‘Slow down, take your time.’ 

She flushed hot under the lights, the staring, judging eyes. She was too big, she knew; she couldn’t finger the real wound. You had to be immune—that was all you needed to be a good actor: immune to judgement, to hatred, to solicitation, to cold looks, sniggers, humiliating silences after a take while the director turned away to watch the playback and they checked the gate; trying to hold still, hold the bead, the dwindling bead of emotion in place. The second AD handed her a robe. She flung it over her bare skin and turned her back on the room.