Three Women in a Mirror by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt, Alison Anderson Page A

shouting to make his crew work faster. It’s true that you rarely heard anyone shouting on set because crews communicated through microphones and headsets, however there were a few, including Bob, the ancient head technician, who swore they couldn’t keep their communication gear on their head, sweating as they did in the California sun; so they resorted to the old methods, giving their orders with their lungs.
    When the designer closed the door, a dignified, opulent silence fell over the star’s dressing room.
    Anny saw Ethan among the costume crew.
    â€œWhat a nice surprise.”
    She turned around, delighted, but the nurse from the Linden Clinic suddenly vanished; in his place was a man who turned out to be a member of the costume crew, and who, though he was tall and blond, bore only a faint resemblance to Ethan. Disappointed, Anny muttered an apology.
    In those three seconds in which she had lit up with enthusiasm, the tall man noticed that his boss could not stand to see the star greeting such a lowly employee; the bullet had grazed his temple . . . He was reassured to see that Anny had been mistaken.
    Nerves on edge—his usual state—the costume designer planted himself in front of Anny and growled, tight-lipped, “Anny, for your character we had agreed to use short sleeves. Sibyl, we want a woman with short sleeves! I can’t imagine long sleeves. No, Sibyl, long sleeves would be ridiculous! Short sleeves are fine! That’s the concept, I’ve imagined the whole line that way. So why is that hysterical director talking about long sleeves?”
    Anny laughed and held her arms out to him.
    â€œBecause he’s not filming a reportage on an accident victim.”
    The costume designer suddenly saw the multiple gashes on Anny’s skin left by the shards of glass.
    â€œOh, my poor baby, that’s awful!”
    He gazed at her arms, his mouth agape and eyes wide, his eyebrows twisted in consternation. Aghast, he said, “Does it hurt?”
    â€œNot anymore.”
    Anny thought her answer would erase his terrified grimace, but it remained etched on his face; basically the costume designer didn’t care whether Anny was suffering or not, he was staring at her butchered flesh with concern that was solely aesthetic.
    After a minute or so he shook his head and called out to his crew in a lugubrious voice, “Long sleeves.”
    Looking sternly at Anny, he could not help but say, “But I don’t like it one bit.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œMy whole concept is out the window.”
    Annoyed, Anny replied, “I feel your pain. Look, I’ll get a bit of morphine to you if I have a dose left. And I’ll lend you my nurse.”
    The designer looked at her hesitantly; he was so used to using hyperbole that irony tended to be lost on him. Was she feeling sorry for him, or making fun of him? Only the actress’s tone made it clear: it was the sort of tone you would use to say, “Get the hell out of here before I smash your face in.”
    He turned on his heels and murmured, like a condemned man walking to the electric chair, “I’ll be back with long sleeves.”
    Anny swiveled around on her chair and in the mirror she saw the blond man who reminded her of Ethan walking away.
    I wonder how he’s doing
, she thought.
Who is he looking after now? Does he miss me? I didn’t thank him when I left the clinic. Why not? Oh yes, it was his day off. Hey, I should send him some flowers. Or invite him on the set, he would enjoy that.
    She was incapable of describing exactly what she felt, but she was aware of a vague need for his presence.
    Johanna Fisher came up the steps to the trailer and entered without knocking.
    â€œWhenever you’re ready, darling.”
    In fact, this was an order. Anny smiled and told herself she should try that out in a role: saying something polite in a murderous tone.
    â€œWait, Johanna, I have to