up at eight,” she said. “It’s beautiful out. We’re definitely shooting today.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it. What appointment?”
“I don’t know, Jules,” Mia said. “I don’t ask questions. Z needs me to go with her, I go with her.”
“Like a doctor’s appointment?”
“You know what, we are going to respect other people’s privacy,” she said, “and not put them on the spot.”
“Me asking you a question is putting Zakiyyah on the spot?”
“Privacy, Jules. Boundaries.” She texted her friend. “Oops, gotta go, see ya.” She gave him a peck, ran out, got into Z’s Chevy Cruze, and off they sped.
At nine she was back on set but, before Julian could say a word to her, was whisked into hair and makeup. Because she was late, they were scrambling to get her made up and dressed so they could shoot before noon. Julian paced outside her trailer. There was some commotion, back and forth, walkie-talkies, the costume designer in and out. They were looking for something for Mirabelle to wear that would pop in the scene, but they couldn’t find the right thing. Shoes, umbrellas, belts. “How about a beret?” Julian said to the stressed and out of ideas assistant director, castigating the befuddled costume girl.
The AD perked up. “What color?”
“Red. Red leather. Gucci. Vintage.”
“That might work. I’d have to see it. Do you have it?”
Julian called Ashton. In ten minutes, Ashton was on set, holding out the red beret to the AD. “It’s not for sale or for keeps, though,” Ashton said. “It’s a free rental to the production. Sign it in, but I need it back as soon as you’re done.” The AD and the costume girl carried off the beret on a tray in front of them like the head of John the Baptist. Ashton and Julian waited outside Mia’s trailer. Mia loved it, the director loved it. It was a go. It was the final touch they’d been looking for.
Ashton was beaming, in an unusually good mood even for him.
“It’s a beret, dude,” Julian said, rolling his eyes. “Calm down. It’s not a holy relic.”
“It is literally a holy relic, you incorrigible misanthrope,” Ashton said. “It carries the physical remains of a holy site and a holy person. It was given to the man who saved my father from a burning house during a world war, given to him by someone else for whom it had been a sacred object. And then I gave it to you, and it saved your stupid stubborn cynical ass. It’s like you know nothing. Relics contain spiritual links between life and death, between the soul and the body. A relic is a sacrament. Every church must contain a relic on its altar. Way to go, Jules, way to respect the treasures of the faithful.”
Shaking his head, Julian crossed his arms on his chest. He didn’t want to tell Ashton how unfathomably often he dreamed of that one-armed man and his vagabond throng on the war-torn streets of London.
The two men stood shoulder to shoulder, watching six people primping Mirabelle’s hair under and around the beret.
“I must say,” Ashton said, “I admire their attention to detail. Every fucking thing has to be right.” He knocked into Julian. “I gotta go. We’ve got somebody coming in fifteen for the Donkey Kong machine. And I sold another Jeannie bottle this morning. Can’t keep them in stock. Later. I’ll be back for your ten-second close-up—maybe even with Z.” He smiled wide. “When do you think, maybe five, six hours?”
“Kill me now. How do they do it?”
“How? Because it’s so much fun. Look how much fun it is.”
And it was, it was fun.
The worst day on a film set is still better than the best day anywhere else. Julian would be wise to remember that as he chafed outside Mirabelle’s crowded trailer.
“Okay, ladies,” the AD called, “let’s hurry with that makeup, we gotta shoot sometime this century. Julian, come with me.”
He took Julian over to the finally finished set. The director wanted him sitting in place until Mirabelle was ready. One less thing to worry about.
The set was built as somebody’s idea of a modern London street, yet with something old in it. A somebody who’d never been to London, or seen London in a film, or maybe even a photograph. The windows in all the shops were tall, like in Century City, except for the quaint rustic coffee shop in the middle of the street, a coffee shop that was supposed to be uniquely British but