Review

"City of Flickering Light radiates excitement, warmth, and, yes, light, making the pages fly. You won't realize that you're getting an education--in this case, in the fascinating world of 1920's Hollywood--as you fall in love with the characters and root for their success. A thoroughly satisfying read."--Lynn Cullen, bestselling author of Mrs. Poe
"City of Flicking Light is a delight of a novel, full of fascinating characters, timely themes, heady ups and downs, and all set in Hollywood during the era of silent films. Fabulous read!" --B.A. Shapiro, New York Times bestselling author of The Art Forger and The Collector's Apprentice
"City of Flickering Light by Juliette Fay is an entirely addictive, transportive historical novel. Delightful characters full of grit, flaws, and compassion take the reader on an unforgettable journey through the Golden Age of Hollywood. From glamorous film sets and champagne parties to dream-shattering realities waiting behind the scenes, the bonds of friendship are not only forged and tested but, above all, depended upon for survival. I didn't want the story to end."--Kristina McMorris, New York Times bestselling author of Sold on a Monday and The Edge of Lost
"The descendant of a vaudevillian, Fay follows her tale of traveling acrobats, The Tumbling Turner Sisters (2016), with this atmospheric portrait of early Tinseltown, peppering her characters' escapades with real people and places and creating a buoyant tale of friendship and loyalty."-- "Booklist"
"With humor, warmth, and an impeccable eye for historical detail, Juliette Fay has written a page-turning novel that's as radiant as its Hollywood setting. City of Flickering Light brings to life the wicked glamor of 1920s Tinseltown - and its story of friendship, love, and acceptance melts your heart." --Ann Mah, bestselling author of The Lost Vintage

Review Quote

"With humor, warmth, and an impeccable eye for historical detail, Juliette Fay has written a page-turning novel that's as radiant as its Hollywood setting. City of Flickering Light brings to life the wicked glamor of 1920s Tinseltown - and its story of friendship, love, and acceptance melts your heart."

Excerpt from Book

City of Flickering Light 1 Hollywood was built by women and Jews--those were people not allowed in respectable professions. It was not taken seriously as a business, so women and Jews could get into it. Cari Beauchamp, Hollywood historian Blood raced through Irene''s veins like a brushfire, thrumming in her ears as she sat in the train car waiting for just the right moment. The window to her new life--or newest life--would open only briefly before it shut with a defeated thump. She rubbed the spot on her hip where the awful flag costume had dug in. Mr. Chandler always ordered their costumes a size too small because "burlesque patrons like them tight." The Fourth of July had been a week ago, and the irony of seven days wearing the stars and stripes, symbol of freedom, strapped around her like a titillating little straitjacket was not lost on Irene. Independence Day, she thought anxiously. Better a week late than never. "Now?" whispered Millie, her fingers inching along the leather bench seat toward Irene''s thigh, as if Irene were some sort of rabbit''s foot to rub for good luck. Irene nudged them away. Henry''s eyes were on them, his gaze boring into Irene from his rear-facing seat, through the dust motes swirling between them in the merciless southwest sunlight. He cocked his head almost imperceptibly, a what''s-going-on look. Irene shrugged, willing her face to relax into some facsimile of composure. Barney''s massive frame suddenly filled the aisle beside them. "Ladies," he said, reptilian eyes scanning the landscape of their bodies. "And gentleman." His gaze went dull as it took in Henry, the lowest paid among them. Irene knew it was more than that; it was jealousy. Henry''s good looks were made for photographs--thick dark hair and large brown eyes set off by pale unblemished skin, a study in contrasts. All the girls loved Henry, their well-mannered rascal. None of them loved Barney, Mr. Chandler''s right-hand man, as he liked to say. Right-hand hatchet man, they whispered privately. Irene had seen him take a girl by the hair and hit her till she dropped like a sack of laundry. "Why''re your bags under the seat?" he demanded. "Oughta be in the baggage car." Irene sighed, feigning mild annoyance. "No room." "We don''t mind," said Millie. "Makes it easier to put our feet up." She set the heel of her t-strap pump onto the protruding case and crossed the other leg over, her dress slipping up above her knee. Her blue eyes went coy as she tugged the thin cotton fabric of her dress down a little, the lacy edge of her slip still perfectly visible. Barney''s eyes took in that distant shoreline, a scurvy sailor hungry for a decent meal. "Tickets?" said Irene. "Now, don''t go and lose them." Barney tugged them out of the pocket of his vest, spotted with whatever meal he''d last eaten. Something with gravy, it looked like. When Millie reached for hers, he pulled his hand back. "You gonna lose it?" he said. "?''Course you are. Ain''t got the sense God give a goat." Irene froze. If he held Millie''s ticket, what would they do? She couldn''t leave Millie behind, now that she''d promised to take her. Gone soft already, she chided herself, and she was barely twenty-one. Uncharacteristically, she''d felt a strange need for company. Well, you''ll have company now, won''t you? All the way to hell. Millie tittered stupidly, even for Millie. "Give it to Irene to hold for me, then," she said. "She never lost a thing in her life." Barney handed over the tickets, and Irene had to keep her fingers from gripping them too tightly. Before moving on to the next row of young girls in his herd, the huge man tossed another ticket at Henry, who had to snatch it from the air before it fell to his feet. He was still eyeing Irene, and she gave him a sharp look. He glanced away, sufficiently cowed, and fiddled with the strap of his rucksack, which she knew held only a few personal items and a tattered notebook of jokes--mostly bad ones, if his comedy act was any indication. There it was, the faint shushing sound Irene had been dreaming of and fretting about for weeks. The engine ground into gear, and she counted, just as she had at the last stop and the one before that, to get the timing down. Timing was everything in life. She''d learned that early on. Thirteen . . . fourteen . . . fifteen. As the engine strained to move countless tons of steel, the red sandstone of the Flagstaff, Arizona, train depot seemed to shudder in her view. The conductor stood at the other end of the car, scolding the porter. Irene could barely hear him over the groaning of the engine. " . . . under their seats! . . . supposed to be in baggage! . . ." He was shrunken and white haired with a mustache that trailed down off his jowls like curtain pulls. He glared up at the young black man, who shook his head--in truthful innocence, Irene knew. She herself had told him the baggage porter said the car was full, and they should stow their suitcases beneath them. The conductor poked the young man''s chest now and motioned for him to get the cases. The wheels hadn''t begun to turn yet. Something was holding up the train, and if they left too soon, Mr. Chandler would send Barney after them. The young porter wasn''t moving though. She could see the anger flashing in his eyes. Things were changing. The younger Negroes who''d fought in the Great War didn''t come home to be pushed around as they had been before. Fight back, Irene silently urged the porter. Refuse him. But before her thoughts could find their mark, the young man was making his way toward them. There was a screeching sound, metal on metal, and the car lurched forward. "Now!" said Irene, and Millie began tugging at her case. "It''s stuck!" cried Millie. "Damn thing''s overstuffed," Irene muttered as her case swung wildly in her grip. "For godsake, pull harder!" "Where are you--" started Henry. "Quitting!" Irene hissed under her breath at Henry as the train began to roll, slowly picking up speed. "Please!" Millie begged the porter who''d made his way to them. "We''ve got to get out!" The young man shot a look over his shoulder at the conductor now barreling down the aisle toward them. He turned back and gave Millie''s suitcase a hard yank. "You go on now," he said, handing it to her. "And good luck to you. All the luck in the world." He stepped back into the aisle, effectively blocking the conductor. Irene ran in the opposite direction, case banging against her knees and the elbows of passengers as she flew by them. "Hey now!" they cried out. "Watch it!" Through the dust-speckled windows, the landscape was moving, low buildings giving way to fields and distant pines. She nearly collapsed into the door of the car, grabbing the long metal handle and tugging upward. The door flew sideways with a clank just as Millie fell into her. They staggered a moment and headed down the steps. The train was moving faster now, and Irene felt herself hesitate. If she broke her legs, then where would she be? A sudden shove from behind and she was flying through the air. She collapsed in the hog-mown brush by the train tracks, stiff shafts of weeds poking into her knees and hands. There was a shriek, and Irene looked up in time to see Millie tumble down the railroad bed ahead of her. In another moment, a black mop of hair bobbed up out of the weeds, and Millie let out a whoop. "Ireeeeene!" she howled. "We did it!" They watched the train recede into the landscape, and Irene felt the warm piney air fill her lungs, as if it were the first full breath she''d taken in years. Just as the horizon had nearly swallowed the train whole, something else jumped off, a large, dark-colored blob that flopped to the ground and rolled into the brush. Barney! "Run!" Irene screamed. "Millie, run!" They bolted, cases forgotten in the jeopardy of the moment. They knew what happened to girls who tried to leave before Mr. Chandler was ready to let them go. He set Barney on them with strict instructions to leave no visible marks. Mr. Chandler said bruises were a distraction to the men in the audience and encouraged the girls to comport themselves with care. The only place Barney was allowed to hit them was their heads, where hair would cover any lumps or bruises. Irene and Millie skittered to a stand of pines, chests heaving as they gasped for breath, and hid behind a thick tree trunk. Irene peered out to see how close behind them he was but saw only the golden crowns of waist-high weeds gently swaying in the noon sunlight. "Think he''s dead?" Millie wheezed from behind her. "Maybe just knocked out." "Long enough for us to go back and get the bags?" Who knew? Either way they needed those suitcases. They wouldn''t get far wearing the same clothes day after day. Irene looked around. There was a dead branch on the ground, about three feet long and thick enough to do some damage. "You get the bags," she said, hefting it as they crept forward. "I''ll keep an eye out." Millie grinned. "They sure don''t teach this kind of thing in finishing school." "I didn''t go to finishing school." "And you can thank your lucky star

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