Page 1 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
Chapter One
Marlowe Banks never dreamed that an MFA from Yale would earn her a job organizing hangers, picking crusted insoles out of an old pair of Top-Siders, and busting every last fingernail in an attempt to resize a watchband using only a safety pin and the force of her formidable will. The title Costume Production Assistant had sounded so glamorous. More commonly referred to as a PA, she was a cog in a machine. Nothing more.
“Just great,” she muttered as the safety pin slipped and blood beaded on her finger for the third time. “Amazing opportunity. Spectacular learning experience. Dream job.” The words strained to emerge but if she said them often enough maybe she’d start to believe them. After all, unambitious cogs didn’t have to watch reviewers and competitive industry professionals pick apart their creative work. They didn’t feel like imposters for calling themselves artists. In fact, most people didn’t even notice them, which was precisely what Marlowe had hoped for when she shelved her nascent design career in New York City and flew out to Los Angeles: city of dreams, sandy beaches, delicious tacos, and so many insanely beautiful people anyone ordinary was basically invisible.
The wristwatch finally set to the actress’s size, Marlowe began unpacking a large order of novelty socks, the next item on her list of Tasks No One Else Wanted to Do. As a lowly PA, Marlowe spent a lot of time with such lists. No one used that phrasing, of course, but everyone knew. She was slicing open the first box when the clatter of excessive bangle bracelets reached her from the trailer entrance, followed by sharp heels clicking on linoleum and the telltale aroma of sandalwood and well-cultivated disdain.
“How are we only on episode three?” Babs Koçak sank into a canvas chair beside Marlowe, turning toward the nearby mirror and smoothing out her perfectly arched eyebrows, jet black above slightly pinched gray eyes. She was petite in stature but large in personality, always impeccably dressed and coifed, her means of ensuring that others trusted her to style them. “I feel like I’ve been picking out velveteen blazers and silk boxer shorts since tyrannosauruses dreamed of kidskin gloves for their tiny hands.”
Marlowe fluttered a polite smile as she set aside the box cutter.
“Maybe it seems that long because you’re on season six?” she offered.
Babs groaned. “They were supposed to stop at five, but apparently if you put enough hot young actors on the screen, people will tune in until every last one of them has slept with all of the others.” She let out a put-upon sigh and smoothed the faintest of wrinkles from her crisp silk pedal pushers. “Did you get through those receipts?”
“All set. I left the invoice with production this morning.”
“Contact Calvin Klein?”
“The samples will be ready for me to pick up tomorrow.”
“Reschedule my chiropractor appointment?”
“You’re on for next Tuesday. ElevenA.M.”
“Find me a seaweed salad without sesame seeds?”
“Holy Rolls is making it to order. I’ll grab it at noon.”
“And Edith Head?”
“Is doing fine at the new doggy daycare. She’s even sharing her squeaky bone.”
Babs tipped an eyebrow and glanced around the trailer as if looking for something to criticize, having come up short with her initial inquiries. Marlowe continued her task at hand, sorting the socks with llamas and sloths from the ones with rainbow stripes or catchy phrases. The department had ordered almost a hundred pairs, though the chances that any of them would be seen on camera were about as high as tyrannosauruses wearing kidskin gloves. TV work was so different from Marlowe’s first few theater jobs, where the entire budget for twenty or thirty period costumes was less than the cost of this one sock order. She’d been on the costume team forHeart’s Dinerfor ten weeks now, so she was past the initial mouth-agape, Dorothy-lands-in-Oz phase, though sometimes she still half-expected a munchkin with a lollipop to walk into the trailer. In Hollywood, anything was possible.
“Are you really drinking that?” Babs asked.
Marlowe paused, both fists full of banana-print socks. “Drinking what?”
Babs nodded at a canned beverage on the counter near Marlowe. “It’s not even tenA.M.”
“It’s only sparkling water.” Marlowe set down the socks and picked up the can, searching for toxicity warnings or ingredients beyond the obvious.
Babs mumbled a vaguely disapprovinghmm. “All that carbonation can wreak havoc on your digestive system. You confuse your body’s natural signals and next thing you know…” She mimed inflating like a balloon. “At least wait until lunch or dinner.”
Marlowe tucked the sparkling water can behind a pile of crumpled packaging, mentally noting that no self pep talk would make her situation ideal. Problem one: living in L.A. didn’t suit her. The city demanded an attention to brands and health culture, maybe not for everyone, but for anyone working in a fashion-related field, or at least for anyone working with Babs Koçak. Despite Babs’s frequent “helpful suggestions,” Marlowe hated gyms and she considered super foods decidedly un-super. Except for blueberries, and maybe broccoli, as long as cheese was nearby to mask its more viridescent qualities. She jogged every week so she wasn’t totally sedentary, but no sparkling water? Seriously?
Babs peered over at the socks Marlowe was stacking on the counter.
“I should’ve been more specific about the order.” She picked up a pair printed with cats talking on telephones. “Keep the stripes and general patterns. Send the rest of this nonsense back. We’re supposed to be in Middle America. NotJumanji.” She examined a few more pairs while Marlowe started repacking the box. “Do you think Idi could pull these off with his McQueen suit?” She held up a pair with blue and black stripes.
“McQueen?” Marlowe asked, mouth agape. “Doesn’t his character work at a gas station?”
“This isn’t one of your little Chekhov plays, dear. This is television. People want style and glamor.” Babs tossed the socks aside. “You’re so new, but you’ll learn.”
Marlowe offered up her usual placid smile while noting problem two: the job. Not that being a PA on a major TV show was all bad. The pay was good. Marlowe was well suited to the tasks: organized, efficient, detail-oriented, and uncomplaining. She was effectively avoiding her harshest critics and those schmoozy opening-nightparties where she never knew what to say besides, “Great working with you!” She even had celebrity gossip to sneak to her friends back in New York. However—and it was a bighowever—she hadn’t totally managed to shut down her designer brain and career ambitions. She had opinions about story, world, and character. She was bursting with thoughts on symbolic color palettes or ways to deliver information about alliances and antagonisms, sometimes by simply changing out a tie or adjusting the part in someone’s hair. But she’d come to L.A. to hide, and hiding required a minimization of opinions. Ditto for ambitions.
The trailer door swung open and Cherry Cho walked in, dressed in her usual uniform of tight black jeans, black designer blazer, and ironic T-shirt. Today’s logo readBINARY IS FOR COMPUTER PROCESSORS ONLY. She was slim and striking with long black hair she’d twisted into the kind of messy bun Marlowe often attempted but quickly gave up on, lacking Cherry’s ability to make “messy” appear intentional.
