Metaworld HopeCore

11 East Seventy-Third.

Friday, 11th July 2008.

Mrs Byrne did a lemon sole on Fridays. Eppie had learned not to comment on it. Her host was otherwise irreligious, and singularly fond of fine seafood.

Juliana Vaughan ate the way she did everything, which was slowly and clinically.

“You are making a film,” her not-mentor said suddenly.

Eppie’s fork paused.

“There have been reports on my breakfast table,” Vaughan smirked. “George keeps an eye on you, if you must know. In case you fall off the wagon, as they say. Maxing out credit cards. Indulging in recreational drugs, bringing boys home, teen pregnancies, that sort of thing.”

Eppie’s expression grew horrified—then Vaughan burst into depreciative laughter. “My apologies. It was just that… the idea of you being… naughty was very amusing.”

“So… the film,” Eppie continued with the fish.

“Yes. Tell me about it. Properly, from the beginning. The art and the money. I know how this works. I sit on four boards, film included, and I can advise on everything except the Super Bowl.”

Eppie told her not-mentor.

The original script. The new script. The director, and the French artist who returned to finish something from a younger self.

Vaughan put her cutlery down gently, then she looked at her for a long moment.

“A curious choice for a first film,” she said. “I would have expected… oh, I don’t know. Pride and Prejudice? A Midsummer Night’s Dream? Do you have the tape?”

“How do you know there’s a tape?”

“George knows all.”

Eppie chose not to question that fact.

George came up a little sheepishly ten minutes later with a great old trolley with a brass rail, wearing white gloves. The ancient machine was a Sony with a bulge like a fishbowl, a video recorder built into its underside, and a coat of dust that George addressed en route with a duster he produced from somewhere about his person.

Vaughan waited with her hands folded, entirely unhurried, in the manner of a woman who kept time with twelve centuries of art.

Then the picture came up: a green-tinged sprung floor, a strip of gaffer tape, three chairs that did not match.

Eppie watched the Chief Curator of the Metropolitan Museum of Art watch her walk down a corridor that was not there.

Vaughan watched her performance as Curon had watched it, hawkishly, and with immense investment.

“Welcome home.”

And then the scene ended, and the tape kept running, because nobody had turned the camera off.

Ninety seconds of an empty floor. Two men, not moving. Not speaking.

“Jack.”

“Yeah.”

“Turn it off.”

Vaughan sat back. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“I would like to think so.”

“That’s good,” said Vaughan. “Do you have enough money?”

Why does everyone say that?! Eppie wondered if her [Prophet of Profits] was to blame, and if it was laying a trap for her [Causality] surplus.

“It’s a problem of proportion,” said Eppie. “I am funding the film, since… I don’t trust the banks to fund Jack.”

“Explain.”

“There’s a line.” Eppie set two fingers on the tablecloth, a few inches apart. “The actors’ union lets a small film pay low rates—but only if the film stays under a certain size. Under the line, we’re allowed. Over it, we’re a studio picture.”

“Ah.” Vaughan’s mouth did something dry. “So a generous investment would be an assassination.”

“It could be.” Eppie turned her glass. “Which is why Dad is on the telephone to his old friends. He’s calling in favours. Not cash—somewhere friendly to shoot, without boards and too many lawyers. Jack wants to shoot a four-page scene in one unbroken take, which means total control. We lack a good producer. Control is what we’re short of.”

Juliana Vaughan considered this for some time.

“You’re shooting that scene?” she asked.

Eppie nodded.

“I would very much like to see it done properly,” the Dame of the Met said. “And the rest of the film will be in that building? Upstairs, downstairs? Stairwell? Apartment? Well, apartments…”

Eppie nodded again.

Vaughan sipped her wine. “It’s a bother if there are too many locations.”

“It sure is,” Eppie sighed, her MTV shoot still vivid in her memory.

“Let’s lower the difficulty then. Like your father, I will also chip in. In that area, we own a few buildings.”

Eppie’s glass stopped halfway. Even in her past life, she had never… owned downtown buildings. Plural.

“George?”

“Madam,” George answered from beside the VHS trolley.

“How many buildings do we own in that region of the city?”

George stood with the cloth folded over his forearm and gave the question the consideration it deserved.

“Freehold, or including the ground leases?”

Eppie drained her glass to calm her nerves.

“The girl wants somewhere that looks authentic,” said Vaughan, “and does not have a board, and does not have a lawyer, and will not charge her by the hour. Have we anything?”

George considered Eppie’s shocked face. “There is Rivington Street, madam.”

Vaughan pursed her lips. “I am not familiar with it.”

George turned to Eppie. He was very good, as if to make up for his reporting to Vaughan of her every move.

“Six storeys, miss. A walk-up. Twenty-two units originally, sixteen after the fire escapes went in. The family bought it in 1894, and it has never been out of the Estate since. The top floors require extensive renovations. The lower floors are rented. It was landmarked in eighty-one, which means we may not alter the façade, the stair, or the public hall. Is that suitable?”

“I… don’t know,” said Eppie. “Jack will have to see it for himself.”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“The plaster is original, miss. So is the stair. There is a light well, and a public hall on every floor with a single window at the end of it, and the doors are solid.” A small, deeply private satisfaction crossed George’s face. “Two of the flats still have their tin ceilings.”

“Good. Give it to them,” Vaughan said. “For as long as they need it, at no charge, with the insurance on my account. Forgo rent for the families who choose to give our Eppie run of their floor. Round up to the month.”

Vaughan considered her offer, looked at Eppie smugly, then smiled, pleased with herself.

“And do be very careful that nobody writes an article about it. I have a museum to run. I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about my not-protégée.” Her chin lifted a fraction. “So. Eppie, tell Fred that two can give gifts, and his favour… can be used elsewhere, to better effect.”

Eppie lowered her head in gratitude.