Page 13 of Steamy on Set

“His shirt is tamer, more casual, but the print on the pants brings a certain flare to his overall look.” I grab the bottoms from his hand and lay them out on the table with the shirt right overit. Splaying my hands open, I wait for him to take it in and see that I’m right. He lifts the two pieces of clothing and compares the fabrics next to each other.

“I don’t agree. I think it’s too much.”

The child in me, let out from our earlier fuddle, wants to remark that he is too much, but I know that won’t get me anywhere.

“What about it is too much?”

“I just think jeans would work just as well in the scene, if not better, than this over-the-top colorful detailing. I want everything in the scene to come across as subtle, so the explosion of emotions is more powerful.”

Begrudgingly, I can see his point, but I refuse to tell him that.

“While jeans might be the only thing you own, Dante has so far displayed a preference for other fabrics. I think it can work.”

He looks down at the rumpled denim currently clothing his lower half, face pulled into a perplexed grimace.

“I own other pants.”

“Do you? I have yet to see them.” I put the clothes back where they belong, and he follows me, crossing his arms.

“You don’t see me every day.”

Lately, it feels like I do. Even if that isn’t true, I see him enough to know that tight-fitting black and white tops and jeans are his style markers. No watch or jewelry to snaz it up, and not even an extra layer on top.

“I don’t have to see you every day to know you own four basic pairs of pants and maybe five shirts. You probably have three sweaters in your collection, two jackets and one belt. All in all, you’re pretty predictable and simple.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and I assume I’ve guessed correctly, shaking his confidence a little.

Trying to regain it, he tucks his hands into his pockets and lifts his chest.

“I’m sure compared to you, that doesn’t seem like a lot, but not all of us can traipse around in a different outfit every day, never repeating.”

I smile smugly as I stare up at him through my eyelashes.

“What else have you noticed about me, Errol? Clearly, you have been paying close attention.” Expecting him to get flustered, I’m thrown off when I’m met with his dimpled smile full and threatening.

“I’m not the one who detailed out someone’s whole wardrobe. You’ve been staring so hard I bet you could guess my sizes.”

Easy, large top and size thirty-eight pants. His large frame would account for him being above the average of other men. But I should know this by looking at him. I’m a stylist.

“You do know it. Don’t you?” he asks laughing.

My lack of shock or outrage gives me away as I stare at him like the answer is obvious.

“So what? I work in wardrobe; it makes sense for me to be able to clock someone’s measurements. What doesn’t make sense is the fact that you’re still here. I told you forever ago that Mira is gone.”

“I’m leaving. I was just checking on your work. Making sure you aren’t wasting our time by producing the mediocre stuff you seemed to do the first time around.”

My ears burn from the anger sweeping up my neck to the very tips of them. It’s one thing to be belittled for my work. It’s another to be put down for work that isn’t even mine. I want to tell him that. Set the record straight. But that would require me to throw Mira into the fire and slowly turn her as she roasts. Not ready to do that just yet, I let it go.

“If I had ever heard of you, I’d be able to remark on your work as well. Clearly, you have yet to do anything noteworthy.”

A look of hurt flashes across his face, as if my words skinned away his bravado to reveal his underbelly, his usual air ofsuperiority now gone. I can’t help but feel like I knocked him down so low, he can no longer measure up to his standards. Afraid I’ve possibly gone too far, I’m about to apologize when Mira walks back into the room, grabbing his attention. The subtle outline of sadness in his face is replaced so quickly, I have to wonder if it was ever there at all.

“Hi Errol, sorry for making you wait, I’m ready for that meeting.” She places the top she is carrying down on the table, turning to face us, question mark heavy in the pout of her lips. I can imagine how we appear standing toe to toe, looks of agitation on both our faces.

“No worries, let’s go.” He follows Mira to the door, but stops for a moment to call over his shoulder, “Change the pants.”

My irritation sparks as he gets the last word. I try to ease the tension that seeing him caused by rolling my shoulders. If he mentions it to Mira, I’ll have to change it anyway, so I might as well get started on doing that now.

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