Ruby gives her an odd look, and Angela realizes she’s the one who’s overacting now. Actresses may be self-obsessed, but even young ones are rarely stupid.
“The lines are the easy part,” Angela says. “Emote, but don’t lose yourself. Think about the conflict. Holmes wants to uncover, to reveal. Irene is the enigma who refuses to yield her secrets. She’s proud. Her goal . . . is to hide.”
“Hide.” Ruby nods, apparently mesmerized, though the advice couldn’t be more basic. “Something she can’t afford for anyone to find out.” She adds, as if to herself, “Or promised not to tell.”
Angela stands and Ruby takes her seat at the mirror. Briana snaps open a fresh cloth and drapes it over Ruby.
“Go out there and knock ’em dead,” Angela says, gazing at her own reflection in the mirror, indulging for a moment in the fantasy that she’ll go onto the set, rip off her Mrs. Hudson wig and makeup, and take over as Irene Adler.
“Just watch me,” Ruby says, her face animated with inner light and a yearning tinged with sadness. The camera is going to love her.
On the soundstage forty minutes later, Angela sits next to Anthony Fox, who’s made up as Sherlock with a few days’ worth of grizzle on his face and wearing a rumpled silk dinner jacket. In his first scene he’s supposed to be wasted, bored out of his skull with no puzzle to harness his prodigious intellect. Members of the crew in baseball caps, their muscles bulging under de rigueur tight black T-shirts, upend Victorian furniture and adjust brocade drapes in the drawing room set. Taunting Angela from over the fireplace is the painting of her as Irene Adler, the prop from the earlier movie.
Cameras move in position. Technicians tinker with the lights.
“Where the hell’s the girl?” Lancaster directs the question at Angela.
“I’ll go check,” Angela says. She’s happy to be doing something other than waiting. She makes her way to the exit, carefully stepping over cables that crisscross the concrete floor of the soundstage. Her neck itches from the high starched-lace collar and she’s sweating under padding that thickens her chest. The latex makeup makes her face feel as if she’s got her head stuck in a surgical glove.
As she nears the dressing room door, she hears Ruby’s plaintive voice. “Why is this happening?” And, “Oh . . . my . . . God.”
Angela knocks gently. “Ruby?”
From the other side of the door, sobbing.
“Ruby, they’re ready for you.”
“Nooooo.” A heartrending cry.
Angela pushes the door open. Ruby is sitting in the chair, facing the mirror, her hands covering her face. She’s wearing the wig, a ton of Medusa curls.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Angela says.
Peering at Angela through her fingers, Ruby says, “I want to die.” She lowers her hands. Her face is swollen and covered with bumpy red blotches. Her eyelids are puffy. She takes a tissue, blows her nose, and leans into the mirror, running her index finger across her cheekbone.
“Oh, honey,” Angela says, crouching beside her. “You’re having an allergic reaction. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” Ruby’s voice is a wail.
“I’ll be right back,” Angela says and rushes off to find a gofer to fetch some Benadryl and hydrocortisone cream. When she returns, minutes later, Lancaster and actors and crew members are crowded around Ruby. The group goes silent and they all turn to face Angela.
Angela breaks open the Benadryl, shakes out a tablet, and offers it to Ruby. Ruby stares at it. Then at Lancaster. Lancaster takes the pill and the container and eyes the label. He nods and passes the pill to Ruby. Then he offers Ruby a bottle of water.
Ruby puts the pill in her mouth and then tilts back her head and swallows some water. But a moment later she drops the bottle, choking and sputtering.
Angela picks up the bottle. Half of it has spilled on the floor. She sniffs at the open neck. The smell is familiar, medicinal. Vodka?
Lancaster takes it from her and sniffs, too. Takes a tiny taste. “Jesus Christ.”
“Wasn’t that your water?” Ruby asks Angela. “And that cream Briana used on my face. It’s got your name on it.” Sure enough, there’s a jar of face cream with CASSANO written in black marker on its tape label. “You left it for me, with a note.”
“Me? I most certainly did not—” Angela starts.
“The note was right here.” Ruby looks around but she doesn’t come up with one.
“And that,” Angela says, pointing to the jar, “is not mine. Here’s what I use.” She picks up her own makeup bag and forages for her own cleanser. Realizing even as she’s showing it to everyone that it proves nothing.
Ruby looks betrayed. Lancaster furious. And for a moment Angela flashes back to high school when she played Elizabeth Proctor, unfairly accused of witchcraft in The Crucible. There be a thousand names, why does she call mine?
“You need to go home,” Lancaster says to Ruby. “Take care of yourself and we’ll pick it up tomorrow, first thing.” He turns to Angela. “You go home, too. I don’t know what’s up here. Truly, I’m stumped.” He shakes his head. “Everyone else, back to work.”
That evening, Angela is sitting in her kitchen, picking at takeout sushi. Ruby hadn’t even looked her in the eye earlier as they’d both gotten their things together and left the building. Word of what had happened must have traveled because everyone she encountered, including the security officer at the studio gate, gave her the stink eye. She doesn’t blame them. She gets how bad it looks. Log line: a jealous harridan, about to be eclipsed in her own best role, sabotages her young rival. If it were a movie, it would be called All About Eve: Payback.
But really, what audience would buy it? Itching cream? Spiked Evian? If Angela were going to sandbag another actor she’d be far more creative. For heavens sake, that jar of skin cream had her name on it. An obvious setup.
But if Angela didn’t do it, then who did? And to what end?
She’s volatile. That’s what Lancaster said about Ruby. Was that code for paranoid? Manipulative? Psychotic?
Just watch me. Ruby said that just before Angela left the dressing room.
Did Ruby ink Angela’s name on that jar of cleansing cream and plant it in the dressing room herself? Spike the water and then wait until she was surrounded by witnesses to drink from it? Was that allergic reaction a sham? Angela saw the blotchy red patches and the swelling with her own eyes, but modern makeup could be extraordinarily realistic.
Angela finds herself smiling. If so, then BRAVA! Brilliant performance. Ruby Lake is one hell of an actress. But why would she go to all that trouble?
One possible answer: to get Angela booted off the film. Angela has no idea why Ruby would be determined to do that, but Angela’s not about to let it happen.
The next morning, Angela arrives on the soundstage early, ignoring the disdain broadcast her way by actors and crew members. Even her buddy, Anthony Fox, gives her a stiff chilly smile. Only Lancaster greets her warmly.
Ruby shows up minutes before Lancaster is ready to run through the opening scene. If there’s any residual blotchiness or swelling, her makeup covers it. She seems so tiny under all that hair.
Ruby and the actor playing her manservant huddle with Lancaster, then take their places behind the closed drawing room door. The burglars crouch among the upended furniture. They begin to rehearse the scene.
Lancaster pronounces the first run-through “not bad.” He adjusts the camera positions. Tells the burglars to raise their knives higher so the blades catch the light. Asks Ruby to lean in and wait a few beats before she fires. He takes the pistol and demonstrates.
Angela is impressed. It’s not exactly the way she would block the scene but it works.
They run through the scene again and again. Each time Ruby’s performance gets better, her look more doe-eyed and vulnerable as, after the burglars leave, she lowers the gun and resolve drains from her face.
Finally Lancaster shouts, “Last looks.” Th
e actors leave the set to get their hair and makeup touched up. Angela and the other stand-ins take over for the final blocking. It will be a tricky scene to light because it has to be dark in the drawing room and yet light enough to see Irene’s gown, her gun, and most of all her emotional transformation. The manservant behind her has to be visible, too, not in her shadow, as well as the disarray of the room and the burglars’ knives.
As Angela walks onto the set, a production assistant hands her the prop pistol that looks like an antique flintlock but feels like a toy. She and the actor standing in for the manservant take their places behind the drawing room’s closed door.
“Action.” She hears Lancaster start the run-through. The two burglar stand-ins scuffle. Angela throws open the door and steps into the drawing room. Lancaster motions her further in. Mentally she marks the spot.
The burglars hold out their knives. Technicians adjust the lights. Angela holds the smooth wooden grip of the pistol in two hands and aims above their heads. More lighting tweaks.
“Fire,” Lancaster says, standing behind the cameraman and watching a video monitor.
Angela thumbs back the hammer and pulls the trigger. Even though the gun is loaded with blanks, the sound is huge. The pistol bucks in her hand and the grip turns warm as smoke wafts from it.
The lights brighten and one of the cameras lifts. “Fire again,” Lancaster says.
After a few more pistol shots and lighting adjustments, they run through the entire scene with dialogue. By the time they’re done, Angela’s ears are ringing. She barely hears the shout, “In five.”
Angela explains to Ruby the blocking changes and shows her the new mark where she’s supposed to stand and fire the gun and how high to raise it. Briana straightens Ruby’s wig, arranges a few stray curls around her pale face, and squeezes her into the plunging neckline of her red gown.
Ruby goes to wait behind the closed door and Angela takes a seat to watch the first take. The lights go down throughout the soundstage. Lights dim on the set, too. A fluorescent light, shaped like the moon, glows through the curtains.
“Quiet!” Lancaster shouts and his own moon face rises behind the camera boom in the darkened soundstage. “Action!”
Everyone and everything is in place. A production assistant holds a clapperboard in front of a camera, the time stamp a digital readout. Angela can’t help it. A chill runs down her back. Let the magic begin.
The burglars scuffle. Angela is astonished by how tall Ruby seems when she makes her entrance as Irene Adler, all heaving bosom and steely calm. With those enormous dark eyes, the girl is one big emoji. But she’s got a presence that makes it hard to take your eyes off her.
Ruby has the gun raised, pointing it at the burglars. It wobbles in Ruby’s grip, and Angela can feel the heft, even though she knows it’s not heavy at all. Light glints off the shaft as Ruby motions with it.
That’s when Angela realizes that the gun is larger than the prop they used in rehearsal. It looks like it’s got a metal grip, and it’s not just the lighting. It’s a different gun.
She glances toward the camera as the question flashes through her brain: After all that work getting the lighting and camera focus just right, why would they switch guns? The answer: they wouldn’t.
At that same moment, she realizes that Glenn Lancaster is not in position beside the camera. She doesn’t see him at all, not until she spots him in the shadows, half-hidden behind the cameraman.
Angela looks back at the set. It feels as if time slows down as the burglars brandish knives. As Ruby raises the nose of the gun. In a moment she’ll fire the pistol that’s not the prop they used for rehearsal.
Before Angela even registers the thought, she’s on her feet, bolting onto the set. She knocks the gun from Ruby’s hand. It hits the ground and goes off, filling the air with smoke and an acrid smell. There’s a long pause as the gunshot echoes in the soundstage.
Belatedly, Lancaster screams, “Cut!”
He comes out from behind the camera. “What the hell?” Gazes at Ruby sitting on the floor, looking completely bewildered. At the pistol, or what’s left of it, lying smoking on the floor nearby. He lunges for the gun but Angela gets there first. It’s hot. She uses the hem of her skirt to protect her hand as she picks it up.
Lancaster looks around, assessing his audience. Then glares at Angela. “What are you up to now? Give me that.”
“You want this?” She holds out the gun for everyone to see that the barrel is ripped open. “I think Ruby might like to have a look at it first. Someone booby-trapped it.”
“Someone?” Lancaster draws himself up and puffs out his chest. “The only other person outside of props who handled that gun is you.”
It’s what Angela expects him to say. “You know as well as I do, this isn’t the gun we used in rehearsal.” She wonders why the prop assistant didn’t flag it. “Couldn’t you feel the difference?” she asks Ruby.
Ruby’s mouth opens but at first no words come out. “Actually, I did. It felt cold and heavier.”
“It’s a different gun,” Angela says. She peers closely at a bit of what looks like a nugget of hard plastic stuck inside the exploded barrel. “And it looks as if someone jammed it with—”
“Probably latex,” Lancaster says. Now everyone turns and stares at him. Because how could he know that from twenty feet away? Latex hadn’t even occurred to Angela and she’s looking right at it.
Lancaster continues, “A gun loaded with blanks can kill you if it’s been jammed with—”
“Aging makeup?” Angela finishes the thought. “The stuff that makes me look old?”
“Older.” Lancaster nods, but it’s an uneasy nod. Maybe he’s starting to realize he’s overplayed his hand. Tipped over into caricature.
Angela says, “There’s only one person who behaved as if he knew something was about to go wrong before it did. Just one person who moved well out of the way before Ruby fired the gun.” Angela scans the faces of the actors and camera operators and crew. “Surely I’m not the only one who noticed.”
No one steps forward. And why would they? All eyes had been on Ruby. A herd of orangutans could have sauntered across the soundstage and no one would have noticed when Lancaster crept away.
“Bastard!” Ruby screams. She’s a red blur as she throws herself at Lancaster, clawing at his face. It takes both of the burglars and an electrician to pull her off. She struggles and finally shakes them loose. In a cold, clear voice, she says, “My father trusted you and you betrayed him. Again.”
In the uneasy silence that follows, Angela can feel the polarity in the room reverse. Lancaster has become the focal point.
“Who’s your father?” Angela asks.
Before Ruby can answer, Lancaster raises both arms and says, “That’s enough. Clear the set.” When no one moves, he bellows, “Now!”
Moments later, it’s just Ruby and Angela and Lancaster on the soundstage.
“My father was Ralph Lago,” Ruby says, her soft voice echoing in the vast empty space. “He”—Ruby tips her head in Lancaster’s direction—“and my father were long-time business partners.”
Of course Angela’s heard the name. Seen Lago’s picture in the paper, a Hollywood accountant who committed suicide a few months ago after he was convicted of embezzling studio funds. Now she realizes that Lago must have been the man she saw years ago, working surrounded by computer printouts in the small office next to Lancaster’s. Angela had assumed he was Lancaster’s bookkeeper.
“You were best friends.” As Ruby spits out the words, Lancaster recoils. “Dad padded production charges so you could skim profits. When you realized you were being investigated, you got my dad to take the rap. God forbid the great director should face charges.”
Lancaster doesn’t contradict her.
Ruby takes a deep breath and wipes away a tear. “Just hours before he killed himself, Dad told me you’d promised to give me this part. But you couldn’t even do that for him, could
you? You’ve got someone else you’ve promised the part, haven’t you? I can only imagine what she’s got on you.”
Lancaster just hangs there, staring at the floor and looking deflated. No wonder he needed Angela. Not only to play Mrs. Hudson and stand in for Irene Adler and mentor an inexperienced performer, but also to play an aging actress desperate enough to kill off her rival. How convenient it would have been for him, disposing of both Ruby and Angela with a single blank.
Eight months later, the new Scandal in Bohemia opens in Westwood Village at the Fox Theatre. Strobes light up the crowd gathered beneath its phallic Art Deco tower and a searchlight arcs across the sky. Ruby and Angela arrive together in a black limo.
Ruby steps out, resplendent in a red, off-the-shoulders gown with a flowing cape. Angela follows in a black-silk tuxedo jacket over a long skirt slit up to her thigh. She looks down, trying to slow time as the pointy toes of her black stilettos hit the red carpet. She lifts her gaze to the marquee.
WORLD PREMIERE TONIGHT
Yes! She gives a mental fist pump.
Anthony Fox, starring in the film as Sherlock Holmes, comes over to them. He’s every inch the dashing elder statesman in his tux. He and Angela pose for photographs, standing on either side of Ruby.
A young reporter—his press pass says he writes for Variety—draws Angela aside. “Ms. Cassano, ‘Scandal in Bohemia’ marks your transition from actor to filmmaker. At what point in your career did it hit you that you wanted to make this big career move?”
“I’d been thinking about directing films for quite a while,” she says, not bothering to correct him, to say that this isn’t the first film she’s directed. It’s a better story if it is. “When this opportunity literally fell into my lap, how could I pass it up?”
Fell into my lap is a bit of an overstatement, but Glenn Lancaster took defeat more gracefully than Ruby or Angela expected. In return for their silence about the lethal prop pistol and Lancaster’s part in the embezzlement scheme, Ruby got to play the lead she’d been promised and Angela took over as director. Angela let Lancaster know that she’d stashed the cassette with footage from that disastrous first take in a safe-deposit box. She’s taking her cue from Irene Adler, who tells Sherlock Holmes that she’s keeping the compromising photograph “to preserve a weapon which will always secure me from any steps which he might take in the future.”
Echoes of Sherlock Holmes Page 23
