I’d only just gotten over the embarrassment when the props department called me in.
“Kristian, we need to make a decision about which prosthesis to use,” they said.
Jesus, there’s more than one? In fact, there were two: one a slightly lighter shade of burnished oak complete with thick, dark, afro-curl pubes. Is someone having a joke? I thought. Surely they’d know by now that with a surname like Nairn I’d be half Irish, half Scottish with a hue verging on Arctic blue. Thankfully, the one Paul now has in his hand is a closer match—much paler but still not quite pale enough.
The moment I saw its size, though, I’d said to Paul: “I could use it as a fucking draft excluder!” Sixteen inches of hard, weird plastic that looks like a hollowed-out dildo.
“And it doesn’t even match my coloring!” I protested.
“Don’t worry, Kristian. Makeup will sort that. We’ll match it to your skin tone once it’s on,” he explained.
The second time the prosthesis got an outing was not long after we started filming. I turned up at work to find the actor Richard Madden, who plays Robb Stark, dancing around the car park at the Paint Hall studios like a naughty goblin. He was gripping it with both hands and shaking it enthusiastically like a garden hose. Apparently, he’d stolen it from the special effects department.
“Holy God, look at the size of it!” he was shouting to the small assembled crowd of assistant directors and runners, all pissing themselves laughing. “This is yours!” he yelled to me as I walked over.
“Thanks, Richard,” I smiled. I took it in the humor it was intended. And I’ve gotten to know Richard better since then. I like him. He’s a joker who never fails to make me laugh. But that morning when I looked at everyone’s faces, they were laughing with him, not at him. Or that’s how it seemed to me. I don’t know if people will be as kind. I’m dreading finding out. Really dreading it.
The prosthesis is attached with a thin twine—a kind of undignified G-string that secures around my back and bum before it’s plaited in. Sometime down the line some poor sod in postproduction will have to airbrush that out, too. My arse cheeks will probably be in their face for hours. Not a thought I want to dwell on too long either.
Now a pot of glue and a paintbrush appear.
“I thought it just needs plaiting in?” I say to Paul worriedly. In the endless conversations I’ve had about this prosthetic, no one has mentioned anything about glue.
“It’s going to be on for a long time. It needs to be secure,” Paul replies. I can tell by the way he’s softened his voice that he’s treading carefully. Right. Don’t make a fuss, Kristian, I think, but fuck me, it’s painful. The glue gets applied in blobs that stubbornly pull at my pubic hair before it gets worked into the surrounding area. I need more Red Bull, and fast. Thankfully, a can has been delivered. It’s the only thing so far I’ve put my foot down over. I reached my limit with the canteen coffee, and catering have kindly begun stocking energy drinks for me. They’ve nicknamed me “the Red Bull Guy.” I’m alternating sips with shoving a lukewarm bacon sandwich into my mouth.
With my pubic hair plaited and the glue applied it’s now time for the painting of the prosthesis. This seems to take forever. From my vantage point, all I can see is the top of Paul’s head and his brush and powder puff working away below. Periodically, he stands back with his hands on his hips for a good eyeful before rummaging around on the countertop for a different shade of foundation. Down he goes again. This is a day of indignity, get used to it, Kristian, I think.
“Okay, we’re done. Ready to move to set.” Paul finishes off with a dramatic curtsy and hands me back my dressing gown.
“Not so bad, was it?” he says.
“Erm . . . fine,” I reply shakily.
Set. Shit. The time has come.
Excerpted from Beyond the Throne: Epic Journeys, Enduring Friendships, and Surprising Tales by Kristian Nairn. Copyright © 2024 by the author. Reprinted with permission of Hachette Books, an imprint of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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