Hushed

by Joanne Macgregor

  “Who is?”

  “The press, the public, all the little bottom-feeding, web-crawling trolls and self-appointed guardians of public morality who have nothing better to do! And that reminds me — don’t let him tweet or post on Facebook unless it’s been checked before he submits. And don’t you post anything, either!” She glares down at me suddenly, as if I’ve just threatened to tell all. “Everything gets run by publicity first, capiche? Even better, let them write the posts for him. And when he goes out, he must have his bodyguards with him. But make sure they keep their distance when photos are being taken — those hulks beside him all the time make him look like a nervous mobster.”

  She pours the rest of her coffee down her gullet and thumps the empty mug back down on the refreshments table. “Bottom line, anything you can do to make his life easier, you do it. Because what makes his life easier, makes my life easier. Get the idea?”

  I nod.

  “Any questions?” she asks as we set off again.

  “Uh, one or two.” Hundred. But only one that I really care about. “Who is ‘he’ — the one whose assistant I’ll be?”

  I know who I hope it is, who I desperately want it to be, but she hasn’t actually said his name yet.

  “Who the hell have we been talking about all morning? Logan Rush, of course.”

  Yes! I want to punch the air, but I make myself give a cool nod.

  “The last PA didn’t last five days. He sure does go through them. Well, I guess he can’t help how he looks. That’s why I’m pinning my hopes on you, Missy. You seemed sensible and not too much affected by him last week. Able to think on your feet and keep your mouth shut. That’s why I’m hiring you. But you are not to go falling in love with him, you hear me?”

  “Sure.”

  She gives me a sharp, suspicious look.

  “Of course not,” I say, trying to cram conviction into my voice.

  She still looks unconvinced.

  “It would be impossible for me to fall in love with him.” Because I already am.

  “Are you gay?”

  “No.”

  “Pity, pity. Well, watch yourself, because if I catch you going all weak at the knees for him, you’re out. Though I strongly suspect that I’m wasting my breath — they all go weak at the knees and soft in the head around him,” Cilla says sourly. “But I tell you this, he will not fall for you. So don’t go breaking your heart or mooning after him. And — hear me on this one, Romy — if I catch you in his bed, you’ll be out on your skinny ass faster than you can say chickabiddy.”

  She peels the skin off another grape with her sharp talons and feeds it to her scaly pet monster.

  “Is he gay?” I can’t resist asking, though I’d be willing to bet my legs against it.

  “No he is not, young lady. Not that it’s any business of yours.”

  Ha! Another of Zeb’s ridiculous theories bites the dust.

  Cilla narrows her eyes at me in disapproval. “Do you always speak this bluntly?”

  “I guess I do.”

  “Well cut it out. I don’t like it. No one likes a smart-mouthed assistant. Good PAs are seen and not heard.”

  I nod mutely.

  “Just keep your eyes open and your mouth shut, and you’ll find your feet soon enough.” When we emerge back into the bright sunshine of the back lot, she tells me, “You’ll have to smarten yourself up. You’re not crew, so don’t model your appearance on these clowns.”

  She rolls her eyes at two workers passing by. One carries a realistic-looking bundle of seaweed and the other a huge ship’s steering wheel; both of them wear stained jeans and T-shirts. I run my hands over my own jeans, wondering if they’re still dusty.

  “Your jeans aren’t smart enough, and those shoes will definitely have to go. Fugly doesn’t begin to describe them. You can’t be seen in public, near Logan Rush, looking like that. In fact, you can’t be on my set looking like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Looking like a mundane, a rube, like one of those poor souls out there!” She flings an arm wide to gesture to the real world of ordinary people beyond the fence. “What are you aiming for — au natural? This is showbiz kid — glamour and glitz. We can’t let the ugly show.”

  “I’m not ugly. And I like looking natural.”

  “Uh-uh!” She wags an admonishing finger at me. “Seen and not heard, remember? You’re with the beautiful people now. People who,” she casts a disparaging gaze at my face, “wear lipstick and pluck their eyebrows. If God wanted women to look natural, She wouldn’t have invented tweezers and silicone and mineralizing powder. Looks matter — sad, but true.”

  “But, I’m not the one being filmed,” I protest. “What difference does it make what I look like?”

  “There’ll be photos taken of him, and you may be in some of them. You reflect on this production. Besides, if I say it makes a difference, it makes a difference. Because what I say goes, comprende? Now will you do a makeover?”

  “I don’t really want to.” Though I did really want a chance to be with Logan again.

  “Life’s full of tough choices.”

  “Okay, fine,” I agree. “But I still don’t see —”

  “Hush!” she hisses at me so loudly that the bearded dragon flinches and starts bobbing his head in agitation. “What did I tell you about talking back? Just shut up and learn. And here’s lesson one: anyone who argues with me is out! Understand?”

  I bite my tongue to keep from giving her a piece of my mind as we crunch over the gravel back towards her room.

  “Right, so we have a deal. What day is it today?”

  “Friday.”

  “You spend today getting a makeover and you can start tomorrow, providing you clear the security check they’ll run on you. Be here at six a.m. This Sunday is a break day. Stop by security before you leave today to get your photo taken, and go see Bob in payroll.” She points to one of the office doors. “He’ll sort out your paperwork and ID. Remind him to give you a key for Logan’s room here on the lot.”

  She pauses to rifle in her handbag and withdraws a white badge with the word ASSISTANT printed on it.

  “You can use this temporary ID until your personal one is ready. Here, put it on.”

  As I struggle with the catch on the back of the badge, the pin springs free of its clasp and stabs me in the thumb. A fat drop of blood wells up.

  “And lose those effing hideous shoes. Get yourself some heels.”

  “Okay.”

  “No, I mean take them off. Now.”

  Reluctantly, I crouch down and remove my sneakers and socks. As I straighten up, Cilla snatches them out of my hands and tosses them to a passing lackey with the instruction to get rid of them.

  I gasp in outrage. But when Cilla glares at me with a raised eyebrow, I mime zipping my lip, turning a key, and flinging it away. An evil smile twists Cilla’s own lips, and she nods approvingly.

  “You might just make it, kid,” she says, spinning around and heading to the next warehouse.

  I follow, stepping gingerly on the gravel surface of the lot. She cackles again. Witch! I think loudly as I hobble along silently in her wake of orders and warnings.

  “If you piss him off, you’re out. If you let the papz or the Rushers get him, you’re out. If you let your brows grow back after you’ve plucked them, you are so out. If you let him eat or drink too much, you’re out — we haven’t shot all the shirtless scenes yet, and I need those abs cut and ripped.”

  Chapter 13

  Bloody heels

  The white-coated, latex-gloved beautician arches an eyebrow at me and warns, “If madam is unable to stop screaming, we will have to ask madam to leave — the other clients in the salon are being disturbed.”

  “It hurts!” I yelp.

  Ignoring this, she spreads another spatula of hot wax onto the tender flesh of my legs. I try to be brave, but when she rips the wax off, I can’t suppress a squeal of pain — it feels like she’s torn a s
trip of skin off with it. Amnesty and the United Nations should be notified of this kind of torture, because it must be in violation of international human rights.

  “A woman must be prepared to suffer for her beauty.” I repeat Nana’s words silently to myself, hoping the mantra will get me through this makeover day or, as I’ve begun to think of it, Armageddon Friday.

  “If madam would refrain from wincing and blinking when I pluck, then we can shape these eyebrows much quicker. There is a lot of growth to, er, prune.” This time, the beautician’s implement of torture is a pair of tweezers.

  By the time she finishes scraping the skin all over my body with what she calls “a gentle and fragrant body exfoliation” and I call “a rough sanding down with vanilla-scented grit and gravel,” I’ve surrendered — resistance is futile. I’m reduced to a whimpering, quivering mess. But I am a smooth and mostly hairless mess, and my eyebrows arch perfectly over my streaming eyes, so I figure Cilla would approve.

  Next up is the full valet. I sometimes take my car through the automatic car wash in town, and this is a lot like that process. Showers of water hose me down from eight different angles — first screamingly cold, then blisteringly hot, then mind-numbingly cold again.

  “Stop, please, I’ll tell you what you want to know. Mercy. I surrender!” I cry uselessly against the cold white tiles.

  Then like a car continuing its journey to sparkling completion, I’m buffed (dried), waxed (moisturised), and spray-painted (with instant tan), before I get the customized detailing — foundation, powder, eyeshadow, eyeliner, eyelash extensions, lipstick, and lip-liner in a long round of brushes, pencils, and confusing instructions.

  I’ll never get this right on my own.

  The production line spits me out back in the salon’s reception, where I’m relieved of a hefty chunk of my savings — being beautiful apparently doesn’t come cheap — before being delivered into the hands of Zeb, who’s promised to be my wingman through my right royal makeover. He compliments me so lavishly on my “improvement” that I wonder how long he’s been holding himself back from commenting on my bushy brows and substandard grooming.

  Zeb escorts me to my hairdresser then plants himself at a table in the coffee shop just outside — probably to make sure I don’t make a dash for freedom — and enjoys a relaxing few hours eating cake, drinking rooibos chai, and surfing the Net while I’m subjected to more beauty treatments. Guys know nothing of suffering. Sitting with strands of my hair smothered in chemicals and wrapped in squares of tinfoil, I have a moment where I wonder what on earth I’m doing. And why. But then I find a magazine with a feature entitled Log On to Logan, accompanied by several pics of him that I’ve never seen before, and I’m happily distracted from the torments of my transformation.

  After an age, the hairdresser declares me ravishing — I’ll have to tell Nana that — and Zeb seems dead impressed, but I’m not at all sure I like the feathery style and blonde highlights. Or the heavier make-up, though I have to admit that my new brows are an improvement.

  “I don’t look like me,” I complain.

  “I think that’s the point,” Zeb replies.

  “Can I have some ice for that burn?”

  Next up is clothes shopping. Zeb keeps urging me try on and buy elegant, dressy clothes that I don’t like and have never dreamt of wearing.

  “They’re not my style,” I protest.

  I no longer look like me, and I’m beginning not to feel like me either. Who is that young woman in the red dress I see reflected in the mirror?

  “There’s no point in merely buying more jeans and T-shirts,” Zeb says, thrusting a silky, spaghetti-strap top through the cubicle curtains for me to try on. “She wants you to look different. Smarter, more stylish.”

  The lowlight of the day comes when we shop for shoes. Again, Zeb directs the operation, explaining, “Reluctant as I am to be a cliché, there is no doubt that I have better taste.”

  I merely nod, conceding the point. But, oh sweet mother of mercy, those shoes! Red as blood, sharp as knives, black as my language when I squish my feet into pair after pair of pointy-toed, killer-heeled torture devices.

  “I can’t walk in these — I can’t even stand in them!”

  This is literally true — every so often my ankles give in and I fall off the heels. All around me, women strut their stuff confidently, trying on heels as high as mine, or even higher, but I can only manage a wobbly shuffle.

  “It just takes some practice,” Zeb says.

  He says it with such confidence that I cast him a suspicious look.

  “How do you know? What makes you the expert?” I challenge.

  “I’m not a cross-dresser, Romy!” he says, throwing a silky stocking at me.

  It’s enough to make me flounder and lose my balance.

  When I’ve bought almost more than we can carry, Zeb finally calls time.

  I groan in relief and slip my sneakers back on. On the drive back to my place, I dream of putting up my sore feet and sipping on something long and cool. No such luck — Nana meets us at the front door, gives Zeb an exaggerated wink, and leads me to the long passage that runs almost the full length of our house.

  “Time to learn how to walk. Shoes on, please,” she says.

  “My shoes are on.”

  “Those” — she points at my comfy sneakers — “are not shoes. They are athletic equipment. Put on the heels, please.”

  Grumbling, I put on a pair of the dagger heels. Nana instructs Zeb to put a book on my head. He has to do it again at least fifty-seven more times in the next hour as Nana makes me walk up and down the passage, and sit and rise from a chair, all while balancing the wretched thing on my head.

  “It helps your posture,” Nana says. “Head up, chin back, bust out, tummy in, buttocks tucked under.”

  Occasionally she gives my shoulders or my butt a sharp rap with her pearl-handled walking stick. I’m grateful that she only has the stick to whack me with, and not a walker.

  “Don’t shuffle, Romy, float. Glide like a swan. I said swan, not duck!”

  Eventually they’re satisfied, or perhaps they just know a lost cause when they see it, but they leave me with my tower of parcels and my new face. I close the front door behind Zeb and kick the stilettos off my aching feet, grumbling to myself that high-heeled shoes are like a modern version of Chinese foot-binding. Then I remember what I’ll be doing tomorrow, who I’ll be seeing. If crushed and blistered feet are the price, I’ll pay it. And perhaps I’d better work on suppressing my winces and whines, because tomorrow I’m due on set at sparrow’s fart, and there’ll be no complaining allowed then, no voicing of my own opinions. Cilla Swytch spelled that out clearly enough.

  I limp back to the living room and collapse into the nearest chair. It’s a good one, too — my father’s enormous recliner, complete with headrest, extending foot rest, and built-in back massager. I fiddle with the controls and sigh in deep pleasure as the chair lifts and lengthens and cradles my battered body and blistered feet.

  I’ve been waxed, buffed, plucked, dyed, tanned, highlighted, cut, curled, mani’d, pedi’d, steamed, exfoliated, masked, and moisturized. I can now stand, and even walk, in ridiculously high-heeled shoes. I’m smoother, browner, blonder, and softer. And I’m exhausted. Right now, I plan to do nothing more than binge-watch reruns of Glee on Netflix.

  But the sound of keys in the front door ends that plan. Dad’s home.

  As soon as he enters the room, he notices my transformed appearance.

  “Rosemary? What have you done to yourself?”

  “It’s called a makeover.” Aah, what the hell, I may as well break the news now. “It’s for my vac job. I’m starting tomorrow on the film set of Beast: Stars,” I say.

  And he explodes.

  “What do you mean you’re starting on a film set?”

  “I’ve got a job, Dad, on the set of a movie.”

  “You’ve already got a job — with your mother or with me!”


  “Yes, but this is a job I actually want.” More than anything.

  I need to get out of the chair — I don’t like being at such a height disadvantage — but the controls aren’t doing what I want them to do. I struggle with the lever that’s supposed to drop the foot rest, but instead of putting my feet on the ground, it lifts them higher into the air and drops the headrest further down. I’m practically upside down.

  “What job?” His eyes narrow to slits as he looms over me. “As an actress?”

  I snort. “Hardly.” Giving up with the controls, I clamber out over the side of the recliner. “I’ll be a runner — a general assistant to … one of the cast.”

  “You’re going to run around, assisting, in those?” He points at the high-heeled shoes lying on the carpet.

  He has a point, but I ignore it.

  “It will be a great work experience, Dad. I’ll learn all sorts of new skills, get to know a really interesting industry, make some good money —”

  “I’ll pay you twice what they’re offering,” he says quickly.

  “Dad, it’s not about the money. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!”

  Even though I speak loudly, I can tell my words aren’t getting through. His jaw is set, and his bottom lip protrudes as it does whenever he’s opposed.

  “I forbid it!”

  “You’re kidding, right? You’re going to do … what? Lock me in my room? I’m eighteen, not eight. I start early tomorrow.”

  “Who starts work on a Saturday?”

  “Time is money — isn’t that what you always say?” I retort. “See? I’m already learning about the world of work.”

  “Beast … Beast …” He looks suddenly suspicious. “Aren’t those the movies with that fellow in them, the actor you fancy?”

  Careful now. “I had a schoolgirl crush on him, yes,” I say, thankful that on the rare occasions my father comes into my room, his attention is always so captured by the provocative protest posters that he never much notices the Logan Rush wardrobe shrine. “But I don’t even know the guy, or him me. We move in different planetary systems.” I make independent orbiting motions with my hands.