thought. She’d managed to fall like a rag doll and her legs were splayed out at odd angles. Adriana is so vain I would have expected her to fall in a more graceful pose, but maybe I’d misjudged her. She played the scene convincingly, like a pro.
“A-n-n-nd . . . cut!” Hank yelled. “Nice work, guys.” He turned to Maisie. “Let’s get rolling on the party scene. Jesse needs to get about twenty extras in dressy clothes. Or maybe fifteen, if we shoot around them. I think the best way is to—”
“Hank,” Maisie said urgently, clutching his arm. “What’s going on down there?” She pointed to the water’s edge where Adriana was lying still motionless. Jeff had started to walk away, but turned back, puzzled, when he realized Adriana wasn’t making any move to get up.
“Hey, Adriana,” Hank called. “Quit playing possum. Didn’t you hear me yell ‘cut’?” He started to laugh but the sound caught in his throat.
Jeff peered at Adriana and bent down to touch her neck. He yanked his hand back as if he’d been tasered. “Hank! Get an ambulance. There’s something wrong. She’s unconscious. I’m not even sure she’s breathing.”
Chapter 6
“What the devil—” Hank began, but Maisie leapt out of the chair before any of us could react and raced down to the water’s edge. By the time Hank and I reached her, Maisie had grabbed Adriana’s wrist and then placed two fingers on her throat. She kept her fingers there for a long time and then slowly looked up at us, her face pale in the harsh sunlight.
I noticed that a dark red patch was spreading from Adriana’s chest to her collarbone—a concealed packet of fake blood, I decided. They call them squibs in the movie business. The actor presses her hand to her chest and the thin plastic packet explodes, leaking blood everywhere. The blood looked frighteningly real as it trickled down her neck and then spilled onto the grayish sand around the pond.
“Hank—” Maisie said, as he knelt down next to Adriana in the sand. I noticed her eyes were blurring with tears and her voice was trembling. “She’s unconscious. I think . . . I think she’s dead.”
For a moment, no one moved.
All of us just stood there, frozen in place, like a freeze-frame from one of Hank’s movies. Then everything seemed to happen at once. Maisie yanked out her cell phone and dialed 911, the AD came rushing over with a beach towel, which he insisted on putting under Adriana’s head, and Hank Watson turned an unflattering shade of ash gray. He was still kneeling on the beach, and he covered his eyes with his hand for a moment.
“They’re on their way,” Maisie said, resting her hand on his shoulder. “We should probably put up a screen, or at least keep people from gawking.”
Hank looked up then, just as the extras and techies were edging forward, caught up in the real-life drama playing out on the shoreline. “You’re right, Maisie.” He stood up, suddenly back in control. “Jesse,” he yelled to the AD, “get some rope lines set up and keep everyone as far back as possible.” He turned to a pair of production assistants. “Take my Jeep,” he said, throwing them the keys. “Go to the north entrance to the pond, where we came in. Watch for the ambulance, so you can wave them over here.”
I was surprised at how cool he was under pressure.
“The blood,” I whispered to Maisie. “That’s fake blood, it comes in one of those little packets, right?” I realized that I hadn’t seen Adriana press her hand to her chest to break open the packet. Either she had done it surreptitiously, or the packet had exploded when she fell to the sand.
Maisie bit her lip and shook her head. “No,” she said in a strangled voice. “We didn’t bother using squibs in this scene because we were going to use a long shot. The audience would see Adriana’s face in a tight close-up and then a long shot of two figures from a distance, and then it would . . . fade to
“A-n-n-nd . . . cut!” Hank yelled. “Nice work, guys.” He turned to Maisie. “Let’s get rolling on the party scene. Jesse needs to get about twenty extras in dressy clothes. Or maybe fifteen, if we shoot around them. I think the best way is to—”
“Hank,” Maisie said urgently, clutching his arm. “What’s going on down there?” She pointed to the water’s edge where Adriana was lying still motionless. Jeff had started to walk away, but turned back, puzzled, when he realized Adriana wasn’t making any move to get up.
“Hey, Adriana,” Hank called. “Quit playing possum. Didn’t you hear me yell ‘cut’?” He started to laugh but the sound caught in his throat.
Jeff peered at Adriana and bent down to touch her neck. He yanked his hand back as if he’d been tasered. “Hank! Get an ambulance. There’s something wrong. She’s unconscious. I’m not even sure she’s breathing.”
Chapter 6
“What the devil—” Hank began, but Maisie leapt out of the chair before any of us could react and raced down to the water’s edge. By the time Hank and I reached her, Maisie had grabbed Adriana’s wrist and then placed two fingers on her throat. She kept her fingers there for a long time and then slowly looked up at us, her face pale in the harsh sunlight.
I noticed that a dark red patch was spreading from Adriana’s chest to her collarbone—a concealed packet of fake blood, I decided. They call them squibs in the movie business. The actor presses her hand to her chest and the thin plastic packet explodes, leaking blood everywhere. The blood looked frighteningly real as it trickled down her neck and then spilled onto the grayish sand around the pond.
“Hank—” Maisie said, as he knelt down next to Adriana in the sand. I noticed her eyes were blurring with tears and her voice was trembling. “She’s unconscious. I think . . . I think she’s dead.”
For a moment, no one moved.
All of us just stood there, frozen in place, like a freeze-frame from one of Hank’s movies. Then everything seemed to happen at once. Maisie yanked out her cell phone and dialed 911, the AD came rushing over with a beach towel, which he insisted on putting under Adriana’s head, and Hank Watson turned an unflattering shade of ash gray. He was still kneeling on the beach, and he covered his eyes with his hand for a moment.
“They’re on their way,” Maisie said, resting her hand on his shoulder. “We should probably put up a screen, or at least keep people from gawking.”
Hank looked up then, just as the extras and techies were edging forward, caught up in the real-life drama playing out on the shoreline. “You’re right, Maisie.” He stood up, suddenly back in control. “Jesse,” he yelled to the AD, “get some rope lines set up and keep everyone as far back as possible.” He turned to a pair of production assistants. “Take my Jeep,” he said, throwing them the keys. “Go to the north entrance to the pond, where we came in. Watch for the ambulance, so you can wave them over here.”
I was surprised at how cool he was under pressure.
“The blood,” I whispered to Maisie. “That’s fake blood, it comes in one of those little packets, right?” I realized that I hadn’t seen Adriana press her hand to her chest to break open the packet. Either she had done it surreptitiously, or the packet had exploded when she fell to the sand.
Maisie bit her lip and shook her head. “No,” she said in a strangled voice. “We didn’t bother using squibs in this scene because we were going to use a long shot. The audience would see Adriana’s face in a tight close-up and then a long shot of two figures from a distance, and then it would . . . fade to
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