the captain wouldn’t sound like a teenage boy going through the worst of adolescence. They would’ve cast someone gruff and authoritative. Hugh Jackman, maybe. Or a Brit, if they wanted to suggest erudition, a hint of Oxford-acquired wisdom. Derek Jacobi, perhaps.
Veronica has acted alongside Derek off and on for almost thirty years. He held her backstage the night her mother died and talked her through it in a gentle, reassuring murmur. An hour later they were both dressed as Romans in front of 480 people, and God, he was good that night, and she was good, too, and that was the evening she learned she could act her way through anything, and she can act her way through this, too. Inside, she is already growing calmer, letting go of all cares, all concern. It has been years since she felt anything she didn’t decide to feel first.
“I thought you were drinking too early,” she says to the man beside her. “It turns out I started drinking too late.” She lifts the little plastic cup of wine she was served with her lunch and says “Chin-chin” before draining it.
He turns a lovely, easy smile upon her. “I’ve never been to Fargo, although I did watch the TV show.” He narrows his eyes. “Were you in Fargo? I feel like you were. You did something with forensics, and then Ewan McGregor strangled you to death.”
“No, darling. You’re thinking of Contract: Murder, and it was James McAvoy with a garrote.”
“So it was. I knew I saw you die once. Do you die a lot?”
“Oh, all the time. I did a picture with Richard Harris, it took him all day to bludgeon me to death with a candlestick. Five setups, forty takes. Poor man was exhausted by the end of it.”
Her seatmate’s eyes bulge, and she knows he’s seen the picture and remembers her role. She was twenty-two at the time and naked in every scene, no exaggeration. Veronica’s daughter once asked, “Mom, when exactly did you discover clothing?” Veronica had replied, “Right after you were born, darling.”
Veronica’s daughter is beautiful enough to be in movies herself, but she makes hats instead. When Veronica thinks of her, her chest aches with pleasure. She never deserved to have such a sane, happy, grounded daughter. When Veronica considers herself—when she reckons with her own selfishness and narcissism, her indifference to mothering, her preoccupation with her career—it seems impossible that she should have such a good person in her life.
“I’m Gregg,” says her neighbor. “Gregg Holder.”
“Veronica D’Arcy.”
“What brought you to L.A.? A part? Or do you live there?”
“I had to be there for the apocalypse. I play a wise old woman of the wasteland. I assume it will be a wasteland. All I saw was a green screen. I hope the real apocalypse will hold off long enough for the film to come out. Do you think it will?”
Gregg looks out at the landscape of cloud. “Sure. It’s North Korea, not China. What can they hit us with? No apocalypse for us. For them, maybe.”
“How many people live in North Korea?” This from the girl on the other side of the aisle, the one with the comically huge glasses. She has been listening to them intently and is leaning toward them now in a very adult way.
Her mother gives Gregg and Veronica a tight smile and pats her daughter’s arm. “Don’t disturb the other passengers, dear.”
“She’s not disturbing me,” Gregg says. “I don’t know, kid. But a lot of them live on farms, scattered across the countryside. There’s only the one big city, I think. Whatever happens, I’m sure most of them will be okay.”
The girl sits back and considers this, then twists in her seat to whisper to her mother. Her mother squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head. Veronica wonders if she even knows she is still patting her daughter’s arm.
“I have a girl about her age,” Gregg says.
“I have a girl about your age,” Veronica tells him. “She’s my favorite thing in the world.”
“Yep. Me, too. My daughter, I mean, not yours. I’m sure yours is great as well.”
“Are you headed home to her?”
“Yes. My wife called to ask if I would cut a business trip short. My wife is in love with a man she met on Facebook, and she wants me to come take care of the kid so she can drive up to Toronto to meet him.”
“Oh, my God. You’re not serious. Did you have any warning?”