I’d finally picked up a fourth show, the upcomingWest Side Storyrevival, as a tailor. Not full costumer, but it would look good on the resume. I was assistant costumer on Aida, which was a step up from tailor, but not quite costume designer yet.
This show had the costumes and sets done by the time I came on board. My job was to make them look right on the actors that they were secure, but easy to change. I was in charge of the men’s costumes. They were straight forward and the use of snaps and Velcro made them easy to change.
The challenge was Amneris. The character was a fashion diva, but how did that work in ancient Egypt? The costume designer was a well paid position that did all that research.
I thought that she had fallen a little flat. But I wasn’t paid the big bucks.
Pulling out all of Rubens’ old costumes, I lined them up and hoped that Austin Lowell was at least somewhat shaped like the man. Of course, with all the cocaine, Rubens had always been rail thin.
A knock had me looking up at the door.
Austin Lowell stood there.
He wasfuckinggorgeous in person.
Tall, cresting at least six two, he was nicely broad of shoulders with a lovely narrow waist. His arms and legs were long and thin and graceful, even without moving. He had magnificent blue green eyes and a tousled head of dark brown hair that curled at the ends. He was light skinned, and had a very excited but very frightened look on his face.
“Hi,” he said, in a perfect tenor. “Are you Uriah?”
I cleared my throat. “Yes. I’m Uriah Orback, the costumer you’ll be working with.”
“Oh, cool, good,” he said, walking in. He stuck out his hand and smiled at me. “I’m Austin Lowell.”
I raised an eyebrow but took his hand. It was large, warm and soft, his slender fingers rapping around to the back of my hand.
Bad thoughts,really super inappropriate thoughtsran through my head at his grip. It was a very big, very nice hand that I wanted to get to know better. Much better. Intimately better.
Or was that infinitely better?
I finally mentally kicked my own ass and pulled my hand back. “Our new Radames,” I said.
“That’s what they tell me. I’m crazy excited. I love singing on stage with the guys, but this is…” He shook himself and looked around. “So, I’m a newb to the theater scene. Or, the professional scene anyway. How does this work? Do we get ideas from each other? Pick fabrics.”
“Poor baby theater nerd,” I said, shaking my head and clucking. I pointed to the eight costumes hanging in the room. “These are your costumes. You put them on, I make them fit. That’s it.”
The look of utter disappointment was adorable. “Oh. Really? I usually work with a designer on tour to get just the right kind of look on stage…”
“We bow to the director here,” I said with a smirk. “So our designer works with the director and they decide what we want. If something doesn’t work, the designer and designer alone goes to the director and they hash it out.”
“That sucks,” he said.
“The director is the director for a reason,” I answered. “His show, his vision. In this show, we have previous costumes to look at to get better ideas. But these are the old leads’ stuff, and I’m hoping that you’ll fit into it without too much trouble.”
“And what if I am trouble?”
“Then I get to spend the next week making you brand new costumes,” I answered. “Which I do not relish, Mister Lowell.”
He held up his hands. “It’s Austin. Mister Lowell sounds like an adult who knows what he’s doing.”
I chuckled. “Good. You can call me Uri. Now, let’s get to this, shall we? Strip.”
Austin
Ichoked.
“Excuse me?”
“I need you to strip. You have to put each of these costumes on and I need to make sure they’ll work—or take your measurements. You need to be out of street clothes.”
