She heard a car drive to the house across the street that night, around ten-thirty. She peeked through her blinds and saw a tall thin man leap from an SUV and hurry into the house carrying a briefcase. All she could see was salt and pepper hair, a safari jacket, and jeans. The luggage went in through the garage, and she was sure it was her new boss.
She was ready the next morning at eight, fully dressed in white slacks and a man’s striped shirt, and fancy sneakers in case she had to do a lot of errands. She walked up to the main part of the house, and all three women were dressed and ready. Hamish Quist walked in three minutes later, although he wasn’t expected. He was wearing almost the same thing as Antonia, and shook hands with all of them with a warm smile. He had a handsome, chiseled face and deep blue eyes.
“Shall we?” he suggested, and led the way to the dining room, which they used as a conference room. He gave each of them a list of what he wanted. He let them decide what to delegate to Antonia, but she took careful notes anyway, so she’d have all the information she needed.
He left twenty minutes later, and said he’d be at the studio at nine-thirty, and wanted to start their first meeting with the writers by ten. As they had warned her, he was moving at full speed. Antonia knew he was in his early forties, had been married twice, and had no children. He had married famous actresses, and according to the press had been generous in both divorces. He’d received two Academy Awards as a producer, one as a director, a Golden Globe, and countless British awards.
He had smiled several times at Antonia, as though to encourage her, but he spoke to the others and gave them distinct, precise orders that made it crystal clear what he wanted from them. He was very organized, and had a hand in every aspect of the production. He was directing and producing it himself with some major stars.
They all disbanded a few minutes later after he left, and Antonia waited for further orders. When they took off for the studio shortly after, they told her to follow them in her car and park in the studio lot, all of which she did. And she met them on the set immediately. It was a far cry from her low-level job the previous year. She was privy to information here, was considered part of a team, and had sat in on a meeting with Hamish. She couldn’t wait to see him work as a director. There was so much she wanted to learn.
* * *
—
For the next two weeks, Antonia went nonstop. They gave her plenty of errands, some of them menial, like getting control-top pantyhose for one of the stars. She had to deliver scripts to the main office, take notes to the hut where the writers were working, bring pages back to Hamish Quist for his approval or changes. She had to find a vet for one of the stars’ dog, and her favorite lipstick shade at Chanel. She wouldn’t go on without it. Some of it was mindless, and other aspects were vitally important, like anything to do with the script.
A week later, they came to a dead halt when Hamish wanted to add a walk-on part, without lines, to a scene of a young girl emerging from a swamp alive, after everyone thought she’d been murdered, and a man had been falsely convicted and gone to prison for it. He wanted someone ethereal, clearly a woman and not a child. She had been held captive by someone else, and managed to escape. She didn’t say a single word, everything had to be on her face and in her eyes.
The casting agency sent him five or six girls and Hamish insisted that none of them were right. Too tall, too strong, too young, too athletic. He had a definite idea in mind and wouldn’t let go of it. Margaret and Brigid knew how emphatic he was when he got like that. Nothing would sway him from his creative idea, and his own personal vision.
He was looking at a casting sheet with a hundred photos on it, when Brigid sent Antonia in with a thick envelope of photos of additional models. Antonia held the envelope toward him, and he was distracted, and then looked up at her and stared.
“Oh my God…who are you?”
“Your gofer, Mr. Quist,” she said in a trembling voice. She thought she’d done something wrong.
“That’s right, now I remember. Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. Walk away from me, as far as you can go,” he said, pointing across the set, “then turn slowly, and come back to me. How old are you, by the way?”
“I’ll be twenty in August.” He nodded.
“I don’t want a precocious ten-year-old in a shot like that,” he said. Antonia did as she was told and he watched her intently, and then had her do it again. As she walked toward him, their eyes met, and he wouldn’t let go of her gaze. “That’s it, oh my God, that’s it,” he shouted, and looked at his two British assistants. “We’ve got her.” He turned to Antonia then with a pleading look. “Will you do a walk-on for me? I’ve seen hundreds of girls, you’re the only one that’ll work. You’re perfect.”