Erik and Tamara were climbing the steps up to the patio now, and he was calling everyone back to work. Harry’s had been selected as a taping sight for its stunning view of the surf, its thatched-roofed tables and its convenient location.
Now the serene patio was crawling with active people. The lights, mounted on their stands, had been switched off to cool. Seeming miles of cable ribboned the patio, connecting cameras to recorders and lights to electrical outlets. Heavy metal boxes in which the equipment was hauled from one location to another were positioned in such a way to threaten life or limb should anyone trip over them. It was controlled chaos.
The lighting team was turning on the huge lights again. Erik was adjusting his camera’s tripod, spreading his legs wide to reduce his height so he could be eye level with the viewfinder. The stylist was bustling around the models, adjusting a strap here, smoothing a lapel there. Today the girls were arrayed in safari-look clothes in shades of green, khaki and beige. Kathleen had selected accent colors of bright red, yellow and white. The makeup artist, who looked more like a housemother in a sorority, weaved her way among the models, checking for imperfections and imagining them if they weren’t there. The hair stylist, whose only masculine attribute was a thin, pointed beard, flitted through the crowd wielding his hairbrushes with the flourish of a matador finessing his cape.
Erik had brought four production assistants with him. Two of them took care of the lighting. The other two did everything. They seemed to anticipate Erik’s every need, handing him filters, fetching him extension cords, replacing boxes of tape when one was filled. Kathleen liked them all, and they all seemed to worship Erik. She watched one now as he shimmied up a tree to pluck off a broad leaf that was casting a shadow on one model’s face.
“Tamara, this isn’t a stag film,” Erik was saying.
Tamara was perched on the wall surrounding the patio. She was wearing a pair of army-green shorts and a white blazer. Beneath the blazer, she had on a red halter top. The ocean breeze was catching the light fabric of the top until her left breast was completely exposed. There were good-natured wolf calls from the crew, and the other models guffawed. Tamara was brazenly unaffected.
Kathleen had been appalled by the girl’s immodesty. Just the day before, they had all driven to the casino in Freeport, where Erik wanted to feature the formal wear. Unlike its American counterparts in Las Vegas, the croupiers and dealers wore tuxedos and the atmosphere was austere and very British.
Tamara had stormed out of the makeshift dressing room wearing only a pair of bikini panties and carrying the black satin gown she was to model.
“What in the hell is wrong with this?” she had demanded of a stunned Kathleen. Every eye in the room turned to the two of them.
Kathleen was too astounded at the girl’s nakedness to answer at first. “What’s wrong with what?” she stammered.
“This goddam dress. It’s supposed to fit, but it’s too tight in the ass. Who the hell is responsible for that mistake, Mrs. Kirchoff?” She said the name with a slur, and Kathleen had a hard time keeping her hand from connecting with Tamara’s carefully made-up cheek.
“Didn’t you try the dress on last night as you were supposed to?” Kathleen asked icily. “If there were any alterations to be made, that’s when they were to have been done. I didn’t bring along a sewing machine just to look at.”
“I was busy last night,” Tamara had drawled, and winked slyly over Kathleen’s shoulder. Kathleen turned around and saw Erik leaning against a crap table, his arms folded, his brows raised in interest at the scene being played out before him. Or was his interest on Tamara’s bare breasts, which hung free and in sight of everyone, including the shocked staff of the casino, who were held spellbound and incapable of objecting to the dazzling display?
“What do you suggest I do with it?” Tamara demanded.
Kathleen had an excellent suggestion, but she refrained from saying it. “I suggest,” she said calmly, “that you either not be in this commercial, or that you wear the dress, but keep your… back… from the camera, or that you swap dresses with one of the other girls. A larger dress,” Kathleen added cattily.
Tamara’s amber eyes narrowed on Kathleen. “It’s a faulty garment. I’m a perfect eight.”
“More like an imperfect ten,” Kathleen shot back.
“You—”
“Ladies,” Erik said from behind them, “I suggest that we go on with our work. We’ve got to be out of here by four o’clock. Tamara, go put something on. As lovely as you are, my dear, this is neither the time nor the place to flaunt that exquisite body. If you can wear the dress at all, put it on. We’ll shoot so your derriere doesn’t show.”
Tamara had flounced off, her breasts and hair bouncing in synchronization. The commercial had been completed, but Tamara was an object of derision for the rest of the day. As one of the crew teased her, “Tamara, you’ll be the butt of all the jokes today. No pun intended, of course.” Tamara glared at him in a frightening way.
Now, she was again causing a sensation, standing on the wall of the patio, the wind whipping the garment away from her body in a way much more suggestive than her total nudity the day before.
Erik, having been ignored as yet, instructed her patiently, “Do something with the damn blouse.” Kathleen heard just the slightest edge of asperity in his voice.
“Well, I don’t know what to do with it,” Tamara pouted. Erik turned on his heels and scanned the crowd before his eyes lighted on Kathleen. “Kathleen, would you please…”
He let his voice trail off, but the implicit request was clear. She was tempted to tell him to do it himself or go to hell, but she didn’t. She crossed the patio to the wall. She planted her hands on her hips as she stared up at the model. “Well, I’m not coming up there,” she told Tamara, who remained where she was.
Sulkily, Tamara climbed down and presented her chest to Kathleen, who recognized the problem immediately and knew that the whole delay could have been avoided. “You haven’t tied the straps tight enough.” She walked around Tamara and stood up on tiptoe to reach beneath the blazer to the neck straps of the halter. She loosened the ineffectual knot that Tamara had tied, then made another, pulling the cloth tighter over the model’s breasts.
“That’s too tight,” Tamara objected.
“I agree,” Kathleen said. “You’re too big to wear a halter, but no one will be able to tell that in the commercial.”
“I’ve about had it with you,” Tamara cried, whirling around and bearing down on Kathleen. “No one can be too big! You’d do well with a little more yourself. I—”
“Tamara!” Erik’s imperative voice sliced through the air. “Haven’t you held us up long enough? Get back up on that damn wall and flash me a smile. Thank God you can’t smile and talk at the same time.”
There was a twitter of laughter from everyone else as the model resumed her position. “Thank you,” Erik said to Kathleen as she passed him.