Part 17 (1/2)
”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.”