by Leah McLaren
“I’m glad you asked—most people just pretend they know all about it and then try to change the subject. In fact, it’s pretty boring. I sit by the monitor during shooting and check the script for errors and inconsistencies.”
“And do you ever find them?”
“All the time.”
“And what sort of errors do you find?”
“Well, for instance, sometimes an actor might be doing a scene in which he’s drinking wine and eating salmon. In that case, each time you do a take it’s important that the actor takes a bite of his salmon and a sip from his glass of wine at exactly the same moment he did in the take before—otherwise it won’t match with previous takes. If he starts sipping and biting all over the place, the scene will look strange in the final cut—with the portion of the level of the liquid in the glass going up and down indiscriminately and the actor sipping too often or not at all. Do you see what I mean? It’s my job to make sure the director tells the actor to sip and bite at the right times.”
“Fascinating,” Barnaby said, taking a bite of his salmon and dribbling a bit of dressing on his chin. “And how do you make sure they’re getting it right?”
“I take notes.”
“Is that all?”
“And I keep track of other things, like the axis the camera is shooting from, which is a complicated way of saying ‘angle.’ For instance, if you shoot a conversation between two people, you have to place the camera looking over one person’s shoulder, then the other person’s shoulder. It has to be the same shoulder consistently. If you switched from left to right, you’d be changing the axis, which doesn’t sound like much but is actually very disorienting to the viewer. Directors do it all the time. It’s my job to tell them not to cross over.”
“So you keep them in line?”
“That’s right.”
“And—and so, they actually pay you to do this?”
“It’s not like I’d do it for free.” The dressing glob was now threatening to drip onto his tie. Meredith rubbed her napkin all over the lower half of her face, hoping the gesture would be contagious.
“And do you find it helps you in your own life?”
“Being paid? Well, obviously—”
“No, no.” Barnaby narrowed his eyes and leaned in slightly. “I mean, moving the story forward smoothly. Without flipping back and forth or making mistakes. Does your job help you do that in your own life?”
Meredith licked her thumb and gently wiped the drip off Barnaby’s chin. He didn’t pull away the way most men would have done. Instead he smiled.
“Not so far,” she said, “but I’m hoping to change all that.”
They were locked in a sort of moment, one that Mish interrupted by turning around and extending her hand.
“Why, darling, you haven’t even introduced your friend.”
“Mish, this is Barnaby Shakespeare.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Barnaby extended his hand for a shake, but Mish raised the back of her hand to be kissed, smacking Barnaby in the face and causing his glasses to fall to the floor. He bent down, searching with one arm under his chair and apologizing profusely, as Mish collapsed into giggles.
“Why, you two haven’t even touched your dinners!” he said when he sat up, glasses replaced, indicating their cooling plates.
“Mine has lead shot in it.” Meredith abruptly excused herself and stumbled out of the dining room.
She felt funny. The giddy confidence was gone, replaced by a worrisome knot just below her rib cage. Meredith found a small wooden bench in a narrow hallway and sat down. With two fingers, she massaged the cramp in her diaphragm and practiced a few square breaths she had learned to do in prenatal yoga class. Ten counts of inhaling, ten counts of holding, ten counts of exhaling, ten counts of holding. She checked her watch—nearly midnight. People ate so late here, dinner was rarely finished before the next day began. She wasn’t sure how they did it, as everyone seemed to get up early and rush off to work as well. London was exhausting her. She wondered what bearing this would have on her eggs.
Just as she was about to get up, Meredith heard a faint tweet from the direction of her handbag. There were no cell phones allowed in the club (they aggressively confiscated them at the door), but Mish had convinced Meredith to smuggle hers in. Meredith had forgotten to turn the thing off, and now there was a message. She looked around the hallway to make sure the coast was clear before checking. It was a text from a number she didn’t recognize.
R U coming 2 my Xibit? Pls do. xo G.
Meredith felt a little thrill. She had an acute sense of smell and had always used it to suss out potential lovers. She was never wrong. Gunther had smelled of calfskin and burnt pepper, which she found encouraging, if odd.
Meredith was stabbing at the keypad on the phone with her index finger, trying to figure out how to save the message, when she heard someone approaching from the darkened hallway behind her. She grabbed for her handbag and threw in the phone. Lucky thing too, because the snooty club doorman appeared and stooped over her. He was a dead ringer for Riff Raff from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, all caved-in cheeks and purple eye sockets rising up out of a threadbare undertaker’s suit.
“Hallo, Miss,” he said, bowing slightly in a way that made Meredith certain he felt superior to her. “Are we enjoying our evening or may I be of any assistance?”
“Oh, no, I’m fine.”
He had straightened and was turning to walk away when there was a rogue tweet from her handbag. The doorman froze in mid-step.
Meredith closed her eyes.
When he turned, he was no longer smiling.
“Now, miss,” he began, taking a step forward, “when you arrived here with your friend tonight, I remember clearly that we discussed the rules and regulations of the club, one of which—indeed, perhaps the most important of all—is that there are absolutely no mobile telephones allowed on the premises under any circumstances. It is quite forbidden.”
He took another step toward her.
Meredith began to quiver. Her hands fluttered and her teeth ached.
“Oh, sir, I—uh, I don’t know how—” She scrambled over to the other side of the bench and slipped her hand into her bag to root out the offending device.
“I’m afraid, miss, if you don’t hand over your mobile right this instant, I will have to ask you to leave the club.”
Meredith felt around for her phone desperately. She plunged her entire arm into her bag and searched around for anything she could grab. There was her lipstick, her hairbrush, an extra belt, a DVD copy of The Singing Detective that she had bought at lunch, an old bag of sticky dried apricots, a nail file, the ovulation detection device, a calculator, a highlighter and two pens, her keys to the flat on Coleville Terrace along with her Toronto car keys, an Elizabeth Jane Howard novel, her wallet stuffed with receipts and two kinds of currency, a change purse, sunglasses...Ack! Where the fuck?
“Honestly, I just had my hand on it.” She winced at the doorman and pushed down farther, until she was up to her armpit. It was as if her handbag kept growing deeper and deeper. She wished she could jump inside it and disappear.
“I’m afraid that’s not good enough, miss.”
The doorman smiled his awful smile and placed a bony digit on Meredith’s elbow. Her heart skittered.
“I’m going to have to ask you to step outside the club until you have sorted yourself out, and once you have, you are quite welcome to return. Lydia at the door will be happy to check your phone when you find it.” He tapped her elbow, indicating that she should rise. “Chop-chop.”
Just then, Barnaby appeared. His tie was half undone and he had an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Good evening, m’lord,” said the doorman, straightening slightly but keeping a frigid grip on Meredith’s elbow.
Barnaby coughed. “Hullo there, Mr. Tonbridge. May I ask what you are doing with my Canadian friend?”
“I was just escorting her out. The lady had a mobile in
her handbag, and as you well know, the rules of the club clearly dictate—”
“Really, Tonbridge. Do leave her alone, would you?”
“Well, sir, I—”
“With all due respect, my good man, you ought to chill out.” Barnaby turned to Meredith. “Would you mind terribly giving me your phone, Meredith?”
At that moment the phone seemed to leap from its hiding spot into her hand. She gave it to Barnaby, who turned the phone off and slipped it into Tonbridge’s breast pocket.
“Very good, sir,” said the doorman. He gave a shallow bow and shuffled away.
Barnaby waited until Tonbridge turned the corner before he laughed. “I do apologize about Tonbridge. He’s a bit of a bore. Not his fault really. The poor bloke has been working here for centuries.” He produced a monogrammed gold lighter, rolled it on his pants and lit his smoke. “Care for a cig?”
“No, I’m fine. Thanks. I mean, not just for that, but for the other thing as well.”
“Not at all.” He smiled. “Now, after all that, do you mind if we do go outside? My sister-in-law’s uncle is here tonight and I don’t want him to know I smoke.”
Outside it was drizzling and chilly, so they stood under the front awning. Without a word, Barnaby took off his jacket and slipped it over Meredith’s shoulders. She could feel the tattered silk lining on the back of her arms.
“Listen,” he said. “I was thinking about our conversation inside, about me not doing anything. And I was thinking you must assume I’m such a ridiculous layabout, and I really don’t want to give you that impression. I mean, I do have interests. Honestly.”
“Oh, really?”
“Well, for one thing, my birds. I’m a great falconer.”
“A falconer?”
“As in, one who falcons. Hunting with birds of prey. Not just falcons either. I keep owls and hawks as well.”
“What do you hunt?”
“Oh, you know, depends on the time of year. Pheasants and rabbits, the occasional small dog.”
Meredith looked stricken.
“Kidding.”
She shook her head. “I’m so gullible. The gullible Canadian.”
“Anyway, I’d love you to come and meet them—my birds. Perhaps one weekend you could come? They really are the most marvellous creatures.”
“I’d be honoured.”
He leaned in and kissed Meredith quickly on the mouth. No hands or anything, just enough for her to get a scent. Turkish cigarettes, lemon rind and furniture polish. Lovely.
10
The day before the gallery opening, Gunther called and suggested a picnic on Hampstead Heath. She rode the tube up to North London. As she rocketed up the line in the unventilated subway car, “Dancing Queen” looped through her head. It was all she could do not to hum. Meredith never hummed.
Before leaving the house, she’d put on a dress and stuck Mish’s thermometer in her ear: it had greeted her with an enthusiastic beep. She was ovulating.
Gunther picked her up in a battered Volvo station wagon and drove to the Heath. Soon they were sitting halfway up the grassy slope on a flannel sheet, unwrapping waxed paper from tongue sandwiches he had purchased at the local butcher shop.
He was different from how he’d been the other night. Softer--spoken and full of apologies. Tongue was all they had left, he explained. All the curried chicken and pulled pork were gone. Meredith shrugged and smiled and sipped red wine from a small plastic cup. Wind washed over her shoulders and tickled the hair on the backs of her arms. She felt this might be the Day, and was soon lost in fantasies of what her life would be like, back in Toronto, with a small tow-headed half-German child.
“His father was a famous London photographer,” she would say to the other Yummies in the park. “We had one perfect picnic together and that was it. I never saw him again.”
Gunther placed his hand over hers.
“Where are you?” he said.
“What?”
“Where did you go to? You seemed so far away. I want to know where you’d gone to in your mind.”
Meredith laughed with discomfort. “I was just thinking what a perfect day it is.” Then she remembered her manners and asked about his childhood.
“My mother moved here from Munich after my parents divorced when I was fourteen. She wanted to change me into a little Englishman.” He laughed.
Meredith asked about his work.
“I make my money as a carpenter,” he said, “but photography is my real love. Here.” He pulled something from his wallet.
It was a pamphlet showing photos of frames. Not just implements to put pictures in, but frames carved from exotic woods, some covered in tangled vein patterns that made Meredith think of medical diagrams. They were sculpted like wreaths, some tangled, some smooth. To Meredith’s eye, they appeared almost human.
“These are beautiful,” she said.
He waved his hand, snatched back the pamphlet and tossed it aside with the waxed paper. “Bourgeois pap for Notting Hill craft shops, nothing more.”
Meredith couldn’t tell whether he was just being modest or whether she should push the compliment. “Well,” she said, “I like them anyway.”
He asked if she enjoyed her work. Meredith shrugged.
“It’s okay. It’s not a calling, but I think it suits my personality.”
“How so?”
“It’s very precise and technical. The thing I like is the mystery of it. Hardly anyone really understands what a script supervisor does. It has its own secret language. It’s like the opposite of being an actor or a writer, where what you’re doing is so out there and obvious. It’s not the kind of job that many people think they could do.” Meredith picked a piece of grass and ripped it into two neat strips. “Not that they’d want to. Most people would find it boring.”
“I don’t find it boring.”
“You might if you had to be me for a day.”
“I doubt that.”
Meredith studied the ground and felt him looking at her. Being stared at made her uncomfortable, but she did nothing to stop it. She’d read in a magazine once that you shouldn’t interrupt a man’s gaze by talking. Men, apparently, like to stare.
“I want,” he said finally, “to get to know you very well.”
So do I, Meredith thought, and was about to say, but he kissed her. A perfect kiss. Velvety, tentative, but with just the right pressure.
Meredith could barely contain her excitement. She felt like dragging him into the bushes, but she knew that wouldn’t do. He was wearing all white. She folded her hands in her lap and waited for the picnic to be over.
After the sandwiches and wine, they went for a walk on the Heath. The grass was squelchy and her kitten heels sank into the muck.
By the time they started back, it was verging on nine o’clock, but the sun was only beginning to drop behind the hill.
“I can’t believe how bright it is,” she said.
Gunther reminded her that London was farther north than Toronto. She asked about the climate in Munich, and as he was talking Meredith reached for his hand. By the time she had woven her fingers into his, they were nearly back at the parking lot.
As they approached the car, she had a vision of Gunther grabbing her by the waist, leaning her back against the Volvo and kissing her hungrily. Her interest was purely pragmatic. Kissing led to sex. Sex led to pregnancy. Her pelvis throbbed with anticipation. She would tell him she was on the pill.
She looked at Gunther, rooting through his leather man-bag for a misplaced set of car keys. Good jawline, she thought. Then he opened the door for her and he motioned for her to get in, but Meredith stood her ground.
“You want me to drive?” (She didn’t have a licence—a fact she would have to remedy once the baby came along.)
“Wrong side,” said Gunther. “Welcome to Britain.”
Meredith smiled at her mistake and walked around to the left side of the car. “So where to now?” she asked as they got in.
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He said he would drive her back to Notting Hill. Obviously this was the first stage of seduction. Everything was coming together nicely. Her mother was out for dinner with some drunken poet friends and wouldn’t be home for hours. Time, Meredith knew, was of the essence.
“Come up for a drink?” she said when they reached Coleville Terrace.
Gunther put the car into park but kept the key in the ignition. His head swung and he fixed her in his sights. Abruptly, the mood between them went from buoyant to intense. Meredith had no idea why.
“I need to say something to you.” He grasped her forearm and held it in both hands like a baseball bat.
“Okay.” She nodded encouragingly.
“The first night we met I was very drunk and I didn’t...I feel I didn’t represent myself well.”
“We had fun,” Meredith offered, and then, feeling she ought to say something slightly more suggestive, “serious fun.”
She leaned over and kissed him again. He returned it, but only for a moment and with barely parted lips. It was exactly the sort of kiss Meredith normally liked—but tonight she had a mission. Kissing would not do. She undid her seat belt and hurled herself over the gearshift in the hope of falling seductively into Gunther’s lap. She landed awkwardly, with one knee between his legs and the other foot jammed against the emergency brake.
“I want to be with you,” she breathed into his hair, as she had seen actresses do in movies. With one hand she braced herself against the windshield and with the other she grabbed Gunther’s fingers and pushed them under her skirt.
“Whoa, whoa,” he said, and in one fluid motion lifted her over the gearshift and back into the passenger seat. Meredith smoothed her clothes and coughed.
“We did have a lot of fun,” Gunther began, “but I don’t want you to think that’s all I’m after. The other night, I was drunk. I’m sorry for that. I want you to think better of me. And after tonight, the way we were talking...I think we should take some time to get to know each other...don’t you?”
Meredith looked down. “So come upstairs and have a drink with me.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” he said. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to come inside tonight.”
