‘Okay, thanks.’
‘Oh, and Lila?’
‘Yes?’ Her rapidly beating heart leapt at the thought that this might be it, the moment she heard the verdict and knew whether she was going to Sicily or not.
‘Make sure you put those products in the right place. Double-check the labels and the cataloguing system. I don’t want them going missing.’
‘Right. Absolutely. Will do.’ Lila nodded and exited the room at speed, unsure whether she was relieved or not.
There was still a background rumble of people talking and moving around, the door at the front of the building creaking to signal each exit, but Lila turned right towards the back of the building. The further back she walked, the more desolate it appeared and the tension in Lila’s chest eased. This was a good idea, to show she wasn’t a slacker and had a brain. And if it meant she didn’t have to spend another minute alone with her boss or fend off any more invites, that was just a bonus.
Lila descended the spiral staircase down to the ground floor, which was home to the large empty rehearsal rooms at the front and all the storerooms at the back for props, costumes and the other equipment she wasn’t yet familiar with despite the labels stuck to the heavy fire doors. One of which stood ajar, propped open by a small wooden block.
As far as Lila knew, only Sibyl had a key, so it was left open the whole day for the makeup artists to grab what they needed and stock up the products required for the testing that had gone on during the day. Also, the light inside didn’t work, so they had to find their way around using the flickering glow from the long florescent bulb out in the corridor, which was emitting a disconcerting buzzing noise.
The room was about three metres deep by five across and tall stainless-steel shelving reached along all the walls and cut across to make small aisles. There was a lot of makeup in there. Lila paused in the doorway for a minute and rummaged around in the top of the box to take a look at the exact name and make of the compacts of powder she was carrying. Once she memorised it, she set the box down beside the first set of shelving and started searching for the right crate to stow them all away in.
This job was going to take longer than she had thought. She couldn’t even see the top shelves. She moved deeper into the shadowy room, rounded the aisle, and spotted the small stepladder. Rather than pick it up though, she took a seat on it and leaned her head onto her hands. This was ridiculous. She’d literally come and hidden in a cupboard to avoid her boss and the prospect of going for a drink with her new, friendly work colleagues.
This had to stop.
She knew it wasn’t as easy as her just telling herself that, but she also knew that the counsellor they’d sent her to in high school would have called this “avoidance behaviour”. She’d only gone to see the man three times before she avoided that too. And in hindsight, he’d been talking sense; she just hadn’t been ready for it.
Perhaps she was never going to be ready for it.
How could she contemplate taking a job that meant that she was going to spend every day with a bunch of strangers, live in a strange place and…just how? She couldn’t even manage a trip to a bar with them. What was she going to do if she had to share accommodation with the whole makeup team – share a bedroom – and she couldn’t even escape at the end of the day?
This was a nightmare of her own making. She should just go upstairs and tell Sibyl that she’d been made another job offer and it suited her better and she was very sorry, but she had to go home and make a pillow fort to bury herself in.
Except she had no home in England. Only a thirty-day visa. If she quit, she’d have to fly back to New York and face her mom and the big, fat “I told you so”, which would be directed at her every day. Along with that resigned, disappointed and confused expression. The one that said,I’m not quite sure how you’re related to me and why I have to put up with how pathetic you are.
The only other option was to seek out her half-brother, Stephen, who happened to live in London. But given that she still hadn’t contacted him since she received his letter out of the blue last summer announcing that the father who’d walked out onheras a kid, had walked out onhimyears before that, it hardly seemed right to go knocking on his door because she was about to be out of cash and homeless. And, of course, he was a complete stranger. Strangers were not her forte. Which was why she was currently hiding in a dark cupboard contemplating quitting everything.
No. She had to keep on trying. It was probably going to be a mess. She didn’t have a clue how she was going to manage. In fact, she was probably going to be given the boot by Sibyl for being a complete oddball, but at least she would have given it a go.
Sheneededto stop feeling so crippled by her social anxiety. She was twenty-five years old and she wanted a life. She wanted a career, and friends, and maybe even a little bit of self-respect when she finally got in contact with her half-brother.
And this job was the first step.
Rowan
Rowan loved his job. Calling it a job hardly seemed fair, given that he was paid large amounts of money to basically play make-believe. He knew he was lucky, and he felt it, but insomnia had a way of making even the things he usually enjoyed seem like an ordeal.
He’d been awake since four that morning – having only just managed to fall asleep a couple of hours before – and his itinerary had included an interview for early morning television, another for a magazine over the phone on the way to the pre-production office for final wardrobe checks, where he’d spent the rest of the day putting costumes on and taking them off again, being remeasured and accidentally poked with pins.
He hoped it was accidental anyway.
When they’d taken the last photo of the day, he’d finally been able to check his phone and in amongst an abnormally high number of missed calls there was a message about his sister, Siobhan, going into labour. Hours ago. But the moment he lifted his phone to his ear to call his brother-in-law to see what was happening and if everything was okay, Gerrard, his agent, walked in.
That wasnota good sign. And probably explained all the missed calls.
Gerrard swept into the wardrobe department in the way he always did, scattering people who were doing their jobs and sending them off, telling them he needed to speak “privately” with Rowan.
‘Hey. What are you doing here?’
‘Well, I couldn’t get hold of you on your phone.’ Gerrard raised his eyebrows and looked pointedly at the device Rowan was still holding.
‘I literally just checked it. What’s wrong?’ He threw it down on the chair behind him and decided to appease the urgent feeling in his chest by getting changed while Gerrard talked. At least that was progress towards what he needed to be doing. Getting his arse over to the hospital.
