The assistant director (or AD) quickly ushered Dana to a holding room with the other extras. She’d given me a conspiratorial wink as she headed off, which I’d tried not to roll my eyes at. (Okay, fine. I hadn’t tried very hard.) And only thirteen minutes late (but who was counting?), I’d made my way into the wardrobe department, where Dusty was currently filling me in on suburbanite fashion, Hollywood style.
“So, basically the outfits will be hung up here for you ahead of time.” She pointed to a rack along the wall where clothes were clumped together and tagged. “All you have to do is make sure the right person is wearing the right thing for the right scene.”
“That’s it?” And people were going to pay me for this?
Dusty laughed. “It’s harder than it sounds. Getting actors through wardrobe is like herding cats. Especially if they aren’t happy with what we’ve picked out for them. Speaking of which, watch out for Margo. She’s notorious for adding her own accessories.” She did a mock shudder. “Costume stuff and cheap as hell.”
“Margo?”
“She plays Nurse Nan on the show. You know, Ash-ley’s evil twin sister who just escaped the mental institution and is secretly living in Ashley’s attic?”
“Oh, riiiight. Nurse Nan.”
Dusty chuckled again. “You’ll get used to calling them by their real names, don’t worry. In the meantime, how about we go get some coffee and I’ll introduce you around.”
Grateful for a moment to absorb it all, I followed Dusty out of the wardrobe room and down a series of hallways littered with makeup bags, discarded scripts, and lengths of cable. As I picked my way around the land mines, I made a mental note to wear wedges tomorrow. I could just see myself snagging a stiletto on a cable and doing a face-plant in front of Mia Carletto.
Finally the hallways opened up to a larger common area just behind the actual soundstage. In the center of the room sat Craft service-a large folding table laden with chips, cookies, crackers, soda, water, candy, and about a million other fattening, sugar-filled treats that made my mouth water, not the least of which was a large metal carafe of coffee with the Starbucks emblem emblazoned on the side. That was it. I was never leaving.
A mousy-looking girl in an oversize T-shirt and jeans stood behind the table, refilling bowls of Chex Mix. Around the table two guys in tool belts full of tape, wires, pens, and huge walkie-talkies stood munching on handfuls of cookies, while two waif-thin women with sprayed-in-place hair sipped from water bottles.
Dusty pulled me aside confidentially. “That’s Margo there on the left.” She pointed to the older of the two women, a tall brunette in a tailored suit with skin pulled so tightly back from her face that her lips were bulging. Obviously a fresh face-lift, and an aggressive one at that.
“And her?” I asked, gesturing to the other woman. She was slim, with long blonde hair, and there was something vaguely familiar about her.
“That’s Veronika, Mia’s stand-in.”
“Stand-in?” I asked.
“The stand-in runs through the scene for the technical crew, so they can get the lighting right, block out the camera angles, that sort of thing. She’s pretty much the same height, size, and coloring as Mia, and she generally wears the same clothes Mia will be while she’s running through the scenes. In fact, that, ” she said, gesturing to Veronika, “is the identical Armani suit that Mia will be wearing in the scene we’re shooting today.”
No wonder she’d looked familiar. As I took in the light cream-colored pencil skirt and blazer paired with alligator pumps, I was struck by just how much she did look like Mia. They honestly could have been twins.
“So, how long have you been working in production design?” Dusty asked, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
“Oh, well, uh…” Okay, so here’s the thing. I might have exaggerated my résumé just a teeny, tiny bit when I’d spoken with Dusty on the phone last night. In fact, if you wanted to get technical about it, I might have even lied. A little. But it was for a very good cause. There was no way I’d be able to help Ramirez get his old job back just sitting at home watching the daily entertainment report. He needed a man on the inside, so to speak. And I was that man.
Even if it meant fudging the truth a little.
“Well, I’ve been interested in design my whole life, ” I said noncommittally as I grabbed a paper cup.
“Yep.” Dusty nodded. “Me too. I was always the artistic type. When I was fifteen, I got my first piercing.” She gestured to the silver barbell cutting through her heavily lined eyebrow. “My mom just about freaked. She didn’t get my need to express myself, you know?”
“I totally hear you.” Okay, so my need to express myself had come through the use of my mother’s Visa to buy two-hundred-dollar pumps when I was fifteen, but same concept.
“Oh, are you pierced?”
“Me?” I asked, dumping cream into my cup and taking a sip. Heaven. “No. Well, my ears, but that’s it. My vice is shoes. I’m a total pain chicken. I’m really impressed that you have three.”
“Seven.”
I coughed, choking on a mouthful of coffee. “Seven?”
“Yep.” She nodded. “I started with the eyebrow, then nose, lip, belly button, both nipples, and my hood.”
I cocked my head to the side. “Hood?”
“Yeah. You know…down there.” Dusty pointed at the crotch of her jeans.
I think I went about fifteen different shades of red. I sipped at my coffee to cover my embarrassment, cringing at the thought of needles going…down there.
Luckily, though, I didn’t have to come up with a clever reply.
“Uh-oh, ” Dusty said, glancing to the left.
“Uh-oh?”
She gestured to a doorway. “You’re about to meet Hurricane Mia. And it looks like she’s a category four today.”
I turned just as a tall, slim woman strode through the room making double time. Her long blonde curls hung loose at her sides, bouncing up and down furiously as she stomped on two-inch strappy heels across the cement floor. She had on the same cream-colored pencil skirt as Veronika, paired with a white button-down blouse…open far enough that a lacy push-up bra showed beneath, maximizing her D cups. I’d recognize her anywhere. It was Ashley!
I tried not to go all fan-clubby on her, instead containing my excitement to something between open admiration and just plain staring. I had to admit, Ashley (or Mia, as I supposed I would have to get used to calling her) was much prettier in person. Her eyes were a bright emerald green, her alabaster skin perfect even without the effects of airbrushing, and the body stuffed into that pencil skirt wasn’t an inch over size two. She looked like she either existed on Tic Tacs or had a personal trainer on twenty-four-hour standby. Or maybe both. The only thing marring her perfection was the scowl etched on her face.
Mia strode up to Dusty, bearing down with purpose.
“Dusty!” she barked.
“Yes?” Dusty replied coolly. Though I could tell by the way her hand had tightened around her coffee cup that she was steeling herself for the worst.
“What did I say yesterday about teal?” Mia narrowed her eyes.
Dusty bit at the inside of her cheek, looking like she hadn’t been ready for a pop quiz so early in the morning. “I give up.”
“It makes me look pale!” Mia slammed a hand down on the snack table, making a plate of chocolate-chip cookies jump. “I told you I want to wear peach in the Neighborhood Watch scene. I’m a Spring. Springs wear peach.”
Dusty sucked in a slow breath, obviously keeping her composure with much difficulty. “Margo is wearing peach in that scene. You can’t both wear peach.”
“Screw Margo!” Mia screeched.
I saw Margo’s spine straighten, but she didn’t say anything.
“I am the star of this show, ” Mia went on. “People tune in to see me. Let Margo wear the teal and look like a corpse. I will be shot in peach. Got it?”