Chapter Three #2
The key to that greatness lies in her uncanny ability to never seem to be acting.
Her characters simply exist. There’s something about her face—beautiful, yes, but also angular and just a touch severe—that conveys great emotion even while remaining completely still.
Joy, anguish, heartbreak, hope. It all flickers across her features like sunlight on water. A hypnotic ripple.
Another secret of Violet Wright’s success is that she’s managed to avoid being pigeonholed.
Perhaps that’s due to her sheer talent. Or savvy career management.
Or the fact that she plays every character so well that it’s been impossible for her to be typecast. Instead, she’s done it all.
Tearjerkers and screwball comedies, legal thrillers and biopics of some of the world’s most famous women.
Eleanor Roosevelt. Susan B. Anthony. Katharine Hepburn, in a movie that prompted a thousand think pieces over which of them was the better actress.
For all that hard work, Violet’s received almost every acting award several times over.
Two Oscars and sixteen nominations, including seven over an eight-year stretch.
The only reason she didn’t go eight for eight was because she failed to make a movie one of those years, choosing instead to spend six months in Montana to research ranching for a project that never got off the ground.
In addition to the Oscars, Violet has multiple Emmys and Golden Globes and even a Tony for her one and only time on the Broadway stage.
The only thing she hasn’t received is bad press.
Unlike, say, Susie Hutchinson, who became a notorious party girl during her initial post-Disney years, Violet is never seen in the tabloids, never talked about on gossip sites.
There have been no reports about on-set bad behavior or rumored affairs or drama with co-stars.
Married to an architect for thirty-five years and the mother of one daughter, she has cultivated an image of unfussy, unimpeachable class.
The worst that’s been said about her is that she’s made a few bad movies, including one or two notorious bombs, and even then, she’s usually the best thing about them.
Despite having a reputation so huge, in person Violet Wright is shockingly small.
She’s a wisp of a thing, really. Barely five feet tall and dressed in a white sweater, black leggings, and pink sneakers, she looks more like someone’s cool grandmother than a movie star.
But then she flashes that incandescent smile, and I’m reminded that, through some weird quirk of fate, I am in the presence of greatness.
A fact that leaves me more than tongue-tied and worse than dumbstruck.
Tongue-dumb. That’s what I am in this moment.
“It’s, um, very—” I swallow hard, certain I look as awkward as I feel. “Very nice to, um, meet you.”
Violet releases my hand, and I wonder if that’s because my palms are sweating. They must be. The parlor has become so hot, a feeling made worse by the realization that everyone else is also looking at me. On the edge of my vision, I notice Susie roll her eyes.
“The pleasure is all mine,” Violet tells me, now fiddling with the heart-shaped locket hanging around her neck. “I’m so excited you’re here. I predict we’re going to make something very special together.”
She makes sure to include the rest of the room in that statement, although I want to believe that, deep down, Violet’s still talking only to me. With that unmistakable signal she’s ready to begin, both of us join the others at the table.
Because there’s only room for six people, Loretta sits unobtrusively in the corner, leaving Ronan to take the remaining free chair. Brad returns, this time carrying a stack of bound scripts and a black backpack.
I can’t help but notice the label.
Gucci.
Even though the backpack probably cost more than what I make in a month, Brad plops it onto the table like it came from Walmart.
“Before we start, I’m going to need everyone’s phone,” he announces.
“That seems extreme, don’t you think?” Violet says. “I’m certain none of us plan on leaking the script.”
She scans the table, gauging the reactions of the other actresses. Heather and Susie murmur in agreement. Even Julianne, whom I haven’t seen look at her phone once, nods.
“It’s not about script security,” Brad says. “And it’s not just for today. Once the table read’s over, you’re going to be living exactly the way the women of New Avalon did.”
“Which means no phones,” Ronan adds. “Or laptops or iPads or any technology whatsoever. It’s what you all agreed to.”
“I didn’t,” Susie protests, clutching her phone to her chest.
Loretta, seated behind Ronan, steeples her fingers against her chin. “Then you didn’t read your contract. The one you signed and will be in violation of if you don’t hand over your phone.”
“They’ll be safe with me the whole time,” Brad assures us as he holds up the Gucci backpack, unzipped and puckered open. He reaches inside and pulls out several velvet drawstring bags, each one embroidered with a set of initials. “So we can keep track of who each phone belongs to.”
He starts handing out the bags. VW for Violet. SH for Susie. Even Ronan gets one, its RP clearly visible as he drops his phone into it.
I look at the letters on mine.
LG
No doubt intended for my predecessor.
“There wasn’t time to get a new one made,” Brad says with an apologetic wince. “But I’ll know it’s yours.”
I hold my phone with one hand and the bag with the other, hesitant. This seems like a terrible idea. The others apparently agree, because no one moves to relinquish their phones.
“You were instructed to tell your friends, family, and loved ones that you’d be off the grid for the next five days,” Ronan says. “You all did that, right?”
I tried to. When I called my parents this morning, there was no answer. I left a message, saying there was no need to call me back.
“Sure,” Susie says. “But what if there’s an emergency? What if someone needs to contact one of us?”
“Or we need to contact them,” Heather adds, not needing to elaborate. We are on an island. If something bad happens, there’ll be no way to call for help.
“I’ll have my phone on me the entire time,” Brad says.
“As will I,” Loretta says. “Your representation knows how to reach me in the unlikely chance of an emergency. And if there’s one here, authorities on the mainland know where to find us.”
That would be comforting, if not for one big question. “How will you keep your phones charged?” I ask. “There’s no electricity.”
Brad reaches into the backpack, producing a shiny black rectangle the same size as a deck of cards. “Solar power bank. Loretta and I both have one.”
Violet looks at her phone, then at Ronan. “Do you really think all of us unplugging for a week will help the film?”
“I do,” he says. “I think by being less distracted, you’ll connect with your characters more. My goal is that by the end of this week, all of you will know the women you’re playing inside and out. So, yes, I truly think this is what’s best for the film.”
“You’ve convinced me,” Violet says as she drops her phone into her velvet bag. “Art does not come without sacrifice.”
The others begin to follow her lead, starting with Julianne.
Heather and Susie take grudging last looks at their phones before doing the same.
Because I haven’t checked my phone since stepping onto the dock, I take a moment to do it now.
If there’s another text from the mysterious LG, I’d like to know what it says.