texted Mirabelle. Hey. What he didn’t write was, I knew you had a secret. I could taste it on your lips.
She didn’t reply. It was nearing noon. Julian watched Pagaro on the sidelines, with his full crew, tearing his hair out. This was the first scene in his movie, and they were already running four days behind schedule. It didn’t bode well for the future. But then what did.
At the far end of the street, Mirabelle appeared. She was ushered into place.
Her gaze searched for Julian, and when she caught his eye, she smiled.
And finally—ACTION!
He sits in a chair at a metal bistro table on a wide sunny street. The noon sun is blazing. He sits and he waits.
A cup of coffee stands on the table. The cup is full and cold. He hasn’t touched it. He never does.
There she is, gliding toward him. Her dress shimmers. In her swinging hands is a pink umbrella. The red beret is on her head, tilted to the side.
She waves to him when she sees him, her fingers splayed, a jazz hand. She floats forward, joyous and smiling, as if she’s got news she can’t wait to tell him.
He smiles back.
He can hear her heels click on the pavement—
“CUT!” Pagaro yelled. “Good, but let’s try that again, Mirabelle, this time without the jazz hand. Just the smile will do. Places, everyone! From the top. Take two. ACTION!”
The set was so hyper-real, it felt realer than life. Everything in it was as it should be, every bronze standpipe gleaming, every prop in place, the flowers misted and the tall windows wet, reflecting the red double-decker bus and black cab.
After five more takes, they were done with that camera angle, and a glowing Mirabelle walked up to Julian and sat at his table.
“How was I?” She was flushed and in heavy makeup. Her expertly tousled chocolate hair was held into place by a pint of hairspray.
“You’re a very good walker,” Julian said. “But, Mia, why didn’t you tell me you fainted and fell yesterday?” Intensely he stared into her eyes.
Looking sheepish, she was about to answer when the director interrupted.
“Okay, girls and boys,” Pagaro shouted, “we’re resetting, and then we go again from a different angle. Mirabelle, Julian, stay put, we’ll be ready to go in a jiff. Shae!” he barked to the nearby production assistant, “don’t just stand there, get them some water, will you?”
“Jiff is film-speak for five hours,” Mirabelle said, with a conciliatory smile.
“Aren’t you an optimist,” Julian said, not smiling.
Chewing her lip, she considered him a moment, then got up from her chair and went to him. Standing behind him, she gathered his curly hair away from his face into a small tight ponytail and secured it with a rubber band, leaving a bit of hair out at the nape of his neck. She kissed the back of his head, murmuring some endearment, but her hands on his shoulders were trembling. She sat in his lap, draping both arms around his neck. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, Jules. Yesterday you were so jumpy. I didn’t know what was going on. I didn’t want to worry you.”
“You fell and hit your head. That’s cause to worry, no?”
“It was an accident. I hit my ankle, put my head down for a second, next thing you know, bam.”
“Bam.” If she told him she needed brain surgery, he would not have been surprised. If she was knocked down by the double-decker in the next scene, he would not be surprised. He patted her hip. She pressed her face against his head.
“Mirabelle, please!” the AD yelled. “Stop that! Don’t kiss him! We have no time to reapply your lipstick or wipe it off him. And now your beret is all askew! Ugh. Just take your seat—please. I’ll send Gladys to fix you in a sec.”
She returned to her chair but was agitated. Her face was flushed; her eyes blinked rapidly; her hands were fidgety.
“How do you feel now?”
“Great!” she said too loudly. “Amazing.”
“Amazing,” Julian repeated. Was she overcompensating?
“But, listen . . . I do want to tell you something.”
He hid his clenched hands under the table and gave her his best poker face. All the broody silence from him in the past. It was like he’d been training his whole life for this moment.