How Maureen Lee Lenker is building her own 'romance cinematic universe' with His Girl Hollywood

Maureen Lee Lenker is returning to the world of her debut novel It Happened One Fight for her swoon-worthy feminist follow-up, His Girl Hollywood.

The author, currently an Entertainment Weekly senior writer, always knew she wanted to build her own "romance cinematic universe" with her books, and now she's making that a reality with her second novel set in the glitzy world of the 1930s film industry.

His Girl Hollywood (available Jan. 14) is a second-chance romance centered on Arlene Morgan, a character first introduced in It Happened One Fight as the assistant to that book's protagonist, Joan Davis. Now, Arlene's moving up in the world by making her big directorial debut, a rarity for women in that time. But her excitement over her dream coming true is soured when she learns the star of her movie is none other than Don Lamont, the boy-next-door she loved growing up with who left to kickstart his own career on Broadway without ever looking back.

Unbeknownst to Arlene, Don's been under the thumb of a gangster for the last eight years, which is why he hasn't been able to return home, so he sees this offer to star in a Hollywood picture as the chance to free himself once and for all. Working with his childhood friend is just a bonus, since he has no idea how Arlene feels about his time away. But can Arlene and Don find a way to work together to make the film a success, rekindle their old flame, and save Don from his dangerous ties to the mob, all at the same time?

"Arlene was the screenwriter of the film that Joan and Dash made in the first book and won an Oscar for it," Lenker tells EW. "When she won the Oscar, Joan was already telling Harry, the head of the studio, that he should give her a chance to direct, so this is now that chance, which comes with the wrinkle of her leading man being the boy that got away that she hasn't talked to in 10 years."

Lenker always knew she wanted to continue writing stories in the same universe of her debut novel, which she adds is "very common in romance writing."

"You have these books that each story is self-contained, because you've got your happy ending," she says. "There's not necessarily a lot more to tell about [Joan and Dash], but you still want to stay in the same world. It's the romance version of the MCU. As Arlene emerged in the first book, I just really wanted to know more about her and write her story."

Other characters from Lenker's first book who return for this story include Harry, the head of the studio, who "plays a key role here," as well as Joan, Dash, and Flynn, who is Dash's best friend. This story also represents a bit of wish fulfillment for the author, putting a woman in the director's chair for an old Hollywood film.

"I knew I wanted to write about a female director in the studio era because it was very rare," Lenker says. "Women were such a huge part of the film industry, especially in the silent era and the early days, and so I wanted to be able to pay tribute to that and bring another female director behind the camera, even if she's fictional. Particularly because I also feel like it's really still something we're grappling with today."

The author also wanted to explore the "sexist concept" that being emotional or a more sensitive person means you're not a good leader. "I wanted to show the ways that actually helps Arlene be a better director," she adds. "The ways in which Arlene is able to fully embrace being a very feminine person and being a director and in a position of authority and the balance between those things [will surprise readers]. It was really important to me to show that those two things can coexist and actually maybe sometimes even make for a better final product."

One of the ways in which Lenker subverts classic romance tropes in this book is how Arlene comes to the rescue of Don in a pivotal moment. "There's definitely a whole elaborate rescue sequence, and I wanted it to be about the heroine having to rescue the hero instead of vice versa," she says. "Especially in this time, obviously, that's what we see a lot of in films. Just even having a female director and what that would mean behind the scenes and what would be at stake I feel like is something that maybe people aren't even necessarily aware of from that period in Hollywood history."

As for Arlene's love interest, the inspiration for Broadway-turned-movie-star Don came directly from Lenker's own love of Gene Kelly. "I think he's one of the hottest men who ever lived," she says with a smile.

Read an exclusive excerpt from His Girl Hollywood, featuring Arlene and Don's first time reuniting after 10 years, below.

***

The soundstage was dark, except for a single ghost light at its center. Arlene looked around the shadowy space and took everything in: the dance studio set they'd film the first scenes on tomorrow, the miles of cable strewn about the room for lights and cameras, and best of all, the director's chair in the center of the room. She walked to it and ran her fingers over the stenciled words on the back, tracing them with the reverence of a saint. "Miss Morgan," it read, and below that in smaller type, "Director."

That word in smaller type sent a shiver down her spine. She'd dreamed of this moment for ages. Since she was a little girl. A camera, a crew, actors — all hers to direct. The pictures that flickered on the screen in a tiny, dark room hers to create. Tomorrow, it would all be real. She wrapped her arms around herself and fought off a shiver. Whether it was dread or excitement, she couldn't be sure. She knew the task before her was monumental. For starters, the last two months of preproduction had hammered home the barely veiled disdain her all-male crew held for her.

She hadn't helped matters, fainting in Harry Evets's office at the sound of Don's name. She'd blamed it on hunger, said she had forgotten to eat that morning. That had been half-true. She'd been too nervous to eat before the meeting. But it wasn't the lack of food that had sent her reeling; it was the prospect of having to spend several weeks working intimately with a man she’d rather forget. But she shook the thought away. Don could not, would not be a distraction.

She stepped deeper into the soundstage, touching everything to assure herself it was all real and not a dream. She ran her hands down the ballet barre that stood at the center of the set, constructed by the best carpentry team money could buy. Harry had said she could write anything she wanted after she'd won the Oscar. But she'd shocked the studio head when she'd told him she didn't want to write; she wanted to direct. She'd scarcely expected him to say yes, much less to assign her to a musical and the Hollywood debut of the only man she'd ever loved. Well, Harry didn't know that bit. It wasn't his fault the man who got away also happened to be the toast of Broadway. What a mess.

She closed her eyes and remembered seeing her first picture show. Cinderella. She'd been eight years old. The images of Mary Pickford's long curls and her beautiful gowns had captured Arlene's imagination. But something else had grabbed ahold of her that afternoon and never let go. The faces of the people around her. The gasps, the smiles, the radiant looks of happiness in their eyes. She'd decided in that moment that she wanted to be the one to create those images.

She inhaled, trying to calm her nerves. Tonight, she could be nervous. Tomorrow, well, she couldn't give any indication of how afraid she was that she'd cock this up somehow. The little fainting episode would be her only sign of weakness. It had to be.

Cool, calm, collected, and confident was the only way to run a set and to provoke the same from your crew and your actors. She could never be cruel. Some directors ruled their sets with an iron fist, but that wasn't her approach. Kindness, respect, collaboration — those were the keys to running a successful set. Even if respect was going to be difficult to earn from the men assigned to her team.

She swept out her arm while holding the barre with her other hand and tucked her heels together into first position. Memories came rushing back: Don trying to teach her ballet in their shared backyard, the elaborate dances he'd concocted, the paper-towel tube she'd used as a fake camera lens to "film" his musical numbers, each more elaborate than the last and fairly damaging to the camellia tree in the backyard when he’'d turned it into a lamppost. She had giggled in spite of herself and then bent her knees, attempting a plié.

Arlene was only 28 years old, but the action made her knees creak and her lower back protest. She wobbled, using her hand on the barre to steady herself. A voice from the shadows startled her and she toppled over completely. "You never were any good at that."

She hadn't heard that voice in 10 years, but she'd recognize it anywhere. Don Lazzarini. Her best friend. The object of her teenage fantasies. The one that got away. That left and never looked back. "What are you doing here?"

She wasn't supposed to see him until tomorrow. She was supposed to have time to prepare. To brace herself. So much for that — he'd sent her tumbling to the floor with his unexpected presence.

He was at her side in an instant, extending his hand as if it were an olive branch. "What do you mean, what am I doing here? I thought we were making a movie together." He grinned.

The twinkle in his dark-brown eyes and the familiar crinkle of his dimple, disrupted by his scar, sent a rush of butterflies to her stomach. Nothing had changed then. Nothing except his last name. 10 years, and it was as if she was standing on that train platform all over again.

She reluctantly took his proffered hand and tried to ignore the tingling sensation that raced up her arm as she touched him for the first time in a decade. He brought out the romantic streak in her. She’d always been the practical sort, levelheaded in a crisis. Her Oscar-winning movie-star best friend, Joan Davis, complimented her for her pragmatism. But Don unsteadied her. A few moments in his orbit and he’d robbed her of her common sense, and apparently her ability to stand on her own two feet. That was twice now. Once at the mere mention of his name. If she wasn’t so shaken, she’d roll her eyes at her own stupidity.

What a hand fate had dealt her. At last, she was realizing her childhood dream of directing a movie. A dream Don had encouraged, so much so that she'd given room to the fantasy and let it root itself in her heart. Now, he was to be her leading man. Once upon a time, she would've called it kismet. Now it just seemed like the universe's way of laughing at her. She was suddenly struck by the notion that she was very likely standing on a railroad track with a speeding train rushing toward her — and yet, there was nothing she could do about it.

She stood and quickly snatched her hand away, trying to hide the effect he had on her by smoothing her trousers. "I didn't mean, 'What are you doing here in Hollywood?' I meant, ''Why are you here on the soundstage? We don’t start until tomorrow.'"

"Would you believe me if I told you I couldn't wait another minute to see you?" If he had slugged her, it would've hurt less.

"No," she whispered, looking down at her feet. She toed at the scuffs in her favorite pair of work shoes. They contrasted sharply with the gleaming black of his dress shoes, the hint of a colorful sock poking out from under the upturned edge of his slacks. Their reflections swam and merged in polished shoes, and she looked up to catch a flicker of hurt pass through his eyes.

She resisted the urge to comfort him. Of course she didn't believe him. He hadn't spoken to her in 10 years. Never bothered to call, to write, to send the odd telegram. Not even when she'd needed him most. So, no, he wasn't here because he wanted so badly to see her. She'd scoff at him, if the thought of it didn't so very much make her want to cry.

"No?" he asked, biting his lip with a sheepish grin and shrugging as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

She shook her head, hoping he didn't notice her bout of furious blinking. If he had, he didn't say anything, instead taking her dissent in stride.

"You got me. You always could see right through me, Lena."

The pet name struck her like an arrow in the heart, and before she could stop herself, she snapped, "It's Arlene."

He peered at her, searching for something, and she gave him a hard look back. She was starting to recover a sense of herself. This was her set, her studio, and she wasn't going to let him turn her into some meek, lovesick creature. She had an Oscar, for heaven's sake! But he just smiled a half smile and said, "Okay, okay. Arlene then."

"Good, that's ... good. Thank you." She didn’t know what to say to him. 10 years she'd saved up stories to tell, jokes to repeat, heartbreaks to recount, victories to celebrate — and it all turned to ash in her mouth. Instead, they stood in an awkward silence, the early-evening hush of the soundstage deafening in its quiet. She licked her thumb and leaned down to rub at one of the scuff marks on her shoes. She didn't like this, feeling shabby in his presence. They'd been equals once. Or so she'd liked to believe.

"So ... " he started.

"So, why'd you come here tonight then? I know it wasn't because you were dying to see me. You've waited 10 years. What's one more night?"

He winced, but that infernal smile and the jagged dimple remained. She turned her attention to the large light fixture to her right, checking every hinge and screw even after she'd gone over them already.

"You always were one to cut to the point," he huffed. "I thought I'd come down here and get the lay of the land before we jump in the deep end tomorrow. I've never been on a movie set."

That caught her attention. She knew that. Of course she knew that. But something about the way he said it grabbed her. Like he, a Broadway big shot who didn't need any of the people he'd left behind in a little fishing town on the coast of California, was nervous. She stopped fiddling with the light stand and looked at him.

He turned on his heel, graceful as ever, wolf-whistling as he took in the sets. She tried to suppress the urge to stare at his butt, toned from years of dancing. It was absurdly enticing in his tailored slacks, designed to show off the line and form of his leg even when he wasn’t in motion. "Boy, they sure aren’t sparing any expense," he marveled as he walked the length of the fake dance studio they'd built.

She preened a bit at that. Harry had given her a huge budget. Far bigger than most first-time directors got out of the gate. It had shocked her. But it was a vote of confidence, of trust. She hoped it would go far in convincing the rest of the crew that she deserved their respect. She was a valued asset in the Evets Studios portfolio, whether they liked it or not. "Oh, this is just the dance studio." She smiled, unable to hide her excitement. "Wait until we get to the big production numbers."

He beamed at her. "I'm so proud of you, Le — Arlene. You really did it."

A rush of pride and something dangerous and more intangible flared in her belly. "I did, didn't I?" She smiled, before adding, "We both did."

They'd chased their dreams until they’d achieved them. No sense in ruining the moment by reminding him that he'd found his while abandoning everyone who loved him. She was proud of him too — even if his choices stung.

"Maybe," he intoned, flashing her an enigmatic smile as he ran his hand along the barre.

"Not maybe! You did! You went to New York, became the toast of Broadway, all the things you always said you'd do." She didn't know why she so badly needed him to take pride in his own achievements. Maybe because if he did, his absence, his silence, would at least be justified. It was hard to look back when you were doggedly focused on moving forward.

He simply nodded, his eyes taking in the parts of the set he could make out in the shadows cast by the ghost light. "Well, Hollywood is a new mountain to conquer."

He pressed his toes into the floor, testing the spring and give of the floor they'd installed on the soundstage. She'd sent very specific directions to the carpentry department. No one was going to slip or roll an ankle on her set. He executed a nimble series of steps, ending in a kick ball change, a turn, and a showy final pose as he slid onto his knees with his arms outstretched. She giggled; she couldn't help herself.

"The floor is perfect," he marveled.

"Do you remember the time you wrote out your vision of a perfect dance studio?" she murmured.

He cocked his head. "You didn't."

She blushed, flicking at a piece of lint on her sweater. "I insisted the studio build this to my specifications. Of course, I didn't know you’d be the one using it at the time," she fibbed. "But I only want the best on my set. And dance floors were always more your domain than mine."

It was mostly true. She would've held the carpenters to the same standard. No matter who was dancing on the floor.

He grinned and sprang from his position on his knees into another series of leaps and jumps. "I could really do something with this."

"Do something?" She didn't like the sound of that. This was her set. Don might be the toast of Broadway, but she was the director of this movie.

"I'm trying to talk the studio into letting me choreograph something," he called back over his shoulder. "Me and Eddie!"

"Eddie?"

"My choreographer friend from New York. He helped me devise the solos in Pal’ing Around. He'll be here tomorrow."

The hell he'll be, Arlene thought. She would not let control of her set be ripped out from under her before they'd even begun. Joan had warned her. The second you give a man in this business an inch, they take a mile. But she hadn't expected Don being the one she'd have to worry about. Sure, he'd always been headstrong, ambitious — but she didn't imagine he'd come in with guns blazing, overstepping before they'd even shot a single frame of film. "Did the studio approve that?"

He stopped mid-fouette. "Well, they knew he was coming with me. I told them I needed him and his insight. But at least for tomorrow, I thought I'd bring him along and let him observe."

"I'm the director."

"I know that. I — "

"It's been 10 years, Don. I'm not your next-door neighbor anymore." The hint of bitterness in her voice was unrecognizable to her.

"I just thought ... S---, Lena, I'm sorry." He closed his eyes in frustration. "Arlene. Sorry."

She bit her lip in frustration. This person — unyielding, flinty — that wasn't her. But he'd quite literally waltzed in here and turned everything topsy-turvy in a matter of minutes.

"It's all right." But it wasn't. She was terrified nothing would ever be all right again. Terrified she would forget all the pain and hurt roiling in her gut and forgive him. Terrified she would relent and give him whatever he asked for. The way she had when she was 18. No, things were most certainly not all right. And they wouldn't be until Don Lamont was back in New York and far away from her, once and for all.

"I just really want to prove myself." He kicked at the floor, looking as if his mother had caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. In that instant, he was no longer Don Lamont, toast of Broadway, but Don Lazzarini, the boy next door, the boy she had loved.

"I do too," she replied, allowing a softness into her voice as she willed him to understand what was at stake here. Not just for her, but for any woman who'd ever dreamed of being something more than a pretty face or a script girl nudged away to fetch coffee.

A voice from the darkness interrupted them both. "Hellooooo in there."

"We'll be right out," she called back. It was probably one of the electricians come to lock down the set for the night and do final checks on the wiring and equipment. She hated to admit she was grateful for the interruption, for a reprieve from this awkward reunion. Tomorrow, they could start fresh as simply Miss Morgan and Mr. Lamont.

"Would you want to grab a bite to eat?" Don asked, that beguiling grin back on his face. It was never far from the surface. Once she'd found it charming. Now, it was infuriating.

"Thanks, but I've still got a lot to do before tomorrow." She turned on her heel and headed for the large open door on the soundstage, keeping her eyes on the tendrils of dusky purple evening light that were beckoning her outside.

As soon as she stepped out into the night, she inhaled deeply, the late-blooming jacarandas giving her breath of fresh air — a dainty, floral scent. She leaned against the stucco of the soundstage, still warm from the summer sun, and closed her eyes, counting to 10 until her heart returned to a semblance of its normal pace.

She couldn't look back. She'd wasted far too much time looking back, wondering what might have been. No more. Not with so much at stake.

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