Page 5 of Double Standard

This feels like a test, until she lets a sweet smile slip and gives my side a poke with her elbow.

I can play.

“I’m sure you’re very lovable, Ana Barlow, but I’m in no place to test the theory. You’ve given me a great opportunity I can’t afford to screw up. And though you seem lovely, you’re not exactly my type.” I wink.

Ana scoffs. “Stop calling me by my legal name, Levi Stephens. And also, what’s that supposed to mean, I’m not your ‘type’?”

“You’re blonde and demanding.” I shrug. “I’m more of a brunette and easygoing kind of guy.”

“Well, lucky for you, I’m not a muscled brute kind of girl.”

“Yeah? What’s your thing?” My curiosity about this woman sneaks through despite myself.

“If my past is any indication: hot leading men who, when I’m no longer of benefit to them, find someone hotter than me to be with.” She rolls her eyes again. “Getting feelings involved has never been good for me.”

“Great. I won’t fall in love with you, you won’t fall in love with me. We’ll help each other out and then move on when production is over.” I say this casually, as if it’s a normal thing people do. I guess here, it might be.

“Do we have a deal?”

I stick out a hand, less clammy than before. “When do we start?”

“At the studio for fittings the day after next?”

“I’d be honored.”

She narrows her eyes at me but takes my hand in a firm shake. It echoes the speed of my racing heart. “Save the gushing for the studio. With my reputation, you’re going to need it.”

VI

Levi

Getting fitted by the costume department at the production office makes me feel like the cows in the milking parlor back home: Shuffled from one place to another, manhandled, spun around, tugged and pinched, then shepherded off to the next thing by a handler. It seems to be business as usual for everyone else—they’re having casual conversations about creatine supplements and Los Feliz restaurants like it isn’t bizarre to be treated like a human mannequin.

Colt checks himself out in a mirror. We’re wearing identical cream-colored tunics, layered and belted at the waist. A costume assistant takes a photo of us from the front, then turns us to the side. “These skirts are something,” Colt says.

I shrug. “At least they’ll make for easy movement.” He responds with a kick of his leg that’s moreKarate Kidthan Greek god. It also becomes obvious that he’s not wearingunderwear. I avert my eyes and redirect the conversation. “So is this the first time you’ve done a film with your wife?”

His sharp laugh punctuates the air. “Ha! Hardly. Francesca and I met on a set almost twenty years ago. She was an AD for one of the first films I booked. Really young at the time, both of us. Couldn’t keep my eyes off her then.” His face takes on a far-off look, like he’s plugging himself into the memory, before shaking his head and continuing. “She’s never directed me before, though. But after two decades of her nagging me incessantly, I imagine it’ll feel familiar enough.” With that, he leans over and punches me in the arm. A gesture that says,Women, am I right?

I huff out a laugh and slap on a perfunctory smile. What’s the balance between trying to impress this guy but still maintaining my integrity, exactly? The costumer unwrapping fabric at my waist keeps her face blank, but her discomfort hangs heavily in the air. I fight the urge to apologize for him.

When she steps away, Colt seizes the moment. “Levi, here’s some advice you didn’t ask for. Sometimes women in the industry can be... let’s say, tricky. They’ve spent years hustling for what they want, and they’ll do whatever it takes to keep it. Now I’m not saying Ana is looking to take advantage of you with this dating scheme”—he stops to survey the space to be sure no one will walk in on whatever he says next—“but she’d still throw you under the bus in a heartbeat. Keep your hand over your balls, is what I’m saying.”

The words come out smooth and land like slime. And he’s right that I didn’t ask for his advice: Ana and I have a plan here—and we’rebothdoing this for our careers. No surprises and no feelings. “Right. I’ll, uh, keep an eye out.”

“Levi!” Ana shouts when she spots me from down the hall. She is being trailed by her manager, is actively texting, and, based on the production schedule we received this morning, is behind for her fitting. It’s a wonder someone isn’t trying to measure her while she walks based on how busy she looks.

Our charade starts now, I guess. Do I jog over to meet her? Offer to take her purse? Greet her with a hug or something? I was confident about my ability to pull this off when we agreed to it—I mean, women like me, or at least they do in Ohio—but now? My palms go sticky as I stand here.

“What’s up?” I shout back like an idiot. Like I’m fourteen again.

As she comes nearer, the smile on her face makes me think she might actually be glad to see me—or it would if I didn’t know she was playing a part. “I was hoping to catch you between your fitting and mine. How did it go?”

“Well, I accidentally saw Colt’s balls, so that was something.” I need to stop saying shit without thinking.

A laugh, authentic enough that it seems to surprise her, lands between us. Like a permission slip signed by Anaherself, it dissolves some of my nerves. “Well, I’d say that’s atypical for a first fitting.”

“My eyes can only hope.”