Part 8 (1/2)
”Do?” Barnaby looked bewildered as a forkful of peas tumbled into his lap. ”You mean with my time or for money?”
”For most people it's both, isn't it?”
Barnaby frowned. His hair, which was fine and golden brown, hung in his eyes like a schoolboy's at the end of a summer holiday of growth. He adjusted his spectacles, which were sliding down his nose. ”I suppose it is. The fact is, though, I don't do much of anything. I mean, obviously I have a few things I like to do, but as for a job, the truth is, I don't really have one. I guess you could say I'm unemployed.”
”Where I come from we call that being 'between jobs,'” said Meredith. She noticed there was a cigarette burn through his lapel and felt a funny urge to stick her finger through it.
”Really?” He had an endearing amazement at everyday ba.n.a.lities. ”So what is it you do, then, Miss Moore?”
”I'm a continuity supervisor. On a film set.”
”And what exactly does a continuity supervisor do on a film set?”
”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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.ses 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, gla.s.ses 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 ma.s.saged the cramp in her diaphragm and practiced a few square breaths she had learned to do in prenatal yoga cla.s.s. 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 a.s.sistance?”
”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 circ.u.mstances. 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, sungla.s.ses...Ack! Where the f.u.c.k?
”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.”