Once I’m ready I grab my car keys and bag and head to the table to pick up my script. Except it’s not there. The table is completely bare. I look underneath and then turn a quick circle on the spot scanning the living room floor. Gone. It was definitely there yesterday evening. Unless…I head back to the bedroom. It’s not there either. I pause in the hallway flummoxed. What the hell did I do with it? I don’t really need it for the meeting today, but the fact that it’s gone is extremely strange. I didn’t take it out with me yesterday so I can’t have left it somewhere. Did I put it somewhere weird? I head back into the kitchen and check the counters, the cupboards, and then the bin. Only fajita leftovers greet me. God knows why I’d have thrown it out but I’m at a loss as to where else it could have ended up.
Could someone have been in here? I know the apartment is serviced so perhaps a cleaner cleared it away thinking it was a used script. Maybe I left the packaging on top of it and it looked like rubbish, but I can’t remember. My eyes instinctively examine the rest of the room but everything else looks the same. I guess the cleaner could have been here; it’s hard to tell as it was pretty immaculate anyway. I freeze for a second suddenly remembering my lost keycard. Could someone else have been in here? A shiver runs down my spine. I try to remember the last time I actually saw the script. Was it yesterday afternoon or yesterday morning? If I saw it last yesterday morning then a cleaner could easily have been in while I was out. I catch sight of the kitchen clock and start. I’m running late. I need to go. I can check to see if a cleaner came in yesterday with Lucy once I get back later. That’s probably all it is. I’m just on edge because of the strangeness of last night, I tell myself as I head out the door.
The drive to the studio is busy but relatively painless. I make it in time, retrieving a photo pass from the studio gate and heading into the pristine marble-lobbied building where an assistant collects me and guides me briskly up to Kathryn Mayer’s floor.
My heels clack out a reassuring heartbeat as we head across another lobby and enter a bustling open-plan office spanning half of the building’s footprint. We wind our way around busy desks until we reach the open door of a corner office. The assistant disappears inside and swiftly reemerges.
“Kathryn’s ready to see you now.” He smiles and gestures into the warm sunshine inside Kathryn Mayer’s office. I take a breath and head in.
She stands as I enter, an athletic woman in her early fifties in a well-cut gray trouser suit and a brilliant white shirt, her perfectly styled hair graying gracefully at the temples. She walks around her desk and greets me with a warm handshake.
“Mia. It’s great to finally meet you. Take a seat.” She indicates the chair behind me and turns to pour me a glass of water from the pitcher on her desk.
“So tell me, how are you finding LA?” she asks, handing me the glass.
I take a welcome sip before answering brightly, “Well, the weather is amazing.”
She lets out a throaty laugh. “That’s very diplomatic of you. Ha, yeah, LA’s something else all right but the weather’s fantastic.” She raises her eyebrows in solidarity and takes a seat at her desk. “If I’m honest, I try not to come into town unless I have to at this point. I only do two days a week here at the studio then work from home the rest of the week. I always advise young actors, when it comes to LA, get in late, leave early.” She smiles, adding lightly, “If you stay too long that’s where the trouble starts.”
I can’t help but think of what happened last night. Have I stayed too long already? I’ve only been here six days. I take another cool sip of water and try to refocus. “Yeah, it’s definitely different from London, that’s for sure. But it’s been an interesting few days.” I give a wry smile.
Her intelligent eyes study me, searching for something, and then I remember who she was expecting to meet today. She’s only ever seen me as Jane Eyre, so I let Jane’s steady gaze meet hers. She smiles, satisfied.
“This is exciting,” she says, almost to herself, then leans forward, elbows on the desk. “So, Galatea. What do you think?”
“It’s a great script. Perfect. And I think it’s perfect for now.”
She nods as I speak. “You’ve watched the movies we sent?” Her brow crinkles as she waits for my thoughts.
“I did. And I remembered watching the Rex Harrison version as a kid. It’s a fun film, but obviously of-a-different-time,” I add pointedly. “And from what I can gather the film is pretty much the opposite of what Bernard Shaw wrote. I guess something like Spike Jonze’s Her is actually closer to what Shaw wrote, in terms of the object becoming the subject. The ideal becoming a living breathing autonomous reality who can suddenly choose for herself.”
A bright smile flashes across Kathryn’s face as she slams a palm down enthusiastically on the desk. “Yes. This is why I wanted you. This. Yes. This is good. And you’re right that’s the kind of ending we want. The teacher educates the student, she learns everything he teaches her then works out she’s too good for him. That’s the story. A new kind of makeover movie. Sandy puts on her Lycra catsuit and realizes she can definitely do better than Danny Zuko, the man who wanted her to change in the first place, and instead she heads off to find a real equal.”
I fleetingly think of how George left me for someone cooler, someone prettier, someone younger, and I feel my confidence wobble beneath me.
Get your shit together, Mia, I tell myself. Because, if you remember correctly, George sat around the house in his underwear for most of November.
Kathryn is still talking, oblivious to my momentary internal flutter. “So let me tell you the production plan so far.” She pulls a portfolio across the desk and opens it between us.
“I want a female director and a top-notch female crew. We’re tying down a director today, oh, and there’s an offer out on Professor Higgins.” She looks up excitedly. Her energy is infectious: any remaining nerves I may have had fall away. “You wanna know who we’ve asked?”
I scooch forward in my seat to better see the portfolio before her. “Of course!”
She grins and spins the book to face me, her index finger pressed below a name.
“Top secret of course.” She grins “And it’s only an offer, so we’ll see.”
A shot of pure adrenaline shoots through me as I read the name printed above her finger. Oh my God. I look straight back at her.
“Will he do it?” I blurt.
She grins. “Maybe. He’s very picky these days—he hasn’t worked in two years—but he likes the idea. A lot. That’s all I’m going to say.”
I feel my cheeks flush and my head lighten. If he says yes, and if I somehow pull off this meeting, then—
I need to calm down. I take a gulp of ice water and Kathryn chuckles.
“I had the exact same reaction,” she says. “Anyway, what I want to do, Mia, is get you to test for this.”
I immediately sober. Oh God, no, not testing. The never-ending marathon of testing. First screen testing, then a chemistry reading, then waiting to hear, then retesting, then studio executives opining, and then the possibility that after all that, it falls through as it so often does. But Kathryn’s already ahead of me.
“Wait, before you go down that road, hear me out. I just want you and him testing. Just a chemistry read, both of you in a room, on film. This isn’t an open call. Listen, I’ve seen your stuff; I know what you can do. And I’ve sent him your stuff. It’ll just be you and him, in some scenes together, and we see how it goes.”