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gather her wits after a tense rehearsal with the second-unit director. This was the Karen who minutes ago had stormed off the set—she of the Simon rumors, said to be a drug addict, a man-eater. Leah knew enough about the hatred behind such whispers to dismiss them, but . . . most every time she had seen Simon lately, Karen hovered at his elbow or had her hand on his shoulder.
    The back of Leah’s neck prickled. What had Paul said once? Stars don’t have lunch with crew unless there’s blood in the water somewhere nearby.
    Karen flipped her cell phone open just long enough to turn it off. She wore a pair of cloth napkins draped over her blouse and had replaced her high heels with running shoes. Around the edges of the green awning overhead the noon sun beat down, but the rows of picnic tables sat in the shade.
    “I used to be,” said Leah. “Now I teach. Ballet.”
    The useful part of the real Nadia Weston’s resume stopped a few years ago, when she left the film industry. Ballet was a safe cover story.
    “I thought so. It’s in your demeanor. I’m Karen.” She extended her hand.
    “Nadia Weston.”
    Yes , Simon would find Karen appealing. She looked like a couple of his exes: blond and aloof. Luminous skin, like Faith’s.
    What was Faith doing now, back home in Seattle?
    “Why’d you stop dancing? You were a professional, I assume? You have the body for it.” Karen hesitated before the word “body” and gestured with her fork, as if searching for the right term. Her tone conveyed a judgment of dancers as simple -minded creatures of the flesh, living in the shadows of propriety. For a moment a girl’s freckled features and plaid school uniform superimposed themselves over Karen’s blond form—a memory of Trudy Green, a girl from high school to whom Leah confided an incident with her Uncle Glen, who had touched her breast when he hugged her at a family dinner. She should have known that was a mistake, akin to giving someone a map to the place where they could hurt her. Sure enough, a twisted version of the story spread afterward, about how Leah had seduced her uncle during a family Christmas gathering.
    “I went to the School of American Ballet in New York.”
    “Really? When ?” Karen twisted her fork in a mound of noodles.
    “As a teenager.” Nineteen and far too small. Far too old , too, in ballerina years, but her family would not pay the tuition, so she’d spent precious time earning it herself.
    “Did you go on to the New York City Ballet?” asked Karen, as though the idea filled her with awe. She leaned forward on her elbows.
    “No.” The rejection letter from SAB had read, While we appreciate your technical agility, we are looking for dancers with more artistic expressiveness.
    A pleased expression flashed across Karen’s face. “D’you ever feel trapped by expectations? As a woman. All the pressures.”
    “What makes you ask?” Leah pushed her plate aside.
    “I’m an actress; it’s my job to observe. I’ve seen you watching, learning from everyone. You do what you have to to blend in,” said Karen. “But you’re not like them. Mind if I smoke?”
    Leah smiled. “Yes, I do.”
    Karen’s own smile flickered, but she set her purse down unopened.
    “You have a certain quality that reminds me of Julia. I hope you don’t mind if I model my performance on you. I know Simon would approve.”
    Leah folded her hands in her lap. “You’re very flattering. Has he said as much?”
    “He doesn’t have to.” Karen pulled the napkins off her shoulders and released her hair from its clip. “This business is hell for women. I’m sure you know what it’s like to finally get a job and then find you weren’t the first choice or even the third. It’s nice to find sisterhood in places like that, women who don’t get in your way.” Karen extracted a cigarette from her purse and stood. “I’m glad we talked.”
    “So am I.”
    “It was nice meeting you, Nada .” That last word