The cameraman walked up to the director. “All lit, chief.”
“Thanks, Hal,” the director said. He turned to Rod Hanson. “Can we make this, baby? We’ll finish the discussion later.”
“One of these days, I’m going to wipe my ass with this studio,” Hanson snapped. He strode away.
Jill turned to the director, who was now alone. This was her opportunity to discuss the interpretation of the character, to show him that she understood his problems and was there to help make the scene great. She gave him a warm, friendly smile. “I’m Jill Castle,” she said. “I’m playing the nurse. I think she can really be very interesting and I have some ideas about—”
He nodded absently and said, “Over by the bed,” and walked away to speak to the cameraman.
Jill stood looking after him, stunned. The second assistant director, Harriet’s third cousin’s ex-brother-in-law, hurried up to Jill and said in a low voice, “For Chrissakes, didn’t you hear him? Over by the bed!”
“I wanted to ask him—”
“Don’t blow it!” he whispered fiercely. “Get out there!”
Jill walked over to the patient’s bed.
“All right. Let’s have it quiet, everybody.” The assistant director looked at the director. “Do you want a rehearsal, chief?”
“For this? Let’s go for a take.”
“Give us a bell. Settle down, everybody. Nice and quiet. We’re rolling. Speed.”
Unbelievingly, Jill listened to the sound of the bell. She looked frantically toward the director, wanting to ask him how he would like her to interpret the scene, what her relationship was to the dying man, what she was—
A voice called, “Action!”
They were all looking at Jill expectantly. She wondered whether she dare ask them to stop the cameras for just a second, so she could discuss the scene and—
The director yelled, “Jesus Christ! Nurse! This isn’t a morgue—it’s a hospital. Feel his goddamned pulse before he dies of old age!”
Jill looked anxiously into the circle of bright lights around her. She took a deep breath, lifted the patient’s hand and took his pulse. If they would not help her, she would have to interpret the scene in her own way. The patient was the father of the doctor. The two of them had quarreled. The father had been in an accident and the doctor had just been notified. Jill looked up and saw Rod Hanson approaching. He walked up to her and said, “How is he, Nurse?”
Jill looked into the doctor’s eyes and read the concern there. She wanted to tell him the truth, that his father was dying, that it was too late for them to make up their quarrel. Yet she had to break it to him in such a way that it would not destroy him and—
The director was yelling, “Cut! Cut! Cut! Goddamn it, the idiot’s got one line, and she can’t even remember it. Where did you find her—in the Yellow Pages?”
Jill turned toward the voice shouting from the darkness, aflame with embarrassment. “I—I know my line,” she said shakily. “I was just trying to—”
“Well, if you know it, for Chrissakes, would you mind saying it? You could drive a train through that pause. When he asks you the fucking question, answer it. Okay?”
“I was just wondering if I should—”
“Let’s go again, right away. Give us a bell.”
“We’re on a bell. Hold it down. We’re rolling.”
“Speed.”
“Action.”
Jill’s legs were trembling. It was as though she was the only one here who cared about the scene. All she had wanted to do was create something beautiful. The hot lights were making her dizzy, and she could feel the perspiration running down her arms ruining the crisp, starched uniform.
“Action! Nurse!”
Jill stood over the patient and put her hand on his pulse. If she did the scene wrong again, they would never give her another chance. She thought of Harriet and of her friends at the roominghouse and of what they would say.
The doctor entered and walked up to her. “How is he, Nurse?”
She would no longer be one of them. She would be a laughingstock. Hollywood was a small town. Word got around fast.