“I like your nightie,” Sara said, half smiling. The granny nighties were a running joke between them because Iris shopped for them compulsively on eBay, hunting for genuinely old, worn flannel gowns that genuinely old, worn ladies had possibly died in. She liked how soft they were, found the patterns and cuts comforting. Sara thought it was funny, and secretly adorable.
“Thanks. How was work?”
Sara shrugged and leapt up to go wash her face. Her voice drifted from the bathroom. “It was fine. I kind of rushed out of there, but I think it went well. David Rapelli turns out to be a nice guy.”
Her costar. He was a hunky handsome guy, the dude next door, the fuckable-husband type. He and Sara were married in this movie, but that was about as much as Iris knew about it.
“Oh yeah?” Iris reached for the magazine again, but was thwarted by Sara suddenly reappearing, her face bare. She had the common actor’s ability to put on and take off makeup in about three seconds. Ten thousand hours of anything makes you an expert, presumably. Iris patted Rosco instead, as if that had been her intent the whole time.
“Yeah. He’s married, two kids, not the brightest bulb on the tree and knows it, mostly grateful for the lucky break he had genetically, followed by the lucky break he had temperamentally, followed by the lucky break he had professionally.”
“So, grateful then?”
Sara nodded. “Largely. He started to be a dick about craft services, but he picked the wrong day for it, so that didn’t last long.”
“How do you mean?”
“Lynsey was first AD.”
Lynsey was a woman they both knew socially, after Sara had become friends with her through work. A dedicated and gifted multitasker who could have been directing enormous movies or captaining some industry or other, she was instead a first assistant director on made-for-TV movies so she could earn enough money and have enough working flexibility to care for her younger sister who was slowly but surely dying of cystic fibrosis. Lynsey had incredible empathy, maybe as a result of watching someone you love fight to stay alive despite a life filled with pain, which made her a pleasure to work with unless you were rude, at which point she would flay you alive and you’d never be hired again.
Sara pulled off her clothes and clambered under the covers, snuggling up to Iris. “Ooh, you’re so toasty.” She wrapped her long legs around her wife, who shrieked and pulled away.
“Your feet are like ice cubes. What were you shooting, a scene on an iceberg?”
Sara laughed. “Yeah, because in this story the young married couple are going on vacation to the Grand Canyon and an iceberg comes floating down the Colorado.”
“Global warming. It could happen.”
“Well, this isn’t the dystopian vacation rom-com you seem to be imagining. I just have cold feet. You married me for better or worse, let me tuck my cold feet under your warm legs.” She did so, and continued. “Anyway, Lynsey pulled him briefly aside and said something and after that he behaved himself impeccably. I think you’d like him.”
“Is he incredibly short?”
“No, he looks like he does on-screen, pretty tall.” Most actors were shorter than you’d think, Iris had discovered, with big heads and large features and an overwhelming tendency to look at themselves in mirrors, windows, other people’s sunglasses. She had never been very comfortable with “industry” people, and largely kept away. But they did have some friends from Sara’s work, like Lynsey.
“How was your day?” Sara’s feet were warming up, and her arms stole around Iris’s waist and tugged her closer, rubbing her face into her neck, smelling the clothes soap they used, feeling secure and loved. She could give David Rapelli’s gratitude a run for its money.
Iris shrugged. “It was good.” Then she suddenly gasped and sat up. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I didn’t tell you this as soon as you walked through the door! Anne Porter has been having an affair and Charlie found out today and threw her out. They had a huge fight in the street, I saw the whole thing, it was awful.”
Sara rolled away from her wife and sat up. “No way.”
“Way.”
“Seriously? She was cheating? How long had that been going on?” Sara looked genuinely shocked and surprised.
Iris shook her head. “No idea. Frances said she thought several months.”
“How did Frances know that?”
“She talked to Anne about it.”
“She knew about it before Charlie did?”
“Yeah, but only for a few days.” Iris told Sara the craft supplies/infidelity story.
Sara sat there and gazed at her. “Holy Fucking Shit. Those poor kids. What a disaster. Do you want more ice cream?”
Iris nodded. Sara grabbed her bowl and headed downstairs. The dog followed her, and Iris sat in bed and listened to the two of them having a conversation. Or at least, Sara had a conversation, but Rosco was apparently jotting his answers down on a pad because Iris couldn’t catch his responses at all. When Sara came back she had two bowls with her. One contained her own ice cream, which was vanilla and about the size of a walnut, and the other was for Iris, which had two flavors of ice cream, whipped cream and chocolate sauce.
“We’re out of maraschino cherries,” Sara said, as she helped Rosco get up on the bed again. “We weren’t, but I gave Rosco the last one.”
“That explains his pink nose. Are maraschino cherries good for dogs?”
“No idea. I give him them all the time, and he’s never complained.”
“You do?”
“Yeah, that’s why we’re out. Anyway, tell me more about Anne and Charlie. What’s going to happen?” She sat down, still naked, put the bowl in her lap, screamed at the cold, got up, put on a T-shirt, and tried again.
While watching this pantomime, Iris half-heartedly picked up her magazine, then put it down. “I don’t know. It’s
