by Gail Bowen
Everything was where it had to be, but time was not on the side of Sisters and Strangers. Rosamond Burke would be eighty-one when shooting was scheduled to begin. She was in good health but as Rosamond herself pointed out, twelve-hour working days could be taxing for an actor who was no longer an ingénue. At eighteen, Vale was still able to pass as Sally at fourteen, a girl on the cusp of becoming a woman. That delicate balance was critical in the early episodes of the series, but if the project were delayed, Vale would almost certainly outgrow the part.
Fawn looked around the room and said, “We are all —” but then heads turned as Kyle Daly burst into the room, apologized for being late, looked desperately around the table for a vacant chair and then having located one, collapsed into it. Fawn gave him a forgiving “we’ve all been there” smile and waited until he settled in before she spoke.
Fawn’s long-fingered hands were graceful and expressive, as essential to communicating her thoughts as her words. As she began again, she held out her hands, palms up in a gesture of inclusion. “We are all missing Roy today,” she said. “This past week has been difficult for us, and we are still reeling. But ready or not, we must move on. Roy once told me that when he was hurting, his work took him out of himself. Remembering Roy’s words, let’s get to work and hope for the best.
“This is primarily a creative meeting — so this is the time for me to step back, listen and take notes. I have met with you individually, and each of you has identified your department’s needs and flagged possible bumps in the road. I’ll be meeting regularly with heads of departments, but if you discover you need special equipment, run into an unexpected expense or face a problem with time, please let me know asap.
“I’ll end by saying what I always say: no path is without obstacles. They are as frustrating as they are inevitable. But often the way you overcome the obstacle opens a new creative path, so hang in there. Try the options, talk them out, and if nothing works, remember we’re all in this together. Everyone working on this project has the same goal. We all want to make something incredible. We are co-creators. We’ve got you covered. You are safe.” Fawn turned to Ainsley. “Ready to say a few words?”
When Ainsley shook her head, Georgie shot her a worried look and then picked up the cue. “Fawn’s right about no path being without obstacles,” Georgie said. “At first, Roy’s death seemed to be an obstacle that was insurmountable, but now we know that he left us the blueprint and the tools to find our way without him. The scripts for the first two episodes are locked, and you’ve all read them. You know that Roy has already created the landscapes — physical and emotional — for the series and that in Sisters and Strangers, he had given us complex, nuanced characters with beating hearts. There are points of real drama in these scripts, times when major events happen, but mostly what we are doing is inviting the audience into our characters’ lives, showing in detail the moments that shaped the women Sally Love and Joanne Ellard became: sisters who were strangers for much of their lives, but who were joined with a bond that even death couldn’t sever.
“Together, Joanne and I have completed the episode that Roy began but never finished. The writing needs to be polished, but we’ve found our path and we know where we’re going. Stay tuned.”
Hal Dupuis leaned towards me and whispered, “That is such a relief. We’ve all been on tenterhooks.” He slid a drawing out of his art portfolio, laid it face down on the table and stood to address the gathering. “I’ve only begun, but I already know that dressing the women in this series will be a joy,” he said. “All those stunning outfits of the early sixties. And of course, Nina Love was a goddess — in her own mind, and” — he looked towards me — “and, of course, to you, Joanne.”
I was dumbfounded. Until that morning, I hadn’t known Hal Dupuis existed, and yet he knew about the darkest love I’d ever experienced.
When he saw my expression, Hal looked crestfallen. “And I’ve blundered again,” he said. “Let me try to explain. We were all given what Roy Brodnitz had written. The scripts and his notes. Roy’s writing is sublime, but I couldn’t grasp the complexity of Nina Love’s character from words on a page. I needed more. When I saw Nina in Ben Bendure’s movies, I began to understand her — her love for beauty, her narcissism, her obsessive need for control and her charm as she manipulated those around her. In the presentation folders in front of you, you’ll find a drawing of the gown Nina will wear the first time she appears onscreen.”
Hal bent, turned over the drawing that had been face down on the table and slid it towards me. “I think you’ll recognize it,” he said quietly.
The drawing took my breath away. In every detail, it was the dress Nina had worn at the first grown-up dinner party I’d ever attended. That evening, our island seemed enchanted. The lake was calm; the moon, full; the night, starry; and fairy lights had been strung through the branches of the willows. The air smelled of nicotiana, expensive perfumes and cigarette smoke. The men were all handsome, and the women were all lovely, but none was lovelier than Nina in a dress whose clean lines showcased her graceful arms, her elegant neck and her exquisite heart-shaped face. She had worn her dark hair in a chignon that night, and when she leaned forward to chat with her guests, her pearl and diamond drop earrings glowed as they touched her cheeks.
“A sample of the material we’re using for the dress is attached to your drawings.”
The piece of vibrant blue silk Hal Dupuis gave me was larger than the swatches of material stapled to the drawings. Nina had taught me how to tell true silk from fake. She said that when you held true silk, it would lay across your hand as naturally as a second skin. As I looked at the graceful drape of the silk in my hand, I swallowed hard, remembering.
Beside me, Hal relaxed as appreciative nods and murmurs of approbation met his design. “Every time I start a new project, I remember Helen Mirren saying she wept the first time she had a costume fitting for The Queen and saw the clothes and shoes she would have to wear to play Elizabeth II. Mirren said, ‘I can’t play anyone who’d wear those clothes.’ Then she began researching and she understood that the Queen dresses as she does because she’s uninterested in clothes and she doesn’t care what she looks like as long as it’s the right thing for the right moment. When Mirren began donning the clothes that the Costume Department made for her she was thrilled about how the clothes, all lined with incredibly expensive silk, felt, and about how she felt when she wore them. Mirren said that only when she put on the clothing of the Queen did she begin to understand what it was like to be the Queen.
“I believe that when the actor playing Nina Love puts on this dress, she’ll understand what it was like to be a woman with the beauty, power and ruthlessness to twist the lives of others until they gave her what she wanted.” He paused. “That’s it for me. I have a score of other designs but they’re not in their final form.”
Hal took his seat and turned to me. “Did I pass the test?”
“Yes,” I said. “You passed the test. Wherever did you find Prussian blue silk?”
Hal’s expression was rueful. “Online,” he said. “These days, the world is our oyster. Now tell me how did you come to know the name of that particular shade.”
“Nina told me,” I said. “The dye is made from cyanide salts, but it isn’t toxic because it’s bound to something else.”
“Iron,” Hal said. “It’s a tight bond that renders the cyanide harmless.”
“Unlike Nina,” I said.
The communal show and tell continued. The locations manager, Edie Gunn, a deeply tanned, athletic woman with a steel-grey Dutch bob and a no-nonsense attitude, asked us to turn on our tablets. She’d posted photos of Ernest Lindner’s cabin and of the virgin forest that surrounded it. At Kyle Daly’s request, she too, had taken a number of photos of forest undergrowth, fallen branches, lichen and tree bark. Edie said Kyle believed the photos would help determine the design style for set
s, locations, graphics and even camera angles. “I didn’t see the point of it, myself,” Edie added, “but I’m a team player.”
The distance between Regina and Emma Lake was 415 kilometres, but Edie said the lake surrounding the island was as pristine and undeveloped as an Ontario lake in the early 1960s would have been, and she felt the authenticity was worth the expense. She suggested that the production company shoot exteriors in Northern Saskatchewan for three weeks in summer and two weeks in autumn and have the cabins’ interiors built at the production studios. Edie Gunn had other news. The MacKenzie Art Gallery in Regina had given the go-ahead to film there for a few days between exhibitions, however Sally Love’s notorious fresco Erotobiography would have to be re-created on set. The MacKenzie had been polite but firm in refusing to have a fresco of the sexual parts of the one hundred individuals with whom Sally Love had been intimate painted directly on one of its gallery walls.
Everyone chatted quietly as they checked out their tablets, but Ainsley, who had not opened hers, remained silent. The reports continued. Nick Kovacs discussed Roy’s desire to use as much natural light as possible in shooting and said that when Ainsley was ready they would go through the locked scripts together, marking scenes where the use of natural light would be feasible.
Sketches of sets were passed around and discussion broke out about whether music would be used to foster a mood, evoke the era or as a Greek chorus with lyrics commenting on the story. The room hummed with the energy of professionals beginning a new venture together, but Ainsley remained expressionless, isolated by grief.
After the last person in the circle had reported, Fawn thanked everyone and turned to Ainsley. “Anything you’d like to say before we go our separate ways?”
Ainsley picked up her satchel. “I have nothing,” she said, and she left the room, her bleak statement hanging in the air like a pall.
Hal Dupuis was a heavy man with a face made for smiling, but as he watched Ainsley leave, his features had a bloodhound droop. “That poor soul,” he said. “This was a misery for her, but Joanne, your morning mustn’t end on a sad note.”
“It’s okay,” I said hastily.
“Today was your first meeting with the people who are going to bring your story to life. It’s always a special moment, and it should be celebrated,” Hal said. “Roy told me once that when he was writing, he always needed a talisman, an object that connected him with the story he was telling.” Hal handed me the swatch of Prussian blue silk. “Take this. Souvenir of your first table meeting. I was watching your face when you saw my design for Nina’s dress — I suspect there might be unfinished business there. Having this piece of Prussian blue silk close might help you finish it.”
* * *
Georgie and I left the Big Room together. We had planned to buy sandwiches at a deli, take them to my place and get back to work, but at the meeting, Georgie’s anxiety about Ainsley was apparent, and I wasn’t surprised when she cancelled lunch. “Jo, I’m sorry. I know you and I have work to do, but I can’t leave Ainsley alone — not the way she is now.”
“It’s only been a week,” I said. “Everything in that meeting was a reminder of the man who wasn’t in the room.”
Georgie’s sigh was deep. “And of the woman who wasn’t in the room, Ainsley Blair — there in body, but not in spirit. She has to decide whether she’s in or out. She can’t stay in limbo, pouring salt in her own wounds and sucking the spirit out of the production. I know she’s grieving, but if we’re going to finish on time and on budget, Ainsley needs to be actively involved with every person at the table today. Decisions have to be made. Gabe’s forethought and Fawn’s determination kept us afloat through Roy’s breakdown, but if Ainsley doesn’t provide leadership, we’ll lose momentum, and we can’t afford that.”
“Do you think it’s time to talk to Ainsley about bringing in another director — just on an interim basis until Ainsley finds her feet?”
“I see the logic,” Georgie said. “But that’s the last door I want to open. The minute I raise the possibility of bringing someone else in, Ainsley will call Buzz Wells.”
“He’s not a director.”
“That won’t matter to Ainsley. Buzz will dig up someone who’s available, but he’ll insist on coming along to executive produce. You and I have promised Ainsley that Sisters and Strangers will be driven by Roy’s vision. If Buzz Wells gets anywhere near this project, his tiny footprints will be all over it.”
“In that case we won’t let him get near it. Georgie, you do know that if there’s anything I can do to ease the situation, I’ll do it.”
“I know, and I’m grateful. You have my back, and so does Nick. Speaking of . . .” Georgie reached into her bag and took out an envelope. “I almost forgot to give you this. It’s an invitation to Nick’s birthday dinner on Friday. Nick told me he’d already invited you and Zack, but Chloe made a special invitation.” Georgie raised a warning finger. “No steaming open the envelope. Chloe wants you and Zack to open it together.”
* * *
When Kyle Daly caught up with me on the steps outside of the production studios, I was daydreaming about the possibility that Georgie, Nick and Chloe might share a future. Kyle’s voice caught me by surprise. “I was afraid I’d missed you,” he said.
“Well, you’re in luck,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“Advise me,” he said. “Joanne, I don’t know Taylor well, but I have an idea that could involve her. Sisters and Strangers is about artists, and we’re going to need paintings. We never use real art: the insurance is out of sight, and on a movie set the only things handled with kid gloves are the actors. Taylor is a serious artist. I’ve seen her work and it’s incredible. I also know how much her paintings sell for — our offer for her work would be generous for set decoration but not even in the ballpark for Taylor’s original paintings.
“That’s the negative,” Kyle continued. “Here’s the positive. This series is about Taylor’s family, and I thought she might like to be involved. Plus Vale’s role is so significant, and Taylor could give Vale insight into her character’s process when she makes art. Do you think Taylor will be insulted if I approach her about this?”
“No, she may have other plans, but she won’t be insulted. I’ll give you Taylor’s number, and you can get in touch.”
Kyle’s eyes were searching. “But what do you think of the idea?”
“I think it’s terrific,” I said. “I know Sally would want her daughter to be a part of our story. I want that too.” I held up my hand. “See? Fingers crossed.”
The tension drained from Kyle’s face. “Thanks.” He held up his hand. “I’ve got my fingers crossed too.”
Chapter Eight
After I left the production studios, I shopped for dinner, picked up Zack’s dry cleaning and bought a dozen red and yellow tulips to brighten the dinner table. When I arrived home Taylor and Kyle were sitting at the kitchen table with tea and their tablets.
Taylor jumped up to help me put away groceries and Kyle joined her. “So, what’s the verdict?” I said.
Kyle grinned. “We got our wish, Joanne. Taylor said yes.”
“I’m going to make the art for the series,” Taylor said, “and Kyle is going to help me decorate the apartment while Vale is away.”
“Fair exchange,” I said.
“We think it is,” Kyle said. “I’m in need of distraction, and Taylor told me that she and Vale want to move into their new place as soon as Vale arrives back in Regina.”
“Nineteen days,” I said. “Not much margin for error.”
“We have a terrific crew,” Kyle said. “They’ll get the job done, Joanne. The Art Department has a meeting in half an hour. Taylor’s going to sit in. We’ll explain what we need, Taylor will explain what she needs, and then she and I will grab a quick bite and check out the apartment.”
* * *
; I always enjoyed our daughter’s company, but after the three of us said our goodbyes, and I heard the door close behind Kyle and Taylor, I heaved a sigh of relief. The table meeting had taken its toll on me. Collaborating with Roy, and now with Georgie, as we wove together the strands of my life had evoked some painful memories, but the writing experience had the intimacy of a private talk with a friend.
That morning as Hal Dupuis’s colleagues perused the design and fabric for Nina’s gown, and a woman from Hair and Makeup asked me for the names of Nina’s favourite perfume (Joy), lipstick (Rouge Dior) and mascara (none, her lashes were naturally long, black and full) and I saw sketches of my bedroom in the cottage on MacLeod Lake and of the bench under the tree overlooking the water where my father and Des smoked their pipes, I felt as if I were witnessing my own autopsy. The people at the table were strangers and watching them dispassionately lay out shards of the past that had formed me, filled me with something very close to panic.
I needed an afternoon of peace and diversion, and I knew exactly how to create it. When it comes to the New Yorker, I am a hoarder. I have three shelves filled with back issues in our garage, and with a five-minute search, I can always find exactly what I need. That afternoon when I discovered that the July 3, 2017, issue featured an article titled “Hemingway, the Sensualist,” I knew Lady Luck was sitting on my shoulder. After I arranged the tulips in a Mexican pottery vase, I made a plate of toast and a pot of tea and took my tray and magazine to the chair by the window where I could see the forsythia. By the time I’d finished my tea and toast, I was once again a woman at peace with herself. I celebrated by taking a long nap and when I awakened, I put a chicken in the oven, snapped green beans, scrubbed carrots, peeled potatoes and set the table.
