Bespoke and bespelled, p.1
Bespoke and Bespelled, page 1
Bespoke and Bespelled
A Wellywood Magic Novella
Karen Healey
Copyright © 2023 by Karen Healey.
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by relevant copyright law.
For my best ladies, who know I can do it.
Contents
Bespoke and Bespelled
A note from the author
About the author
Riverwitch
More Witchy Fiction books
Bespoke and Bespelled
Standing on the bridge of her brutally beaten starship, Captain Judith Wren leaned forward, her teeth bared in something that could never be called a smile. ‘And why should we trust the Gorentheans?’
The Gorenthean ambassador swept his robed arms open, the long, brocaded sleeves glinting in the light of the dying star. ‘Because we have a common enemy, dear Captain.’
‘I am not your dear anything,’ Wren declared, turning her back abruptly.
The ambassador’s face showed pain, regret, even grief, before the captain turned around again and he presented her with an expression of ironic detachment. ‘You’ve made that apparent. But if you are not my friend, nor anything more, can you not, here, at the end of all things, be my ally? I tell you that the Crystal Array is our last hope, Captain! The last hope for both our peoples!’
Wren thrust her gloved hand forward. ‘Allies, then. And nothing more!’
The ambassador placed his hand under hers, in the manner of his people, and bowed. ‘As you say, my ally. And nothing more.’
‘And that’s a series wrap,’ the director said.
The actors standing in the starship set dropped their antagonistic poses and embraced as the set broke into applause.
Marnie Taylor, crammed into the back of the soundstage with most of the other crew members, inhaled sharply as the double-sided tape holding the back of Dana Sellen’s jacket together finally gave way, and then let the breath out again. It didn’t matter now. After five seasons, multiple Emmy awards, and a frankly still surprising amount of critical acclaim, The Stars are Falling was wrapped. Her work as costume supervisor and key costumer was over, and she’d never have to apply hot glue gun to a rank badge, safety pin an actress into an artfully disheveled space suit, or discreetly use her magic to fix a broken alien tentacle ever again.
At least, not on this show.
‘We’re done!’ Shatinka exclaimed. ‘I can’t believe it!’
Marnie laughed. Shatinka was the newest addition to the writing room, joining only at the end of season four and, unlike several of her more experienced colleagues, she’d been very eager to attend the shooting of the final scenes. ‘You’re finished. My crew and I still have to sort and store the costumes.’
‘Will that take long?’
‘About a week.’ Actually, Marnie knew the work could be done in a few days if it had to be, but the producers had authorised the week of extra pay, and Marnie didn’t plan to finish early. She and her team could spend their time repairing what could be repaired, dumping what couldn’t, and storing everything else in the studio’s huge costume warehouse. A leisurely pace, after years of frantic action, would be a nice break.
Then there were all those little requests the cast had made. People tended to get sentimental about characters they’d played for years, and they wanted mementoes. They didn’t necessarily want those mementoes to be stuck together with bulldog clips and some strategic use of glue gun, so Marnie would have to make them presentable.
Dana was making the rounds, hugging the production crew members she was close to, and shaking hands with others. She went a step further and clasped Marnie’s hands in both of hers after the hug. ‘Marnie, we’d never have managed without you.’
Marnie squeezed back. ‘Of course you would, Dana. Just as you’ll manage your next project. Break a leg.’
‘Back to Broadway,’ Dana said, looking profoundly grateful. She was booked for a four month play run, which would make more use of her considerable gravitas, and require no 5 AM makeup calls. She nodded kindly at Shatinka, probably because she couldn’t remember her name, and headed towards the camera crew.
‘Every time I see her, I can’t believe she’s that beautiful,’ Shatinka said. ‘Like, in real life. You know?’
‘Not really,’ Marnie said. ‘I mean, in costuming, we basically don’t notice.’ She’d seen Dana naked many more times than she’d had a work day end on schedule, and she’d never felt a moment of attraction. Bodies weren’t objects of desire when they entered her fitting workshop; they were canvases for expression, or the basis of some imaginative problem solving.
If she’d met Dana socially, she might have been as enamoured as Shatinka was, but it just didn’t happen at work.
Shatinka looked as if she’d argue, then shrugged. ‘What’s next for you?’
‘I’ve got some possibilities for the fall line-up.’
‘Costume supervising?’
‘I’m hoping for a design position, this time.’
The studio had, in fact, told her to make a bid for being the costume supervisor on any show she liked, with the extra carrot of not also having to act as key costumer. This was the reward for being reliable - and for the four Emmy nominations the costumes had received. They’d been considerably less encouraging about her desire to be a designer. Marnie was sick of assiduously, diligently - perfectly - carrying out someone else’s vision. She wanted to be the one creating the vision herself.
‘You don’t sound enthusiastic.’
‘I’m just tired,’ Marnie said, and summoned enough energy to smile at the girl. Shatinka was young, and the ruthless grind of the Hollywood machine hadn’t worn away all of her naivete. Marnie didn’t want to take that from her. ‘What about you? What’s your next step?’
Shatinka launched into an eager description of her next project, and Marnie listened with half an ear, nodding where appropriate, and pausing every now and then to shake someone’s hand or exchange a few words with a friend. The rest of her attention was on the other side of the room, where Peri, the show’s costume designer, was finishing her farewells with the showrunners.
Peri caught her eye, winced a little, and then jerked her chin up in an unspoken suggestion to come over.
Marnie excused herself and made her way across the room, her heart sinking. Peri had no doubt tried her best, but that wince spoke volumes.
And indeed, the first thing Peri said was, ‘I don’t think they’ll offer you costume design, Marnie.’
Marnie grimaced.
‘I told them about how much of the design you did while my mom was sick last year but--’
‘But they’ve got someone else in mind.’
‘You guessed it. Honestly, Marnie, you’re just too good. You’re the best in-house costume supervisor they’ve got. No one wants to lose you from supervising these big shows to do design on a little one.’
‘And it’s too much of a risk to offer me design on a big one.’ Starlight Studios hated risk.
‘It shouldn’t be,’ Peri said. ‘You’ve got all the experience. I bet if you went freelance you’d get a ton of offers.’
She possibly would. And then she’d be cut loose when a pilot or season ended, with a mortgage to pay. Starlight offering her an in-house role four years ago had been an extraordinary relief. Hollywood valued young and fresh, and at 41 years old, Marnie couldn’t fake that any more, even if she’d wanted to. Stability and security had become much more attractive.
But now she was stuck, cursed by her own competence, and it was either leave to take her chances with freelancing, or stay in a position that no longer offered her a satisfying challenge.
Or do something else altogether, but God knew what that could be.
‘I’m too old for this,’ she muttered.
‘You’re midlife,’ Peri said. She was a woman of a certain age herself. ‘You’re having a midlife crisis.’
‘Did you?’
‘Sure. Got divorced, bought a house, learned to ride a motorbike. The usual.’
Marnie had nobody to divorce, already owned a house, and had no desire to ride a motorbike. ‘Maybe I’ll just double down on the career angst,’ she said.
‘That’s the spirit,’ Peri said. ‘And Marnie, look, I’ll keep trying. I mean it. You should be designing, and I’ll say it to anyone who’ll listen. It’s not that anyone really thinks you’d screw it up. They just want you to keep doing your magic.’
‘Hah,’ Marnie said weakly. Not even Peri knew that Marnie’s costume magic wasn’t metaphorical. A good stitch-witch could convince rips to mend themselves, lift stubborn stains out of any fabric, whisper the most difficult material into submission, and find the perfect garment in the perfect fit in a huge warehouse of past costumes - all skills that came in very handy in the busy life of a studio costume department.
A very good stitch-witch—and Marnie was descended from a long line of them—could do more. Marnie’s ancestors had made garments that stopped bullets and inspired revolutions. Marnie had chosen a more subtle and less world-altering path, but the shows she worked on were more likely to get award nominations, critical praise, and invested audiences. TV was collaborative; no one person was responsible for any show’s success.
But she definitely helped.
And if she was designing, she could do more. She could create more. ‘I’d appreciate
‘In the meantime, what’ll you be working on next?’
‘Jarrold wants me for the Sunset adaptation.’
‘Oh, he’s a good producer. Good guy, too.’ Peri didn’t have to add that not everyone was. They both had a list of people they’d never work with again. ‘That’s not so bad, is it?’
‘No,’ Marnie said. ‘Not so bad.’ Looking into Peri’s anxious face, she couldn’t bring herself to explain that ‘not so bad’ had long ago stopped being satisfying.
***
TWO MONTHS LATER:
‘Bad news for Sunset,’ Jarrold said, over Marnie’s bluetooth speakers.
Marnie signalled and changed lanes. Los Angeles’ notorious freeways probably weren’t the best place for this conversation, but she was almost home, and she appreciated the personal touch.
Besides, it wasn’t as if the news was a shock. Marnie hadn’t held out a lot of hope for the new series, an adaptation of a post-apocalyptic comic book, with high budget requirements and a lacklustre script. The pilot filming had gone mostly fine. The costume design had also been mostly fine. Marnie had dutifully carried out the designer’s dictates.
But the show didn’t spark. ‘They didn’t pick it up to series,’ she said.
‘Nope,’ the producer sighed, sounding deeply despondent. Marnie reminded herself that she was in a better position than most of the production team. A few were studio employees, like her, but most of them would be back on the hustle, including her two assistants.
‘I’ll let my team know,’ she said, and signalled for the Diamond Bar exit. An SUV roared past, going at least 20 over the limit, and Marnie rolled her eyes.
‘Thanks, Marnie. It was nice working with you.’
‘You too.’
‘I’ll keep in touch,’ Jarrold promised before he signed off, and Marnie nearly rolled her eyes at that too. Of course he meant it. Jarrold really was a good guy. But unless they were back on the same show another time, it’d never happen. You knew people, and you bumped into people at premieres and events, and you said ‘Let’s get lunch’, but real friendship, the kind she and Peri had haphazardly developed, was much more rare.
Marnie swung into her garage and parked. ‘You’re getting cynical,’ she told herself, dropping her keys in the bowl on her entrance table. ‘You’re getting bitter, and you need to go to therapy or take a vacation or something.’
Her stomach growled. ‘Or eat.’
The fridge held a half-eaten bag of baby carrots, some havarti, and the last dregs of a chardonnay bottle. Marnie ordered Thai and curled up on her couch to wait for it, flipping the quilt her grandmother had made over her stockinged feet. It snuggled warmly around them, sensing her need for comfort. She stared out of the glass doors into the darkness of her backyard. She didn’t need to see it to know that it was a dismal affair, where a scraggly lemon tree eked out a precarious existence amongst the overgrown pampas grass.
She should organise some landscaping. She should go grocery shopping and actually cook something for once. She should spend more time in the home she loved, instead of working ten, twelve, fourteen-hour days, six days a week.
Her phone rang again. She answered without checking who it was - Peri had probably heard the Sunset news through the studio grapevine.
‘Marnie Taylor?’ An unfamiliar voice. ‘Hello. I’m Wiremu Ford.’
She didn’t recognise the name, but that was a Māori first name and a New Zealand accent. The sudden recognition of home hit her right in the gut, and Marnie breathed deep.
‘Yes?’ she said.
‘Peri Gilpin gave me your number. I’m an assistant producer for an international production shoot in New Zealand, starting next month. We’re looking for someone to do costume supervision.’
‘What’s the project?’ Marnie said automatically, and then grimaced. What she should have said was ‘Sorry, I’m already gainfully employed’, but years of hustle had made the response automatic.
‘It’s confidential at this stage,’ Wiremu said. ‘What I can tell you is that it’s a film shoot, and if things go well, a series of films, with lots of work in New Zealand for the next three years. The problem is, the company wants their people involved, and their people are all British. To get those government tax credits--’
‘-- you need New Zealanders in production,’ Marnie said. ‘I see.’ She tapped her knee thoughtfully. Her skirt smoothed its wrinkles, preening at the touch. ‘But there must be people closer to home. What about Kearney Thompson?’
‘He’s in the West End at the moment.’
‘Miriama Tamaira?’
‘Putting together a collection for Sydney Fashion Week.’
‘Oh, good for her,’ Marnie said, making a mental note to email Miriama some time.
‘They both told me to call you,’ Wiremu said. ‘Everyone told me to call you.’ He sounded exhausted. It was very early morning in Wellington, and Marnie wondered if he’d stayed up through the night. Just how big a deal was this shoot?
Hm. Film shoot, partly on location in New Zealand, first in a possible series, probably fantasy or sci fi because that’s what she was known for, and a big enough deal that they wouldn’t tell her what it was until she was signed on.
‘It’s The Queen’s Horde, isn’t it?’ she asked.
Silence. A shaky sigh.
‘I can’t deny or confirm that,’ Wiremu said.
Marnie’s gaze flicked to her bookshelves. At the bottom were her most loved reference books, heavy tomes full of lavish photographs and detailed illustrations. At the top was her collection of ornamental snails, a joke from a friend that had got way out of hand. But on one of the middle shelves, close at hand, were her ruffled copies of The Queen’s Horde series.
She couldn’t say ‘Those are my favourite books!’ You could never say that. You were just setting yourself up for disappointment, or, worse, being branded as a fan.
Besides, she couldn’t take this job. She already had one.
‘Well, thank you very much for your interest,’ Marnie said. ‘But I’m afraid I-’ Her skirt waistband tightened abruptly, and she lost the end of the sentence as the air squeezed out of her.
‘Sorry, didn’t catch that.’
‘Unfortunately, I need to–’ The quilt launched itself at her face, and she batted it down. ‘Stop that!’
‘Um?’
‘Sorry, my uh, my cat’s being a pain.’ She tossed the quilt off the couch and tugged her clothes back into place. They resisted. She bore down hard with her magic, feeling every fibre push back.
She liked L.A. She liked working in TV. She didn’t need to leave her nice home and secure employment to fly across the Pacific for a contract job doing costume supervision on location shoots for a few months while a bunch of stressed PAs and spoiled wannabe stars raised her blood pressure. Not only was it insanely reckless, it would absolutely destroy her adoration of K.V. Stearns’ sweeping epic of Victorian-era love, grief, and zombies.
Unless.
‘It would need to be an assistant designer position,’ she said, and her skirt smoothed under her hands.
‘The design’s finished,’ Wiremu said, sounding bemused. ‘It was finished months ago, in London. We’ve been shooting for a while, mostly in London and Prague.’
‘Is the chief designer going to be at the New Zealand shoot?’ Marnie asked.
‘I don’t think so. He’s stayed in London so far.’
And thus, he wouldn’t be there to handle all the last-minute costume alterations and changes that always happened on set. Unless the designer was a total control freak, that was usually left up to an assistant. Or a costume supervisor, doing design work, but not being credited for it.
‘I can handle the location design,’ she said. Her voice was firm and clear, but she was crossing her fingers so hard the knuckles whitened. ‘I can work within the designer’s vision - I did that on The Stars are Falling. But my contract needs to include a design assistant credit. And that would need to be at Local 892 rates.’ Local 892 was the costume designer union she’d wanted to join for years.
Her shirt hem tucked itself back into her waistband, smoothing itself out.
