Page 7 of Lights, Camera, Love

I hurry down the sun-drenched street in the industrial part of the city, twenty minutes late for my first costume fitting for Moving. I should’ve known it would’ve been quicker to moonwalk here from my apartment than navigate the morning traffic.

At the bus shelter a few metres ahead, my father’s ruggedly handsome face leaps out at me from a glossy poster.

He must be starring in a new action film—I catch glimpses of a Glock pistol and an exploding helicopter before I avert my eyes.

I’ve learned not to look, but it’s not always easy when, every time I turn a corner, my male doppelganger is staring me down from a highway billboard, a bus stop or a magazine rack.

Just when I think I’ve finally forgotten him, the universe loves to drop me a little reminder that I do have a father—one who never loved me.

What a true legend.

When I reach the Village Pictures studio lot, the security officer hands me a visitor’s pass and tells me where the production offices for Moving are located.

Once I’ve found the right building, I wander past a string of mostly deserted offices with glass walls, until I run into a woman with bubblegum-pink hair carrying a tray of coffees, who directs me to the wardrobe department.

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. Late and confused: 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 in East 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 he should be 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. ‘ Buzz picked 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, she is a 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.

‘Now there’s my 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 at you . 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 sure fox in the henhouse is 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. ’

‘Budapest,’ Kye murmurs, verbalising my exact thought.

As I watch Buzz make his escape—disregarding the wardrobe check that Kye requested—my stomach hollows with regret. I should’ve told Buzz that him wanting to ‘see my ass’ makes me deeply uncomfortable. Plus, I would like my agent to be involved in any discussions regarding intimate areas of my body.

Romy rests an elbow on the clothing rack and gives me a once-over. ‘I think it looks good. Should we try on the next one?’

‘Yes, sure, lovely,’ I say, with a tight smile that aims to please.

I’m stepping over to the changing curtain when Austin suddenly intercepts me, unpinned fabric flapping from his suit leg.

‘Austin, get back over here before I knock those eyes out of your head,’ Kye snaps.

‘Be right there, bro,’ Austin tosses back, but Kye’s chastisement wasn’t necessary. Austin isn’t salivating over my bare thighs like Buzz was. He’s only studying my face.

‘You don’t look happy,’ he says.

The comment catches me off-guard. ‘No, no, I’m good, thanks. I just want to make sure that I’m getting the right feel for Constance. So that when we start filming, I’m good to go.’

‘And you’re not feeling her yet?’

My smile fades as I give the rack of vampy, strappy outfits an uncertain glance.

‘You know, none of this stuff is locked in stone,’ Austin says, waving a hand at the costume racks. ‘I fuckin’ hate my costumes half the time. That’s why I always bring in Kye—someone who actually knows how to make me look good.’

All I can offer in response is another muted smile. While Austin has enough fame to negotiate his own styling team into his contract, I’m pretty sure I’d be laughed out of the room if I made the same request.

‘Unless you have plans, darlin’, why don’t you and I go get some lunch after this?

’ he suggests. ‘We can chat about Constance and her journey, and where you feel comfortable taking her.’ He stuffs his hands into his half-stitched suit pockets, his fingers tearing through the ends.

I hear Kye sigh. ‘I want you to believe in this project and feel good about it,’ Austin says to me.

My heart jumps into my throat. Lunch with Austin Reynolds? I give an eager nod. ‘That sounds really great. I’d love to—thank you.’

‘Not getting any younger over here,’ Kye says sharply.

Austin gives me a friendly pat on the back, then hurries over to Kye.

Watching them, I can’t help but think of a dog on a leash. I just can’t figure out which one is the dog and which one is holding the leash.

I’ll admit, when Austin Reynolds invited me to lunch, I pictured a crisp white tablecloth, a waiter in a penguin suit, and a menu adorned with headings like ‘Secondi’ and ‘Dolce’.

Right now, though, we—we being Austin, me and Kye—are squeezed around a rickety table for two that tilts on the uneven footpath outside a vegan cafe in the city’s east.