"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 a.s.sistant 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.

t.i.te/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.

t.i.te/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 clear 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 cla.s.sical 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 f.u.c.k" 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 ma.s.ses! 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, Ca.s.sius, 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 gla.s.s 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 f.u.c.king hands off me, you c.u.n.ting f.u.c.k!" 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 b.i.t.c.h," Swain cried, unleashing a torrent of hysterical slander against Irma that ran unabated for several seconds, until her personal a.s.sistant 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 a.s.sistant'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 a.s.saulted 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 sync 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 h.e.l.l. 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 s.h.i.t, especially not today, like this, when I'm in the middle-" The air went dead.

She must have taken the microphone off.

Meredith realized her eyes had been closed, and when she opened them Irma was standing there, her mouth, astonishingly, still opening and shutting. Meredith kept the headphones on until Irma stopped speaking.

After Irma moved off, Meredith stayed behind, going over the day's shot descriptions. A few minutes later her phone rang. It was Mish.

"Her Impossibleness is having a meltdown."

"Tell me about it."

"She ripped apart her entire trailer before I could stop her, and now I'm f.u.c.king stuck here trying to get organic f.u.c.king blueberry juice stains off an original Victorian undergarment."

"Oh G.o.d."

"Anyway, I don't want to talk about it anymore. How's your mum? I helped her pick out her costume. Adorable."

"That's...one way of putting it."

"What's wrong?"

"I feel like my head is about to pop off."

"Come see me. I'm in her trailer. She's gone off for some appointment with one of her team of travelling specialists. Probably getting a new chin or something. She won't be back for hours."

"Are you sure?"

"Totally. I'm mixing martinis."

"Mish!"

"Golly gee, Meredith, don't be such a prude. It's the Old World. Everybody here drinks at lunch."

"I'll come but I can't drink."

"Great. I'm making yours extra dirty."

The door of Kathleen Swain's trailer was open. The rea.s.suring sound of Mish's Top 40 radio emanated from inside. Anywhere in the world one could hear the same rotation of musical lollipops interspersed with traffic reports and jokes about the weather. Meredith stepped in and paused. The trailer was in even worse condition than the first day she'd seen it. Piles of clothes everywhere. Stray bottles of hair goop, moisturizer and random cosmetics products on the floor. The flip-up folding table, half torn from its hinges, hanging on the wall like a loose tooth about to give.