Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(73)

Angela can count on two hands the number of people she knows who’ve actually seen her movie. She can tell from Lancaster’s blank expression that he’s not one of them.

“I’m so looking forward to working with you,” Ruby says. “I can use all the help I can get.”

Help? It’s not until then, as Angela registers the look of undisguised pity that the receptionist is sending her way, that the penny drops and Angela’s stomach goes queasy.

“Won’t Ruby make a splendid Irene Adler?” Lancaster says, standing back and appraising his prize. Confirming the worst.

Angela’s face burns with humiliation and her insides feel thick. How is she supposed to respond? She wills her face to go expressionless. She’s an actress. She can handle this.

Lancaster turns to Angela. “And of course, you’ll make a fabulous Mrs. Hudson. One for the ages.”

She swallows the lump in her throat. From infamous femme fatale to iconic landlady who, in the script, doesn’t even get a name. The thought should have cracked her up but instead it’s put her on the verge of tears.

“I’m so delighted to meet you,” she says to Ruby, forcing a smile and extending her hand. She imagines that Ruby is her sister’s daughter Gracie, an adorable precocious six-year-old. But the person Ruby actually reminds her of is Angela herself, twenty-five years ago. Beautiful, sexy, ambitious, more than a little insecure, and just nineteen when she walked out of this same office with the role of Irene Adler. She hopes Ruby can handle Lancaster’s advances, since the old dog’s undoubtedly up to his usual tricks.

Angela wants to kill her agent. Deliberately ambiguous, that’s what he was. Knew he had to be in order to get her to show up for this. But really, what had Angela been smoking that made her think Lancaster would still yearn for the smoldering sexuality and timeless beauty that only Angela Cassano could bring to the role? It’s no secret that Hollywood considers any woman a day over forty far too old to play opposite a man who’s pushing seventy. Only British leading ladies are allowed to age.

“See you,” Ruby says, waving as she backs into the hall. Angela wants to follow her out, but the bitter truth is she needs the work. So she follows Lancaster into his office and takes a seat across his massive desk.

The walls are hung with movie memorabilia. A neon sign that reads BATES MOTEL NO VACANCY. A bowler hat like the one Malcolm MacDowell wore in A Clockwork Orange. A rack of five flintlock pistols that would have been at home on the Bounty. She also recognizes a full-length portrait of herself as Irene Adler. It’s a 25-year-old prop from the original Scandal in Bohemia.

“You were fabulous,” Lancaster says, following her gaze to the portrait.

I know. “And now you want me for Mrs. Hudson?” Is he being deliberately cruel or can he be that clueless?

“Of course I want you. And not just for Mrs. Hudson. I also want you to be our standin for Ruby.”

“Standin.” She tries to say it without sneering.

“You know the plot. You know the character. You’ll be perfect, and you’ll be able to mentor Ruby on her performance. After all, you set the gold standard.”

What he wants her to do is smile. Bask in praise from on high. What she wants to do is scream. Tell him to take his gold standard and . . .

She takes a cleansing breath and waits. She hears the voice of her first acting coach: Don’t rush to fill a silence.

“I’m prepared to pay you well. Very well,” Lancaster says. She says nothing. He holds up a finger. “Supporting player.” A second finger. “Standin.” He balls his fist. “More for any time you need to step in for her.”

Step in for her? “Why would I need to do that?”

“She’s”—he looks for the word—“inexperienced. She’s done some commercials and worked a season on Mean Girls.” Angela’s never watched it. “This is her first major film role.”

“Talented?”

“Very. But learning the ropes. Having you there will be a godsend. If she needs advice. Shaping. And you’ll be there to pick up the slack if she should have to take a sick day.”

Actors don’t get sick days during a movie shoot. Not unless they’re dying. “What, she has a drinking problem?”

Lancaster shakes his head.

“Drugs?”

He scoffs.

“Neurotic?”

He raises his eyebrows, allowing that might be the case. “She’s green. And she can be”—he gazes past Angela—“volatile.”

It sounds weird. Why would Lancaster hire a drama queen for a role she’s not ready to play? It’s not as if there’s a shortage of talent in this town. But it’s his movie, he can do whatever the hell he pleases, which apparently includes casting Angela Cassano as Mrs. Hudson.

It’s hardly the “comeback” she envisioned. As she recalls, Mrs. Hudson has three scenes, and mostly they involve serving tea. Angela can’t be luminous or dangerous. She can only be old.

As Ruby’s standin, Angela will have to be on the set much more, moving through Irene Adler’s motions while the lights and camera setups are tweaked. But no screen time. The only up-side is the extra she’ll be paid, which better be considerable.

Lancaster is sitting forward, waiting for her to respond. Sensing her advantage, Angela leans back in her chair and waits. His chair creaks as he leans back, too, tenting his fingers over his stomach. Light gleams off his head.