Read Online The Continuity Girl by Leah McLaren - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Leah McLaren
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and extra film—
check.
Pencils and sharpener—
check.
Hat, mitts, scarf for outdoor shooting—
check.
Envelopes: legal size—
check.
Eraser—
check.
Organic yogurt and Fuji apple for lunch—
check.
Waterproof felt pens—
check.
Reinforced three-hole paper—
check.
One-hole punch—
check.
Paper clips—
check.
Ruler—
check.
Self-stick three-hole-paper reinforcements...self-stick three-hole-paper
reinforcements...no!
Where
were the freaking self-stick three-hole-paper reinforcements?
Meredith took in air and closed her eyes. Yes, she was sure she had noted them the first time she completed the checklist
that day, just before leaving the flat at dawn. The self-stick three-hole-paper reinforcements were a small but essential
tool for her job. Without them, she would have to punch holes in her blank paper, clip them into the binder and simply trust
that they would stay secure. If a careless technician bumped against her while she was working, or if her binder slid off
her knees onto the floor (as it often did if she was absorbed in watching the monitor or talking to the director and forgot
to steady it with her elbow), then carefully compiled pages of log sheets would be in danger of detaching at their weakest,
unprotected spots. Columns of painstakingly listed shot details could be damaged or, worse yet, lost completely. What if she
wasn’t looking when a page ripped off and got stuck on the second AD’s boot as he walked by, barking call times into his walkie-talkie?
By the time Meredith noticed the missing log sheet it could be six hours and two setups later. The page could have been swept
up by the cleaners, dumped into the dustbin, bagged and ready for the afternoon pickup. It would be too late to get the page
back, impossible to remember all the relevant details, a disservice to the editor and the director—and she would be fired.
For the second time in her life. And all because her brand-new packet of self-stick paper reinforcements had probably slipped
beneath her dusty little bed.
Meredith felt her guts constrict. There was a pounding in her ears. It was not impossible she would die. People died all the
time. Cells exploded in their brains or their throats just swelled shut. She reached deep into her pack and found the inner
pocket containing a small bottle that held a dozen or so dissolvable half-doses of Ativan from a prescription she had filled
four years before after a particularly bad breakup. She wrapped her hand around the bottle and the imminent-death feeling
gradually faded.
She’d spent enough time in therapy to know her anxiety was likely brought on by the sudden close proximity to her mother.
But Irma was trying her best. She had somehow arranged this job, hadn’t she? And she was supportive of the donor quest—devoting
herself to the task of setting up Meredith with a suitable specimen using every connection available to her.
And Irma’s connections were considerable. In spite (or perhaps because of) her immutable eccentricity, she had compiled a
network of friends and ex-lovers who ranged across London society. She belonged to half the clubs in the city and was well
known in the others. There were dinners and book launches and pub quizzes to attend several times a week. Irma sat on a number
of boards and governing committees of art galleries, a library and a major literary prize. While she never contributed anything
in the way of actual work in these postings, she amused her fellow artocrats by telling animated stories of the old days of
Notting Hill—hanging out with the arty crowd, dropping liquid acid and sipping Campari on the rooftops. She was, and always
had been, a hit wherever she went. And now, for the first time ever, Irma finally had something to offer her daughter: a rich
and varied social life.
On Wednesday, Meredith was to attend a dinner at the Chelsea Arts Club with her mother. Perhaps the father of her child would
check.
Pencils and sharpener—
check.
Hat, mitts, scarf for outdoor shooting—
check.
Envelopes: legal size—
check.
Eraser—
check.
Organic yogurt and Fuji apple for lunch—
check.
Waterproof felt pens—
check.
Reinforced three-hole paper—
check.
One-hole punch—
check.
Paper clips—
check.
Ruler—
check.
Self-stick three-hole-paper reinforcements...self-stick three-hole-paper
reinforcements...no!
Where
were the freaking self-stick three-hole-paper reinforcements?
Meredith took in air and closed her eyes. Yes, she was sure she had noted them the first time she completed the checklist
that day, just before leaving the flat at dawn. The self-stick three-hole-paper reinforcements were a small but essential
tool for her job. Without them, she would have to punch holes in her blank paper, clip them into the binder and simply trust
that they would stay secure. If a careless technician bumped against her while she was working, or if her binder slid off
her knees onto the floor (as it often did if she was absorbed in watching the monitor or talking to the director and forgot
to steady it with her elbow), then carefully compiled pages of log sheets would be in danger of detaching at their weakest,
unprotected spots. Columns of painstakingly listed shot details could be damaged or, worse yet, lost completely. What if she
wasn’t looking when a page ripped off and got stuck on the second AD’s boot as he walked by, barking call times into his walkie-talkie?
By the time Meredith noticed the missing log sheet it could be six hours and two setups later. The page could have been swept
up by the cleaners, dumped into the dustbin, bagged and ready for the afternoon pickup. It would be too late to get the page
back, impossible to remember all the relevant details, a disservice to the editor and the director—and she would be fired.
For the second time in her life. And all because her brand-new packet of self-stick paper reinforcements had probably slipped
beneath her dusty little bed.
Meredith felt her guts constrict. There was a pounding in her ears. It was not impossible she would die. People died all the
time. Cells exploded in their brains or their throats just swelled shut. She reached deep into her pack and found the inner
pocket containing a small bottle that held a dozen or so dissolvable half-doses of Ativan from a prescription she had filled
four years before after a particularly bad breakup. She wrapped her hand around the bottle and the imminent-death feeling
gradually faded.
She’d spent enough time in therapy to know her anxiety was likely brought on by the sudden close proximity to her mother.
But Irma was trying her best. She had somehow arranged this job, hadn’t she? And she was supportive of the donor quest—devoting
herself to the task of setting up Meredith with a suitable specimen using every connection available to her.
And Irma’s connections were considerable. In spite (or perhaps because of) her immutable eccentricity, she had compiled a
network of friends and ex-lovers who ranged across London society. She belonged to half the clubs in the city and was well
known in the others. There were dinners and book launches and pub quizzes to attend several times a week. Irma sat on a number
of boards and governing committees of art galleries, a library and a major literary prize. While she never contributed anything
in the way of actual work in these postings, she amused her fellow artocrats by telling animated stories of the old days of
Notting Hill—hanging out with the arty crowd, dropping liquid acid and sipping Campari on the rooftops. She was, and always
had been, a hit wherever she went. And now, for the first time ever, Irma finally had something to offer her daughter: a rich
and varied social life.
On Wednesday, Meredith was to attend a dinner at the Chelsea Arts Club with her mother. Perhaps the father of her child would
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