The Continuity Girl (23 page)

What a surprise it was, then, to find out the problem lay with him. A twenty-seven-year-old man (Debra was a few years older),
just embarking on his graduate studies with a new wife, and yet he couldn’t perform this most basic of marital chores. Something
in the combination of them both proved toxic. Her womb, they had been told at the time, was a “hostile environment” for his
sluggish sperm. The exact cause could not be determined, the doctors said. The only certainty seemed that pregnancy was impossible.
He quit social smoking, beer and red meat, but after months of trying, nothing gave. He was, as they say, shooting blanks,
a Jaffa orange—for all intents and biological purposes, more gelding than stallion. Ashamed that he was unable to give his
wife what she wanted so terribly, Joe agreed to adoption as soon as they could afford it.

A year and twenty thousand dollars of her parents’ money later, they were flying home from Cambodia with Livvy, a serene,
black-eyed Buddha of a baby. That was eighteen years ago. In the fall she would enter university and major in literature.
It seemed incredible to Joe that he and Debra—two head-down scientists—could have raised such an artsy, free-spirited girl.
All he could do now was offer guidance and refuge.

It was Livvy who had inspired Joe in choosing his specialty. While Debra was on maternity leave, Joe changed his major from
oncology to fertility. If he couldn’t get his own wife pregnant, the least he could do was help some other women achieve the
pregnancies they so desperately desired.

What a bitter irony it had been when cancer killed Debra a decade and a half later. At the time he had felt like a failure
not only as a husband but as a doctor. But rather than sending him into a downward spiral, this blackness spurred him forward.
When Debra died, Joe did the opposite of fall apart. Instead, he became a super--functioning baby-maker and miracle worker.
He submerged himself in other work—research, papers, lectures, conferences, book contracts, office hours and a doubled patient
load—and in the midst of it
he barely found time to spend an hour with Livvy (by this point an emotionally remote adolescent) in the evening before returning
to the office. His life felt full to bursting and yet at the same time devoid of meaning. The thought of taking on another
project seemed im-possible. All his friends had expected him to collapse for a time
after Debra died—that’s what people were supposed to do, after all, wasn’t it? Retreat to the country and wound-lick for six
months while keeping regular phone appointments with a psychologist who implored one to “not be afraid to let it all out.”
Friends had offered their cottages and Hawaiian time-shares, presuming that what he needed was an escape. But instead, he’d
stayed in Toronto, in the same semidetached Victorian in Parkdale they had bought with help from Debra’s parents the year
Livvy arrived. He had thrown himself into his research—something he had always been somewhat ambivalent about before, preferring
instead the humane routine of the clinic.

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 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 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.