“You are a seamstress?”
My whole face freezes. A seamstress?
“Er … of course,” I say after what seems like an eternity. “Of course I’m a seamstress. What else would I be?”
I need to get out of this room. Quickly. But before I can move, the girl is handing me the shirt.
“OK. So this is for the older Mrs. Bridges. I need a hem in the bottom, half an inch. You should use slip stitch for these garments,” she adds. “I’m sure Deirdre told you that. Did she show you the attachment?”
“Absolutely.” I try to sound professional. “Slip stitch. Actually, I’m just on my way to get a coffee, so I’ll do that later.” I put the shirt down next to a sewing machine. “Lovely to meet you—”
“Jesus Christ!” the girl erupts, and I jump in fright. “You won’t do it later; you’ll do it now! We’re shooting! This is your first day and you come in with that attitude?”
She’s so scary I take a step back.
“Sorry,” I gulp.
“Well, do you want to start?” The girl nods toward the sewing machines, then folds her arms. I have no way out of this. None.
“Right,” I say after a pause, and take a seat in front of one of the sewing machines. “So.”
I’ve seen Mum using a sewing machine. And Danny. You just put the material under the needle and push the pedal. I can do this.
My face hot, I cautiously insert the shirt into the sewing machine.
“Aren’t you going to pin it?” says the girl critically.
“Er … I pin as I go,” I say. “It’s just the way I do it.” Experimentally, I press the pedal, and thankfully the sewing machine whirs along vigorously as though I’m an expert. I reach for a pin, shove it into the fabric, then sew a bit more. I think I look pretty convincing, as long as the girl doesn’t come anywhere near me.
“Do you want to pick this up in a minute?” I say. “I could bring it to you, maybe?”
To my relief, there’s a crackling sound from her headset. She shakes her head impatiently, trying to listen, then steps outside the room. At once I stop sewing. Thank God. Time to make a run for it. I’m halfway out of the chair when the door swings back open and, to my horror, it’s the girl again.
“They want some pin tucks down the front as well. Did you finish the hem?”
“Um.” I swallow. “Nearly.”
“So, finish it and put in the pin tucks.” She claps her hands. “Come on! They’re waiting! Now!”
“Right.” I nod and hastily start up the sewing machine again. “Pin tucks. Coming up.”
“And two extra sleeve tucks at the shoulder. You can do that?”
“Sleeve tucks. No problem.”
I briskly sew a seam, then turn the blouse and sew another seam. She’s still watching me. Why is she still watching me? Doesn’t she have anywhere else to go?
“So,” I say. “I’ll just … put those tucks in.”
I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m pushing the shirt back and forth, crisscrossing seams all over it. I don’t dare stop; I don’t dare look up. I’m just willing the girl to leave. Go, please go … please, please go …
“Are you nearly done?” The girl listens to her headset. “They’re waiting for it.”
I feel like I’m in a never-ending sewing nightmare. The shirt is a mishmash of random wavery stitches; in fact, I’ve actually stitched the whole thing together. I’m sewing more and more feverishly, backward and forward, praying that something gets me out of this.…
“Hello? Excuse me?” She raises her voice over the sound of the sewing machine. “Can you hear me? Hey!” She bangs a hand on the table. “Can you hear me?”
“Oh.” I look up as though hearing her for the first time. “Sorry. I was just sewing.”
“The shirt?” She holds out her hand.
I stare steadily back at her. The blood is pulsing in my ears. Any minute now she’s going to grab the shirt from the sewing machine and it will all be over. And she won’t let me leave and I’ll be arrested by the studio secret police in dark jackets and my whole plan will fail before it’s even begun.
“Actually … I think I’m going to change career,” I say in desperation.
“What?” The girl gapes at me.
“Yes. I’ve had a sudden realization. I don’t want to be a seamstress anymore; I want to work with animals.”
“Animals?” She seems absolutely poleaxed, and I take advantage of this fact to get up and start edging past her to the door.
“Yes. I’m going to go to Borneo and work with gorillas. It’s always been my dream. So, er, thank you for the opportunity.” I back out of the room. “Say thank you to Deirdre too. You’ve all been lovely to work with!”
The girl is still staring at me, openmouthed, as I hurry out of the double doors. I can hear her calling something, but I don’t stop to listen. I have to get out.
THE MISSOURI ECHO
ST. LOUIS SENIOR “DISCOVERED”
IN HOLLYWOOD GIFT STORE
BY: OUR MOVIE REPORTER
When seventy-year-old Edna Gatterby from St. Louis went on a tour of Sedgewood Studios, she expected to end up with a souvenir or two. Instead, she came away with a part in a major Sedgewood production, Fought the Day, a World War II weepie that begins production next month.
The Missouri senior found herself being screen-tested by director Ron Thickson after an encounter in the gift store. “I was browsing for a gift when an old lady tumbled to the ground,” commented Thickson. “As I ran to help her, I caught sight of her face, and she matched perfectly my vision of Vera, the hero’s grandmother.” Edna was screen-tested later that day and has been offered the small role.