which still sported L.A.’s skyscraper-height windows, though the production department had fitted it with a golden awning. Was that British? The street was built wide so that the fake red double-decker bus—all frame and no engine—could be rolled down it on a pulley. At the end of the set there was a hint of a fake park, a dress shop façade, and a florist. Shae the production assistant was lovingly arranging the flowers for maximum dazzle. The bus and the chunky black cab stood in the corner, waiting for their own close-up.
There was something uncomfortably recognizable about the street. Julian’s sense of déjà vu was never stronger. He had no idea why. He was sure he’d never been on a street like this before. On the way to the bistro table, Julian assessed the familiarity. What was it? Did he catch a glimpse of something like it in one of his dreams? He would’ve remembered. The London of his dreams—messy, clanging, enormous, full of life, sometimes under punishing duress—was never this clean, this sunny, this empty.
The director and the cameraman surveyed the scene, analyzed it through their lenses and remained unhappy with it. They said it didn’t look true. They obsessed about the red bus. Something was wrong with it. After twenty minutes of their hand-wringing, Julian had to step in.
“This isn’t the story of the bus,” he said to them. “This is the story of the girl who gets hit by the bus.”
“What are you saying?”
“Emphasis,” Julian said. “Priorities.”
The director and the AD agreed with Julian in theory, but they still couldn’t let it go. Something didn’t feel right. They couldn’t figure it out. They had a bus, a cab, a green bag from Harrods, what was missing?
What was missing? White granite townhouses, a river, twenty bridges, the dome of St. Paul’s, a Roman wall, chip shops, newsagents, roundabouts, bookies. And ten million people. “Rain,” Julian said, rubbing the bridge of his nose, trying to find his patience. “When is the sidewalk ever dry in London? You’re not making a fantasy. You’re making horror. And horror has to be solidly grounded in reality. Rain is a must.”
They extolled him for the suggestion. As if by magic, a water hose appeared. They asked Julian to step away while they sprayed down the metal table, the sidewalk, the road, the vehicles. They sprayed the awnings and the flowers. It looked much better, and Julian’s sense of déjà vu got stronger. He returned to his table and sat in his toweled-down chair, the metal legs scraping against the fake concrete.
“Well done,” the director said to him, coming over to adjust the collar of his jacket. “Thanks for the consult.”
“I’m curious,” Julian said, “why did you set the film in London, if you’ve never been?”
The director, a young eager kid named John Pagaro, making his film debut, smiled. “It’s supposed to be a magnificent city, that’s why. I once read a Sam Johnson quote and have never forgotten it. When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life, for there is in London all that life can afford.”
Julian shrugged. He wished his nightmares weren’t so squarely set in London.
“How’s Mirabelle feeling?” Pagaro asked.
Julian was instantly on edge. “Why? How should she be feeling?”
“Well, she fainted yesterday. You didn’t know?”
Julian stood up. Unsteadily he sat back down.
“I’m sorry,” Pagaro said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Did she faint,” Julian said, “or did she faint and fall?”
Pagaro admitted she fainted and fell. “She was sitting, so she didn’t have far to go, but she did hit her head a little. But just a little,” he added hurriedly, off the expression on Julian’s face. “She didn’t bleed or anything.”
Julian’s hands shook. He looked down into the full cup of coffee.
“How was she this morning?” the director asked.
“Okay, I guess.” Julian wouldn’t look up.
“Well, she’s back at work, and looking spry, so everything must be fine. Don’t worry. I’m sure it was nothing. She’s going to be great in this.”
“Yes,” Julian said. “She’s great in everything.”
“We’re very excited to have her on board. And you’re doing great, too, by the way, sitting there.”
“The job I was born to do.”
“I like your costume.”
Julian was wearing jeans, a white shirt, black shoes. And a jacket, to show that it was a cool rainy day, not sunny and 90. “Thanks.” He’d picked out the ensemble from his own closet this morning.
Pagaro stood up. “Hang tight. We should start soon.” Crossing his fingers and then himself, he rushed away.