I don’t know why I expected a giant, warehouse-style space with a mezzanine floor and fashions from every era on display. Instead, this room is about the size of a small garage and is chock-full of disordered clothing racks that wouldn’t look out of place at a Balinese street market. In the centre of the clutter stands Austin, both his arms outstretched like he’s playing aeroplane. Groucho leans over him, measuring one of his shirt sleeves.
‘Who let this troublemaker past the door?’ Austin jibes at me, and I laugh way harder than I need to. Who knew—being around my teenage crush makes me degradingly giddy. I mutter an apology for being late. Lateandconfused: I assumed the cast would come in for costume fittings individually.
A young woman with a biro jammed between her teeth pops up from behind a rack of plaid shirts. She introduces herself as Romy, a wardrobe assistant.
My eyes skate to Groucho, who might have given me an infinitesimal nod hello, but I can’t be sure. It could’ve been an involuntary twitch. With a furrowed brow reminiscent of James Dean inEast of Eden, his concentration remains on Austin’s shirt sleeve.
Why is Kye even doing this? He’s Austin’s manager, not his costume designer, right? I don’t get these two.
‘Do you want me to come back later?’ I ask Romy, given that Austin is only halfway through his fitting and the room already feels crowded.
‘Nah, it’s all good, sweets,’ she mumbles over her pen. ‘I’ve got your rack over here.’
I trail after Romy’s Doc Martens and subtly absorb Kye’s perfectly fitted navy T-shirt and trendy grey jeans with intentional rips; maybe heshouldbe running the wardrobe department.
‘How long’s this gonna take? I wanna get going,’ Austin grumbles to Kye as I edge past them.
Kye ignores him and drops to one knee to run a strip of measuring tape up the inside of Austin’s thigh.
‘Ooh,’ Austin chirps. ‘Just a little to the left, bro.’ He smirks down at Kye, who flings back a glower.
Romy wheels out a squeaky rack of colourful outfits. ‘Okay, let me see here,’ she says, fishing out a black mesh crop top that’s attached to a stringy black bra. Her other hand holds up a pair of teeny denim shorts with a frayed hem. ‘Buzz picked these out for the opening scene.’
My brows lift. ‘Buzzpicked these out?’ I repeat as I collect the skimpy garments from her fingers.
‘He’s actually quite hands-on with wardrobe,’ she explains. ‘All this here is his shortlist for Constance. We just need to see what fits. Although, I can already tell you’re going to look incredible in all of it.’
With my free hand, I thumb through the rack of midriff tops, skin-tight dresses, glimmering hotpants and skimpy leotards.
‘If I’m honest, I don’t think I know any dancers who wear leotards, other than little kids,’ I venture, keeping my voice bright because I don’t want to come across as ‘difficult’. ‘Do you think these clothes really suit the character?’
Romy squints at the outfits and rests her chin in her palm. ‘Well, sheisa dancer,’ she replies, as if the usual daily attire for dancers is something they’d wear in a steamy music video. ‘But if you’re unhappy with the choices, we can talk to Buzz.’
‘Talk to me about what?’ interjects a raspy voice. The director paces into the room and greets Austin with a fawning smile. A pin pops out of Austin’s sleeve as Buzz traps him in a manly hug. Kye tuts with annoyance and bends to pick it up.
‘Nowthere’smy leading lady,’ Buzz chimes, coming right up to me. His smile evaporates as he takes in my white T-shirt and long, fuchsia-pink wrap skirt. ‘Did I pick this out?’ he asks, peering harder at my legs, like he’s trying to find them through the fabric.
‘They’re Evie’s clothes,’ Romy explains, the chewed pen back between her teeth.
‘I love what you’ve picked out for Constance, though,’ I add, shrinking under the force of Buzz’s unnerving stare. ’I was just about to try on the first option.’Shit, Evie. Stop trying to be so agreeable and pleasant. These clothes suck.
Like he’s waiting for a grand performance to begin, Buzz plants his sneakers wide and folds his arms over his billowy black shirt printed with yellow and orange flames. My stomach makes an icky twist as I carry the mesh shirt and jean shorts behind the changing curtain. I squeeze into the tiny garments and then creep back out.
Buzz lets out a long whistle, his gaze dragging down my body.‘Look atyou. True Winter leading-lady material.’
‘Whoa, check out the fox in the cattle yard,’ Austin throws in, leaning into my view with his brows raised.
Fifteen years ago, that comment—even though I’m pretty surefox in the henhouseis the metaphor he’s after—would’ve made me lose sleep with excitement. Right now, though, I want to dive behind the clothing rack and sink through the Earth’s mantle until I reach its inner core.
Buzz twirls a finger in the air. ‘Can you turn around, Evie?’
I tense. ‘Turn around?’ Cool air from the portable fan blows against the exposed lower halves of my butt cheeks. ‘Why?’
Buzz skewers me with his stare. ‘Because I need to see your ass. I need to know if it’ll work on camera or if I have to bring in a body double.’
I freeze; Romy glances down. A moment later, Kye’s broad shoulder comes between me and the director. ‘Hate to interrupt, Buzz,’ he says in his deep, gravelly voice, ‘but Austin’s got a meeting in ten, and I need your approval on this wardrobe change.’
Buzz glances at his watch. ‘Oh, shit—fuck. My Uncle Harold is shooting a war movie in Hungary, and I wanted to ring him today and ask about a speech I need to give. I think after four Oscars, he knows a thing or two about wowing a crowd—am I right?’ No one says anything, and Buzz mutters, ‘It’s gotta be midnight in Bucharest by now.’
