Claire McNab - The Dingo Dilemma

I'd pretty much thrown myself on Howie's mercy yesterday, so he'd given me a rapid-fire description of series television, including who was who on a soundstage and what I was to expect as a member of the cast. It'd soon become obvious that I was totally out of my depth, so Howie arranged for one of his junior staff members to liaise with the studios on my behalf. Now he had my schedule, plus various must-know and must-do items, which he'd courier to me with the contract.

"First up," Howie said, "you report Monday morning for a session with a dialogue coach to get your accent right."

"But I've got a dinky-di Aussie accent already!"

Howie laughed. "Roll with it, honey. Do whatever you're told. Don't argue."

After he'd rung off, I sat with my head spinning with all the information I needed to get straight. A dizzying number of people seemed involved in getting a TV show made. Howie had advised me to concentrate on those people I'd deal with directly, and stay out of the way of everyone else. "And don't get on the wrong side of the crew," he'd said. "Things can get very nasty if you do."

Maybe there was a TV industry equivalent to my PI bible, Private Investigation: The Complete Handbook. Because LA was the self-styled entertainment capital of the world, it stood to reason any big bookshop would have a section devoted to movies and TV. I was checking my watch, wondering whether I should nip out right now, when Ariana knocked.

"I've heard from Fran," she said. "The news is good. Nothing life-threatening. Quip's concussed, but no broken ribs, just bad bruising, and no internal injuries. The hospital's keeping him overnight for observation, but only as a precaution."

"I reckon we won't be hauling Fran over the coals today," I observed. Remembering how the normally unflappable Fran had been close to hysterical when she saw her wounded husband, I added, "Probably not for a good while, since she's so upset."

"Her day of reckoning is briefly postponed, not cancelled," said Ariana emphatically.

"I'm not being soft again," I protested.

"You are," she said, but it was with a smile.

Encouraged by her smile, I said, "About this weekend…"

"I'll be seeing Natalie." Ariana's voice was cool.

"I know you will be, but not twenty-four hours a day."

My heart swelled with pity and with fear. Something must have showed on my face, because Ariana's expression changed.

I thought, inconsequentially, I could drown in the blue of your eyes.

I said, my voice hardly above a whisper, "Let me comfort you."

“Kylie…”

"Ariana."

We stood looking at each other.

"Thank you," Ariana said.

Much to my surprise Mum didn't call on Friday, although I knew Aunt Millie wouldn't have been able to resist boasting about Brucie's heroism. I could only hope that my mother had become so desensitized by the apparently endless procession of violent events in Los Angeles featured in Aussie newscasts that Quip's bashing didn't particularly register.

Melodie and Lexus were spending the weekend showing Brucie the LA sights, so I didn't have to worry about entertaining him.

I spent a leisurely breakfast reading the fat Saturday morning edition of the Los Angeles Times. Darken the dingo's perilous situation had made the front page, and the entertainment section covered the story from the point of view of industry insiders. In one interview, Dustin Jaeger, who starred as Timmy in Darken Come Home, stated that he was "devastated and shocked" that anyone could even think of harming Darken, who was a sweet, affectionate dingo he was honored to count among his closest friends.

After breakfast I returned to the big chain bookstore where I'd purchased my invaluable handbook on private eyeing, and discovered they had a comprehensive section on television and movies. I spent ages going through the shelves, finding information and guidance covering every possible facet of the entertainment industry. The brightly colored covers fervently assured me that future success was certain, if I was to purchase the book. I could become a sought-after actor, or the writer of an award-winning screenplay, or the producer/director of a successful independent movie, no sweat.

I finally settled on one of the less flashy offerings, titled A Beginner's Guide to Making TV Shows. I didn't want to make a total galah of myself on the Darken set, so by Monday I intended to have at least a rough idea of who did what in the making of a TV series.

When I got home I made myself a cup of tea and sat down with Julia Roberts to study the material Howie had sent me and the book I'd just purchased. TV production seemed to involve an awful lot of people. Soon I was deep into the roles and responsibilities of the executive producer, show runner, head writer, director, unit production manager, story editor, director of photography, script supervisor… And many had designated assistants-the director had two who alternated. Then there was the crew-gaffers, best boys, boom operators, sound mixers, camera operators…

"I'll never get all this stuff straight," I commented to Julia Roberts. She blinked, then yawned, the feline equivalent of a shrug. "You're so right, Jules," I said, "I will take Howie's advice, and roll with it."

Ariana had said she would be spending most of the day at the hospital with Natalie, but that she'd be home in the late afternoon. Would I be happy watching a movie on DVD and eating pizza?

Didn't she realize I'd be happy with anything, as long as I had her company?

I accepted as casually as she had offered the invitation. "I'll be there."

Ariana had said she'd be home by five at the latest. When I pulled into the parking area by her house at five-fifteen, I saw her sister Janette's white Volvo SUV. I heard a warning bark from Gussie as I got out of my car, then Janette opened the front door. Beside her Gussie grinned a welcome.

"Kylie, come in. Ariana called, she's been delayed." She stepped aside to let me past. "I've just delivered Gussie home. I've had her with me all day running the legs off my dachshund, Dutch."

It would be obvious to anyone that Janette and Ariana were sisters. Janette had the same pale hair as Ariana, although her blue eyes were not as vivid and she was carrying more weight. They differed most in personality. Where Ariana was detached, Janette was warm and friendly.

Janette was an artist of some note, specializing in disturbing, disconcerting images. At first glance, the scenes she depicted in almost photographic detail in her paintings seemed unexceptional. A closer look always showed something was very wrong-perhaps a human head was stacked neatly with logs in a fireplace, or a human finger, complete with blood-red nail polish, was being used as a bookmark.

Janette led the way into Ariana's beautiful living room, where a wall of glass provided a panoramic view of Los Angeles.

"Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? A soda?"

I didn't feel like anything, but I felt awkward, so to give me something to do with my hands, I said, "A Coke?"

"Coming right up."

When we were seated, each with tall glass of Coca-Cola, we silently regarded the stunning view. From this height, the sheer size of Los Angeles was evident. I tried to imagine what this huge basin, bounded by mountains and edged by the sea, would have looked like thousands of years ago.

Pulling my attention back to Janette, I said, "How is Quip?"

"He's stiff and sore, but safely home with Fran looking after him." She laughed. "Spare a thought for the poor boy. My daughter's no Florence Nightingale. She has the bedside manner of a pit bull."

I hesitated, then said, "And Natalie?"

Janette's grin faded. "No change. I don't know if Ariana told you, but Natalie's stroke was the less common one. It wasn't a clot, but a blood vessel breaking. There are aggressive treatments now for strokes caused by blood clots, but there's not as much that can be done for bleeding into the brain."