by Jules Wake
‘Dyeing?’
‘Hair dye.’ I didn’t bother elaborating.
‘My work space over there.’ I wafted my hand once more, my pace picking up. We were on the home stretch, two seconds more and I could usher him out of the door.
And bugger me if he didn’t take a detour that way.
‘Looks like something out of a horror film, Stephen King would be proud,’ he said, poking one of the pins stuck into the wooden head block on my work bench and giving me a rather penetrating look. ‘Is this a wig?’
Damn, but didn’t he have nice hands.
‘Yes,’ I said, impatience tinging my voice. What did he think we did up here? Play tiddlywinks?
‘You make them from scratch?’ Damn, he sounded impressed.
‘Yup.’ I was immune to flattery even in a low-pitched chocolate voice.
He fingered the length of hair. ‘Is that real hair?’ he pulled back.
‘Yes, we harvest it from fresh corpses over at the hospital.’ I didn’t need to say that, I didn’t.
Of course, he laughed, as he was supposed to, and of course he looked even more attractive. His eyes all crinkled and smiley, his teeth perfectly dazzily. Sole attention on me, a brilliant sunbeam directed full on. And bugger I lapped it up, like a daisy lifting its face up for pure photosynthesis bliss, I reacted and all the barriers I’d been trying to keep up just toppled over.
Laughing again, he said, ‘Somehow I don’t believe you.’
‘Damn.’ I smiled back at him. ‘I kept that one going for months with one person.’ I smoothed the hair where his fingers had just touched it. ‘It is real hair but we buy it in.’
‘Isn’t that very expensive? Why don’t you use synthetic?’ His interest sounded genuine.
‘It is but real hair performs better.’
‘Really?’ He quirked one eyebrow and leaned a hip against the table. ‘Performs? What – it joins in the singing and dancing?’
‘No.’ I laughed and gave him an involuntary poke, surprising myself. ‘Not that sort of performs. It lasts longer and it moves better – which for a dancer is quite important. You don’t want a beautiful fluid and lyrical dance with static hair that doesn’t move and flow with it. It would spoil the overall look. And I promise you, audiences notice that sort of thing.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ He thoughtfully reached out to take a hank of hair, swishing it from side to side, watching the movement with intrigued intensity.
‘See.’ I pulled a long nylon hairpiece out of one of the drawers and offered it to him.
‘And it’s not just about aesthetics. Real hair doesn’t get frizzy or damaged as easily as synthetics. We do use a lot of yak hair, as an alternative to human hair.’
‘Yak hair, as in Himalayan cows?’ Marcus shook his head. ‘No, you’re taking the piss now.’
‘I’m not. Honest.’ Rising to my feet, I went over to another set of drawers to find a sample. ‘Here, feel this. See how soft it is. We use it a lot. Most of the high-quality Father Christmas costumes will use yak hair for the beard and hair. Also, it takes colour well.’
Marcus fingered the soft strands, looking slightly bemused. ‘I had no idea … you do all this.’
‘What? You thought I pinned on a wig, slapped on a bit of make-up and hey presto. Off they go.’
‘Something like that.’
I liked the way he came straight out and admitted it. No trying to bluff or bullshit.
‘Attention to detail. That’s what we do here. No detail is too small to overlook.’
‘But it’s, don’t get me wrong … but why? I mean it is just …’
‘Just a performance?’ I asked.
‘I hadn’t appreciated how much work goes on behind the scenes. Is it all worth it?’
‘Have you been to many other departments yet?’
‘No.’ He gave me a candid stare. ‘I guessed that this was the worst, so decided to start here.’
I tossed my head with a mock sniff. ‘They’re just as bad in wardrobe.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ There was that quick smile again. ‘Do I detect a bit of rivalry between you and wardrobe?’
With a demure grin, I widened my eyes. ‘We’re all one big happy family. Well, there may be a bit of professional rivalry and we might have the odd little digs at each other but for the most part they’re tongue in cheek and we get on. We have to. We work together quite a bit, especially backstage. If there’s a quick change, it has to be precision timed. Just like a pit stop in Formula One. There was one production where we had exactly thirty seconds to transform the actor playing the lead into someone who’d been beaten and had her hands cut off…’
He blinked. ‘Sounds a bit gruesome.’
‘Yes, well it’s supposed to be and it looked it. But that’s vital. It’s all part of the willing suspension of disbelief. It’s going to ruin it for the audience if she comes out with a couple of spots of tomato ketchup. They’ve got to believe. If we get it wrong its neither fair on the audience nor the cast because we’re taking them out of their performance. It has to be right.’
From the serious expression on his face, I could tell this was all new to him.
‘I’ve never considered it that way.’
‘If you were watching a film, you wouldn’t want one of the characters suddenly turning around the camera and saying, “By the way, I’m just standing in front of a green screen, these buildings behind me are all computer generated.” You probably know they are but you buy into it.’
‘You’re so passionate about this, aren’t you?’ The words, tinged with admiration, lit a small glow.
‘I am. I love what I do but I’m just a small cog in the whole thing. People pay an awful lot of money to come and watch a production here. Some seats cost hundreds of pounds. Singers, dancers, performers – they all train for years. The competition for parts is intense. Every member of the orchestra is at the top of their game. World renowned musicians. The conductors are the best in the world. To support that we must make sure that what we do supports every last bit of all that.’
‘What are you working on here?’
‘It’s going to be a wig for Juliet Capulet. They’ve chosen the Regency period as the setting, which requires quite elaborate hairstyles. It’s easier to use a wig than style the dancer’s hair each night and for some scenes, for example, in her death scene, the director wants her hair to be loose and long. To change the style between scenes isn’t that feasible, so we’ll have a series of different wigs for her to wear.’
‘Isn’t there a danger it might fall off with all that dancing.’
I half-snorted and covered the vicinity of ears on the wig block with protective hands. ‘Whatever you do, don’t say that in front of Jeanie. You will get “the lecture”.’
Mimicking her clipped tones, I said, ‘I don’t care if you draw blood as long as the wig stays put.’
‘Ouch.’
‘I promise you, there’ll be enough grips and pins in there to anchor a liner to dock. Any slippage with a wig is a hanging offence around here.’
He touched the silk foundation mesh. ‘So how do you do it?’
‘Do you really want to know?’ Felix had been in to work with me a couple of times but had never shown this much interest. He’d have got bored by now and darted off to chat to Vince.
‘Yes, I do. It looks fascinating.’
I picked up a skein of hair and the hook I used to pull the hair through into a knot. Beckoning him closer, I carefully separated enough strands and then with the hook, I showed him how I looped it through the tightly pinned mesh, using the hook and then back again before tying the hair into a secure knot.
The earlier sizzle between us had subsided but I found I was enjoying this shared, measured, professional exchange. The quiet respect he showed made me stand a little taller.
‘Wow, that looks painstaking. How long does it take you to make one?’
‘At least a week, depends on the comple
xity and the size and whether I’m working backstage during that time. Don Giovanni finishes this week and then The Nutcracker starts. I’m not as involved in that, I won’t be looking after any principals so most of my work will be up here on wigs and working with the design team to make sure that the overall feel of the next production all matches.’
‘Matches?’
‘Yes. For example, the treatment of Don Giovanni is very traditional. It’s set in the original period, so the hairstyles and costumes are dictated by the setting. However, as I said, Romeo and Juliet is going to be set during the Regency, and we’ve decided on her hair and what it will look like but we need to make sure that corps de ballet have appropriate styles that fit the period, although they won’t be quite so elaborate. Part of our job is to research the right hairstyles and then submit our ideas and suggestions to the production team, the director, the artistic director along with the ideas from the costume team, the set designers, so that it all fits together.’
‘I never realised there was so much involved.’ With a thoughtful gaze, he examined the room as if seeing it properly for the first time.
‘You ought to come backstage during a performance.’ I had no idea what made me blurt that out. Was I trying to impress him? ‘Or … I’ve promised Fred I’d do his hair and make-up for Comic Con this Saturday.’
‘You are?’ His eyes lit up and I felt like I was missing something.
‘Yes.’
‘Fred didn’t mention it. I’m going with him.’
‘What? Going to Comic Con?’
He gave me a sheepish smile that transformed his whole face and made him look totally disarming.
‘You’re dressing up?’ I asked doubtfully.
He coloured. ‘Not normally … Fred and Leonie talked me into it.’ The sudden stiffness in his body language suggested that he wasn’t that comfortable with it but was trying to be.
I stared at him, trying to ignore the wobble of my heart. Human, self-deprecating Marcus suddenly seemed a whole new man. ‘What are you going as?’
He swallowed hard, white teeth gnawing his lower lip. ‘Wolverine.’
Oh yes, I could see that.
‘The costume was the easiest.’ He ran a hand through his dark hair. ‘Do you think you could do something? If … if you’re doing Fred anyway.’
‘Oh yeah. Wolverine’s pretty easy.’ I stopped and swallowed. I stare at people’s faces professionally all the time but suddenly it seemed really hard to look at his chin.
‘Do you … er … um,’ I nodded at his face. ‘Shave?’
Puzzlement creased his face and he looked horrified for a moment. ‘Where?’
‘On your chin?’ Oh God, now it was my turn to blush, just what did he think I was suggesting?
His face cleared but he was still doubtful when he answered, ‘Yeees.’
‘I meant how … how often. I mean, will you, er, be able to, urm, you know, grow the sideburns and er a beard. Does it? You know. Grow quickly?’
Gosh, it felt so intimate asking probing questions about his shaving routine, in a way that never had with anyone else. What the hell was wrong with me? Although I guess, beards and facial hair are all to do with manhood and testosterone.
Stroking his chin, he shook his head. ‘I’d rather not … not shave when I’m at work the week before.’
‘No problem.’ Phew the relief at being able to move on. ‘I can create sideburns and the shape of Wolverine’s beard easily. And your hair’s probably just about long enough.’ I gave it a quick assessment. Would be tricky. ‘It’s a wee bit short, but we’ll manage. How about the blades?’ I waggled my hands. ‘A set of butter knives?’
He laughed a little bit too loudly. ‘Have you got a better idea?’
‘I’ll have a think, but if we start doing prosthetics we’ll be here for hours.’
With a grave nod he agreed but from the steady look he gave me I suspected he had no idea what I was talking about. I realised this was his default when he didn’t understand. Not because he was trying to hide any ignorance but rather like a touch of respect as if he felt he should have known.
‘Prosthetics like prosthetic legs and arms. Any kind of false parts we can apply, usually latex or similar compounds which we then blend in so they look totally realistic. False noses, really bad scars.’
The smile returned and I saw him relax. ‘Of course. Yes. That sounds far too much work. I think the butter knives will do just fine. And going backstage sounds a good idea. It would be good to see all aspects of the whole operation.’
I rolled my eyes. I’d suggested it so that he might get a flavour of what we did, not so that he could view it in terms of operational controls.
‘You’ll need to check with Jeanie …’ I nodded towards his habitual pure white shirt. ‘And wear black.’
‘Black? Are you having me on again?’
‘No, it’s the same in every theatre. You don’t want to be able to see anyone in the wings.’
‘The side bits.’
‘Well done, yes the side bits. See how much you’re learning and I thought you were supposed to be teaching me!’
‘Hmm.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Hell, I’ve been up here for hours. I need to get back.’
He straightened, pushed his watch back under his cuff and turned back into Mr IT.
‘Thanks for the tour. Very enlightening.’ He paused, his brow furrowing. ‘Yes. I’ll be in touch about your next lesson and doing the backstage thing.’
‘And your make-up?’
‘Right.’
We stood facing each other. Did I shake his hand? Say goodbye.
Abruptly he wheeled around and strode away without a backward glance.
Chapter 15
Was it relief or disappointment I felt when I logged onto my emails at lunchtime?
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
After your last rejection of my excellent recommendations, I wonder where you stand on forensic crime. Just picked up a Kathy Reichs and really enjoying it. Have you read any?
R
No sign of the previous playful tone. I was toying with my response when Vince came back from lunch sporting a lime green spotted cravat, a pin striped waist coat and matching trousers. He’d clearly had a payday splurge.
‘Very nice. You’ve been shopping?’ He had so much in common with Felix who was another one who could never resist trying everything on the minute he’d bought it. ‘Are you going out?’ The odd ensemble almost worked. I think if the cravat had been slightly less lurid, the outfit might have suggested genteel eccentricity instead of lunatic show off.
‘Might be.’ Gosh he was very cagey these days.
‘You look very smart. Loving the cravat.’
‘Eyes down darling.’ He pointed with both hands to his feet and did a quick twirl. ‘Get a load of these. Aren’t they simply gorge?’
I stared at the yellow crocodile-skin leather brogues. ‘No.’
‘No?’ Vince’s voice shot up several octaves. ‘They’re all the rage.’
‘I’d be raging if I were the crocodile that had been dyed that colour.’
‘Tilly, you’re just being mean.’
‘No, Vince, I really am not. They are truly, truly hideous.’
He pouted like a five-year-old. ‘Not truly scrumptious?’ he asked with a discernible wobble to his lip.
‘Sorry, Vince, no, not even Cherry Peach Bombay.’ Our favourite song in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, which we’d seen together five times before it finished its run in the West End.
‘But they’re sooooo delicious.’
‘Vince.’ I put my hands on my hips. ‘Did the man in the shop tell you that?’
He nodded.
‘You know he tells you anything. Have you worn them outside yet?’
He shook his head. I might as well have been trying to make conversation with a puppet, even his eyes had glazed over.
‘Take the shoes off.’
<
br /> With a sulky slump, he fell into the nearest chair and busied himself untying the cream laces. Seriously, they were the stuff of fashion nightmares.
‘Are you going to take them back?’
The lower lip extended in a full pout.
‘Don’t look at me like that Vince. We had a deal, remember?’
With a very sad nod, he agreed. ‘I remember. You’re the mean old, fashion police who confiscates the good stuff and spoils all my fun.’
‘No Vince, I’m the lovely friend who stops you making a complete prat of yourself and gets your money back from the unscrupulous charlatan parading as a shoe salesman around the corner.’
‘Bernie’s alright.’
‘Yeah.’ I rubbed my hands together in a good imitation of Fagin. ‘He’s gotta make a crust or two. What have Jeanie and I told you about going shopping on your own?’
‘FaceTime her and text you before I buy anything?’ He trotted it out like a good little lamb. If only he were.
‘And what happened? Lose your phone? Forget?’
With all the graciousness of a dowager duchess and the sniff to match, Vince held out the horrific shoes for closer inspection. They were the bubonic plague personified in leather. ‘Look, are you sure you don’t like them? Genuine Italian leather.’
‘Receipt.’ I held out my hand.
The reluctance alone to hand over the slip of white paper told me all I needed to know.
‘Three hundred pounds!’ I screeched, one hand clutched to my chest.
‘I really love them,’ pleaded Vince.
‘You really loved the blue patent Gladstone bag, which you used once and cost £500. You really loved the Driza-Bone authentic Australian cattleman’s coat and it was nicked the first time you wore it. And you really, really liked the vintage spats which you wouldn’t tell me how much they cost and then you got beaten up by some idiot who took objection to them. And while I don’t condone violence, I’m not sure a jury wouldn’t have sided with him.’
‘You’re mean.’ He looked as if I’d nicked his brand-new puppy.
‘Not as mean as Jeanie would be. She’d make you go with her to take them back.’
