The Continuity Girl

by Leah McLaren

  But no more. The publication of Baby Love had catapulted him into a new stratum. He was now part celebrity, part doctor, a role his agent described as “medical pundit.” He cringed every time he heard the term.

  Kathleen Swain was his first celebrity patient. Her personal assistant had been cagey about Swain’s age on the phone, and he would have to get to the bottom of that mystery if they were going to proceed. The thought of this impending conversation made his stomach sink. He was due to meet her on the set of her movie at some point today, and he had no idea how to get there. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper with the name “Kooksbury Park” scrawled on it and a cell-phone number for Andrea, the cagey-yet-aggressive personal assistant. He was supposed to call her the moment he got in, so she could send someone to pick him up. He would call—but after he’d had a bath and a quick shave. In the meantime, he thought he might close his eyes, just for a few minutes.

  It was entirely predictable, and yet Meredith could hardly believe it. Mish had taken Irma back to wardrobe and was having her fitted and made up for a dinner party scene scheduled to be shot later in the afternoon. It was the climax of the second act and required a dozen or so extras to play small roles as guests. Meredith should have seen it coming. Richard had been bitching to the casting director for weeks now that the people coming in to read were too blandly attractive. “They don’t look like people,” Meredith had heard him complaining into his mobile phone earlier in the week. “They look like actors.”

  Irma Moore, apparently, did not look like an actor. She had character. She was a delightful eccentric. Just the sort of person everyone wants to have around, but no one wants to live with—let alone have for a mother. While Meredith had to concede her mother certainly didn’t look like an actor, she also found it difficult to see her as entirely human. As she twirled her way toward the tea cart where Meredith sat on a folding chair quintuple-checking her script notes and waiting for the next setup, Irma Moore in her Victorian layer skirts looked adorable—to everyone except her daughter. In Meredith’s eyes she was a five-foot-two-inch velvet-swathed gorgon.

  “Well, darling, what do you think?”

  “S’fine.” Meredith opened her eyes as wide as she could and nodded twice before dropping her face into her notes again.

  “Don’t tell me you’re angry.”

  Meredith flipped a page and made a note reminding herself to speak to the props mistress about who would be filling the wineglasses for the party scene. It was imperative the liquid level remain consistent with the time line. The axis must be consistent. She would have to speak to the director of photography.

  “I couldn’t very well say no, could I?”

  Perhaps she could convince one of the production assistants to help her measure the liquid in each glass to make sure.

  “Well, if you’re going to be childish and refuse to speak to me, I’ll just leave, then.”

  And she mustn’t forget to call Ralph and tell him the lab would be printing off an extra take of the strangulation scene for Richard to watch in rushes. Where was her pocket-size tape measure anyway?

  “My makeup call is in a few minutes. I guess I should go, then.”

  Finally.

  Meredith exhaled and watched her mother retreat, her bustle bouncing along behind her. Maybe I’m being ridiculous, she thought. But at least I come by it naturally.

  A pelting ring tore Joe from his nap.

  “Hello?” Years of being on call had trained him to answer the phone no matter how tired, disoriented or otherwise unconversational he might feel.

  “There you are.” The flat Californian squawk of the movie star’s assistant. “What happened? We thought maybe your flight was hijacked or something.”

  Joe made a noise to explain, but it was immediately apparent Andrea Braxton wasn’t the sort of person to waste her time listening to explanations.

  “Okay, so here’s the deal. We’re sending around a driver to pick you up right away. Kathleen finishes shooting around eight or nine tonight, maybe later, depending how things go. They’re doing a big dinner party scene today as well as a love scene, so things are going to be a bit frantic. But we might be able to fit you in between scenes. You never know. What she’s interested in is having a consultation to find out what you could offer to a woman in her situation.” She paused for breath, and Joe took the opportunity to jump in.

  “Actually, that’s what I’m trying to find out myself.”

  “Pardon me?” There was an underlying defensiveness to everything she said.

  “What hasn’t been made clear to me is exactly what Ms. Swain’s situation is.”

  “Well, obviously she would like to have a baby.”

  “Yes, but why does she need my help? What I mean is, I don’t know anything about her history.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to speak to her privately about that.”

  “Of course.”

  “Now, there are a few things you’re going to need to know before you meet Kathleen. Some will seem quite obvious but I’m going to have to brief you on them anyway just to be on the safe side.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “First off, no questions about her personal life. Kathleen won’t ask you about yours and you shouldn’t ask about hers. If you do, you’ll be on a plane back to Toronto faster than you can say ‘O Canada.’ Got it?”

  Joe looked out the window and noticed a pigeon pecking at its wingpits. “Naturally I respect her privacy, but I feel compelled to point out that it will be somewhat difficult to have a fertility consultation with someone without discussing their personal life. She is aware of physician-patient privilege?”

  “I’m sure you’ll find a way around it. You seem like a tactful man.”

  “You’ve never met me.”

  “I saw you on Oprah.” She paused. “Finally, it would be very considerate of you to avoid mentioning the Academy Award nomination list or the Oscars generally. And don’t bring up anything to do with marriage, politics, astrology, Scientology, jazz, cats, plastic surgery or the stock market. And please refrain from wearing the colour green. Kathleen has an aversion to it, particularly the deeper shades, but if I were you, I’d just stay away from green altogether.”

  Joe made an affirmative noise.

  “I trust you’ve made notes on all this.”

  “I have a pretty reliable memory.”

  She hung up without saying goodbye—just like a personal assistant in the movies.

  Act 3, Scene 6, Take 14

  Master angle toward dining room door. Kitchen Maid enters. Pan her walk X-L-R to head of the table, where Lord Beckinsdale sits at a table full of dinner guests. Hold Full 4/should over Kitchen Maid L-should to 3 seated at table: Inspector, Miss Hornby, Dinner Guests as Kitchen Maid moves down the table serving soup.

  Tite/4: Lady Beckinsdale begins to eat.

  LADY BECKINSDALE

  Medicine. Such an unusual profession for a woman. Tell us, Miss Hornby, however did you decide to go into it in the first place?

  DINNER GUEST 1 (OFF CAMERA)

  Yes, do tell.

  Tite/5: Miss Hornby swallows a spoonful of soup.

  CELIA

  Well, I was always interested in science. And at school—

  LADY BECKINSDALE

  Was your father a doctor as well?

  CELIA

  Actually my parents are dead. I grew up in an orphanage.

  DINNER GUEST 2

  How appalling!

  Richard was halfway across the set before he’d called “Cut!”

  Meredith clicked her stopwatch and drew a line through her notes, indicating the end of the take. She made a note of the time and watched as Richard removed his headphones and headed for the long polished table, where the Victorian dinner party guests sat frozen in place—hands in the air holding cut crystal mid-sip, soupspoons lifted to mouths. Six sets of widened eyes moved as they watched him approach. As the object of his attention became cle
ar they relaxed, the women fiddling with their corsetry while the men scratched beneath false moustaches. He stopped at Dinner Guest 2 and whispered something in her ear.

  Irma Moore giggled, gave his arm a gentle push and rolled her shoulders back into place. The other actors pretended not to eavesdrop, but from where she sat, Meredith could see they were straining to listen. Meredith noticed an extra set of headphones hanging on the director’s armrest and she slipped them over her ears. She dropped her head behind the monitor, where she could watch her mother talking to the director in grainy black-and-white pixels.

  “...Be silly, darling, I’m twice your age.”

  Soowishsoowishsoowish as Richard whispered something in Irma’s ear.

  Laughter.

  “You are a vile, nasty, disgusting man, aren’t...”

  More laughter and a rustling sound.

  “Are we going to do another take or not? I need to make a call.” Swain’s voice, but in her put-on English accent. Flawless as a BBC newsreader’s.

  Richard said something indecipherable to Swain.

  In the monitor Meredith watched her stand up halfway and sit down again.

  Irma’s voice: “I do have one little question. About my character’s background. Is she an educated woman? I mean in the classical sense, not in the contemporary sense, because as we all know, a Victorian woman of her upbringing—” At this point she was cut off by Kathleen, who had dropped her accent.

  “Listen, honey, I’m not sure who you think you are, but I’d like to finish this scene so I can make a very important call.”

  Meredith gripped the monitor, unable to believe what she was hearing. Through the headset, her mother sniffed.

  “In fact, I think you know quite well who I am, dear,” she said haughtily. “We met through our mutual friend Osmond Crouch many years ago. My name is Irma Moore.”

  Meredith watched her extend her hand, which Kathleen refused to take. “I’m surprised you don’t recall.”

  Kathleen’s “What the fuck” followed by the diabolical music of Irma’s laughter.

  Meredith couldn’t make out the words. Then something clipped and loud from Richard. A clap of the hands and he turned to the camera operator, looking directly into Meredith’s eyes through the monitor. Panic rippled through her chest and she tore off the headphones.

  Richard cupped his hands like a loudspeaker and called out to the crew, “All right, everyone! Romans! Countrymen! Unwashed masses! We’re going again.”

  Meredith pulled her binder to her chest and resumed her industrious scribbling—actually a list of her favorite boys’ names in alphabetical order: Augustus, Angus, Cassius, Clayton, Hugo, Henry, Jonathan, Magnus. For some reason she couldn’t think of any past the middle of the alphabet. Girls’ names were easier. Still, she was hoping for a boy. Even today, boys had easier lives. Meredith was nothing if not pragmatic.

  “Your mother is an extraordinary performer,” Richard said. He was sitting in his chair again, waiting for one of the lights to be readjusted.

  “She keeps sipping her wine at different times on her line. It’s going to ruin the scene.”

  Richard laughed. “Oh, you script girls. How can you stand yourselves? What’s that irritating little rhyme you have?”

  “Which one?”

  “Oh, come on, surely you know it.”

  Meredith averted her eyes and shrugged.

  “You do know it.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Oh, come on, how does it go? Go on, say it. For me?”

  Meredith sighed. “When I ask you to match your action/?Why do you refuse it?/?What’s the good of a close-up/?If the cutter cannot use it?”

  Richard threw his head back and howled. A couple of nearby crew guys joined in. Her throat tingled.

  “Brilliant!”

  “Well, it’s true, you know,” Meredith began. Her voice teetered, and for a second she felt like she might cry.

  “Of course! Of course it’s absolutely true,” Richard said between hiccups of laughter. “Yes, you’re absolutely correct, my dear.” When he had stopped laughing, he looked at her carefully and smiled. “Tell me, are you and your mother actually related?”

  “I hope not—”

  The sound of shattering glass interrupted them. At first Meredith was relieved simply to have escaped Richard’s patronizing scrutiny—until she looked at the set.

  All the actors had scattered except for Irma and Kathleen Swain, who appeared to be frozen in a strange embrace at the far corner of the dining room table. Glancing at the monitor, Meredith noticed Swain’s hands clutching her mother’s hair and her mother’s hands tugging at Swain’s high lace collar. They remained in this awkward stance for endless seconds before Swain gave an impressive teenager-in-a-slasher-movie shriek and twisted Irma onto the table. Irma retaliated with a low kick that sent Swain and her skirts stumbling back into the waiting arms of the gaffer, who restrained her from going in for more.

  “Get your fucking hands off me, you cunting fuck!” Swain smacked the backs of her hands at the gaffer’s face and shoulders, but he was strong enough to hold her in place.

  Irma smoothed her costume and looked around for Richard. When he appeared, she smiled as though she had conjured him from a hat.

  “What seems to be the problem, ladies?”

  “Richard, I can explain—” Irma began.

  “Crazy old bitch,” Swain cried, unleashing a torrent of hysterical slander against Irma that ran unabated for several seconds, until her personal assistant appeared. “She thinks she knows me, but she doesn’t. I want her out now.”

  As soon as she saw Andrea, Swain went limp. The gaffer released his grip on her arm but stayed close. Andrea reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of Evian water and a white silk hankie. She unfolded the cloth to reveal a round blue pill, which she handed to Swain before fastidiously folding up the hankie and placing it back in her bag. Watching her assistant’s face intently, Swain opened her mouth and dropped the pill on her tongue. She took a sip of water and swallowed.

  “Shall we take a break?” Richard asked no one in particular.

  Meredith looked at her schedule and saw that it was nearly time for lunch anyway. She checked her stopwatch and made a note of the exact time, down to the quarter of the second. As she did this she noticed her hand shaking slightly. In the monitor she watched Richard put an arm around Swain and usher her out of the room. Irma turned and began to come toward the camera, walking out of the frame and into her daughter’s field of vision.

  “The woman is completely barking, you know,” she said after a while. “I read about it in HEAT. Apparently she has a history of violence. She once assaulted a photographer. Or her bodyguard did. I forget. Anyway, I’m sorry if you’re angry at me, darling. I suppose you think I’ve ruined everything like I always do, but I really didn’t aim for things to turn out this way. Honestly. It’s just that things like this always happen to me. Or around me, at any rate.” Her hand fluttered to her throat, where her spider usually hung.

  Meredith slid her pencil into her pencil case and closed her script binder, smoothing the Velcro protector flap shut with the heel of her hand.

  Irma continued. “I can’t imagine what set her off. I was only trying to make polite conversation. These Hollywood types behave like mad royalty from six centuries ago. You should have seen her, darling. She just lunged at me. And for no reason. No reason at all.” Irma patted her head where Swain had grabbed her hair. “Tell me, darling, am I missing a spot? It’s still numb from where she yanked it, and I’m afraid she’s pulled a chunk out. At my age it won’t grow back, you know. I’ll have to resort to wearing wigs. Oh...” She pulled a wadded square of toilet paper from the lace cuff of her dress and began to dab at her eyes.

  Meredith’s gaze fell upon Richard’s headphones. She felt as if she were turning a dial in her brain, switching her mother’s garble from English to Swahili. She popped the headphones over her ears. Irma continued to lip s
ync her teary monologue of woe, oblivious to Meredith’s dead ears.

  Inside the headphones there was silence, and then she heard a crackle followed by a sniffle and Swain’s tearful wobble, now devoid of English accent. Swain sounded almost out of range. Probably back in her trailer, raising hell. But as Meredith listened, she was surprised to hear that the actress sounded not angry but plaintive.

  “How could she have known?”

  Pause. Static.

  “Well, she brought it up. She knew. Somehow. It was like she knew him. Knew about the whole thing. The role. The abortion. Everything.”

  Heaving noise followed by the sound of something being brushed aside.

  “I don’t know. The question is, why is she even here? I shouldn’t have to deal with this shit, especially not today, like this, when I’m in the middle—” The air went dead.