Glory, the smaller of the two, turned to greet her, baring big white teeth in a smile. “Hiya, Pin. C’mon in,” she said absently, and continued her inspection of the costumes. She wore a silk teddy bare, a sleeveless chemise that clung to her breasts and barely grazed the tops of her thighs. Like Pin, she was slight, just under five feet tall, and deeply tanned, with an olive tinge to her smooth skin, thick black hair, and striking sapphire-blue eyes. She had a mole on her chin that she covered with powder when she had to go in front of the camera, and she smelled of cardamom and sugar and toasted almonds—her aunt Inga often sent her to work with pastries to share.

Lionel jokingly referred to her as Princess Glorious, or the Spanish Princess, and Pin almost believed it. Small as she was, Glory could command a room. She wanted to be an opera singer, not an actress, but the studio paid her well—thirteen dollars for a week’s work as an extra, whether they used her or not, with Sundays off. Only sixteen, Glory looked older, especially when she tilted her head and regarded Pin through narrowed eyes. She regularly got cast as an imperious matron or headwaitress.

She held up a faded-blue satin gown with half-moon stains beneath the sleeves. “What do you think, Pin? Suit me as a banker’s wife?”

“Sure.” Pin took off her cap and fanned herself. The tiny room was hot enough to melt wax. “That color’s nice with your eyes.”

The other girl, Valerie, grimaced. “God, it’s ugly. You have such nice things, Glory, why would you even want to wear it? It makes you look thirty.”

“I’m supposed to look thirty.” Glory reached for a pincushion and gave Pin a sideways glance. “You looking for Lionel? He’s down in the studio. Here, hold this for me.”

Glory shoved the mass of blue satin into her arms. Pin wrinkled her nose. You’d think the fancy clothes they wore in the movies would smell of perfume and eau de cologne. Instead they reeked of tobacco smoke and perspiration, and sometimes of scorched hair, if whoever’d been wearing them had stood too close to a spotlight.

“I’m heading out.” Valerie pulled a mohair bathing suit over her chemise and plucked a smoldering cigarette from an ashtray. “They want pictures for that Sweedie movie they did at the lake. Newspaper advertisement. See you later, Glorious. Bye, Pin.”

Valerie swanned from the cubicle. When she was gone, Glory rolled her eyes. “She is not going to get her picture taken. Guess who’s here?”

“Who?”