“Easy choice then.” I smile, pointing to the bright blue of the Antonio Mattei packet. “I’ll go with your favorite.”
* * *
—
Fifty dollars lighter but now with a coffee, a pastry, and a multiple-Oscar-winning-actor peace offering in hand, I slide back into my Uber.
At the studio gates, I dust the pastry crumbs from my clothes and head into security to sign in. Twenty-five minutes later I’m in the hair and makeup truck, a friendly makeup artist working on my elaborate updo for the first scene. It’s the scene after Eliza successfully fools the royal court into believing she’s a Hungarian aristocrat so I need to look like one. When she’s finished working on me, she turns me back around toward the mirror proudly and I see her work for the first time. My complexion is bright and flawless, she’s brought out my eyes with hidden lashes, my hair is piled high in a glossy Edwardian updo, and all is finished off with an understated pearl tiara. Worthy of a Hungarian princess or, at least, a counterfeit one. I rise and pull the makeup artist into a tight hug, and she lets out a throaty laugh. If I don’t get this role it certainly won’t be because I don’t look the part.
Next, I’m taken to costume in a temporary dressing room in the studio building. It’s a blank room with nothing but a space heater, an armchair, and a clothing rail with my three costumes.
I strip down to my underwear and a team of people from the costume department hoist and hoick me into my Edwardian corset and gown. My waist now a good three inches thinner, I slip easily into the antique ivory fabric of my ball gown.
As the costume designer and his team fuss around the hemline and sleeves, I give myself a look in the full-length mirror. I look like a nervous bride, my skin pale and cheeks flushed from the exertion of being laced in so tightly by two wardrobe assistants. But it’s a relief to see I no longer look like Mia, I no longer look like Jane—I look like Eliza.
Once I’m ready, I’m led to set. But I’m told my co-star isn’t quite ready yet. I hand the runner my little pre-shoot gift and ask him to drop it off at my co-star’s dressing room. He winks at my ingenuity and trots off with the bright-blue packet in hand.
A full forty-five minutes after our original start time my co-star arrives on set, in the production runner’s wake. He’s studying something written in a small moleskin notebook as he approaches, and when he looks up his eyes find mine.
He takes in my costume, hair, and makeup, and gives me a tight smile. “Very good. Very good indeed,” he remarks, in an accent not his own. He’s already in character, just as everyone said he would be.
They storm past and the runner gestures for me to follow too. I trot behind them dutifully in my Edwardian heels and corset, struggling for breath, as they stride out onto the brightly lit soundstage.
On set things move quickly. We discuss the scene with the director then block through a rehearsal. I check which lights are mine with the camera operator and what is being favored in the first shot, and after final checks—and “Quiet on set,” has been called—the soundstage bell is rung. We take our first positions, behind a false front door, ready to enter. The set quiets around us and in the fresh silence my co-star leans in and whispers, his tone sincere, “Thank you very much for the biscuits by the way, much appreciated.” His character has dropped for a second and he gives me a warm smile. “Oh, and break a leg.”
With that, we hear the director’s voice blare loud from the darkness beyond the studio lights.
“And…action.”
29
New Information
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 15
Two scenes down and I’m walking on air back to my dressing room, my heart fluttering light in my chest, my face aching from suppressing my happiness. He is so good. He makes me so good. I’m terrified to think about how well it’s all been going so far. I even saw Kathryn Mayer give me a covert thumbs-up between takes from the dimness behind a camera monitor.