Page 13 of The Unknown

When Violet does appear a few minutes later, sweeping into the room in a cloud of breathless energy and perfume that smells just like the flower she’s named after, the others become still and silent, as if they’re peasants and Violet is royalty. Which, in a way, she is. The beloved queen of Hollywood.

“Am I late?” she asks.

“Right on time,” Ronan says.

Violet exhales in relief. “I was walking in the woods doing vocal exercises. I highly recommend it. This lake air is so soothing. Although I’m sure I looked like a madwoman standing among the trees making the most ridiculous sounds.”

She pauses, zeroing in on me. For a moment, I can barely breathe.It’s a strange sensation to be observed by someone you’ve been watching almost your entire life. When you’re caught in Violet’s gaze, the rest of the world stops, goes dark, ceases to exist. It’s just her and those expressive blue eyes that have graced a hundred movie posters and that impish smile I’ve seen on just as many magazine covers.

“You must be Marin.” She steps toward me, holding out a hand as pale and delicate as porcelain. “Hello, I’m Violet.”

She says it as if I don’t already know this. As if she’s the unknown quantity here and not the screen legend who’s been a star for the past forty years. As if she’s blithely unaware about being called the greatest actress of her generation, of the past fifty years, of all time.

The key to that greatness lies in her uncanny ability to never seem to be acting. Her characters simplyexist. 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 GoldenGlobes 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 unobtrusivelyin 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.VWfor Violet.SHfor Susie. Even Ronan gets one, itsRPclearly visible as he drops his phone into it.

I look at the letters on mine.