Copyright Jennifer Smart 2014. All rights reserved.

. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Copyright Jennifer Smart 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

WARDROBE DEPARTMENT (INT) MORNING DAY 1

Bugger. Damn. Bollocks. Bloody McDonalds! I ditched my McCaf cup and heavy work bag and started tugging at the shirt currently wrapped around Australias Hottest Male (as voted by SoapWeekly readers). No ordinary shirt. Oh no. This was his wardrobe lifeguard shirt Id just drenched with my at white. Whoa, slow down, Sean Tyler purred. I like a girl who knows what she wants, but before we take our relationship to the next level, whats your name? A lopsided grin and a steady hand pulled me back from the edge. For the rst time that morning, I stopped and breathed out. Tess Appleby, new standby wardrobe. Sean Tyler, old actor. Except he wasnt old. Not old at all. Late twenties, I guessed. And heres a weird thing: actors always seem smaller in the esh. Smaller, and strangely familiar. Not that Sean Tyler was small. He looked like he could swim for Australia. Well, he certainly felt like he could. My still shaky hand was pressed against his damp, but fortunately not scalded, chest. Smooth, buffed. He didnt seem in any hurry to move his

Copyright Jennifer Smart 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Jennifer Smart

hand, the one holding my palm at to his chest. So, I took a moment to look into his green eyes, the way they creased in the corners when he smiled. Very familiar, very sexy. And then I remembered my solemn vow: Do not, under any circumstances, pursue another workplace relationship, because they only end in tears. Mine, mostly. God, Tess, get a grip. I adjusted my scarf and attitude, making no effort to remove my other hand from under his. Made a mess of yourself, have you, Sean? Sean Tylers body tensed as he abruptly moved away from me and towards the voice. Hey, babe. This cant be good. I pasted on a smile and turned. Bree Brenner. Excellent. I meet the other half of Australias very own Brangelina only younger and without all those kids just when, to the casual observer, it might look as though I was feeling up Sean Tyler. Oh yes, way to go. Bree disappeared for a moment as Sean tried to embrace her in a bear hug, but she pushed him away. Possibly to avoid damp coffee stains, but more likely to have a better sightline for glaring at me. I felt weirdly guilty. It must have been mutual, because Sean was doing a very good impression of the cheating boyfriend. Hi, Im I know who you are, Bree said, without a trace of Hey, welcome to the show, good to meet you. Maybe she doesnt do mornings. But even at 5.30 am, this tiny blonde glamourpuss was condent of her hotness. Whereas I was more of a lukewarm morning girl. I just managed to stuff up Tesss day, Sean said into the tense atmosphere. Walked straight out of my dressing room without looking.

Copyright Jennifer Smart 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

The Wardrobe Girl

And where were you looking? Bree asked me. At least, I think she was asking me but it was possible she was only staring at me while still talking to Sean. Either way, she wasnt interested in my answer. She pushed him towards his dressing room, leaving me on my own in the hallway, coffee-stained, lost and running late. Im never late. Well, never late for work. Eight years at the BBC and I never missed my call time. Now, on my rst day in studio at Pretty Beach Rescue, I was late. Twelve minutes to be exact. Oh, and lets not forget the coffee spilt down the front of the leading man. Cracking start, Tess. Of course, there was only one person to blame for this: Fergus-the-love-rat-Blake. Actually, make that two people. Fergus-the-love-rat and Skanky Ho, sometimes known as CoCo Dhiri, although its possible that only I call her Skanky Ho, or Skank for short. Anyway, it had all happened in the ash of a paparazzi ashbulb. One moment I was Tess Appleby: the happily-in-love half of BBC couple Appleby and Blake; costume supervisor on quality period dramas; living in Highbury, London and friend to one or two reasonably well-known actor types. Then, in the ash of a red carpet snog, I became Tess Appleby: spinster, wardrobe standby on an Australian soap, staying in her childhood bedroom in her mothers Bronte home. Perhaps I should have realised before Fergus and Skank posed hand in hand as she nibbled his ear that Fergus wasnt the man hed made himself out to be. Steady, reliable, trustworthy, my arse. Lying, cheating, conniving . . . you get the picture. Oh, and did I mention he was my boss? He was my boss. Producer extraordinaire. Boss for ve years, partner for two and a half.

Copyright Jennifer Smart 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Jennifer Smart

Life in London became impossible. I was nursing a broken heart and Fergus was everywhere. He was at work, at the pub, the same cafs, the same cheese stall at Borough Market. Skanks stupid girl-band song was playing in the supermarket and they were both smiling up at me from my Sunday papers gossip section. It was a relentless onslaught of passion aunting. Of course, I acted quite maturely and during one of my drunken phone calls to my old friend Astrid, she offered me a job. For Gods sake, Toots, shed said, come home. Its just string bikinis, thongs and boardies on Pretty Beach Rescue. You could do it drunk and standing on your head. Only dont stuff up: the new producer gets a kick out of tearing up contracts. Id loved my work, but sun, surf and little responsibility had been very appealing. I may have been drunk but I do remember thinking that 17,000 kilometres between me and Fergus was a good idea. So, six weeks later at 6.52 am on my rst morning, I was reduced to hiding in the Channel Six bathroom, dabbing at my coffee-ecked shirt and staring at my pasty reection under the uoro light. Not even my hair was happy. Freshly dyed black, the rock chick layers had opped in the humidity, frizzed and waved. My dont-mess-with-me hair was all Zooey Deschanel soft and gooey. And, oh my God . . . I leant over the handbasin and peered at my chin. I had a pimple slowly swelling. Life could not be better. No, really. Bloody hell, Tess. Do you want me to kick your sorry arse out of here? Astrid had pushed the bathroom door open so hard it was still banging against the doorframe. Safe to assume she knew Id been late I wonder if she knows about the shirt yet?

Copyright Jennifer Smart 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

The Wardrobe Girl

Fifteen minutes late? On your rst day? Her eyebrow arched severely and she pushed an escaping auburn curl behind her ear. Twelve minutes, so closer to ten minutes. I smiled. Astrid had always loved my smile. Sorry, twelve minutes. No problem then. And maybe it was only water you managed to spill all over Sean Tylers shirt? Id forgotten how scary Astrid can be when shes angry. She was also prone to saying things like, Youre red. Dont collect your things, Ill send them. Her 1940s pin-up girl red lips were pursed and her arms crossed against her black Issey Miyake-ish sculptural dress. No, it was denitely coffee. Excellent. At least youll know what youll be washing out. She held the bathroom door open and stood back. Come on then, off to my ofce. I picked up my work bag and trudged down the empty concrete hallway to the wardrobe department, Astrid striding ahead, all business. Probably just as well I wasnt staying with her. Especially as her accountant girlfriend, Jules, kept a tally of my perceived slights and jealously guarded Astrid, her prize asset, from straight girls like me. Astrids ofce was in one corner, screened by a green curtain. It multi-tasked as a design space, tting room and kitchenette. Her workbench was piled precariously high with shopping bags, fashion magazines and assorted accessories, although there was space for a framed photo of her and Jules. A full-length mirror, clothing rack and mannequin were jammed in, leaving barely enough room for a chair, which Astrid comfortably occupied after she pulled the curtain closed. This couldnt be good.

Copyright Jennifer Smart 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Jennifer Smart

What the hells wrong, Tess? I dont know. It all feels a bit surreal being back here, working as a standby again. Well, youd better step out of that Salvador Dali painting, sweetcakes, because Lachlan Shaw is one producer who wont take any crap. And hes very real. He doesnt know, does he? He knows that Sean Tyler thinks youre delightful, despite the third-degrees burns all over his chest. Really? I tried not to seem too attered, but its not every day that a TV heartthrob with particularly yummy green eyes indulges in some pre-breakfast irting with the new wardrobe standby. Although he is an actor, so its probably not that unusual. Yes, really. He even phoned Lachlan Shaw to let him know how professional you were. Astrid had picked up a red sequinned cocktail dress and was artfully shredding it with a pair of scissors. Why would he do that? I dont know. His idea of foreplay maybe. Please. Hes with the ever so delightful Bree Brenner. What do you think? Astrid asked, inspecting the red dress. Does it look like its been worn by someone killed in a freak hailstorm? More like its been put through a paper shredder. But I was keen to get back on topic. He must have some agenda. And if Sean did have an agenda, Id like to know. I hated playing catch-up. A paper shredder? Astrid was toying with me. Well, we dont do subtle at Pretty Beach, so thats perfect. She put the dress to one side and looked at me. Tess, everyone here has

Copyright Jennifer Smart 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

The Wardrobe Girl

an agenda. Some people even want to make a TV show. As for Sean Tyler . . . who knows? But Ill tell you this for free: Bree Brenner is not happy. She told you that? No, Oli did. He takes his role as second assistant director very seriously and felt some moral obligation to tell me. Our not-so-private nook was suddenly disturbed by the whooshing open of the green curtain. A sashay of pink and a urry of air kisses overwhelmed the space. Dahling, Im going to kill the bastard. A middle-aged stocky man turned to face me with the rst genuine smile Id received all morning. Look at you, gorgeous. You must be Tess. Astrids told me all about you. Divine scarf. The psychedelic blue, black and yellow silk slipped through his ngers. Mmm, Pucci, he guessed correctly as my cheeks felt the breath of his air kiss brushing by. Marcus Tepper, art director on the verge of a nervous breakdown, he said by way of introduction. And without pausing for a reply continued: Yesterday, the new sets were fahbulous. His very word, dahling. This morning, theyre not workable. Camera portholes in the wrong places, paintwork the wrong colour, chairs in the caf all wrong. And can I x everything by the end of the week. Five minutes hes been here, dahling, ve minutes, and he wants three new sets and a hailstorm. At least he changed his mind about a tsunami destroying Pretty Beach. Can you imagine? Seventeen years Ive been on this show and every time we get a new producer, its the same crap. I nally caught up. The person responsible for Marcuss near nervous breakdown was Lachlan Shaw. So how long has Lachlan been the producer? I asked.

Copyright Jennifer Smart 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Jennifer Smart

About two months, said Astrid. Thats about right, I thought. Long enough to have the hang of the place and work out how to put his stamp on the show. It wont just be the sets hes changing; therell be some very nervous people about. Cast and crew. Nice shirt, Marcus, Astrid continued. You think so? He checked his reection. I wasnt sure. I thought the pastel pink made me look like an old poof, but then I remembered I am an old poof. So I bought it. I thought the blue pony gave it a masculine edge. He gave a laugh, a high-pitched, raucous nasal twang. I looked at the pastel blue pony poloing on his chest. Not even a sweat-drenched football strip would give Marcus a masculine edge. Twenty minutes before roll-up, he continued. Coming for a fag? Boom boom. He chortled at his own joke. Cmon, Tess, said Astrid. This might be your last chance til lunchtime. Lunchtime? But its only ten past seven, I said, utterly dismayed. Theres always time for a quick smoke, usually when theyre doing a lighting set-up or rehearsing. Was I really not going to get a break for ve hours? Get used to it, honey, laughed Astrid. This aint the Beeb now. She already had her cigarettes and lighter and was heading off. Marcus put a reassuring hand on my arm. Youre back in the colony now, dahling. We still like to crack the whip here. And then he was off after Astrid. I grabbed my Marlboro Lights out of my bag. If this was the only cigarette I was going to have before lunch I was determined to enjoy it, but rst I sent a text to London.

Copyright Jennifer Smart 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

The Wardrobe Girl

Hey Georgie, WORST DAY EVER AND ITS ONLY 7.10 AM. Was late. Spilt coee on extremely hot actors wrobe shirt. He was still in it. No cigarette break till lunch. Faark! Txx

That should keep her entertained, I thought, heading out of the wardrobe department into the hallway. How had I not noticed the broad yellow stripe painted along it? It was Channel Sixs very own Yellow Brick Road that led to Studio C, home to the set of Pretty Beach Rescue. I followed Astrid and Marcus towards that much-needed nicotine boost, but was intercepted at the scenery ats and prop furniture by a bloke who looked like an escapee from Hogwarts. A top hat propped on long black hair, black eyeliner, an eyebrow ring and a coat that was probably meant to artfully billow behind him but straggled along like a damp cat. No doubt about it, he was Severus Snapes long-lost second cousin. Ive been looking everywhere for you, he said, holding out a two-way radio and headset for me to take. This must be Oli, the serious Second A. Ill have a runner show you where the wardrobe department is. I smiled, hoping hed appreciate a little joke. Yeah, whatever. Press here. Talk there. Channel four is standby central, but if you want to tell me youve got lucky, use channel three. Got that, Apples? I gazed in bewildered awe at the twerp standing in front of me, realising that not only did he not possess a sense of humour, he wanted me to tell him about my sex life over the radio I was meant to cart around all day. And hed called me Apples. Nobody calls me Apples.

Copyright Jennifer Smart 2014. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Jennifer Smart

Thanks for the tip, Oli. And its Tess, not Apples. I smiled sweetly, but was sure Id spoken with authority. Cool boots, Apples, Oli said, with a nod, ignoring my icy tone. Make sure your radios on. With that, he turned and left. At least he has good taste in boots. Vintage cowboy, bought eight years ago at Portobello Market with my rst pay packet from the BBC. I checked the radio was on, hooked it to the back of my jeans and was looping the headset round my neck when my vibrating phone, stashed in my back pocket, heralded the arrival of a new message.
Bwahaha. What did I say? Back in Highbury for drinks 6 weeks tops. Gxx

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