Chapter VI
VI
Levi
Getting fitted by the costume department at the production office makes me feel like the cows in the milking parlor back home: Shuffled from one place to another, manhandled, spun around, tugged and pinched, then shepherded off to the next thing by a handler.
It seems to be business as usual for everyone else—they’re having casual conversations about creatine supplements and Los Feliz restaurants like it isn’t bizarre to be treated like a human mannequin.
Colt checks himself out in a mirror. We’re wearing identical cream-colored tunics, layered and belted at the waist. A costume assistant takes a photo of us from the front, then turns us to the side. “These skirts are something,” Colt says.
I shrug. “At least they’ll make for easy movement.” He responds with a kick of his leg that’s more Karate Kid than Greek god. It also becomes obvious that he’s not wearing underwear. I avert my eyes and redirect the conversation. “So is this the first time you’ve done a film with your wife?”
His sharp laugh punctuates the air. “Ha! Hardly. Francesca and I met on a set almost twenty years ago. She was an AD for one of the first films I booked. Really young at the time, both of us. Couldn’t keep my eyes off her then.
” His face takes on a far-off look, like he’s plugging himself into the memory, before shaking his head and continuing.
“She’s never directed me before, though.
But after two decades of her nagging me incessantly, I imagine it’ll feel familiar enough.
” With that, he leans over and punches me in the arm. A gesture that says, Women, am I right?
I huff out a laugh and slap on a perfunctory smile. What’s the balance between trying to impress this guy but still maintaining my integrity, exactly? The costumer unwrapping fabric at my waist keeps her face blank, but her discomfort hangs heavily in the air. I fight the urge to apologize for him.
When she steps away, Colt seizes the moment.
“Levi, here’s some advice you didn’t ask for.
Sometimes women in the industry can be .
. . let’s say, tricky. They’ve spent years hustling for what they want, and they’ll do whatever it takes to keep it.
Now I’m not saying Ana is looking to take advantage of you with this dating scheme”—he stops to survey the space to be sure no one will walk in on whatever he says next—“but she’d still throw you under the bus in a heartbeat.
Keep your hand over your balls, is what I’m saying. ”
The words come out smooth and land like slime. And he’s right that I didn’t ask for his advice: Ana and I have a plan here—and we’re both doing this for our careers. No surprises and no feelings. “Right. I’ll, uh, keep an eye out.”
“Levi!” Ana shouts when she spots me from down the hall.
She is being trailed by her manager, is actively texting, and, based on the production schedule we received this morning, is behind for her fitting.
It’s a wonder someone isn’t trying to measure her while she walks based on how busy she looks.
Our charade starts now, I guess. Do I jog over to meet her? Offer to take her purse? Greet her with a hug or something? I was confident about my ability to pull this off when we agreed to it—I mean, women like me, or at least they do in Ohio—but now? My palms go sticky as I stand here.
“What’s up?” I shout back like an idiot. Like I’m fourteen again.
As she comes nearer, the smile on her face makes me think she might actually be glad to see me—or it would if I didn’t know she was playing a part. “I was hoping to catch you between your fitting and mine. How did it go?”
“Well, I accidentally saw Colt’s balls, so that was something.” I need to stop saying shit without thinking.
A laugh, authentic enough that it seems to surprise her, lands between us. Like a permission slip signed by Ana herself, it dissolves some of my nerves. “Well, I’d say that’s atypical for a first fitting.”
“My eyes can only hope.”
Her phone buzzes, and it startles her back to reality. Whispering, “Give me a second,” she holds up a finger as she brings it to her ear. “Francesca, hi.”
An assistant opens the door to the costume room and gestures for Ana to come inside. She gives them a full palm to say, Wait. The assistant stiffens.
“Absolutely, that sounds great. I’m walking into my fitting now, but I’ll head over after. Em can pick up my script in the meantime.”
Emily, who’s been hanging back and watching this exchange with interest, nods.
“Sorry about that. We added a second character development session to the schedule, and trying to find time for eight of us—” Ana waves off the rest of the thought. “Oh, and she’s thrilled, by the way. Francesca.”
“That you found a time that works?”
“No,” Emily jumps in as the costumer beckons Ana. “That you agreed to do this with her.”
When Ana moves past me, she grabs my bicep and pauses for a beat, then tilts her head up to mine and brings her mouth to my ear. “This is going to be fun. Promise.”
When I pull back to meet her eyes, they flare with something real—mischief, maybe? I’m not sure if she’s talking about the film, our charade, or both. Before stepping through the threshold, she turns back. “And Levi? Does working out together on Tuesday still work for your schedule?”
“You bet.” The reply comes with artificial confidence because I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about. We haven’t discussed working out on Tuesday.
But the costume assistant raises an eyebrow and then darts her eyes away from mine, as though she’s been caught hearing something she shouldn’t.
Ana knows what she’s doing. That two-minute exchange was all it took for a crew member to assume there’s something going on between us.
If the gym is where we persuade more people—and those outside of the studio, especially—great. I’m comfortable there.
Now I just have to get comfortable with her.