The lights in the make up and hair trailer were always too bright, no matter the time of day. Bridget wished she could wear sunglasses if it didn't interfere with the time it took to do hair and make-up.
Kiwi Craig told her she'd get used to it. She was still trying to figure out how a guy who had more than a decade on her managed to stay out all night long and arrive first on set every morning perky as a bright spring day. From what others had told her, that had been his way since he was a younger, sprier thing. Usually she wasn't unhappy to see him early, especially with that smile and a bit of scruff, but sometimes his cheerfulness just made her want to punch him in that fat nose of his.
Aussie Craig – her Craiggy – wasn't much better. A golden retriever amongst humans. He always bounded onto set with a smile from one ear to the other. She sometimes looked for a wagging tail on him, vaguely surprised never to find one.
Make up and hair people buzzed around like little gnats – efficient, lovely gnats who offered them all candy and tea to make everyone a little more cheerful – and the Craigs were chatting about something like the opera in Sydney – how they rarely talked football or cars like men were expected to amused Bridget to no end.
Fidgeting while Sharon teased her hair a little and added extensions to the Kahlan Amnell superhair (this is what Aussie Craig called it – "It has magic powers," he'd said once, nodding very seriously), Bridget gets a view of her cleavage. Usually it's just that – cleavage. The girls tucked in prim and proper and occasionally peeking out for the benefit of prospective straight men of the world. If there are things powerful enough to hold some men in thrall so easily and she was in possession of them, Bridget is not going to baulk at using them.
In their Kahlan corset, she gives the girls a little primp, a little squeeze. They bulge ever so slightly, the way pillows do when they are fluffed, a thought which almost makes Bridget laugh. Except that she realizes, with a flush, that her cleavage in this corset is not just mere cleavage, but hot cleavage, mind. Like the super hair - super cleavage. Cleavage which entranced without mercy or regard to sexual preference or gender. One could get sucked into kind of cleavage. The kind of cleavage one feels sorry to ever leave.
She sits and stares at her cleavage and wonders how she let the fact of her hot cleavage escape her for so long. She doesn't notice both of the Craigs are quiet and staring at her staring at her boobs.
"Bridge?" Aussie Craig says.
"What?" she says vaguely to her breasts.
"What are you doing?"
"Uhm. Nothing," she says slowly, trying to pull her eyes from her bosom.
Kiwi Craig snorts.
"Oh tosh. You're looking at your cleavage."
"I am not!" She covers the cleavage and feels a needle of sadness for doing so.
"Bridge?" Aussie Craig looks a little confused, which isn't unusual.
"Fine! I was looking at my cleavage! Happy?" She just wants Kiwi Craig to stop grinning at her.
"Well, I don't blame you," he says. "I'd tap that." He nods almost imperceptibly as Dawn fussed with his wig for the nth time.
Sharon bursts into giggles. Aussie Craig continues looking confused.
"You're gay!" He informs Kiwi Craig, as if he hadn't noticed years earlier.
Kiwi Craig shrugs and gives him a mysterious and effusive smile which says: haha, I am deliberately fucking with you, dear other Craig. Then he winks. Aussie Craig blushes.
Cheeky bugger, Bridget thinks. Probably got laid last night. She tries not to be jealous thinking of all the pretty men she's seen hanging around Kiwi Craig, the way bees waft around flowers.
Aussie Craig turns his attention to Bridget now.
"Yeah," he says. He's studying her very carefully, thoughtfully.
"Your cleavage is amazing. Everyone thinks so."
"Probably even the Pope," Kiwi Craig says.
They all – even hair and make up folks – agree that even the Pope would bow down to the wonder of that cleavage, even if it was, technically, idolatry.