“Mr Fitzroy?No cells on set, please.”
Laurie looked up.Douglas Brett was standing by the mat,squinting critically at the façade temple wall and the reallimestone blocks along its top, carvings and all, that had beenconstructed for this scene.Three yards behind him, Nicole Delgadowas pacing back and forth, chattering carelessly into the mic ofher headset.Laurie had been brought up not to cryunfair,but Douglascaught his involuntary glance.“Miss Delgado is excepted,” he saidtersely.“She has family circumstances.”
What, and I don't?Laurie pushed hishands into the pockets of his jeans and bit back the response.He'dcall Sasha back in a moment.“Okay, sir,” he said cheerfully.“Howdid we go on that?A print?”
“No.I’ve decided to run the Egypt scenes in costume, not as amodern-dress flashback.You and Price report to wardrobe now.Andleave that cellphone in your trailer—you won't have any pockets,that's for sure.”
Lauriejumped off the mat.It was on a scaffold five feet off the groundand he could have thrown a handspring en route, but he didn't wantto give Brett a coronary: the director winced as it was, and off bythe trailers the poor insurance guy dropped his plastic cup ofcoffee on the ground.Laurie had no idea where wardrobe was.Hismorning here so far had been a mix of hot-focussed attention andutter neglect.He'd been examined from head to foot by makeupstaff, CG men and stunt coordinators, but if not for Bailey hewouldn't have known where the toilets were.Bailey had shown himthe catering truck, the best coffee vendor and what size perimeterto leave around Nicole and Wesley for his own safety.He was wavingfrom the sidelines now.Laurie gave Brett a friendly nod—he coulddo impersonal British courtesy for as long as required, no matterhow volatile his director—and set off at a jog.As soon as he wasfar enough away from Brett he pulled out his mobile and hitcallback, but before the line could ring, Bailey grabbed him by thearm.“Come on, Fitz.They're fitting us up with our miniskirts, andValentine's in a hell of a mood.”
***
Thewardrobe department was like an aircraft hangar by contrast withthe rooms in which Laurie had been stripped down and bundled intohis costumes over the years.The only similarity was the lack ofnatural light.All the Ivory Gate facilities were windowless,Bailey had told him, some for filming purposes, but most becausewhere there was glass, a reporter or a fan would find a way.Onescrap of footage hitting the internet would spelldisaster.
Laurie, who privately thought it would spell yet morepublicity for theBlood Mooncarnival, had only nodded.He was trying to orienthimself.All the activity within the room's huge space wasconcentrated around a single figure.Laurie would have liked anhour or so to wander round the racks and rails of clothes, each setneatly sealed in polythene and fascinating as a travellingexhibition on what the well-dressed immortal had been wearingthrough the ages.There were brocades and silks—theBlood MoonFrosts hadgone through an Elizabethan stage—and enough modern-day designergear to kit out a catwalk army.He remembered Rayne's End, and MrJacobs, whose productions had been mostly modern-dress because hissingle wardrobe item of any value was the thin gold coronet Lauriehad worn as Hamlet, and then he wanted time not to wander but tohide himself somewhere for five minutes—call Sasha, steal one ofBailey's joints, do anything to feel less like an utter fake andstranger here...But a small, smiling woman caught him by the arm:said, “Ah, Mr Fitzroy,” as if he'd been the answer to all herprayers, and towed him into the eye of the storm.
Hers wasthe last smile Laurie was to see for a while.She handed him overto a grim-faced wardrobe assistant, who in turn marched him more orless into the arms of a harried-looking girl who looked him over asif sizing him up for his shroud, informed him that she was Zara,his personal costume manager for today, and promptly shot off to dosomething else.Laurie sank into the chair she'd pointed out.Itwas a large, comfortable one—Bailey had warned him that most of histime in this glamorous world would be spent waiting—and he tried tosettle and look casual.
The hugeroom was divided into about thirty cubicles, screened off from oneanother to a certain extent but mostly intervisible.Laurie didn'tneed Bailey Price's unsubtle gestures and winks—though by now hewas quite glad to see him there, a comparatively familiar faceacross the way in his own cubicle—to work out for himself who wascausing the fox-in-the-henhouse effect.Wesley Lombard was standingpoised on a dresser's stool.Whether he'd been put there for afitting or had climbed up in order to make his opinions betterfelt, Laurie wasn't sure, but he examined him with interest.Weswas livid with frustration, jabbing his finger at one offender thenanother amid the crowd that surrounded him.The plump, smilingwoman who'd greeted Laurie as he'd arrived was trying to hold up tohim a large cup of iced water: as Laurie watched, Wesley swiped itaside, sending most of it into her face.
Lauriejumped upright.This was a red rag to him, a trigger set up longago by Marielle's enslavement to his father, who liked to have histreble scotch brought to him in her delicate hands, and from timeto time would reward her by knocking it back out of them if thedrink or his mood or some other aspect of his bloodyminded worldwasn't right.But by the time Laurie had taken three steps, themoment was gone.Wesley was ranting at someone else, and theassistant was towelling herself off, still smiling, clearly used tothis and quite unfazed.
Lauriesat back down.What had he planned to do anyway—stride up toWesley, seize a gauntlet from the Elizabethan racks, slap him roundthe face with it and demand satisfaction?Instead he knotted hisfingers together and tried to work out for himself why thiscreature was tolerated.
In a way it was easy to see.His physical beauty was obvious,would hit you in the eye from fifty yards without the aid ofmakeup.He held himself perfectly, like a man expecting to befilmed from any angle at any time.His voice projection wasn'tgreat—Laurie guessed that he'd never had to pitch any further thana boom mic over his head, so whatever was causing this tantrumwasn't clear yet—but his gestures and timing were great, powerfulwithout exaggeration.Whatever Laurie's views on theBlood Moonphenomenongenerally, he accepted that Wes turned in a good job.
Thetrouble was that he'd been doing so for seven years now, andValentine Frost was meant to have received his gift of immortalityat the age of eighteen.Although Wesley had pulled it off well,he'd have been in his mid-twenties for the first film, Laurieguessed, which must make him...
Thehubbub of the crowd died down a little.Laurie heard, harsh andfurious—“I want that bitch fired!Yes, you, with your fuckingbody-shaper stocking and your botox and whatever else you had thefucking nerve to suggest.Douglas!Where's Douglas?Get Douglas inhere now!”
Half adozen people scattered from the edges of the crowd, presumably insearch of Brett.Through the gaps they'd left, Laurie got a betterview of Wesley from the shoulders down.They were good, broadshoulders, but his torso was thickening too.He had a bit of weightpiling on around the midriff, genetic or rich living, which was whysome poor fool had dared suggest the stocking, Laurie guessed.Itwas a perfectly normal, nice body—for a man, not a kid in histeens.
And thefool had been Libby Palermo.Now Laurie could see her, helplesstarget for Wesley's jabbing finger.She was standing with her mouthopen, her tan drained out to yellow.“Wesley,” she tried hoarsely.“I didn't mean anything by it.I only thought—”
“Shut up!I know what you damn well thought.Douglas!”
Thedirector appeared, flanked on both sides by his usual retinue ofnote-takers and assistants.Laurie saw that, as soon as thenewcomers understood who was getting the sharp edge of Wesley'stongue, they took up eager positions in the crowd, ringside seats.He guessed that Libby hadn't made herself too popular.Nicolehadn't stirred from her cubicle, but she'd set aside her magazineand was watching the circus with the first emotion Laurie had seenher betray: a hungry avidity like Carmen's when awaiting her firsttaste of blood.As for Bailey, he was openly gawping.This would bemore fun for him than anyone else, if Libby really had replaced theinner monitor that kept him from temptation...
Lauriewas gawping himself.Shame hit him.He didn't like Libby either,but he felt a kind of acquaintance with her from the UK, and she'dcoached him as well as she could about matte.He didn't have towatch this show.
He gotup to leave, but immediately the wardrobe assistant shot into thecubicle, a tape measure in one hand and what looked like a kind ofsilken harness in the other.She got between Laurie and the door.“Right, Mr Fitzroy,” she said quietly.“This is a good time to getyou measured up, while everyone's...busy.Stand up straight forme, please.”
Sheknelt in front of him, and Laurie, too used to such attentions tobe fazed, picked up the scanty garment she'd laid on the chair.Hechuckled.“Not measured up for this, I hope.That's like worrying atie's not gonna fit me.”
“No.For other costumes.”She dropped her voice still further,spoke through a mouthful of pins.“Listen.Stay out of this kind ofshit if you can.”
“I was trying to get out when you stopped me.”
“Brett changed this scene to a costume one without even tellingme.He wants fifty authentic Egyptian priests and peasants withinhalf an hour.You're going nowhere.Just don't...”She untuckedLaurie's shirt with an expert, impersonal flick and snapped themeasure round his waist.“Thirty one.Perfect.Just don't watchWesley—he doesn't like it.”
“I'm not watching.Can you measure me for earplugstoo?”
She gavehim a reluctant smile, then got on with her work.Laurie tried toget on with his too, which unfortunately only involved standingstill and not flinching when the tape or pins tickled.Zara wasgood, her touch barely perceptible: Laurie still had scars from oneenthusiastic dresser, but would have welcomed a stab or two rightthen by way of distraction...
“Douglas!About fucking time.Did youhearwhat this bleach-blonde cow toldme to do?”
Laurie closed his eyes.He didn't give a toss forWesley'sdon't-look-at-mesyndrome, but he was starting to feel sick, and itseemed unfair to stand here and watch the guy getting fired.He'dgathered that the stars of this production could take some massiveliberties.No-one spoke to a director or his immediate staff likethat, though, and he braced up, waiting for Douglas Brett to roarlike Sir Ralf—or, worse still, to make a quiet, devastatingobservation in Paul Jacobs' style that manners meant way more thantalent in his theatre.
“No, Mr Lombard.I didn't hear.If you'll tell me now, I'll seewhat I can do.”
