For a moment they sat in silence. They sipped their drinks and tried not to stare at each other. It was hard. He was handsome. But in a slightly outdated, unfashionable way, as though he should be wearing a soldier's uniform and kissing a girl with braids in a Norman Rockwell painting. It really was too bad about the ring. She checked his left hand. Still there.

"How old are you?" she asked, suddenly curious.

"Forty-six."

"When did you get married?"

"A while ago. But my wife-"

"Never mind about your wife," Meredith said. The last thing she wanted to hear listed were the virtues of the underage gazelle she'd seen him with in the drugstore. She wished she hadn't brought the marriage thing up. "I want to hear about you. Where did you go to medical school?"

"University of Toronto. But I studied literature first and switched to medicine later. Listen, Meredith, I've been wanting to ask you ever since we spoke on the phone that day..."

"Uh-huh."

"Did you ever end up seeing another doctor?"

"Well no, not exactly. I came over here and started working and things have been pretty crazy since then."

"Crazy how? If you don't mind me asking."

"I don't mind you asking but I'm surprised that you'd be interested."

"Of course I'm interested." He leaned forward slightly. "I've thought about you."

"What did you think?"

"I wondered how you were."

"Were you worried? I mean, about my ovaries shrivelling up inside me?"

"Not like that, no."

"Well, I've been dating. I guess you could call it that. I've been looking for, you know, the One. But not in the romantic sense. More in the biological sense."

"Can you separate the two?"

"My mother did."

Joe smiled. "You'd know more about that than I would."

She felt a hot stab of resentment. The smugness of married people! He probably drives a BMW sedan with leather interior. His wife was a former hospital candy striper-some innocent society flower who grew up in the suburbs surrounded by plush carpets and protective parents and now spends her days doing Pilates and taking Tuscan cooking courses. Probably has season tickets to the symphony and a time-share in Arizona. Probably they call each other some silly equal-opportunity pet name like Snooger Booger. What can people like this know about life?

Meredith felt indignant. How could he have any idea what it was like to be single for years and years and worry about growing middle-aged alone in a condo with exposed ductwork and no walls? What it was like to long for the company of a cat but resist getting one for fear of becoming a single woman with a cat? She drained her martini in a gulp.

Discovering a candle nub on a plate with a packet of matches, she lit the wick and set it on the floor between them. After a jittering start it flamed high. The smell of lilac and sulphur filled the trailer.

"Tell me, Doc, what's in your bag?"

Joe looked down at his battered antique doctor's bag, a gift from his late father-in-law, a retired obstetrician.

"Oh, you know. The usual tools of the trade-potions and lotions and a lot of frightening stainless steel devices."

"Because I was thinking..."

Joe raised an eyebrow. "You want to reschedule your appointment?"

"I want"-Meredith lowered her head, covered her face and spoke into the warm fleshy mask of her hands-"I have no idea what I want."

Meredith uncovered her face and, dropping her arms clumsily, managed to send Mish's traveling minibar clattering to the linoleum.

"Oh s.h.i.t." She crouched down and began clutching at half-melted ice cubes that skittered out of her fingers like beetles.

"Meredith." Joe managed to sound calm and deeply alarmed at the same time.

"Relax, it's nothing-" But before she could finish, Meredith understood. Her skirt had managed to skim the top of the candle and catch fire. She began to jump up and down like a mad pogo stick while Joe swatted her bottom with a rolled-up newspaper.

"Water!" she screamed. "Stop, drop and roll!"

"No," said Joe. "Get it off." And with a single yank he ripped off her skirt, leaving her naked except for her underwear.

The fire died as soon as it hit the soaking linoleum and the charred skirt lay smoldering on the floor between them.

Before they could say a word everything in the room changed: a whine of hinge, a shift of light and a gust of damp outside air.

Richard Gla.s.s was in the trailer.

"Excuse me, sir," Joe said as indignantly as he could manage. "Can't you see we're occupied here?"

"Of course," Richard said with a chilling politeness. "I'll give you two a moment to straighten up." He turned around and stepped out of the trailer, shutting the door firmly behind him.

"Oh G.o.d," Meredith groaned.

Joe handed her a petticoat to put on. "Not again," she whispered.

"You've done this before?" Joe seemed slightly amused.

"No," she snapped. "I've been fired before."

Joe laughed. "No one would fire you for this."

"Don't count on it." Meredith struggled miserably with her shoelace. "That was my boss." Her hands were shaking. Joe noticed and put a hand on her shoulder. "It's a long story."

After a minute Richard stepped back into the trailer. He didn't knock, but simply came in and began inspecting the place. He lifted a martini gla.s.s to his nose, sniffed it once and set it down again. He picked up Meredith's novel, opened it to a random page and read a line or two, and then set it down again.

"Well, Miss Moore," he said. "It's been quite a day."

"Look, Richard. I'm sorry. I know this looks terrible, but let me explain." Try as she might, Meredith could not staunch the gush of useless cliches pouring from her mouth. "It just sort of happened. It was an accident really. We were talking and then the bar fell over and I tried to clean it up but my skirt lit on fire so Joe here pulled it off and that's when..." She paused to inhale. "I know it's a mess. Just give me another chance."

Richard raked his hands through his hair in raffish mock-consideration. "Another chance? Do you think soldiers get second chances on the battlefield? Moviemaking is war, Meredith, and I am the general. If you can't toe the line, I'm afraid you'll have to be court-martialled. This behaviour is entirely unacceptable. What if Kathleen had walked in on this? It's inexcusable. And after the way your mother...Well, let's just say I can't take any more risks on this set. I'm sorry."

Joe had been standing beside Meredith with one hand half raised in a helpless gesture of emotional support, but he broke in. "Now look here," he began.

Now look here? Meredith thought. Who actually says that?

"I don't know who you are or what you do here, but you should know a few things before you make any rash decisions. Meredith is a respectable and hardworking young woman and I am entirely to blame for what went on here today, which I am prepared to admit was entirely inappropriate, and for that I apologize."

Richard c.o.c.ked his head at Joe and then turned to Meredith. "Your Dudley Do-Right here is very gallant, but would you please ask him to leave?"

"He's not my Dudley Do-Right-he's my gynecologist."

"My deepest apologies. Allow me to rephrase." Richard swiveled around to face Joe. "Who the f.u.c.k are you and what are you doing on my set?"

Joe took a step toward Richard just as Kathleen entered the trailer. She was dressed in a Chinese robe and trailed by Andrea and a thin man holding a flattening iron. When she saw Joe, her hand flew immediately to her hair.

"Doctor-you're here!" She looked at Richard and the toppled minibar and paused. "What's going on?" Her pupils seemed to shrink when she laid eyes on Meredith. "What is she doing here?" She turned to Richard and spoke through clenched teeth. "I thought this was a closed set."

Richard picked up the continuity log and handed it to Meredith. "Naturally we'll need you for the rest of the day," he said.

She looked at him, eyes dry. After a moment she tucked the binder under one arm and the hem of her petticoat under the other and left.

14.

Meredith was halfway out of a nap when the buzzer rang at the flat on Coleville Terrace. The low-pitched static made her teeth tingle. It was five in the afternoon on a Sat.u.r.day, but she barely stirred. One eyelid opened and she took in the room. A stream of dust-seasoned light poured in through the window. Her face was smushed into the pillow. She could feel the seam pressing into her cheek, making a shallow indent there. Again with the bell. Her mother must be out. Probably attending some committee meeting or other. Meredith was pleasantly surprised to notice she did not feel remotely guilty for being in bed. This must be what depression was like, and upon reflection she decided it did not seem so bad.

After being fired from the Crouch picture, she had retreated into the guest room of her mother's flat, first in an effort to avoid her mother and then in an effort to avoid everything else. She watched her cell phone squawk and beep until eventually the battery ran dry. Her laptop, similarly, languished unopened in the corner. She hadn't bothered to check her e-mail in over a week.

For the first couple of days she was restless, occasionally getting up and eating some toast from the kitchen or wandering over to the small, high-set window and looking down at the street below, wondering about the people walking by on their way to work or to see friends. People carrying umbrellas and pushing strollers and looking so purposefully blase that it made her long for bed and sleep. Now all curiosity about the outside world had drained away. She felt safe in her little room with its stained yellow wall.

Again the buzzer. Meredith imagined someone putting a finger to the b.u.t.ton and leaning in hard. This was followed by a staccato series of buzzes, an atonal rendition of "Jingle Bells." Meredith kicked off her quilt and stumbled down the stairs toward the door. She did not think of brushing her hair or putting anything on over the washed-out flannel nightgown she had been wearing for the past week and a half. She did not want to see the person on the other side of the door. The sound was irritating her and she simply wanted to make it stop.

"Finally!" said Mish. Meredith struggled to haul open the door.

Mish was wearing a clear plastic raincoat with yellow polka dots and holding a long, dangerous-looking umbrella.

"It's sunny," said Meredith.

"No s.h.i.t, Sherlock. I've figured out that dressing for rain is the only way to ensure nice weather in this perverse fricking place." She pushed past Meredith and into the dim, soup-scented hallway. "What floor are you on?"

Meredith ignored the question and led the way upstairs with zombie steps. She didn't bother to turn on the timer light. It always went off before she made it to the top anyway. Once inside the flat she returned to her room, lay down on the bed and pulled the covers up to her chin.

"I was napping."

"I can see that." Mish bounced on the corner of Meredith's bed. She looked around the room and wrinkled her nose as though remembering something unpleasant. Pulling a Kleenex from her handbag, Mish spat on it, reached into her shirt and wiped under her armpits. "Raincoats make me sweat."

Meredith attempted a smile and found her mouth wouldn't seem to go that way.

"But I love them anyway. Hey, remember my Strawberry Shortcake poncho in school? The blue one with Strawberry Shortcake and her dog on it. What was her dog's name again?"

Meredith thought for a moment. "Huckleberry Pie?"

"No, I think that was her boyfriend."

"She didn't have a boyfriend."

"Sure she did."

Meredith sank deeper into the mattress and blinked once to refocus her eyes. The small talk was a kind of test. Bait dangled to see if she was up for the bite. She and Mish had been over the topic of her childhood rain poncho before, of course. That was the nice thing about girlfriends-you could have the same conversations over and over again without anyone ever getting bored. A good girlfriend was like a TV channel featuring all your favorite reruns. But not today.

Mish left the room and returned a few moments later with two gla.s.ses of tap water. "Your ma's not exactly Martha Stewart, eh?"

Meredith hadn't bothered to apologize about the mess because she had stopped noticing it herself. She felt a distant twinge of shame and closed her eyes.

"The show's really boring without you," Mish said. "I have no one to talk to on set except that makeup girl from Ess.e.x or Suss.e.x or wherever. Remember her? Anyway, I went out on a hen night with a bunch of her friends last weekend in Covent Garden. That's what they call bridal showers here. Hen nights. Except instead of having sandwiches and spritzers at somebody's aunt's house they all go out to a nightclub wearing schoolgirl outfits and get completely tanked and flash their b.o.o.bs and make out with strangers. Craziest girls I've ever hung out with in my life. I mean I felt demure around them. Me. Which is obviously saying a lot. They were like...like..." Mish searched for words, then banged her fist down on Meredith's arm, which caused Meredith's funny bone to vibrate. "They were like Roman soldiers in Topshop halter dresses. I've never seen so much exposed back fat in my life."

Mish tossed her head back and honked. Meredith made a neutral humming noise.

"Okay, I'm sorry but that was really funny," Mish said. "I've been saving that up for you all week. You okay? I left like three hundred messages."

"Sorry." Meredith had let the covers slip down a bit and now propped herself up on a stuffed corduroy reading rest she had found in the closet the day before. She motioned to her p.r.o.ne body and shrugged.

"So you've just been lying around all day? Are you sick? Have you just given up?"

"More the latter, I think. Though I may have a sore throat. I'm not sure."

"You look super skinny. Have you been eating?"

"Sometimes. Look, Mish, please don't get on my back. I'm just totally exhausted. I can't even tell you." Meredith felt something inside her chest split open like a walnut in a nutcracker.

"Exhausted from what?"

"By my own brain. From being alone."

"I thought you weren't interested in relationships."

"I'm not. Not romantic ones anyway. I just want a baby-a little friend. I don't care about meeting someone," Meredith said. "I'm done with searching."

"What about Barnaby? He was good. I liked him. And his family's loaded."

"Barnaby is a very nice guy who also happens to be an alcoholic falconer. I'm not sure I want to tell my child his father was an alcoholic falconer," Meredith said. "And money is beside the point. I'm not looking for a husband. I don't even want a boyfriend."