The Disappearing Act(67)

Once I’m ready, I’m led to set. But I’m told my co-star isn’t quite ready yet. I hand the runner my little pre-shoot gift and ask him to drop it off at my co-star’s dressing room. He winks at my ingenuity and trots off with the bright-blue packet in hand.

A full forty-five minutes after our original start time my co-star arrives on set, in the production runner’s wake. He’s studying something written in a small moleskin notebook as he approaches, and when he looks up his eyes find mine.

He takes in my costume, hair, and makeup, and gives me a tight smile. “Very good. Very good indeed,” he remarks, in an accent not his own. He’s already in character, just as everyone said he would be.

They storm past and the runner gestures for me to follow too. I trot behind them dutifully in my Edwardian heels and corset, struggling for breath, as they stride out onto the brightly lit soundstage.

On set things move quickly. We discuss the scene with the director then block through a rehearsal. I check which lights are mine with the camera operator and what is being favored in the first shot, and after final checks—and “Quiet on set,” has been called—the soundstage bell is rung. We take our first positions, behind a false front door, ready to enter. The set quiets around us and in the fresh silence my co-star leans in and whispers, his tone sincere, “Thank you very much for the biscuits by the way, much appreciated.” His character has dropped for a second and he gives me a warm smile. “Oh, and break a leg.”

With that, we hear the director’s voice blare loud from the darkness beyond the studio lights.

“And…action.”





29


    New Information


MONDAY, FEBRUARY 15

Two scenes down and I’m walking on air back to my dressing room, my heart fluttering light in my chest, my face aching from suppressing my happiness. He is so good. He makes me so good. I’m terrified to think about how well it’s all been going so far. I even saw Kathryn Mayer give me a covert thumbs-up between takes from the dimness behind a camera monitor.

We have an hour for lunch, and while they’ve told me I can take it in my dressing room, I’d prefer to get some fresh air after being in the studio for so long. With the help of a wardrobe assistant, I wriggle free from my corset, slip on some joggers and a hoodie, and take a stroll out onto the lot.

My eyes take a moment to readjust to the glare of the California sun as I breathe in the cool spring air. Then following signs, I wind my way through the studio lots in search of the studio coffee shop.

Coffee shop located, I inhale a pastrami sandwich and a bag of potato chips before heading back across the lot with an ice-cold Frappuccino in hand. And that’s when it happens.

I feel the antique hair comb fixed onto the back of my second updo loosen and I’m too slow to catch it as the delicate tortoiseshell-and-rhinestone piece hits the tarmac of the lot. I watch a single rhinestone pop from its setting and skitter along the ground. Damn it.

It’s as I bend to pick it up that he knocks into me, sending a splash of Frappuccino cascading down my hoodie and jogger leg.

“God, sorry. Sorry, sorry,” he exclaims, as shocked as I am, a phone glued to his ear. “Sorry, Danny, I’ll have to call you back,” he says into the receiver as he offers me a hand up and ends his call. But I do not take his hand, I just stare, because I’ve seen this man before. I’ve seen his photograph smiling back at me from the Moon Finch “About Us” page. But more important I’ve heard this man’s voice before on a muffled audio recording that I would give anything to be able to forget.

I rise quickly, desperately trying to keep my expression neutral because this is the man who raped Emily Bryant and got away with it.

He looks at me concerned. “Are you okay?” he asks.

I struggle for words. He’s being so normal, he’s being so nice. “Am I okay?” I repeat. “Yes, I dropped my comb.” I bizarrely hold it up as evidence.

He smiles. “And your comb’s okay?” he jokes.

The joke catches me off guard; I remind myself that he doesn’t know me and he doesn’t know that I know what he did.

“Ha, yeah,” I reply with a halfhearted chuckle. “It’s good.”

He nods, then his demeanor suddenly changes as something clicks into place in his mind. “It’s Mia Eliot, isn’t it?”

My heart skips a beat; he does know me. He knows exactly who I am. I feel Jane waking up inside me.

“Yeah,” I answer with a strident confidence I do not feel. “It is. Have we met?”

He shifts his weight. Clearly, we haven’t. “No, but I saw Eyre. I’m one of the producers over at Moon Finch, Ben Cohan. Eyre was fantastic by the way. You’ve got a…a real connection with the lens, it’s great to watch.” He studies my elaborate hair. “You’re here for the Galatea screen test.”

“Just on lunch break. But yeah.”

He nods knowingly. “That’s great. Great to hear. You’re great for this,” he says, gesturing to the comb in my hand.

If he says great one more time I’m going to scream.

“Galatea was on our slate,” he continues, “before Kathryn. We did a lot of development on it before we handed it over. But Kathryn is the best, she’s got a good eye. Hey, listen, we’d love to get you in for something at Moon Finch soon, too, you know.”