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

Callum is behind me now.

“Absolutely they do,” he says. “You know what actors are like. We have to be told we’re big stars at every opportunity.”

He stands beside me.

“Kristy?” he says, struggling for the name for a moment.

Kristy’s hot pink lips break into a wide grin. “I can’t believe you remembered,” she said. “It’s been years since I saw you last.”

“I never forget a pretty face,” says Callum. “But you fooled me. Your hair was blonde the last time.”

“Yeah,” says Kristy, grinning and tugging a strand of hair. “I like to keep things fresh.”

“So, you’ll be doing our make-up?” asks Callum.

“Yes,” says Kristy. “Mr Berkeley said you wouldn’t mind sharing me with Ms Green.”

“Absolutely not,” says Callum. “In fact, I can do a lot of my own. Free you up to make Isabella even more gorgeous.”

“Really?” Kristy sounds relieved. “Honesty. That would be great. I’m on a tight schedule. I was up arranging things for Ms Ennis’s make-up artist, and I’m running behind.”

“No problem,” says Callum, and he seats himself in the chair next to mine. “Isabella, you are in good hands,” he adds. “Kristy is one of the very best. Mr Berkeley must have pulled some dark deals to win her over.”

Kristy grins.

Callum begins plucking bottles and lotions from the array in front of him.

“You can do your own mark-up?” I say curiously.

“More or less,” says Callum, frowning in concentration as he selects products. “I started on the stage. Worked my way up through a lot of lowly roles. You do your own everything when you’re at the bottom.”

“Oh.” I take a seat, thinking about this.

I guess Natalie started at the top, and more or less stayed there. No wonder she and Callum are often at odds. I can’t imagine Natalie offering to do her own make-up.

The door thuds open again, and another girl launches through the trailer door, brandishing a hair dryer. She has shoulder length hair, strobed with perfect blonde highlights. And her generous curves are crammed into a floral print dress, with a large amount of cleavage spilling over at the top.

She has an unusual kind of face. Not pretty exactly, but kind of cute, in an owlish way, with large brown eyes and a chin which tapers away to nothing.

Then again, with Kristy’s perfect doll features, she’s got a tough compare.

“Ms Green?” she asks. I nod, and she gives me a tight nod in reply. “We’ve got one of the female cast then,” she says, sounding annoyed. “No one can find Ms Ennis. And we’ve only got an hour to get them all on set.”

She’s speaking only to Kristy now, as though Callum and I weren’t even here.

Then, without another word, she takes two strides towards me, grabs my head, and begins working product through my hair.

I try not to flinch in shock as she manipulates my head this way and that.

Is this normal? Maybe she’s done this for so long, she’s used to treating people like pieces of meat. I can’t say I like it much.

“Hi,” I say cautiously as she manhandles my head. “I’m Issy.”

“Hello,” she says distractedly, “I’m Scarlett.” She reaches forward and shakes my hand whilst I’m still seated, without breaking from her hairdressing.

“After Scarlett O’Hara,” she adds, “so no jokes, ‘cause I’ve heard them all.” Her accent is East-End London, which makes the demand sound even harsher.

I catch Callum’s eye, and he raises his eyebrows at me.

“Sorry for the rush,” Scarlett says, seeming to mellow a little, now she’s pulling around fistfuls of my hair. “We’re all very behind today.”

She lifts a few strands and sprays what feels to be an entire bottle of product along them. Then she fires up the hairdryer and begins enthusiastically blow-drying.

As Scarlett works, Kristy steps forward with a clutch of make-up brushes in her hand.

“Mr Berkeley said daytime make-up,” she muses. “And Issy, you have such huge eyes, I think we’ll have to tone them down a little, ok?”

“Ok.” I don’t know what else to say.

Kristy picks up a pot of nameless goo from the table in front of us and paints a thick daubing of it on my mouth.

“That’s to stop your lips drying out in the heat of the trailer,” she explains. “I’ll put on lipstick last.”

As Scarlett pulls my hair around, Kristy’s face zooms in front of mine, taking in different angles. Then she pulls back, assessing me in the mirror.

“Pale, with golden tones,” she mutters, popping open a huge black box to reveal a huge palette of skin tones.

Kristy spends a few minutes blending a few of the shades on her hand, and then tries a stroke of colour on my jawline.

“Perfect,” she says with satisfaction as the colour vanishes into my face.

She takes a large brush and begins painting a liquid carefully onto my face.

“This is fixer,” she explains. “To stop your make-up sliding off in the sun and the lights.”

Then she takes a concealer pen and paints under my eyes a bright white.

“Don’t worry,” she says, “I’ll blend it in.”

When she’s finished, she takes another brush and paints on a thick layer of foundation. It’s the texture of a mousse, and I can almost feel my pores clogging.

As Kristy adds layer upon layer of make-up, I let my mind wander. And I find myself thinking about Ben Gracey.

It still seems like too much of a coincidence to me that he showed up in Barcelona the same time as the reporter. Maybe James is giving him too much credit.

If only I knew the story behind Ben and Camilla, I could make a better assessment.

I think about this. I can’t really call Camilla and ask her. It’s too personal to talk about on the phone. I’ll have to wait until I see her in person, so I can gauge from her face whether she minds telling me.

At least that shouldn’t be too long.

Unless another leak happens.

“Ok, stage one is done.” The sound of Kristy’s voice jolts me out of my reverie. And my eyes focus