Gabriela doesn't know quite what to do. Perhaps she should pretend she isn't listening and go over to the group of chain-smoking technicians chatting brightly in one corner or perhaps she should simply stay where she is.
"This one's awful," said the woman again.
"That's me."
She can't help herself. She has run through half of Cannes to get there, waited nearly two hours, imagined yet again that her life is about to change forever (although she's less and less prone to such fantasies now and won't allow herself to get as excited as she used to), and she certainly doesn't need more reasons to be depressed.
"I know," says the woman, her eyes fixed on the photos. "They must have cost you a fortune. People make a career out of making books, writing CVs, running acting courses, and generally making money out of the vanity of people like you."
"If you think I'm so awful, why did you call me?"
"Because we need someone awful."
Gabriela laughs. The woman finally raises her head and looks her up and down.
"I liked your clothes. I hate vulgar people."
Gabriela's dream is returning. Her heart beats faster.
The woman hands her a sheet of paper.
"Go over there to the mark."
Then she turns to the crew.
"Put those cigarettes out and close the window. I don't want the sound messed up."
The "mark" is a cross made with yellow tape on the floor. This means that the actor is automatically in the right position for the lighting and the camera.
"It's so hot in here, I'm sweating. Could I at least go to the bathroom and put a little foundation on, some makeup?"
"Of course you can, but when you get back, there won't be time to do the recording. We have to hand this stuff over by this afternoon."
All the other girls who went in must have asked the same question and been given the same answer. Best not to waste time. She takes a paper handkerchief out of her pocket and dabs at her face as she makes her way over to the mark.
An assistant positions himself by the camera, while Gabriela battles against time, trying to read through what is written on that half sheet of paper.
"Test number twenty-five, Gabriela Sherry, Thompson Agency."
"Twenty-five?!" thinks Gabriela.
"And action," says the woman with the glasses.
Silence falls.
"NO, I CAN'T BELIEVE WHAT you're saying. No one can commit a murder for no reason."
"Start again. You're talking to your boyfriend."
"No, I can't believe what you're saying. No one can commit a murder like that for no reason."
"The words 'like that' aren't in the script. Do you really think that the scriptwriter, who worked on this for months, didn't consider putting those words in, but decided against it because they're useless, superficial, unnecessary?"
Gabriela takes a deep breath. She has nothing to lose but her patience. She's going to do her best now, then leave, go to the beach, or go back to bed for a while. She needs to rest in order to be in good shape for the evening round of cocktail parties.
A strange, delicious calm comes over her. Suddenly, she feels protected, loved, grateful to be alive. No one's forcing her to be there, enduring yet another humiliation. For the first time in years, she's aware of her power, a power she had never thought existed.
"No, I don't believe what you're saying. No one can commit a murder for no reason."