“Loud, aren’t they?” Marilyn said.

“Deafening,” Suzanne agreed.

“Well,” Marilyn said, placing Kleenex in Suzanne’s collar to protect it from the makeup. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me about preferences or allergies or pet peeves? We might as well cover it before we get in too deep.” She sipped her coffee, watching Suzanne over the rim of her cup.

“Just make me look like my face is thinner than it is and my lips aren’t as thin as they are, and I can survive anything,” Suzanne said. “Also, I have a particular horror of blemishes.”

“Thin lips, fat face, and zits,” Marilyn mused, as she examined the source of Suzanne’s complaints. “Well, that won’t be too much of a problem. We’ll use lip line, shadow, and concealer. I frankly don’t quite see what you’re talking about, but if you ask me, most actresses look at their faces for too long and find too much wrong with themselves.”

As she talked, she began applying base to Suzanne’s face and throat. “I’ll have you know that I’m famous for my zit cover,” she went on. “I have a special little pencil I use, with almost a yellow tint to it, and over that I apply base and powder, and then, if more is necessary, I use a cover stick. Medium. You don’t seem to have any spots at the moment. Were you referring to something specific, or were you just warning me for the future?” She stood with her sponge suspended over Suzanne’s jawline, waiting for a reply, but Suzanne—lulled by the music, the makeup, and Marilyn—was asleep.

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. Your prince has arrived.”

Ted shook Suzanne gently by the shoulders. “My mother thinks I’m a prince,” he explained.

Marilyn watched Suzanne carefully as she surveyed her face in the mirror. “Pretty good for six thirty in the morning, huh?”

Suzanne smiled. “This has to be one of my favorite things. Going to sleep plain and waking up pretty.” She eased out of the chair and walked with Ted to the door.

“I’ll slick you down on the set,” shouted Roger, who was blow-drying the pin curls on a wig.

“She’s on her way to wardrobe,” said Ted gravely into his walkie-talkie. “We’re literally out the door,” he continued, as they stepped out into the cool desert morning. “The producer is coming to see you,” he said to her. “I mean, one of the producers.”

“How many producers are there?”

“Three,” he said. “The Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.” He opened her trailer door for her.

“And which am I endearing myself to this morning?” she asked, climbing into her hamster cage.

“The Holy Ghost. Joe Pierce, our alleged line producer. Can I get you anything before he comes?”

“Coca-Cola,” she said, as a red-haired woman appeared behind Ted with an armful of clothes.