"Kim Newman - The Serial Murders" - читать интересную книгу автора (Newman Kim)

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Head of Wardrobe at O'Dell-Squiers was Madame Louise ┼аsperance d'Ailly-Guin ("Mama-Lou"), a tall,
slender woman, graphite-black, with large, lively eyes and a bewitching islands accent. Her office ensemble
ran to a red mushroom-shaped turban, white silk strapless evening dress with artfully ragged hems, and
matching PVC go-go boots. Behind her desk was an altar to Erzulie Freda and a framed snapshot of a
younger Mama-Lou frozen in the middle of a snake-waving dance under a Haitian waterfall.
Richard, inclined by instinct to look gift horses in the mouth, felt the same way about a gift houngan.
Tara, the wardrobe assistant Richard had seen on set, was showing Mama-Lou a range of designs for
Priscilla's future dresses. Mama-Lou pencilled crosses on the rejects, flicking away hours of work.
Richard did not insist on being attended to. It was more useful to observe.
Last night, in the TV room at the guest house, Richard had for the first time watched The Northern Barstows
as it went out to the nation, even though there was an interesting-sounding programme about cane toads on
BBC2. Barbara, Vanessa, and Fred helped him through it. He turned the sound down during the adverts and
covered the screen with a sheet of grease-proof paper to shield his senses from mind-altering subliminals in
the baked-bean-and-gravy commercials. It was the episode he had followed from script to shooting, so there
shouldn't have been surprises. Vanessa thought they hadn't used her best "takes" and detected the hand of
June O'Dell in the editing suite. A few interesting bits and pieces were slipped in that hadn't come up at the
script meeting, which must have been shot when he wasn't lookingтАФa shadow stalking through the fogs of
Bleeds, hobnail boots clumping on the cobbles; a mysterious wind blowing through the Grand Old Duke,
giving Bev, the new barmaid, horrors; objects wobbling slowly (on visible strings) around the boardroom,
indicating a poltergeist problem. The curse was being worked into the show, which set up Mavis' speech
about calling a ghost-hunter.
"In trut,' nix to ahll these," Mama-Lou said to Tara, returning the last design.
The girl was exasperated, dreading the work of going back to the beginning.
"They won' be needed," said the Head of Wardrobe. "Word come from on high."
Mama-Lou thumbed upward, at the ceiling. The Wardrobe Department was a windowless bunker beneath the
writers' den. Multiples of costumes hung in cellophane shrouds, continuity notes pinned to them, indicating
when they had last been worn on air. Shoes, hats, coats, gloves, scarfs, and belts had their own racks.
Principle characters had niches, where their two or three outfits were looked after. There was a separate
room, temperature-controlled and with a combination lock, for June O'Dell's wardrobe, which was twice the
size of the rest of the cast's put together.
"We can't keep Lovely Legs in that fruit-punch frock," said Tara. "It goes fuzzy in transmission and looks like
she's wearing a swarm of bees. Technical have sent several memos about it. Sound on vision. And the poor
cow at least needs a new pair of tights."
Mama-Lou drew a finger across her throat.
Tara was sobered. Mama-Lou put the finger up to her mouth.
"Hush-hush, chile," she said. "Don't nobody know outside of you, me, and the loas."
Mama-Lou's eyes flashed at Richard.
Whatever it was nobody knew, he didn't know it either. Unless he did.
"Now, run off and see to Dudley's latest split trews, while I converse wit' this gentlemahn."
Tara's head bobbed and she withdrew.
"Now, Mist' Jeperson тАж"
"Richard."
"Reechar.'"
Mama-Lou reached out and touched his chest, appreciatively feeling the nap of his velvet collar.
"I like a mahn who knows how to dress."
She left his jacket alone.
"Now, what can I do for you?"
"I'm interested in how you costume some of your characters. You can guess the ones I mean."