“I love you too, hon,” she said, and I stared at the phone for a minute after she hung up, my stomach in a tight, dry knot.
“All finished?” Gretchen asked as I put my phone back in my pocket and walked over.
“Yeah,” I said. And then added, pointlessly, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” she said briskly. “Let me point you in the direction of the toy shop, and then you can connect with the costume designer. And on the way, we can talk a little about the duke. Speaking of, do you remember how to smolder?”
An hour later, the new costume designer—a tall white man with thick eyebrows and hair that had clearly been fussed over longer than the script—came to stand next to me in the costume department–cum–toy shop. He tucked his chin in his hand and nodded thoughtfully at the assless chaps on the chair in front of us, like he was a visitor to some kind of assless chaps exhibit.
“So what you’re saying,” the designer said after a minute, “is that you can’t wear these for the movie.”
Relief pumped through me. “Right.”
“And what you need are...”
“Fall front breeches.”
“Fall front breeches. Which for some reason these can’t be, even though they’re already frontless.” The designer was giving me a look like I needed to rethink this.
I stepped to the side, peering around the folding chair to the empty clothes racks and still-packed plastic tubs of costumes. “Do you mind if I—?” I made a gesture toward the plastic tubs.
The designer rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling and let out a deep sigh. “Fine.”
I hauled a tub to the ground and popped the lid open, hoping whoever had packed these totes had at least separated the contemporary clothes from the historical ones. But what greeted me under the lid was neither the usual Hope Channel uniform of sweaters and scarves, nor the Victorian-era garb I was hunting for. I held up a tank top and squinted at the dressing table that I could see through the shirt’s neon-green mesh.
“When Mr.Fletcher called me, I wasn’t really sure what this movie was or what was going on with it,” the designer said, “so I brought my essentials with me in case there was nothing else here yet.”
I pulled out a leather thong—with a pouchy bit at the front that was definitely made for holding penises—and then dropped it back into the tub. The origin of the assless chaps was starting to make more sense, except...
“Wait.Essentials?”
The designer shrugged when I looked back at him, as if to say,I said what I said.
The next tub was filled with more of the same—plus a few outfits that looked like they came from the section of a Halloween store that was all sexed-up versions of regular costumes—and a leash. I could think of a lot more things to do with a leash than make a Hopeflix film with it, but that wasn’t helpful right now.
“Okay,” the designer said. “So, like, those tubs in front are all mine. There’s probably not going to be fallopian breeches or whatever in there. But all of those in the back were here when I got in, so I think the last designer had them ordered in.”
I dug the heel of my palm into my eye. “You couldn’t tell me this earlier?”
“You were just so determined,” he said. “You had a flow. I didn’t want to get in the way of the flow.”
“Right,” I said, closing the tub with the leash and then going over to the wall of totes he’d indicated. The very first one I opened revealed a bounty of waistcoats and ruffles.
Historical jackpot.
The designer joined me, peering down at the tub’s contents as I searched underneath the layers of shirts and stockings to find what I needed. Triumphantly, I pulled a pair of breeches free and held them up to gauge their size.
“That’s them?” the designer asked doubtfully.
“Yes,” I said, already toeing off my sneakers. There wasn’t really any time to waste because filming started tomorrow and the pace would be brisk, even by my standards (and I’d been on three global arena tours). We had less than three weeks on set to film the entirety ofDuke the Halls, and then this twee, perma-holiday town would be summarily turned over to the next movie crew after New Year’s Day.
“I guess I just don’t see what was wrong with the pants I showed you,” the designer said after a moment. “You wanted...”
“Fall front breeches,” I said for the millionth time as I shoved my sneakers under a chair.
“Right, and see, on the pants I showed you, the front has already fallen. There is no front left to fall. Doesn’t that save everyone some time?”
I looked at him. “Forwhat?”
