Vivian had spent the night before rewriting her lines on napkins. She tossed the napkins in the hotel trash. Then she fished them out again.

Vivian looked at the young actress, Chloe, who was trembling with that eager, terrified energy of the newly anointed. Vivian reached out, not with the trembling, desperate hand the script demanded, but with a steady, warm palm. She placed it on Chloe’s cheek.

The crew went silent. The director opened his mouth, then closed it.

She smiled—a small, private smile that had once launched a thousand magazine covers. "Of course, Darren. Let me try something."