account. There were eighty-six new messages, the
bulk of them regarding penis enlargement, mail-order college degrees, discount Viagra and urgent salutations from African
despots in need of a temporary overseas loan. Meredith scrolled through her in-box, deleting whole screens at a time, until
suddenly she came upon a message that froze her thumb in mid-click.
To: Meredith Moore
From: Dr. Joe Veil
Subject: Your disappearance
Dear Meredith,
I hope you don’t mind that I have taken the liberty to contact you via the e-mail address provided in your file, but after
your exit yesterday I found myself at a loss for what to think. I hope my advice was not overly blunt. If that was what made
you leave my office so abruptly, I apologize. As your doctor I felt it important to take the time to check in and make sure
you are not in any kind of distress.
I hope you are well and taking good care.
Yours sincerely,
Dr. Joe Veil
Meredith read the note twice before even attempting to compose a reply. What to make of it? Professional obligation? Fatherly
concern? Flirtation? No, Meredith did not detect a hint of that in his tone. Though, how strange that a busy gynecologist
should go so far out of his way to contact a skittish patient. For all he knew she was simply a nut. What to make of this
sudden interest in her behavior? She clicked on REPLY and began to type.
To: Dr. Joe Veil
From: Meredith Moore
Subject: Re: Your disappearance
Dear Doctor,
Thank you for the kind note, but I can’t accept your apology. I did not leave your examination room because of any offensiveness
on your part—quite the opposite. You were professional and direct, and I thank you for your concern. I am currently away on
business but will make an appointment with one of your colleagues upon my return.
Sorry if I alarmed you by leaving so abruptly. It wasn’t like me to run away. I guess I haven’t been myself lately. Perhaps
it’s the biological twitch twitching. You’d probably know better than me. You’re the doctor.
Sorry again,
Meredith
6
Meredith didn’t mind being called the continuity girl. Over the past year or so, however, she had begun to wonder whether
she ought to be slightly embarrassed by the title. Like so many otherwise driven women, her greatest fear was not having a
lack of authority but having a surplus of it. Too much power (she had to admit it) made her feel less...
feminine.
She waited
anxiously for the terrible day some third-assistant-director film school grad would turn around and unthinkingly call her
“the script lady.” That would be the day she’d quit.
In recent years, the industry had been called to task for its use of outdated terminology, particularly when describing jobs
traditionally occupied by women or gay men (this being show business, there were lots of both). Since Meredith had started
working on set, producers had been forced, in official contexts at least, to hire makeup artists instead of “pretties,” actors
instead of “talent,” and background artists instead of “extras.” It wasn’t that anyone on set actually talked any differently
than they used to, just that everybody now had two job titles instead of one. Meredith’s twin title was script supervisor,
but thankfully no one called her that. She was still performing what the trade considered a young woman’s job, and she wanted
to keep it that way.
Of course, in a way, she
had
quit. Walked off Felsted’s set with the bleary intention of getting out of show business altogether.
(There had been the occasional intention of enrolling in cooking school, until she remembered nearly fainting the time she
had to “dress” the turkey giblets at Elle’s house one Christmas, and the thought passed.)
But here she was in London, back on set and in the thick of it all. Toughing it out with a bunch of men who in all likelihood
resented her presence more than they appreciated it.
But that
bulk of them regarding penis enlargement, mail-order college degrees, discount Viagra and urgent salutations from African
despots in need of a temporary overseas loan. Meredith scrolled through her in-box, deleting whole screens at a time, until
suddenly she came upon a message that froze her thumb in mid-click.
To: Meredith Moore
From: Dr. Joe Veil
Subject: Your disappearance
Dear Meredith,
I hope you don’t mind that I have taken the liberty to contact you via the e-mail address provided in your file, but after
your exit yesterday I found myself at a loss for what to think. I hope my advice was not overly blunt. If that was what made
you leave my office so abruptly, I apologize. As your doctor I felt it important to take the time to check in and make sure
you are not in any kind of distress.
I hope you are well and taking good care.
Yours sincerely,
Dr. Joe Veil
Meredith read the note twice before even attempting to compose a reply. What to make of it? Professional obligation? Fatherly
concern? Flirtation? No, Meredith did not detect a hint of that in his tone. Though, how strange that a busy gynecologist
should go so far out of his way to contact a skittish patient. For all he knew she was simply a nut. What to make of this
sudden interest in her behavior? She clicked on REPLY and began to type.
To: Dr. Joe Veil
From: Meredith Moore
Subject: Re: Your disappearance
Dear Doctor,
Thank you for the kind note, but I can’t accept your apology. I did not leave your examination room because of any offensiveness
on your part—quite the opposite. You were professional and direct, and I thank you for your concern. I am currently away on
business but will make an appointment with one of your colleagues upon my return.
Sorry if I alarmed you by leaving so abruptly. It wasn’t like me to run away. I guess I haven’t been myself lately. Perhaps
it’s the biological twitch twitching. You’d probably know better than me. You’re the doctor.
Sorry again,
Meredith
6
Meredith didn’t mind being called the continuity girl. Over the past year or so, however, she had begun to wonder whether
she ought to be slightly embarrassed by the title. Like so many otherwise driven women, her greatest fear was not having a
lack of authority but having a surplus of it. Too much power (she had to admit it) made her feel less...
feminine.
She waited
anxiously for the terrible day some third-assistant-director film school grad would turn around and unthinkingly call her
“the script lady.” That would be the day she’d quit.
In recent years, the industry had been called to task for its use of outdated terminology, particularly when describing jobs
traditionally occupied by women or gay men (this being show business, there were lots of both). Since Meredith had started
working on set, producers had been forced, in official contexts at least, to hire makeup artists instead of “pretties,” actors
instead of “talent,” and background artists instead of “extras.” It wasn’t that anyone on set actually talked any differently
than they used to, just that everybody now had two job titles instead of one. Meredith’s twin title was script supervisor,
but thankfully no one called her that. She was still performing what the trade considered a young woman’s job, and she wanted
to keep it that way.
Of course, in a way, she
had
quit. Walked off Felsted’s set with the bleary intention of getting out of show business altogether.
(There had been the occasional intention of enrolling in cooking school, until she remembered nearly fainting the time she
had to “dress” the turkey giblets at Elle’s house one Christmas, and the thought passed.)
But here she was in London, back on set and in the thick of it all. Toughing it out with a bunch of men who in all likelihood
resented her presence more than they appreciated it.
But that
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