It’s a strut that looks confident and careless and hides the fact that I feel like an impostor.
Members of the crew look up as I approach. One of the men has a light meter around his neck. He must be the photographer or the photographer’s assistant. Another man has tools and duct tape hanging from his belt. The thin, graying brunette with closely cropped hair and a clipboard has to be the stylist. She eyes me critically as I join them. I know the look. She’s a woman who feels she has to be a bitch to be taken seriously. She also thinks that Dallas is the big time and she’s the big cheese and I’m lucky to be here on her shoot.
“Good morning,” I say, feeling the sun beat down. It’s not yet ten and it’s already muggy hot. If we’re shooting outside today, wearing winter coats, it’s going to be miserable. “I’m Shey Darcy, and I’m looking for DeeDee.”
The graying brunette gives me another slow once-over. “You’re late.”
I open my mouth to protest, as Joanne had assured me she’d handle this part, then snap it shut and smile tightly instead. “DeeDee?”
She rolls her eyes at the men and then gestures for me to follow her. “Let’s get you to hair and makeup.”
I follow her to a small trailer tucked between a U-Haul truck and a white equipment truck. The trailer is already too crowded with models in various states of dress and undress. It’s also noisy, thanks to the chatter of half a dozen voices and the air conditioner chugging out cool air.
DeeDee introduces me to Marna, who apparently is doing hair and some makeup. “This is our model, the one we’ve been waiting for.”
Marna frowns as her gaze sweeps me up and down. “This is our grandmother?”
DeeDee shrugs. “It’s who the agency sent. Age her. Put a wig on her or spray some gray on the hair. Do what you can.”
My heart sinks as DeeDee exits the trailer. I’m not a young adult or a young mom. I’m playing Grandma today. Lucky, lucky me.
It’s one-thirty in the afternoon and I’m standing on the bottom step of the Highland Park Tudor-style mansion holding a stack of brightly wrapped Christmas packages, dressed in a silver turtleneck, black pants, a black merino wool jacket, and black leather boots, with a long black wool coat on top. And despite the packages crammed in my arms, tight wig on my head, and the scratch of itchy wool fabric, I’m smiling up at my adorable grandchildren, who are running out of the house to meet me.
Unfortunately, the adorable grandchildren can’t smile in the same frame, which means we reshoot again and again. And the sun’s a little too direct overhead, which means we keep repositioning the lights and reflector screens. And heck, it’s only eighty-nine degrees without the wig, turtleneck, jacket, coat, boots, lights, and silver reflectors.
A bead of sweat slides down my rib cage. And then another.
The photographer pauses to check his camera and then the light meter.
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