Plenty of lovers slipped away from their partner's bed at the crack of dawn, but rarely when said partner was their husband. And while their reasons for departure usually involved freshening up, they didn't often have a team of makeup artists at their disposal. Thus ran Hannah Gill's thoughts as she sat back in the chair, sipping her black coffee and valiantly holding back her complaints every time the hair stylist's brush tugged a bit too hard.
If discretion's an art, you can call me Van Gogh. The trick of it, Hannah had come to learn, was to not be consistent. Sometimes she arose alongside Truman in the morning and did all her own makeup and hair in the bathroom, just like she would in real life. Christof was rarely happy on these occasions, as Hannah wouldn't get a peek at her itinerary until she was safely away at the hospital, but she suspected he was just annoyed at having to be on call to feed her lines in case she slipped. To her credit, she never did- and besides, it paid off. Five years since Truman had slipped that ring onto her finger, and all this time he'd never once noticed Hannah's early-morning disappearances.
"Can I get you anything, Miss Gill?" said an assistant to her right. Hannah set down her coffee cup and inhaled a slow, steady breath. Sometimes it was hard not to "correct" the production crew and remind them that she was "Mrs. Burbank." Let's give those method actors a run for their money.
"More coffee," Hannah ordered, and the voice that came out was all Meryl- syrupy plasticine perfection. She tapped at her cup as the assistant ran to fetch a new one. "Just enough to get through the morning." A titter of laughter escaped her- that, too, was Meryl's- and the stylist working on her politely joined in.
Another assistant approached from her left side, and Hannah steeled herself, concentrating on the face that her makeup artists were molding. So far, they'd done an excellent job of prepping her for the cameras. Truman complained every now and then that she wore too much makeup, but Hannah always responded that appearances mattered in her line of work. If only he knew how true that is. For that matter, Hannah had always felt that Truman should wear stage makeup too, the better to look on TV. She'd considered introducing it as an anti-aging cream, but not only did she doubt that Truman would take to it, the advertising companies had given her hell once they caught wind of her little scheme. If you'd like to promote skincare products on The Truman Show, you need to use an existing brand, not a placebo.
Hannah restrained the urge to mouth along as the assistant addressed her. "Today's itinerary, Miss Gill."
"Yes?" The lack of a written itinerary was one of Christof's little quirks, his insistence on not breaking the illusion, as it were. Hannah often wished to point out that there was little to no chance of Truman ever being in his neighbor's basement, let alone long enough to discover an itinerary or even to make sense of it. Especially not after playing up the neighbor character as a reclusive shut-in, unwilling to interact with Truman socially. But that was Christof for you, and since Hannah knew what was good for her career, she kept her mouth shut.
"You're to leave for the hospital early today," Hannah's assistant said. "You have an amputation scheduled on a young girl who was injured yesterday in a falling elevator. That should keep Truman from dwelling on his little discovery, but be prepared to stand by at the hospital if he decides to drop in for any reason."
But he won't, Hannah thought. She nodded coolly.
"You're to invite Marlon and Rita to a barbecue on Sunday night. Mention this to Truman and try to get him excited. He needs stability after this week's, ah… unfortunate incidents. Something familiar." The assistant paused. "Since it's the weekend, you'll be receiving your bonus check today."
Good. Hannah gave a tight nod. She still wasn't sure if the compensation she received for every sexual act reflected Christof's guilt that she had to go through with it, or his satisfaction for a job well done. Knowing Christof, it was likely the latter. You're turning me into a honey trap, Hannah had sometimes joked back when her marriage was new. But the former wasn't out of the question. Not that sleeping with Truman was an ordeal, but it didn't exactly excite Hannah, to say the least.
"Anything else?" she said, knowing full well that there was. There's ALWAYS something else.
"Yes," said the assistant. "Today's quota of products reads as follows- Ignite™ charcoal for the fire pit, Motion Bran™ cereal, Mococoa™ hot chocolate, and of course…" He trailed off, gesturing vaguely in Hannah's direction, and Hannah glanced quickly down at herself.
"The wardrobe." Modeling her wardrobe was a staple of her assigned product placement, so much so that it hardly counted as such anymore. However, Hannah wouldn't dream of giving it up. Imagining countless viewers admiring her from behind their TV screens gave her an immense, childish thrill. It was also by far the most convenient method of plugging products, because she didn't have to say a word. The rest were brand names that had to be worked into conversation. Her task often proved a challenge, but it was one that Hannah eagerly rose to meet.
The assistant nodded. "That's all for today, Miss Gill."
"Thank you." Hannah watched in the mirror as the assistant stepped back, leaving a gap for another one to fill. She pressed a fresh coffee cup into Hannah's grasp and handed her stylist the finishing touch for Meryl's attire. Hannah inhaled the coffee's delicious scent as her stylist carefully attached a nurse's hat to her head. After taking an invigorating sip, Hannah leaned forward and smiled with all the cheerfulness she'd spent years honing. Not a hair out of place. The woman staring back at her wasn't Hannah Gill anymore, but Meryl Burbank.
"Perfect," the stylist drawled, admiring her own work. Hannah stood up and finally turned away from the mirror, surveying the small throng of extras and crew. The extras were poised to head up the stairs, in the unlikely event that Truman would come calling- waiting for a cue that they'll never get- while the crew were hastily packing up their equipment. Truman rarely decided to go out on the weekend, so their exit would likely take place at nightfall. Poor shmucks.
"All right, Meryl," the assistant who'd read Hannah her itinerary said. "Time to get back to your house before the hubby notices."
Hannah didn't bother acknowledging him, already feeling the eyes of the invisible cameras upon her. Soon she'd be in the kitchen, millions of viewers around the globe tuning in to watch her make breakfast, and Day 10,912 of The Truman Show would begin.
The day's events began exactly as planned. Hannah struck a few surreptitious poses as she cooked breakfast, practically hearing the show's voiceover entreating the viewing audience to call in and place an order. Truman ended up getting to the Motion Bran™ before she could, but Hannah was able to chirp a spontaneous advertisement anyway. "Oh, that Motion Bran™ is great, honey. It's high in fiber, low in sugar, and the perfect addition to a balanced breakfast!"
Truman smiled wanly into the bottom of his bowl. "It sure is."
The elevator line went over smoothly too- Truman swallowed it along with his daily vitamins. It was difficult to keep a satisfied grin from cracking Hannah's façade, although of course professionals never allowed such things to happen. Just yesterday, the crew had been worried sick that Truman might be catching on, that he was becoming self-aware, but thanks to a word from none other than Hannah, the elevator incident had faded into nothingness. No one could have done it better.
"Anyway, I have an amputation on one of the young women who was in that elevator. She's very young. It's very sad." That was good, showing sympathy for the patient. It would definitely touch the viewers' hearts. "Anyway, uh… wish me luck."
She was halfway out the door when Truman replied, "I'll cross my fingers for ya."
For a just a slim, short second, Hannah paused. Not long enough to sacrifice the fourth wall, and not long enough for Truman to notice. At least, she didn't think he noticed. But the words caught her by the heel. What's that supposed to mean?
Then, in just as brief a moment, Hannah recovered herself. Silly. There's nothing wrong. Inevitably her mind had drifted to the crossed-fingers wedding day scandal that Entertainment Weekly had made so much about. It was a wonder people were still talking about it, mostly due to the show's home video releases. They're just jealous, that's all. And all that nonsense had nothing to do with her. She was Meryl now, on her way to work, and Truman had no reason to suspect her of anything. He lacked access to those gossip rags and the trash they printed.
Real-life hospitals made Hannah's skin crawl, but the one on set was her sanctuary. Deep within its walls, past the receptionists and fake patients and paramedics constantly wheeling stretchers from room to room, Hannah was able to relax and be herself, because the cameras only followed Truman. In the early days, there hadn't been much to do besides chat with the extras. As per Christof's rule of authenticity, nothing could be found in the hospital that wouldn't ordinarily be in one, even though the interiors were rarely shown on TV. However, as Meryl's role expanded and Hannah began receiving attention from the press, she'd eventually cajoled Christof into setting aside a room for her so-called exterior endeavors. After all, hospitals in the real world certainly had tables and telephones.
Upon settling in, Hannah eagerly dove into the usual parade of business deals and interviews. If she was being honest, it was a work she found more gratifying than her role as Meryl Burbank. Maybe Hannah Gill wasn't the richest woman in the world- not yet- but she'd be damned if she wasn't the busiest. By the time she'd finished responding to every message left overnight on her machine, the phone was ringing nonstop.
"You're misunderstanding me. I would be happy to host Saturday Night Live. But unless you figure out a way to get me to New York and back in one night, I don't care how much you're offering. Go talk to Christof about my vacation schedule, and then get back to me."
"I will level with you when you level with me. I've allowed the use of my likeness to promote your detergent, but the whole thing is worthless if you use my character's name. You can't expect me to believe that 'Hannah Gill' is not a recognizable figure! My name appears at the beginning of every single episode. Loyal viewers would know who I am, and I expect you to know me as well."
"If you want an interview, fine. If you want an endorsement- sure, I'll even endorse it. But if you're asking me to pose for Playboy, you are out of your ever-loving mind. My refusal to do such work played a major role in landing me a part on The Truman Show. Do you really expect me to start now? After seven years?"
Hannah was in the middle of negotiating a particularly tricky deal when a sharp beep sounded through her earpiece, interrupting the call. Great. What do the folks upstairs want? She hurriedly apologized to the caller- "I have to take care of something"- and hung up the phone. "What is it?"
"Meryl, you're needed in the operating room," came a familiar voice. Simeon, if she was remembering the name correctly. "Truman's on his way to the hospital."
Hannah jolted to her feet, thoroughly bewildered. Truman? At the hospital? He hadn't visited her here since the first year of their marriage, and that had only ever been on weekdays, during his lunch break. What on earth was the matter with him?
"Can't you stall him?" she demanded to the unseen crew. "Or… or redirect him."
Simeon's voice was tight. "We'll try everything we can. Stand by for now."
Sighing, Hannah gave the table before her a long-suffering stare. If this room had cameras, she would have been tempted to stick her tongue out at one, even though acknowledging the cameras when she wasn't with Truman was a dangerous habit to fall into.
Dammit, why did Truman apparently want to be with her? Why right now? Was this another one of the strange tricks she'd been told he'd played yesterday, testing the limits of Seahaven's surveillance? It can't be… He couldn't have possibly figured out…
"Is it a medical emergency?" Hannah asked as she pushed open the door to her conference room and strode through the whitewashed halls. If so, Truman was going to have a rude awakening coming here, where the doctors' only credentials were their resumes and headshots.
"Not that we know of," Simeon replied.
"Then what is he doing?" Faces glanced up in surprise as Hannah burst through the doors of the operating room. Spying one extra with a handheld mirror, Hannah snatched it away and began to check her appearance. Not a hair out of place… but she wasn't content on the inside.
"We don't know," Simeon said, the tension in his voice strengthening. "We'll inform you if he enters the hospital."
Hannah just sighed and handed the mirror back to the extra. She couldn't believe this was happening. Weekends that she didn't have to spend with Truman were rare. By all rights she should still be in the conference room, accepting and denying various offers. I shouldn't be forced to see his face when I'm not being paid for it.
Meanwhile, the news had spread that Truman was about to make an appearance at the hospital. The room began to fill with gentle, confused murmurs.
"What does he want?"
"What are we supposed to do?"
"Does this mean we're going to be on camera?"
It doesn't mean anything, Hannah wanted to snap. With luck, the Lunar Room crew would get Truman turned around. Just in case, she breathed deeply and tried to think peaceful thoughts. Perhaps if she came out to meet Truman, he would see that there was nothing of interest at the hospital, and head home…
Her hopes were shattered when an extra came bursting onto the scene, stricken with panic. "Everyone! Truman is here! He's on his way to see Meryl! I tried to tell him she was in pre-op, but he followed me!"
Hannah felt rather than saw all eyes turn to her. She stared right back, reminding herself that she was the only reason any of them were here. Well, the only reason besides Truman.
"All right," she said, brushing off her skirt. "Where are the surgical masks?"
In no time a makeshift scene had been assembled. Extras were given the role of surgeon, patient, anesthesiologist. They had just covered up the assigned patient when a face hovered at the window, a face Hannah knew all too well. Fortunately she was able to remain calm enough not to acknowledge Truman's presence.
"Scalpel," the assigned surgeon said, in a tone that just barely concealed his anxiety. Hannah turned, slowly and deliberately, to retrieve it. She wondered irrationally if Truman could hear them talking, though she was sure the window's glass was thick enough to prevent him.
The surgeon took the scalpel and began to lower it. "I am now making my primary incision… just above the right knee…" As he inched closer, Hannah had the desire to rip the scalpel from his hand and do it herself. He certainly wasn't giving an Emmy-winning performance. Get on with it… Truman is watching…
A metallic clatter of equipment jolted everyone in the room- including the supposedly unconscious patient. God, they were all blowing it. Was Hannah the only person with any amount of composure in this building?
"Nicely done," she murmured, pretending to inspect the incision. "Very good. It's just beautiful." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone pull down the window cover, blocking Truman's view, and her insides unknotted. "Beautiful job."'
"Well," the surgeon said, clearly relieved that he didn't have to continue the "operation." "I'll just let someone else tidy up here."
"That was a close call," the extra who'd warned them about Truman said, removing her mask. Hannah instantly gestured for her to put it back on.
"You don't know if he's left!" she hissed. "We're not off the hook yet!"
It was several moments before a man out in the hallway popped his head through the door and gave the all-clear. Tension dissipated from the room, the extras' chatter picking up right where it had left off. Hannah, however, couldn't put the incident from her mind. She marched up to the woman who'd sounded the alarm, tapping her on the shoulder.
"Excuse me," she said. "What did he come here for, anyway?"
The woman stared at Hannah, on the verge of gawking, as if star-struck. Well, maybe the woman was a recent addition to the cast- Hannah had never met her before. She warmed to the woman, satisfied that her face still provoked awe.
The reply she received, however, did not put her at ease.
"Um… he told me he was going to Fiji, and he'd call you when he got there."
Fiji? It wasn't surprising- Truman had been talking for years now about going to Fiji- but Hannah had never expected him to take the initiative. Usually she was there to talk him out of such nonsense. She thanked the woman and turned away, her mind whirling through various options.
It was clear that Truman had entered a rebellious phase. He'd spent so much time as a goody-goody suckup that he'd delayed the natural progression of teenager to adulthood. He wanted to go to Fiji, and clearly wouldn't wait for the show's crew to work out their elaborate plan for an upcoming vacation episode.
In short, Truman had changed, and in the world of The Truman Show, change was never good. And it was up to Hannah to pull Truman back from the brink and set his feet back on the right path.
Fiji...
By the end of her day at the hospital, Hannah hadn't received any information regarding Truman's whereabouts, so she silently concluded that he must still be at home. Of course. The crew would never let him get away from Seahaven for even a second. Yet her chest was tight as she rode her bike home, for reasons she knew not. She concentrated most of the way on recalling Meryl's character- loving, kind, cheerful. Got to be in a good mood to greet Truman when you get back...
When Hannah pulled up at her driveway, she noticed the next-door neighbor, Spencer, standing in his yard with his trashcan-cam angled towards their parked car. Her heart sank. Was Trumanin there? There was no reason to film the car otherwise…
"Truman?" Hannah leaned over the passenger's side, a prepared smile already on her face. She was rewarded with the sight of Truman, staring out the windshield as if in a trance. What hell's he doing? Forcing down her irritation, she opened the car door.
"Honey, are you okay?"
Without meeting her eyes or even turning his head towards her, Truman gestured for Hannah to join him. "Get in!" His eyes were glassy, as if he'd been driven to profound distraction. Obediently Hannah hopped into the car and shut the door behind her.
"Truman!"
At last Truman glanced at Hannah, but he didn't seem to truly see her. A dangerous sort of half-smile played around his lips, as if he was in on a huge secret that no one else was. "Look!" he whispered.
Hannah looked, first out the windshield and then in the rearview mirror, but she saw nothing out of the ordinary. She attempted to laugh it off, but Truman immediately shushed her, holding up one finger.
"I predict," he whispered, "that in just a moment, we will see a lady on a red bike, followed by a man with flowers, and a Volkswagen Beetle with a dented fender."
"Truman," Hannah scoffed, in Meryl's trademark isn't my husband so silly voice. "Please…" She reached for the door handle, but Truman grabbed her and pulled her back. "Look." His voice was as firm as the grip on her arm. Surprise seeped through Hannah. Truman was nothing if not a gentle man (though not always a gentleman). He'd never so much as raised his voice at her before. And now he was giving Hannah one of his wide, zany smiles that always drove her crazy, but something told her he wasn't happy at all. She almost forgot to look until Truman returned his gaze to the rearview mirror. He gasped in mock surprise as a woman rode her bike down the street behind them.
"Lady…"
Next came the man, as expected. Truman pointed to him.
"Flowers. And…"
Hannah joined in, playing along. "And…?" For god's sake, if those extras knew what was good for them they'd stop the cycle right then and there. It was to be hoped that Hannah could dissuade Truman if they didn't.
For a second it appeared that the extras had heard her thoughts, because the street remained clear. Truman's gaze flickered as he grew unsure, and Hannah adopted a chiding tone. "Truman, this is silly-"
"THERE IT IS!" Truman shouted. "THERE IT IS! THERE'S THAT DENTED BEETLE! YES!" He broke into a cry of victory like he'd just beaten Hannah and Marlon in a best-two-out-of-three round of Go Fish, which was bad enough then, but in close quarters it raked across Hannah like a dozen needles. She forced a laugh that sounded halfway genuine, and Truman joined in, though he didn't seem settled enough for Hannah to drop her guard.
Eventually Truman's smile vanished. "D'you wanna know how I did that?"
Hannah affected a dumb Meryl smile, and Truman leaned in. "I'll tell ya. They're on a loop. They go around the block. They come back. They go around again." He struck a goofy tone, but it wasn't like the Truman Hannah knew at all. "They just go 'round and 'round. 'Round and 'round…"
Those goddamn extras! The only option now was to divert and distract, and maybe toss in a sales pitch at the same time. And fortunately, Hannah knew exactly what to say. "You know, I invited Rita and Marlon for a barbecue on Sunday-"
"I won't be here Sunday," Truman protested. Nonetheless, Hannah diligently proceeded with her lines. "I'm going to make my potato salad, and I need you to remind me that we need more charcoal." She was about to work up to mentioning Ignite™, but Truman abruptly lashed out.
"Are you listening to a word I'm saying?"
Hannah would have preferred to continue with her diversion, but there was a strange sort of hunger in Truman's eyes, a wordless plea for understanding. Taken aback, she let her smile dim slightly. Reciting from the script hadn't worked… It was time for a different tact. Give in, to a point.
"You're upset because you want to go to Fiji, is that it?"
Now it was Truman's turn to look slightly taken aback. Perhaps he hadn't expected Hannah to attack the matter directly, instead of beating around the bush. While he was thinking, Hannah launched another false acquiescence. "Okay. Okay, go! I think you should save for a few months, and then go! There! You happy now?" Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't, but really, how else could she convince him?
"I'm gonna go take a shower." Hannah turned to the door, mere seconds before it locked.
What? Confused, Hannah looked to Truman, to find him staring at her with an oddly-relaxed look on his face.
"Let's go now." He gripped the steering wheel, ignoring Hannah's baffled giggle and protest. "I'm ready to go now, why wait? Early bird gathers no moss, rolling stone catches the worm, RIGHT?"
Had Truman gone off the deep end? Hannah was helpless to do anything but laugh. Her stomach lurched as Truman backed out of the driveway at a speed too fast for her liking.
"Truman! What are you doing?"
He didn't answer, only shifted the gear and sped off.
By the time the police escorted the Burbanks back to their home, Hannah was only aware of three things. First off, if the extra who'd addressed Truman by name wasn't fired on the spot, there was no justice in the world. Secondly, she had no desire to get in a car with Truman ever again. And lastly, she hadn't yet managed to fulfill her product quota for the day. There was still that pesky hot chocolate and charcoal to name-drop.
Truman's weird, uncharacteristic distance was no tonic for Hannah's nerves. He'd been silent the entire drive back, as if his manic energy from earlier had been all that kept him on his feet. Hannah could only pray that he wasn't preoccupied with that damn extra's slip of the tongue, or anything else he might have accidentally noticed today, but a sinking feeling told her otherwise. Loathe as she was to admit it, Truman was a smart man. And he wasn't one to let such an incident go. Unless someone said something soon to convince him to set aside his doubts, the show's trajectory would be jeopardized. Now that they were alone together, Hannah knew the duty fell on her shoulders. Not only was the world watching, but the crew in the Lunar Room was watching too, ready to whisk her off the show at the first misstep.
Well, she'd give it her all. No one could say she hadn't tried. Even though she was in no mood to play Meryl.
"Let me get you some help, Truman," Hannah began once she'd bid the police officers farewell at the door. Leaning against the kitchen counter, she easily affected a tone that was equal parts concerned, nervous, and soothing. At least the first two qualities didn't require much acting. "You're not well."
Truman spoke as if he hadn't heard Hannah, his weary eyes fixed on the floor. "Why do you want to have a baby with me? You can't stand me."
A burst of heat flashed through Hannah. If she hadn't been so committed to the character, her cynicism might have gotten the best of her. Because it's my job, of course. Because they'll probably triple my bonus with every pound I pack on. Because if the birth goes well, I'll be revered around the world. And besides, it's my only chance to have a kid at this point. But as Meryl, the question cut deep.
"That's not true!" Indignance etched itself across Hannah's face. In a way, regardless of what she might think of Truman off-camera… it wasn't true. Why else would she have stuck with the show for so long? Why else would she turn a blind eye every time she knew Truman was down in the basement, moping over that Sylvia girl? Why else would she bother to bring him gifts almost every day, no matter what product needed plugging? Can't stand you? I put my entire career on hold for your sake, and THIS is the thanks I get?
That reminded her, though. The day was almost over, and Hannah hadn't put in a good word for Mococoa™ or Ignite™ yet. Shit. Surely the producers would forgive her if she saved Ignite™ for the barbecue the next day, but they wouldn't be happy with only two out of four. Hannah turned, conveniently spotting the container of Mococoa™ on the counter. She picked it up. Truman hadn't given her the best opening, but she had no other choice. At any rate it might calm him down.
"Why don't you let me fix you some of this new Mococoa™ drink? All natural cocoa beans from the upper slopes of Mt. Nicaragua, no artificial sweeteners!"
At first Hannah wasn't aware that she'd made a misstep, but Truman's eyes widened. "What the hell are you talking about?" He glanced over his shoulder, and Hannah went cold, imagining for a split second that he'd found one of the hidden cameras. "Who ya talking to?"
"I've tasted other cocoas," Hannah pressed on, entreating Truman with a smile that was beginning to falter. "This is the best!"
"What the hell does this have to do with anything?" Truman rose from his seat and advanced upon Hannah, wearing the same wild look he'd displayed in the car earlier. "Tell me what's happening!"
Hannah her eyes, Truman was turning into the madman who'd taken her on a reckless joyride through fire and a nuclear meltdown. He'd showed little concern for himself then, and even less for Hannah. There was no guarantee he'd heed her now.
What would Meryl Burbank do? Attempt to defuse the situation, that's what. Hannah fought for composure, but Truman's proximity unnerved her, causing her voice to waver. "You're having a nervous breakdown, that's what's happening!"
Truman's face screwed up as he pointed an accusatory finger at Hannah. "You're part of this, aren't you?"
Part of what? Meryl would have blabbered, pulling out all the stops in order to recover from her MococoaTM faux pas. Hannah, however, was just desperate to end the confrontation and get this man away from her. Her back to the counter, she suddenly lit upon the perfect item with which to do so- her Chef's PalTM.
"Truman!" Hannah brandished the Chef's PalTM, and Truman gasped. "Meryl!"
"You. Are. Scaring me!" Funny how she didn't even have to act anymore. Meryl would be equally terrified to see her beloved husband turn on her like this.
Hannah wasn't sure how Truman would react, but her outburst didn't deter him. An intense look filled his eyes, much different from his gleeful mania in the car. He regarded her coldly, as if he was fed up with everything about her.
"You're scaring me, Meryl." Truman's voice was soft as he moved forward. "What are you gonna do? Dice me?" He lunged for the counter, and Hannah jumped again. "Slice me, or peel me? There's so. Many. CHOICES!"
Hannah cried out as Truman grabbed her by the arm and yanked her towards him, his grip locking around her neck. Was the Lunar Room crew going to let her die on-air? For heaven's sake…
"DO SOMETHING!"
It wasn't until Truman had wrested the Chef's Pal™ out of Hannah's grip that Hannah realized she'd said something terribly wrong.
Once the fear of having her life threatened in front of millions of TV viewers had drained away, Hannah was left hopping mad. The instant Marlon pulled out of the driveway with Truman in tow, Hannah raced back to the kitchen and stared up at one of the hidden cameras. "Christof! Christof, I know you're there!"
For a few seconds, there was no reply, but then Simeon's voice carried through her earpiece. "What is it, Meryl?"
Meryl. God, Hannah was getting sick of being called that. "Where's Christof? I need to speak with him, now!"
"He's unavailable," came Simeon's bland reply. "I should be too, for that matter. We've decided to push the reunion forward to tonight."
The reunion… Hannah's curiosity was momentarily piqued. Ever since the actor who'd played Truman's father had broken onto the set, talk had flown between cast and crew suggesting a possible reunion storyline, where Truman discovered his father was alive. Up until now, Hannah hadn't believed they would do it, much less so soon. However, the news was hardly sufficient as a distraction from her anger.
"Listen, Simeon. I've heard of suffering for your art, but this just about takes the cake! I am not going back on set with Truman unless you can assure me that an incident like tonight's will never happen again."
She heard Simeon exhale noisily. "Well, Meryl, as I see it there's two options. One, you can wait where you are until Truman comes home. After the reunion, a little marital strife should be the last thing on his mind." Quickly he added, before Hannah could get a word in, "Of course, there's no guarantee that it will. Which leaves you with the second option."
"Yeah?" Hannah knew exactly what was coming, but she played along, interested to see how Simeon would phrase it.
"Our new season begins in two months," Simeon began. "We don't want to write you out of the show, Meryl. We all understand how crucial your role is."
Yeah, right, Hannah thought. Undoubtedly Simeon was referring to her agreement to conceive and bear Truman's child, in the name of entertainment. You could pick up any girl off the street who's willing to do that. It seemed the folks upstairs only ever referenced her business success when they wanted to stroke her ego.
"However," Simeon continued, "you're still free to cancel your contract at any time. The last thing we want is to put unnecessary stress on one of our actors." He paused, then added in a steely tone: "Especially an actor who breaks character on camera."
So there it is. Hannah swallowed hard, keeping her simmering anger in check. She refused to react visibly to Simeon's words. Whether or not she wanted to, she was poised to receive the boot because of some stupid slip of the tongue. And good luck finding work after this. No part that Hannah could possibly land would compare to all the time and effort she'd put into this one. The Truman Show loomed large over all else.
However, the thought of facing Truman again sent a shudder up Hannah's spine. The man had obviously snapped. Sure, meeting his father might sate him, but who was to say he wouldn't suddenly confront her again in a week's time? Who was to say Hannah would escape unscathed?
Slowly, Hannah's anger dissolved. The benefits of leaving the show surely outweighed its downsides. Even without her acting job, or her conference room and business deals, she was famous, and that was worth the world.
"All right," Hannah said. "In that case, I won't be renewing my contract."
"Okay, Hannah." Simeon didn't sound surprised. "Christof will be in touch as soon as he can to discuss your character's dismissal. We're sorry to see you go."
Hannah only shrugged and turned away from the camera. She sat down at the kitchen table, breathing a long sigh of relief. After seven years, her life's work was over. And good riddance. If Christof knew what was good for him, he'd send over a car to take her off the set that very night.