Neevah
“Another inch.”Linh Brody-Stone glances up from where she squats on the floor and pulls the measuring tape from my waist. “I’ll have to take the costume in.”
I let out a long, tired breath. “I’m sorry. I promise I’m eating.”
“Yeah, but you’re also doing the lindy hop and every other dance Lucia can think of for hours every day. Your body’s burning calories faster than you can consume them.”
“We’re doing all the dance sequences at once. With this many dancers, production wants to get their parts out of the way so we can release them. Kind of clumping things together. Like all my songs are last because they require only me and a few musicians for the most part.”
“Explains why I haven’t seen Monk as much on set lately,” she says.
Or Canon.
It’s been three weeks since Thanksgiving, and if it weren’t for my very real memories of that night, I might question that it ever happened. He ignores me and hasn’t mentioned the kiss or our conversation—how much we wanted each other that night—and it’s driving me crazy.
Linh walks over to a garment rack and flicks through the costumes we’ve used to create Dessi’s character, ranging from deliberately drab to dazzling. A production of this magnitude requires a costuming team, which Linh leads. Some of the pieces she designs, and some they source. Everything is stored here, the shoes neatly on shelves, the clothes hanging on rolling racks, accessories tucked into clear boxes and cubbies. Ironing boards, irons, sewing machines and steamers fill the compact space, Linh’s domain.
She turns to grin at me, her feline-like features lit with rare excitement. She’s such a steady boat, never rocked or swayed, that seeing her smile makes me smile despite my fatigue.
“Wanna see something incredible?” she asks.
“Sure!” I inject enthusiasm into my voice despite the pain in my muscles and aches in my joints.
The car service dropped me off on set at five a.m. for hair and makeup. We’ve been shooting all day. I could crash right here.
Linh disappears into one of the changing rooms and emerges, rolling out a covered mannequin.
“Behold!” she says, carefully lifting the cover to reveal one of the most gorgeous dresses I’ve ever seen. It’s a vintage floor-length evening gown, as iridescent as a pearl, covered in sequins and with gossamer-thin spaghetti straps.
“It’s modeled after one Josephine Baker wore for one of her Paris shows,” Linh says. “I thought it’d be perfect for the scenes when Dessi and Cal tour Europe.”
“This is . . . Linh, it’s gorgeous. Where’d you find it?”
“Find it?” She laughs, adjusting the gown’s bodice. “I made it.”
“You made this? What the . . .” I knew Linh was talented, but this is haute couture level. The most sought-after designer would proudly send a dress like this down their runway. If anyone ever thought Linh landed this project because she’s married to Law Stone, this dress and all the extraordinary work she has done should disabuse them of that notion.
In addition to being traffic-stop beautiful, she’s been really sweet. Her concern about my weight loss goes beyond the work it causes her. It’s personal. She’s hung out with Takira and me in the trailer a few times when she was on set. Once her reserve cracks, she’s funny and authentic.
I’ve met Law Stone a few times when “the suits” have come on set, and I’m not sure he deserves this woman. There’s something about him. When he talks, his words are slick and smooth in his mouth like loaded dice.
“I’ll have to take this one in a little, too,” she says, practically petting the sparkling dress. “At the rate you’re shedding pounds, I think I’ll wait and alter it post-Christmas break. We aren’t shooting those scenes until later.”
“Right.” I glance at my watch. “Crap! Livvie wanted to run lines before this next scene.”
Linh shoos me toward the door, already opening accessory drawers and cubbies. “Go! But swing back before you start filming. One of the interns needs to do a continuity check on your wardrobe and make sure we haven’t changed anything since we started this section.”
“Will do.” I rush from the wardrobe room, through the set, and out to the row of trailers. Olivia Ware, who plays Tilda, is only a few down from mine. I knock on the door and wait for her to invite me in.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, climbing the small set of steps. “I was in . . .”
The words dry up in my mouth when I see Canon sitting on the couch beside Livvie. They both look up from the script between them.
“I was in wardrobe,” I finish. “Sorry to interrupt. I thought you wanted to run lines before—”
“I do,” Livvie says. “I needed Canon to help ya girl get in touch with this next scene. It’s tough, but I think I have it now.”
“You got it. Don’t worry.” Canon stands, his head only a few inches shy of the ceiling in the compact trailer. “Let me know if you need anything else. I gotta go huddle with Jill before this next sequence.”