read about it in Photoplay. These days plastic surgery docs can fix a star’s schnoz: shrink it, straighten it, and presto—a pleasant mug becomes gorgeous.”
The girl lifted the arms of her sunglasses between her fingertips and drew them from her face with rehearsed theatricality.
Mr. Schwab shuffled farther down the counter, his shoes squeaking against the linoleum. “Tillie! It is you!”
“In a manner of speaking.” She slid her sunglasses onto the counter with a soft click. “It’s Matilda now. Matilda Charles.”
Whoever this would-be Jean Harlow was, she hadn’t invented the man-eater routine, but oh brother, she sure knew how to play it to the hilt. She calculated every gesture and measured each pause with Swiss-watch precision.
“Is this purely a social call,” Mr. Schwab asked, “or have you returned?”
Matilda took her time laying a languid elbow on the counter. “I really don’t know.”
She had that mid-Atlantic accent actresses favored because it made them sound more sophisticated, but Amelia wasn’t buying it. Matilda had over-enunciated every syllable with the crisp delivery of a Kaufman-and-Hart leading lady, but underneath it all, the act rang false as a tin nickel.
“Paint me purple and call me a Packard.” Ida’s fingers drummed against the countertop. “Six months ago, she was plain old Tillie.”
Amelia had snagged her job at Schwab’s after a waitress had abruptly left town, spinning yarns about some ailing-but-unnamed sick aunt. Her departure had been Amelia’s ticket in, but get a load of that platinum hair, that manufactured figure, that brassy swagger. Talk about Hollywood hokum, served with a side of baloney.
Mr. Schwab was heading for the kitchen when Ida stopped him with a touch on his sleeve. “Taking her back?”
“She was our most popular waitress, but let’s not race ahead of ourselves. She hasn’t asked for her job.”
“Yet,” Ida finished for him.
Amelia’s heart sank. Technically, her job was temporary until Tillie returned. It hadn’t occurred to her the prodigal waitress might resurface once her fictional aunt had “recovered.” But popular or not, since when was Mr. Schwab under any obligation to hold a job open for someone who had abandoned him with no notice?
A steady stream of customers kept Schwab’s lunch counter stools spinning—a coveted post for any waitress in town. Those all-day-every-day nickel-and-dime tips added up faster than a starlet’s marriages. Tillie-call-me-Matilda would be a fool to turn her back on this lucrative opportunity. And while her hair, her ample bosom, and her nose might be fake, Amelia could tell the girl was one tough tomato.
God! What a time to lose my voice! Amelia scribbled on her order pad: I suppose you have a last-hired-first-fired policy?
Mr. Schwab patted her hand, his palm warm and reassuring against her suddenly cold fingers. “Anyone with the courage to be themselves can find a home here.”
That’s a non-yes if ever I’ve heard one.
Still, it wasn’t a no. Or even a non-no. Meanwhile, Amelia had to put in an order for chili con carne and a club sandwich. She nodded her agreement and threaded her way to the kitchen window, where the cook’s spatula kept time with the endless rhythm of another busy day at Schwab’s.
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I sure hope that whetted your appetite for what’s coming in a few months. Selznick’s Spotlight is due out June 2025 – or maybe even in May, if I can swing it!
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As always, thanks for your interest in my work. I sincerely do appreciate it very much.
All the best,
Martin Turnbull
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ALSO BY MARTIN TURNBULL:
The Hollywood’s Garden of Allah novels
Book 1 – The Garden on Sunset
Book 2 – The Trouble with Scarlett
Book 3 – Citizen Hollywood
Book 4 – Searchlights and Shadows
Book 5 – Reds in the Beds
Book 6 – Twisted Boulevard
Book 7 – Tinseltown Confidential
Book 8 – City of Myths
Book 9 – Closing Credits
Chasing Salomé: a novel of 1920s Hollywood
The Heart of the Lion: a novel of Irving Thalberg’s Hollywood
The Hollywood Home Front trilogy:
Book 1 – All the Gin Joints
Book 2 – Thank Your Lucky Stars
Book 3 – You Must Remember This
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Connect with Martin Turnbull:
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