The Continuity Girl Part 8

"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."

The doorman smiled his awful smile and placed a bony digit on Meredith's elbow. Her heart skittered.

"I'm going to have to ask you to step outside the club until you have sorted yourself out, and once you have, you are quite welcome to return. Lydia at the door will be happy to check your phone when you find it." He tapped her elbow, indicating that she should rise. "Chop-chop."

Just then, Barnaby appeared. His tie was half undone and he had an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Good evening, m'lord," said the doorman, straightening slightly but keeping a frigid grip on Meredith's elbow.

Barnaby coughed. "Hullo there, Mr. Tonbridge. May I ask what you are doing with my Canadian friend?"

"I was just escorting her out. The lady had a mobile in her handbag, and as you well know, the rules of the club clearly dictate-"

"Really, Tonbridge. Do leave her alone, would you?"

"Well, sir, I-"

"With all due respect, my good man, you ought to chill out." Barnaby turned to Meredith. "Would you mind terribly giving me your phone, Meredith?"

At that moment the phone seemed to leap from its hiding spot into her hand. She gave it to Barnaby, who turned the phone off and slipped it into Tonbridge's breast pocket.

"Very good, sir," said the doorman. He gave a shallow bow and shuffled away.

Barnaby waited until Tonbridge turned the corner before he laughed. "I do apologize about Tonbridge. He's a bit of a bore. Not his fault really. The poor bloke has been working here for centuries." He produced a monogrammed gold lighter, rolled it on his pants and lit his smoke. "Care for a cig?"

"No, I'm fine. Thanks. I mean, not just for that, but for the other thing as well."

"Not at all." He smiled. "Now, after all that, do you mind if we do go outside? My sister-in-law's uncle is here tonight and I don't want him to know I smoke."

Outside it was drizzling and chilly, so they stood under the front awning. Without a word, Barnaby took off his jacket and slipped it over Meredith's shoulders. She could feel the tattered silk lining on the back of her arms.

"Listen," he said. "I was thinking about our conversation inside, about me not doing anything. And I was thinking you must a.s.sume I'm such a ridiculous layabout, and I really don't want to give you that impression. I mean, I do have interests. Honestly."

"Oh, really?"

"Well, for one thing, my birds. I'm a great falconer."

"A falconer?"

"As in, one who falcons. Hunting with birds of prey. Not just falcons either. I keep owls and hawks as well."

"What do you hunt?"

"Oh, you know, depends on the time of year. Pheasants and rabbits, the occasional small dog."

Meredith looked stricken.

"Kidding."

She shook her head. "I'm so gullible. The gullible Canadian."

"Anyway, I'd love you to come and meet them-my birds. Perhaps one weekend you could come? They really are the most marvellous creatures."

"I'd be honoured."

He leaned in and kissed Meredith quickly on the mouth. No hands or anything, just enough for her to get a scent. Turkish cigarettes, lemon rind and furniture polish. Lovely.

10.

The day before the gallery opening, Gunther called and suggested a picnic on Hampstead Heath. She rode the tube up to North London. As she rocketed up the line in the unventilated subway car, "Dancing Queen" looped through her head. It was all she could do not to hum. Meredith never hummed.

Before leaving the house, she'd put on a dress and stuck Mish's thermometer in her ear: it had greeted her with an enthusiastic beep. She was ovulating.

Gunther picked her up in a battered Volvo station wagon and drove to the Heath. Soon they were sitting halfway up the gra.s.sy slope on a flannel sheet, unwrapping waxed paper from tongue sandwiches he had purchased at the local butcher shop.

He was different from how he'd been the other night. Softer--spoken and full of apologies. Tongue was all they had left, he explained. All the curried chicken and pulled pork were gone. Meredith shrugged and smiled and sipped red wine from a small plastic cup. Wind washed over her shoulders and tickled the hair on the backs of her arms. She felt this might be the Day, and was soon lost in fantasies of what her life would be like, back in Toronto, with a small tow-headed half-German child.

"His father was a famous London photographer," she would say to the other Yummies in the park. "We had one perfect picnic together and that was it. I never saw him again."

Gunther placed his hand over hers.

"Where are you?" he said.

"What?"

"Where did you go to? You seemed so far away. I want to know where you'd gone to in your mind."

Meredith laughed with discomfort. "I was just thinking what a perfect day it is." Then she remembered her manners and asked about his childhood.

"My mother moved here from Munich after my parents divorced when I was fourteen. She wanted to change me into a little Englishman." He laughed.

Meredith asked about his work.

"I make my money as a carpenter," he said, "but photography is my real love. Here." He pulled something from his wallet.

It was a pamphlet showing photos of frames. Not just implements to put pictures in, but frames carved from exotic woods, some covered in tangled vein patterns that made Meredith think of medical diagrams. They were sculpted like wreaths, some tangled, some smooth. To Meredith's eye, they appeared almost human.

"These are beautiful," she said.

He waved his hand, s.n.a.t.c.hed back the pamphlet and tossed it aside with the waxed paper. "Bourgeois pap for Notting Hill craft shops, nothing more."

Meredith couldn't tell whether he was just being modest or whether she should push the compliment. "Well," she said, "I like them anyway."

He asked if she enjoyed her work. Meredith shrugged.

"It's okay. It's not a calling, but I think it suits my personality."