“He could be both!” said Dusty, and Bonita laughed. “He could be your father, your grandfather, and your boyfriend.”
“You’re wicked,” she said, with a gleam in her eye.
“Bill and I just worked together with Michael Winterbottom.”
“Yes!” said Bonita, remembering. “He told me he was going to be working with you — we haven’t spoken in probably… six months? But he was so looking forward to that. He loves you.”
“Isn’t this script so much fun?”
“Crazy fun.”
“It’s amazing. Were you a Plath fan? I mean, before?”
“Not majorly—I was more a Katherine Mansfield kinda gal. But I am one now.”
“Katherine Mansfield! Look at you, you’re smart.”
A Second A.D. approached Bonita, with that blissed-out, in-production, Pixar zombie smile. “The EPK folks are here — do you want to head over to makeup?”
“Perfect.”
Dusty said, “Go,” and they hugged again. “I am so thrilled we’re working together.”
“Oh my God, seriously, I’m the one who’s thrilled! I cannot tell you what I think of you as an actress. And a woman. How much you have totally influenced me.”
“Aw! You’re so sweet.”
Bonita kissed her cheek and went off.
The camera crew hadn’t broken for lunch — the D.P. was on the bedroom set, lighting a shot — and as Dusty walked past the director’s monitor, an image caught her eye. Her double, around the same age, bore a striking resemblance, not just in skin tone and hair color but in the gaze itself. It wasn’t unusual for the expressions of stand-ins to evince a de rigueur Zen-like blankness; the meditative patience and willful suppression of personal identity required for the job often bubbled up in a Mona Lisa smile lending itself to all manner of interpretation. Their countenances became looking glasses. To Dusty, doubles brought with them an inadvertent whiff of the sacred that both charmed and mesmerized. Like denuded dream statuary, they came to represent Woman, bountiful and bottomless and eternal. Staring at the loop of herself-as-the-other-as-herself, the actress zoned out and sunk deep, in full fathom of the immanent familiar: that inscrutable, almost sardonically knowing face that represented her own.
It was empty and serene, riveting as an ancient bulletin or the light from dead stars.
—
“That’s amazing! What kind of feedback did you get?”
They were having dinner at Mr. Chow.
“We read scenes in class and the response has been really good,” said Allegra. “The teacher said it was the best script he’s read all year.”
“Oh my God, Leggy! Isn’t that so amazing?”
“I didn’t know if he meant the best script in class or…”
“Oh fuck it, it’s awesome. Aren’t you so happy?”
“I guess,” she said, reticently. “It’s just hard to — sometimes — I mean, of course everyone keeps asking me if you’re going to be in it. Like, when’s it going to be a movie. The teacher doesn’t say that, but — you know, everyone’s all, ‘Have you shown it to Dusty? Is Dusty going to do it?’”
“When are you going to show it to me? I’m dying to read it.”
“After the next draft.”
“You are such a tease.”
“There’s still a few problems.”
“There’s always problems,” she said, touching her wife’s hand. “I’m sure it’s really good, Allegra. You are such a good writer.”
“I don’t know,” she said wistfully.
“Can you for once not minimize your talent?”
“I don’t even know if I’m excited about it anymore.”
“Here we go,” said Dusty, rolling her eyes.
“Maybe I should just become a producer. Or an agent—”
“If you become an agent, I will fucking kill you.”
“But maybe I’m not a writer, Bunny Bear. Not a real one, anyway.”
“You know, baby, we’re not real anythings until one day, we just… are. Plus, your hormones are totally going crazy. You’re pregnant, Allegra! In case you forgot.”
“I know — and I’m so fucking grateful. I really am, Bunnikin. For everything.” She flipped again. “But if I’m not a writer or a whatever, is that what I’m going to be now? A mom? Is that what the Universe is saying? You know, that — that’s the only thing I can be?”
“Oy,” said Dusty.
“I’m going to be thirty-seven—”
“And I’m staring down sixty!”
“You are not staring down sixty, you’re fifty-three. I don’t know… I’m just starting to think maybe I took a wrong turn. I used to be such a good photographer — maybe I should have pursued that? And I have all these amazing ideas for design. For jewelry. I think I’m really gifted at that—”
“Then go make jewelry!”
“—and hats. I was reading this insane profile of Isabella Blow online — oh my God, Dusty, you have to read it, I am totally obsessed. There were all these pictures of her in these amazing Philip Treacy hats and I couldn’t believe how similar my shit was! I mean, I was drawing these outrageous hats when I was, like, twelve years old. And gloves! Oh my God, I was totally consumed with drawing hats and gloves! Do you think — do you think I should go back to that, Bunny? Do you think I should try to create a line of gloves and hats?”
“If that’s your passion, babe.” She was kind of over it.
“Or start taking pictures again? I get so crazy!”
“Really?” said Dusty, affectionately ironic.
“But maybe that’s what I should be: just a mom.”
“Stop!”
“Maybe I’ll find out that’s what I’m genius at. Being an amazing mom—”
“I’ve always seen that in you, Leggy.”
“—and that I won’t care about being anything else. Why shouldn’t that be enough?”
“Nothing’s ever enough, babe: welcome to The Human Condition 101. Aw, sweetheart, I love you, but can we please find the frickin’ ‘off’ switch for your head? You are such a nut. You’re all over the place tonight.”
“I know!” she said, as if snapping out of a trance. “And I didn’t even ask about your movie day! Bun-Bun,” she said, baby-talking, “I am so, so sorry. I’m such a spoiled girl! How was your day how was your day how was your day?”
Dusty finished her glass of wine and Cheshire-smiled.
“It was awesome. Love me this crazy movie. Bennett is so inspiring.”
She effused about The Tonight Show set and dished about Liam. The server brought more wine. They this’d and that, and for the first time, let themselves talk about baby names. Then Dusty said, “Oh! This ginormous Swiss conglomerate wants me to create a fragrance!”