The Director's Cut by Js Taylor (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud txt) 📕

Callum, pointing. “Isabella, you and I are over here. Come on darlings. It’s time to get the catwalk look.”

He says this last word with a comic toss of his head, and both Lorna and I laugh.

“Ok,” says Lorna, “I’m going over there. I might not live through today, but if I do, I’ll see you later.”

“Small sips of Coke,” advises Callum sagely.

Lorna gives us one last hung-over grunt, and then follows the milling crowd of other extras.

Callum leads me towards a selection of rolling hangers, and I’m pleased he’s here to guide me. I know plenty about wardrobe from drama college. But I’ve never seen how it works on a real location shoot.

I’m excited though. In theatre, there’s a wardrobe mistress who designs the costumes. But in films, the actors usually get a whole array of carefully chosen clothes.

I’m dying to see what my character will be wearing.

“There’s no one on wardrobe today,” Callum explains, “because of the reduced crew.”

He doesn’t mention the reason for this, and I feel a usual pang of unease.

“But wardrobe have sent a selection of location clothes,” Callum adds, “and you’ll get to meet the designer back in England. He’s a riot. You’ll love him.”

“There’s a designer?”

I’ve never heard of this. Usually wardrobe is run by a regular person who’s worked their way up from fixing costumes.

Hiring an actual designer is an unheard of luxury.

“Yep,” Callum nods. “That’s Berkeley for you. He employs a designer to make a collection for each of the characters. They’re given all your character notes, everything.”

“Wow.” I’m even more excited now. What will a designer have made of Grace’s character?

We’re by the rolling hanger racks now, and I make out one with Callum’s name scrawled on a piece of card and stapled to the end of the rack. “There’s you,” I say, pointing to a selection of jeans, T-shirts and stylish sneakers. Clearly Callum’s reporter look is to be casual.

I spot my name and approach my hanger.

“I can choose what I like?” I ask Callum, letting my hand trail over the clothes.

“Yep. Whatever you think will work for the scene.”

We sure do have a lot of agency on this set, I think, looking carefully at the clothes. Better make sure I choose right.

Based on what I can see, the costume designer has a pretty similar idea of Grace to me. He’s styled Grace in fashionable work wear with a formal edge.

I pick out a deep blue pencil skirt and matching top with a peplum hem.

Perfect. This is exactly the sort of thing Grace would wear in Spain.

In the movie, Grace is a little controlling, and insular. I think she’d be the kind of girl who wore semi-formal wear in a European café. Even when everyone around her was in tight tees and flip-flops.

I smile. I’d never realised how much fun it could be to add definition to a character in this way.

“Ready?” asks Callum. He has already slung his outfit over his arm and is holding a pair of sneakers.

“Give me a sec.”

I duck down and select a pair of polka dot flats in a shade to match. “Ready.”

“Ok,” says Callum. “We change in those cabins.”

I change as quickly as possible. The small cabin has a mirror, and I take a quick glance at myself. The blue pencil skirt is tight, and to my dismay, the outline of my panties is on clear view.

I chew my lip, thinking of a solution. They’re hardly likely to have a spare G-string in the wardrobe department.

There’s nothing else for it. I’ll have to dispense with my panties altogether. The skirt is knee-length in any case. There’s not really a risk of exposure.

I tug my panties off carefully and fold them discretely amongst my other civilian clothes.

I can’t help but smile to myself as I head out to meet Callum. Wearing no panties is like having my own sexy secret. I feel slightly daring as I walk back out into the main square.

Once again, Callum knows the drill concerning hair and make-up. Apparently, one of the trailers will be where we get made-up.

“Don’t you have your own hair and make-up people?” I ask Callum as we make towards the trailer.

From what I’d heard, all Hollywood A-list had their own staff.

“Sometimes,” says Callum. “But it’s not such a big deal. If I’m on location and it’s difficult to arrange, I just go with the on-set staff. Besides,” he adds, “I’m not in too many scenes today, so it doesn’t matter if I’m not looking devastating.”

I laugh, and Callum opens the trailer door.

He gestures that I should step inside first, and I’m surprised at how much room there is. It really is massive.

One wall is all mirrors, with a table chock-full of make-up and hair products. There are palettes of eye-shadow, foundation, and blush, long bottles of hairspray, and countless other products.

None of them are brands I recognise, and they all have an industrial look to them. As though they were bought in large quantities.

There are huge lights above the mirrors, and it’s so bright inside, it’s almost dazzling. The lights throw out a lot of heat too. And there’s a waxy smell in the air, as though products are already melting in here.

There are two director-style chairs in front of the mirrors. And to my mixed embarrassment and delight, there’s a chair with a big gold star and my name on the back. Another bears Callum’s name.

A girl around my age stands behind my chair. She has a perfect hot pink bob and impeccable goth-style make-up, with lipstick to match her hair.

“Ms Green?” she asks.

“Hi,” I say shyly, extending my hand. I’m wondering how she could apply her pale foundation so perfectly. She looks like a box-fresh doll.

The girl shakes my hand warmly, and the long lashes of her eyes blink. “I’m Kristy.” She has a neutral English accent, which I can’t place geographically.

“Call me, Issy,” I say. “Please.”

I look towards my chair. “I didn’t know they did that in real life,” I