The Continuity Girl (32 page)

As it happened, a mess was just what Meredith needed to lift her spirits and fill her with a renewed sense of purpose, one
that she had not felt since she was first seized by the Quest. For days and days she thought of nothing but work.

When Mish called her on her cell one evening, Meredith did not notice herself rattling on until Mish said sourly, “Wow, are
you taking requests for Broadway show tunes?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she answered, in a manner that indicated Meredith would soon get an extended speech on the subject of exactly what
was wrong. “Hey, aren’t you going to ask me how my weekend with the German went?”

And before Meredith could apologize, Mish had begun a long litany of her weekend woes. Meredith listened and made dovish sounds
into the receiver.

“And then”—Mish’s voice had reached a semi-hysterical pitch—“
and then,
after acting all offended because I refused to eat
it, he takes me upstairs to see his dead grandmother’s shoe collection. I figured the guy was just some kind of dandy, but
no. Oh, no. It’s like this enormous walk-in closet filled with nothing but women’s dress shoes, most of them used. How psycho
is that?”

Meredith heard her light a cigarette and exhale smoke into the phone.

“God, Mere, when are you coming back? I miss you.”

“I thought your gay husband was in town,” Meredith said.

“Shane? Oh, yeah, but it’s not the same as a girlfriend. He’s out clubbing it up with the boys every night while I’m slaving
away on set. I only see him for like half an hour a day if that. This movie is driving me nuts.”

“Kathleen?”

“Funny you should ask, because now that I think of it, her ladyship hasn’t been half bad for the last week of shooting. Which
is pretty surprising considering the hours we were doing—night shoots. You know the scene where she slides down the cliff?
Oh my God, it was like fifteen thousand takes later, with me having to change her into a clean corset and petticoat in between
takes. And new makeup and hair every time. Total hell for everyone, especially for her. We all thought she was going to lose
it, but she didn’t. Actually she was weirdly cheerful about the whole thing.”

“Funny, isn’t it,” Meredith said after a short pause, “the way people who manufacture crises can often function very well
when confronted with a real one.”

“I wouldn’t say it was a crisis really...” Mish drifted off, trouble in her voice. “Listen, Mere, I wanted to ask you...”

“Mmm?”

“Actually, it’s rather awkward.”

“Well, you might jolly well get on with it, then,” Meredith said, parroting her friend’s British affectation. But Mish, preoccupied
with what she was about to say, didn’t notice.

“Well, here’s the thing. A few nights ago your ma invited me to see the pageant she was in at her club, so I took Shane.”

“That’s nice. Wait. She wasn’t naked, was she?”

“No. Well, just topless really. And that was only for a second at the end. Anyway, I wish you’d seen it. They did a rock-opera
version of some weird French farce. Bizarre. Anyway, Barnaby was there and we ended up having dinner and we were talking—not
about you, though, I promise—and then he sort of...”

“Seriously?” Meredith said. “You and Barnaby? I mean, that’s cool. That’s totally fine.”

“No, not me. God, are you kidding? After what his fucking bird did to my hat?
Pas de chance.
It’s him and Shane who hit it
off. And I mean that in the
classical sense.
”

“Are you serious?”

“I wouldn’t joke about something like this.”

Meredith began to hiccup uncontrollably. “It...it’s kind of funny.”

Of course. The “arrangement.” Barnaby was gay.

“I wanted to tell you now because I’m thinking of bringing them both to the wedding.”

“Oh fuck, Elle’s sister. When is that again?”

“This Saturday. In Florence. Did you RSVP?”

“Yes, then I completely forgot about it. We were supposed to bring hot dates, weren’t we?”

Mish made an embarrassed sound. There was a drumroll of mutual silence before they laughed again.

After hanging up the phone Meredith tried to picture Ozzie at a wedding.

It was impossible.

Avalon,
meanwhile, was a whole new movie.

Meredith had solved the problem of the plot by beginning the film at the end and moving the narrative backward, from the tragic
end of the love affair toward its blissful inception. The result was a simple, dreamlike story that seemed to occur as much
within the minds of the players as it did in the eyes of the audience. In this way she compensated for the discontinuous look
of the film—the varying ages and stages of the actors and the changing texture and color of the filmstock all fell into place
as part of the heady universe of
Avalon.
For a silent art film, Meredith decided, rewinding the reel, it didn’t suck at all.

Ozzie had not been this pleased since the Macedonian builders stripped the paint off the kitchen wall and found a seventeenth-century
fresco. In a fit of excitement he woke Reno and Marcella from their beds (it was the wee hours of the morning by the time
Meredith finished her cut) and showed them the film, projected outdoors on the side of the garden shed. The two actor-servants
seemed immensely relieved. It was obvious to Meredith that they had long ago come to view the making of
Avalon
as merely another
eccentric aspect of their duties as butler and housekeeper at the villa. The continuity girl’s recut meant they might finally
be able to imagine a future as actors outside of the crumbling Etruscan garden walls of Ozzie’s obsessive imagination.

The following night, Ozzie assisted Marcella and Reno in the preparation of a celebratory feast. Slabs of decadently marbled
Florentine-cut beef were served with simple white beans drizzled in the palest green olive oil Meredith had ever seen. Bottles
of fine Tuscan Chianti were brought up from a secret cellar and set out with platters of steamed asparagus, spaghetti tossed
with caviar and unsalted bread. After dinner they retired to the library, and Reno and Marcella exhorted giggles from Meredith
by performing dirty stock sketches from
commedia dell’arte.
Ozzie brought out his harmonica and played sly overtures to their
scenes. Just the sight of him holding the harmonica to his lips like a dreamy hobo made Meredith feel her rib cage was a spun-sugar
sculpture dissolving inside her chest. When Marcella offered her a choice of digestives, she yawned and took a thimble-sized
glass of Limoncello, thinking she would go to bed straight afterward.

When they were alone for a moment, Ozzie looked at Meredith.

“You are a fantastic girl, aren’t you,” he said, reaching over and ruffling her bangs.

“Depends who you ask,” Meredith said with a mock-petulant shrug.

Ozzie leaned back into the library sofa. “God, I can’t believe it’s done. After all these years of shooting and shooting,
labouring toward some invisible idea of perfection, and all I needed was a new set of eyes.” He looked at her solemnly. “I
hope you will be happy with an editor’s credit.”

Meredith shook her head hard. “Don’t do that.”

“I insist,” Ozzie said, so insistently that she gave up arguing. “And after that I want you to direct.”

“Direct!” Laughter bubbled up from her gut. “What would
I
direct?”

“Whatever you wanted to,” Ozzie said, looking as serious as she’d ever seen him. “Within reason of course. Probably romantic
comedies, or tragic love stories. The sort of thing young women seem to direct. If they ever do, which is a rare occurrence.
You’re very talented, Meredith. You’re able to make sensible stories out of...other people’s messes.”

Meredith raised an eyebrow to object, but Ozzie silenced her by raising his hand.

“I will not see your gift wasted on note-taking and stopwatch--clicking and whatever else it is you continuity girls do.”

“Actually the official title is ‘script supervisor,’” said Meredith, feeling suddenly quite defensive. “And we do much more
than take notes. For instance there’s back-matching of the action, which is very important, particularly when keeping track
of the coverage for a scene shot on a range of different axes—”

“You can be a bit of a bore, can’t you.”

Meredith shut up to indicate she was not in the mood to be kidded. She wondered why the idea of his wanting her to direct
bothered her so much. Ozzie placed a hand over hers.

“Tell me, Meredith, what is it you want, if not to direct?”

The feeling came over her again. A tingling in her ears followed by a deep belly yawn. The Quest. For a split second she considered
telling Ozzie about it.

“What I really want,” she said after a moment, “is to know exactly how you know my mother.”

Ozzie exhaled. It was the sort of preparatory deflation that indicated a speech of heavy importance was on the horizon. But
before he could speak, another voice interrupted him—this one rich, familiar and as American as the smell of brewed coffee.

“Mind if I join the party?”

Kathleen Swain, long back arched into tight jeans meant for a woman half her age, stood there. At her side swung a two-liter
bottle of Evian water all but drained. She did not seem to register, let alone recognize, Meredith.

“Well, well. What have we here? Did you take the train?” asked Ozzie.

“Nah.” Swain dumped herself into an armchair and threw one leg over the side. “Hitched a ride with my friend Fadi. He was
flying over Italy on the way back to Saudi Arabia anyway.”

Meredith watched Ozzie examine for the first time a small spot of red wine, or blood, that had appeared at some point just
below the breast of his camel cashmere cardigan.

“And to what do we owe this pleasant surprise?” he said into his chest. “Shouldn’t you be working on my movie? What are we
calling it now?”

Swain looked extremely bored. “
Death Is for Martyrs.
My scenes were finished yesterday,” she said, “and I just needed to get
the hell out of London for a bit.” She tossed her head back and shifted her hips in the chair so that a peach-curve of flesh
appeared between the top of her jeans and the bottom of her T-shirt. She sighed and yawned, covering her mouth just at the
end.

Meredith felt Ozzie should offer something to drink but he didn’t. Nor did he get up from his place on the sofa. Instead he
reclined deeper into the green satin, closed his eyes and breathed heavily through his nose. The air was thickening. Meredith
felt slightly sick.

She remembered the story Tony had told her of Ozzie and Kathleen, and shuddered.

“Are you cold, darling?” Ozzie asked, placing his hand on Meredith’s forearm.

Meredith shook her head. He had never called her “darling” before.

This was enough for Kathleen. “There’s actually something I wanted to speak to you about,” she said to Ozzie.

“And all the telephones in London were broken?”

Kathleen laughed ostentatiously. Meredith felt she should just leave, but Ozzie’s hand on her forearm pressed down, indicating
he wished her to stay.

“I wanted to come and see you as soon as I could,” Kathleen began, her posture collapsing. “I’ve been seeing doctors. The
ones you recommended and others. One in particular who was actually pretty good and, anyway, I thought it would be nice...
Basically I thought it would be nice if...we could...” Her voice trailed off, and she looked at Meredith as though she had
only just noticed her in the room. She arranged her face in a wincing smile. “Do you mind if I have him to myself for a bit?”
she said. “Thaaanks.”

Before she made it out the library door and down the hall, Meredith heard Kathleen laugh. “Brunettes?” she said in a voice
that made no effort to conceal itself. “You aren’t lowering the bar, are you?”

What could Meredith possibly do but eavesdrop?

Ozzie mumbled something gruff in response. Then Meredith heard Kathleen’s voice, scandalized and disbelieving.

“No. You mean she’s
that
girl? I had no idea. I mean, I guess I knew she was Irma’s kid, but I didn’t put it together until
now. Jesus, Ozzie, have you
told
her?”

Told me what?
Meredith wanted to scream. But Kathleen walked over and pushed the door shut with an audible click.

Meredith turned in the dark and stumbled into Tony. He was leaning in a door frame, holding a glass of red wine and wearing
a bemused expression.

“How dare you spy on me?” she hissed.

“How dare you eavesdrop?”

She felt like scratching the stupid look off his stupid face. Instead, she started down the hall toward the stairwell.

“Meredith,” Tony called after her in a singsong, “Meredith Matilda Moore.”

She stopped at the sound of her middle name.

“Have you been going through my things?” she demanded, privately trying to locate her passport in her mind. (Black bag, inside
pocket.)

Tony strolled up to her, sipping as he walked. “Why would I need to go through your things when I can find out everything
about you through other, more obvious, sources?”

“I don’t know what you’re implying, but Ozzie and I are just friends.” Meredith’s face burned.

“Oh, you’re rather more than that, my dear, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not. What I’m wondering is”—he put
a finger to his lips and circled her as he spoke—“how you could be so blind to what is right under your pretty little nose.”

“Stop talking in riddles,” Meredith snapped. “This is real life, not some melodrama in your alcoholic imagination.”

“That’s precisely what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Tony said with a laugh. “Now run along to your room. Maybe there’ll
be a present waiting for you.”

“What—” Meredith began, but Tony wandered away.

Odious little man, she thought, stomping up the stairs to her turret room. Creepy bald freak.

Stepping over the threshold, she felt a current travel through her body. The room was just as she had left it, except for
one thing. On her pillow was a file folder labeled “M.” She sat down on the bed and opened it. Inside was a tidy stack of
documents. She observed with dread and fascination that the documents bore the letterhead of the girls’ boarding school she
had attended in Toronto from grades one through thirteen. “
Meredith is quiet in class and always completes her work on time;
however, she occasionally has difficulty sharing
” was the handwritten comment on the first page.