The Continuity Girl (40 page)

Authors: Leah McLaren

“Hey, it’s me. Just wanted to let you know that everything’s, uh, under control with your mother. She just had a little mini-emergency
in the kitchen, but one fire extinguisher later and everything is completely under control. She’s a funny one. You
sure
you
two are related? Anyway, I was thinking we could order in roti or something tonight. Hope things are going well with the doc.
Call me when you get a sec.”

Meredith’s grilled cheese arrived just as she was hanging up the phone, and she resolved to eat before returning her calls.
Eating had become a whole new priority for her over the past several months. The crumbs didn’t even make it to her lap now,
so she spread her napkin across her belly. The pregnant part of her was sturdier than she had imagined it would be, kind of
like a giant inverted oil drum attached to her middle. She could feel the baby’s foot nudging under her rib cage. Any day
now, Joe said. She felt absurdly fat. Meredith looked around for something to read and the shopkeeper tossed the latest
Us
magazine on the table in front of her. She thanked him and flipped to a random page.

On one page was a trend story about male celebrities growing beards. Below that was a large photo of Kathleen Swain in a wraparound
sundress walking down a city street with two small dogs. The editors had circled her swollen middle in red, highlighted by
a large cartoonish arrow.
KATHLEEN SWAIN’S MYSTERY BUMP
! screamed the headline in eighteen-point font.

“Kathleen Swain, forty-five, is showing signs of pregnancy after a long, difficult battle with infertility,” read the text.
“The aging starlet (who plays the lead in an upcoming as-yet-untitled Victorian costume drama) has been desperate for a baby
for years. According to one friend, ‘It had become an obsession that ruled her life. We were very relieved to find out that
things had finally worked out for her. She’s beyond happy.’ Swain was recently seen shopping for pink and blue singlets at
Barney’s in L.A. and chowing down on an organic tempeh dog (and fries!) at her local greasy spoon. No word yet on who the
father is, but a spokesperson for the actress confirms it’s someone she knows and trusts. ‘Kathleen would never have a baby
with a stranger. At this point she’s decided to keep the identity of the father a family secret. She’s a very private person.’”

Meredith closed the magazine and finished her sandwich. Thank God for cheese. She leaned back in her chair and closed her
eyes to rest—just for a moment—before returning to work.

Inside her, someone stirred.

A
BOUT THE AUTHOR

L
EAH
M
C
L
AREN
: This is not my first novel. When I was eight, I wrote a book called
The Enchanted Lighthouse
and self-published it on twelve
pages of stapled-together yellow foolscap. It was a bodice--ripper romance about a sailor who gets shipwrecked on a mysterious
island in the middle of the English Channel and starts up a torrid love affair with the beautiful red-haired lighthouse keeper’s
daughter, who also happens to be...
a ghost.
Although critically well-received (my mother called it “interesting”), the book
had a very short print run (1) and was soon after remaindered in the basement filing cabinet. After my first brush with literary
disappointment, I made the difficult decision to return to school and complete third grade.

A couple of decades later I found myself a gainfully employed writer—though not of fiction. After studying English literature
at McGill and Trent universities, I got a job as a columnist and feature writer at the
Globe and Mail,
Canada’s national newspaper.
(Have I mentioned the fact that I’m Canadian? It’s a lot like being American, except with higher taxes, free health care and
prime-time hockey. All the Canadian stereotypes you’ve ever heard are total crap—except the one about hockey. We are, all
of us, completely obsessed.)

In 2001 I went to live in London, England, for a while. During my stay I scraped by writing for British publications such
as the
Spectator,
the
Telegraph
and the
Times
of London and filing dispatches back home about public autopsies, weirdo aristocrats
and the trouble with dating English men.

Returning home to Canada a couple of years later, I set to work on this—my second—novel and now here it is in your hands.
From yellow foolscap to paperback. And to think it took me only two dozen years.

I really hope you like it.