Chapter Sixteen #2
cubicle, a tape measure in one hand and what looked like a kind of
silken harness in the other. She got between Laurie and the door.
“Right, Mr Fitzroy,” she said quietly. “This is a good time to get
you measured up, while everyone's... busy. Stand up straight for
me, please.”
She
knelt in front of him, and Laurie, too used to such attentions to
be fazed, picked up the scanty garment she'd laid on the chair. He
chuckled. “Not measured up for this, I hope. That's like worrying a
tie'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 of
shit if you can.”
“I was trying to get out when you stopped me.”
“Brett changed this scene to a costume one without even telling
me. He wants fifty authentic Egyptian priests and peasants within
half an hour. You're going nowhere. Just don't...” She untucked
Laurie's shirt with an expert, impersonal flick and snapped the
measure round his waist. “Thirty one. Perfect. Just don't watch
Wesley—he doesn't like it.”
“I'm not watching. Can you measure me for earplugs
too?”
She gave
him a reluctant smile, then got on with her work. Laurie tried to
get on with his too, which unfortunately only involved standing
still and not flinching when the tape or pins tickled. Zara was
good, her touch barely perceptible: Laurie still had scars from one
enthusiastic dresser, but would have welcomed a stab or two right
then by way of distraction...
“Douglas! About fucking time. Did you hear what this bleach-blonde cow told
me to do?”
Laurie closed his eyes. He didn't give a toss for
Wesley's don't-look-at-me
syndrome, but he was starting to feel sick, and it
seemed unfair to stand here and watch the guy getting fired. He'd
gathered that the stars of this production could take some massive
liberties. No-one spoke to a director or his immediate staff like
that, though, and he braced up, waiting for Douglas Brett to roar
like Sir Ralf—or, worse still, to make a quiet, devastating
observation in Paul Jacobs' style that manners meant way more than
talent in his theatre.
“No, Mr Lombard. I didn't hear. If you'll tell me now, I'll see
what I can do.”
Okay. That was decent tantrum-management: get Wesley off his
soapbox and out of public view with a show of sympathy. Laurie
risked looking again. But Wesley remained poised exactly where he
was, Brett and the audience attentively waiting. “She said,” Wesley
began—and his projection was better now, as if he'd been waiting
for a full house—“that Valentine’s costumes from three months
ago—three fucking months!—wouldn't fit unless I wore a
full-compression body shaper. Then she had the goddamn nerve to
offer me her nip-tuck guy for some botox shots.” Wesley folded his
arms. A horrible smile snaked across the outrage in his face, and
Laurie thought—Christ, you're enjoying
this! “Jesus. Even if I took her shaper
vest, I wouldn't take her doctor on a silver plate. Look at the
fucking state of her, the shrivelled-up tramp.”
“Oh Christ, this is ridiculous,” Laurie muttered. Zara had
succeeded in getting him out of his shirt and into the silken toga
almost unnoticed. He waited till she'd cinched its broad belt tight
round his waist, then he stepped out of her net of tapes and fabric
swatches. She made a grab at him which he neatly evaded. He felt
like a soldier called up to some absurd battle where he didn't give
a damn for either side, but a gentleman could only take so much. He
strode in amongst the spectators. Wesley swung round to look at
him, which was useful. “Hoi, you,” Laurie called. “Yes,
you—Valentine. Don't talk to her like that.”
Douglas
Brett grabbed Laurie by the back of the belt. His grip was harder
than Zara's and he dragged him to a halt. “Fitzroy,” he said
warningly. “It's not the right thing to do.”
“You do the right thing, then. Bring
your actor into line.”
“What?” Wesley demanded. He'd finally noticed Laurie. “Who the
fucking hell are you?”
It was
just possible he didn't know. He'd made himself scarce when Laurie
had first arrived that morning, during the introductions when even
Nicole had condescended to give him the tips of her fingers. He was
looking Laurie over with the best display of blank contempt he
could manage, but Laurie saw where his gaze stopped: his shoulders,
his hips, the absurd belt that would never fasten around
Valentine's waist again. Laurie saw Wesley's weak spot, and a devil
rose up in him. “Me?” he said cheerfully. “I'm the bloke who's come
to replace you.”
Wesley
went white, then scarlet. For a moment Laurie thought he would leap
down from his perch and take him on. He readied himself. A hell of
a scene for his first day on set, but maybe a punch-up would settle
things... But now at last Douglas did intervene. He pushed Laurie
behind him. “Wesley,” he said, calmly as a chess player reviewing
his board, deciding which piece he could sacrifice. “No-one's about
to replace you. You're happy with your contract, aren't
you?”
“Yes, but...”
“That's right. It's watertight. So is Mr Fitzroy's here, so I
can't get rid of him for you, even if I wanted to. Bearing all that
in mind, what do you want?”
“Fire Libby Palermo. Not instead of him—because of
him.”
Douglas
shrugged easily. “Okay. Done.”
Laurie
struggled free. “What? No! You heard how he was speaking to her—I
was trying to...”
“Knight-in-shining-armour tricks are great for the screen, Mr
Fitzroy. In life, you're as liable to run the maiden over with your
horse.”
That got
a big sudden laugh from the crowd. Laurie stepped back, aghast.
Even Wesley was smiling, coming down off his stool as if honour had
been satisfied. The tensions in the room dispersed, focus shifting.
“Good,” Douglas continued. “All right. Back to work, everyone.
Bailey Price, Mr Fitzroy, I need you ready in twenty
minutes—costume, makeup, then we run the market-place sequence
again. Miss Palermo, please collect your things. A security officer
will accompany you out.”
Laurie
looked frantically around him. The crowd was beginning to scatter.
Off in her cubicle, Nicole had returned to her magazine as if
nothing had happened. “No,” he said again, to anyone who would
listen. “Mr Brett! For God's sake, I never meant to...”
But
Brett was already halfway through the double doors. Beached,
desolate, Laurie stood in his semi-pornographic priest's
outfit—whose historical authenticity could only have existed in the
mind of its creator—and watched him go.
Something bumped his shoulder hard from behind. He whipped
round. There was Libby Palermo, a box file clutched to her chest,
laptop case clasped tight. If she'd had a hand free, Laurie thought
she'd have taken his eyes out with one swipe. “Libby...”
“Don't you say a word to me, you arrogant fuck!”
“I tried to stay out of it. But I can’t let anyone attack a
woman and—”
“Oh, and what, Sir Galahad?” Her impression of his accent was
cruel but accurate. “Jolly well get away with it? Wesley Lombard
loses his shit with someone here three times a week. He gets over
it, unless some goddamn little English prick comes along and pushes
him over the edge.”
“I'll talk to Brett. I'll get you your job back.”
“Don't you dare say or do one more thing.” Her face was a rigid
mask, but to Laurie's horror tears suddenly gathered in her eyes.
“Jesus. I've been with this production for five years.”
“Miss Palermo?”
They
both flinched. A uniformed security guard had appeared at Libby's
elbow. “I'll need to take a look at that file before you leave, I'm
afraid, ma'am. And make a brief scan of your computer.”
“You're kidding. Who would I sell the plot of this turkey
to—Vampire Sesame
Street?”
“Nevertheless, ma'am.”
“All right, I'm coming.” She turned back to Laurie, gaze aridly
dry once again. “Good luck, Your Lordship. You've made an enemy of
Wesley Lombard, and he won't forget it unless you can give him ten
years of your life and take seven inches off his hips.” She paused.
For a moment Laurie thought she would soften, but she was only
shifting focus, taking another view. “But you know what? It's your
buddy Bailey Price who'll bring you
down. I can see it in your eyes—that same great
big hole that can't ever be filled. What is it for you—smack?
Booze? You hide it better, don't you? For now, anyway. Don't worry,
he'll bring it out in you. If it's there, he'll bring it
out.”