Page 17 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
Traffic started moving, so Marlowe returned her attention to the road. As the car inched forward, she considered Angus’s point, something that hadn’t crossed her mind when she was facing the prospect of three thousand dollars for a few days of work. Was any amount of money worth opening herself up to more criticism and speculation? Especially in a world where the cruelest voices were often the loudest?
“Is that how you feel?” she asked.
“Sometimes.” Angus picked at the frayed edge of his seatbelt’s cross strap, the motion brusque and agitated. “I’ll admit the attention was addictive back when I was fourteen and I got the lead on that Disney show, but over time it messed with my head. People conflate my characters with the real me. They assume I’m vapid, or violent, or that I’m always on the make and I drive a flashy sports car.”
Marlowe sank a little lower in her seat, duly chastised. “Sorry about that.”
“Wasn’t the first time.” He yanked a loose thread off the seatbelt as though torturing the edge hadn’t sufficiently satisfied his agitation. “I know people think I have no right to complain about anything, and maybe I don’t. Fame provides certain comforts and opportunities. No question. But it has its downsides. I can’t make a friend, date a girl, or get a job without wondering if someone’s only interested in a manufactured idea of who I am, or if fame alone is the draw.” He held the severed thread up toward the partially open window and watched it dance in the draft. His fascination was sweet, almost childlike, in sharp contrast to the soul-baring conversationthey were having. “Also, while fans can be enthusiastic, the haters, as they say, are gonna hate.”
Marlowe kept her eyes on the road but she snuck a sideways glance every few seconds, trying to align the guy beside her with the guy she’d seen around set. For months Angus had seemed impenetrable, snobbish, and spectacularly pleased with himself. He carried the air of celebrity on his shoulders everywhere he went, as if he assumed he was being watched and being wanted and he’d long since grown comfortable with that kind of attention. Now he looked so… human. Beautiful, yes, but still human.
“So, don’t read the comments?” She made a quivering attempt at a smile.
He continued staring at the thread, neither noticing nor returning her smile.
“Definitely ignore the comments,” he said. “But they’re only part of the issue. The moment you get enough attention, enough influence, enough eyes on you, you become a commodity. Publicity specialists get involved. They package and sell you. Pretty soon it’s hard to draw a line between who you are and who they want you to be.” The thread flew from his fingers, into the exhaust-filled air and toward an SUV in the next lane over. Inside the vehicle, a group of teenage girls was conferring and pointing his way. He shielded his face with a cupped hand and turned away from them in what struck Marlowe as a well-rehearsed move. “Actors sign up for this. You didn’t. That’s what I meant by ‘not even an actress.’ It’s also why I’m here. They won’t just give you a few lines and walk you past a camera. They’ll expect you to become part of the promotional machine. I thought you should know what you were getting into before you say yes.”
Marlowe let that sink in while her hatchback crept forward,packed in by other cars as the L.A. sunshine streamed through the windshield, bright and hot. She tried to imagine the level of public attention he was describing, but it seemed impossible.
“Wes didn’t mention anything about promotion,” she said.
“They’ll bury it in a contract. Use language they don’t expect you to understand.”
“They won’t want me representing the show, not once they realize I can’t act.”
“I wouldn’t count on that realization as a foregone conclusion.”
The car finally picked up a little speed and then jerked to a halt again. Such was life in L.A. Such was life in general. So how did this moment fit into that pattern? Was it a chance to speed up or a reason to hit the brakes? And was she really debating the choice with Angus Gordon, of all people? A guy who’d been smoldering on her screen since the days when she used a retainer and three kinds of acne medication, dreaming of the year she’d develop breasts?
“I don’t look anything like the girls they always pair you up with,” she said.
“Maybe that’s the point.” Angus shifted, replanting his feet as though he couldn’t get comfortable all of a sudden. He probably thought she was fishing for a compliment. She wasn’t, and she was glad he didn’t toss one out. “People… audiences get perfection fatigue. It makes for a good fantasy but after a while, they want something real.”
She snuck another glance his way, wondering if he meant more than he said. Before she could give that thought full consideration, her attention snagged on the girls in the SUV. They were leaning out their windows, camera phones poised while they waved and shrieked, trying to get Angus’s attention. Marlowe had seen him soak up adoration so many times over the past few months, butright now, with his shoulders hunched, a hand shielding his cheek, and annoyance painted across his face, he looked as if he wanted to wither into the footwell.
“This is what you have to look forward to,” he said.
“No way. Not possible. Not me. And we’re only talking about a cameo.”
“My first screen credit was dog walker number two. My second was Kip onKate and Kip Take Down Cleveland.It’s a crazy industry, as ready to make a star as it is to tear one down.” He smiled a little, in a nice, natural way. No challenge, no flirting, just a moment of gentle humor shared between two people. “If it’s okay to ask, why are you even considering this? You don’t seem like someone who’s dying to be on TV.”
“I’m not.” She let the traffic pull forward so she could merge in behind the screaming girls and get her car into the far-right lane, allowing Angus to sit up straight. “I know this might not make any sense to someone who probably has bicoastal mansions and a butler with a British accent, but I need the money.”
He nodded as he settled into his seat.
“Then you should ask them to double it.”
Chapter Eight
Marlowe spun a cart into the first aisle of women’s shoes at DSW with Angus trailing close behind, still wearing his aviators. While she scanned the shelves and swept shoeboxes into the cart with her usual efficiency, he stopped to examine every item he passed, fascinated with each heel, buckle, and curved arch. His open sense of wonder made him look as if he’d never been in a store before. Someone else probably did his shopping for him. Someone else probably did pretty much everything for him.
As Marlowe sent Cherry pics of some black patent leather wedges to get her opinion, Angus scrutinized a gold gladiator sandal with a sharp stiletto heel.
“How do women walk in these?” he asked.
She motioned to her comfy sneakers. “You’re asking the wrong person.”
“Even though you pick this stuff out for a living?”
