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makeup. Alex will put a little on you but you’re going to look as natural as possible for the shot.” She points. “That way.”
    “Thanks.”
    Based on the pseudo-sex scene I just witnessed, I’m getting a little nervous about the “nightgown.” This better not be some weird lingerie get-up , I think, or I’m going home. Turns out my fears are unfounded. In fact, once I’m inside the big, shapeless, white whale of a nightgown, I start wishing for some fishnet stockings, anything to peek out under the calf-length hem.
    “Is this supposed to be, um, a little more fitted?” Normally it’s best not to question anything or anyone on a shoot, but I’ve worked with Alex before, and I just want to confirm that I’m supposed be wearing a man-repelling, virginal sack.
    Alex shakes her head. “Nineteenth century nightgown. Real sexy, huh?” She grabs my chin, turning my head this way and that. “God, you’ve got great skin. I’m just going to do a little foundation.” She gestures to a chair. “Sit over here and I’ll curl your hair.”
    Once she starts with the curling iron, she realizes my hair isn’t long enough. Cue the hair extensions. Thirty minutes later my now-long hair is suitably arranged in blonde, loopy curls. She declares me “perfect” and sends me on my way. I pull my socks on as I walk, not so much to keep my feet warm as to muffle the sound. Making any noise on or off the set while they’re filming will definitely get you bounced. Most extras duct tape the bottom of their shoes to dampen their offensive footfalls.
    The assistant director–the AD–grabs me by the elbow. “Okay,” she says, without any preamble. “They’re going to fire up the smoker.” I follow her to a set covered in black. She points to a piece of green tape on the floor. “Once the fog gets thick enough you’ll start here and walk–very slowly–to here.” She crosses the set and points at another piece of tape on the floor. “Walk very slowly. I can’t stress that enough. Do you want to practice?”
    So that’s what I’m doing, practicing walking very slowly, toe-heel, toe-heel, while the crew finishes setting up the shot. One of the lighting crew asks me to stand still while he fiddles with a few of the overhead lights. “Okay, we’re ready.”
    “We’re ready!” the AD shouts.
    I’m standing there in my silly curls and my repulsive nightgown when someone shouts at me. “Hey! That’s her!”
    I jump. A fifty-something guy with a gray beard and a baseball cap stands next to the AD. He’s looking in my direction. I instinctively turn around, but there’s nothing behind me but the black wall of the set. I don’t say, “Who, me?” or anything ridiculous like that because he’s not talking to me; that much I’m sure about. Background actors are like props, there to be seen and not heard. The more you blend into the wallpaper, the more you’ll actually work.
    “What’s her name? What’s your name?” he says, walking towards me.
    Here comes the panic. “Uh…Claire?” I throw the question mark on the end, because even at this point I’m not sure if he’s asking my real name or the name of my character in the script.
    “Claire? Claire what?”
    “Beau. Claire Beau. I’m background,” I add, figuring he’s mistaking me for someone else. “I’m just doing this one scene.”
    “Who’s your agent?”
    “Charley Coney.”
    He leans towards the AD. “Get Charley Coney on the phone for me.” The AD scurries off, cell phone in hand.
    “Did I…do something wrong?” I say. I run through everything that’s happened since I got here, and nothing springs to mind. I turned off my cell phone, I was on time. I muffled my feet, didn’t make eye contact with or try to talk to any of the stars. What the hell ?
    He laughs and shoots out his hand. “Andy Gordon, good to meet you.”
    I shake his hand, mute, fully aware now of who he is: just one of the biggest directors in Hollywood.
    He takes