Page 26 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
“And half the day players on this show have visited his trailer. I swear the security guard who stands outside is only there to make sure one girl enters at a time.”
“I’m not going anywhere near his trailer.”
“And you vowed, no more narcissists.”
“Iknow, and I meant it, but is he really—?”
“Yes. Heisreally.” Cherry pulled up Angus’s Instagram account and skimmed through pics with Marlowe. Most were filtered shots of Angus in poses that showed off his physique, twisting his torso or folding an arm behind his head so his bicep bulged. The account also included black-and-white portraits withI dare youlooks directed at the camera, and not-quite-believably-candid shots of him laughing with friends or locked in perfect rom-com moments with Tanareve. “It’s selfie central. He can’t get enough of himself. Can you imagine? I think my last Insta post was a brownie I inhaled on my ten-second lunch break last week. Or those limited-edition Fluevog shoes I’ll never afford.”
Marlowe dropped her chin into her hand as she watched pics flash past. “My account only has about twenty followers and ten posts,” she said. “A few grad school photos. Clothes I wanted my friends’ opinions on but couldn’t talk myself into buying. I’m prettysure my last post was a photo of Edith Head I took the first time I dropped her off in doggy daycare. The likeness is amazing. Minus the glasses.”
“You should see her in a wig.” Cherry skimmed back up to Angus’s most recent shots. “Whoa. What’s this?” She clicked on a photo in which Angus handed off a trio of shopping bags while Marlowe stood among the other items she’d unloaded from her trunk, already holding five or six bags herself. The shot was posted Monday. The caption read:Helping with crew errands (and sneaking in an extra lifting session).“Dude can’t hold out a bag without using the opportunity to make himself look like some kind of hero. He’s hardly lifting a bus off you. And what’s this ‘crew errands’ shit? Like he was soooooo gracious to assist us lowly crew folks with our menial tasks. You hardly went to him begging for assistance. He’s the one who hijacked your workday. Who even took this shot? Does he hire staff to follow him around and snap a pic every time he flexes?”
Marlowe’s stomach sank. She didn’t recall seeing any of his entourage that evening, but she and Angus were hardly in a private setting. Anyone allowed on the studio lot could’ve passed by and taken the pic. Still, the moment had felt sweet to her, intimate, shared between two people, not something to blast out to his massive fan base.
“I thought he was just helping me out,” she said.
“More like helping himself out.”
“I guess.” Marlowe peered closer, wondering why Angus would post a photo of the two of them together when it would only increase his fans’ curiosity in their supposed connection. Unless he was trying to make sure his fans didn’t view her as a romantic prospect, not like the polished version of herself people had seen on TV, but the “crew” version with her unkempt hair, lack of makeup,overwashed Target wardrobe, and car that looked one gasp away from being junked for parts. Or maybe Cherry was right. He just wanted another chance to flex. “Point taken. He’s still a pompous ass.”
Cherry swung an arm over Marlowe’s shoulders and pulled her into a side hug.
“I know you’ve had a hard time of it with the guy you left in New York,” she said. “If you want a rebound, I’ll help you find one. I just think he should be a guy who treats you like an equal. A guy who helps because he wants to make your life easier, not so he can solicit praise from his fans. A guy who won’t put a check mark next to fangirl number two hundred and twelve and then move on to number two hundred and thirteen.”
Marlowe nodded against Cherry’s shoulder, weighed down by the dull ache of disappointment. She already knew dating Angus wasn’t an option, but she had started to wonder if he might eventually become a friend. Now she didn’t know what he was.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t be number two hundred and anything.”
Chapter Twelve
Marlowe crunched down on her dry toast, wishing she’d remembered to stop for butter on her way home from work last night. She hadn’t thought of it after staying at the lot until midnight to size and label all the men’s dress shirts as per Babs’s latest request. It was now four hours later, and the sky was dark outside her kitchen window. The street was quiet. Her call time for her first day as Adelaide was 5:00A.M.and she wasn’t a morning person. She wasn’t really a night person or an afternoon person, either, but mornings were definitely the worst. Two days ago, her contract had seemed generous. Extravagant, even. Now she wished she’d pulled a diva and negotiated a sleep-in clause.
While washing down her toast with almost unbearably strong coffee, she skimmed her mom’s marathon training update and her dad’s announcement about his recent article inThe Scientific Journal. How had two such consistent overachievers given birth to a girl who couldn’t stock a refrigerator or fully open her eyes before 7:00A.M.? Her friends had also started a funny text thread of memes about kicking out Heather’s sister early, so Marlowe could move in when her contract ended in five weeks, five weeks that sounded like a lot less time than six weeks, for a girl without a plan.
Somehow Marlowe got herself to set, where she was installed in a trailer and assessed by no fewer than six experts who all had opinions on her complexion, her hair, the shape of her face, and how to turn her from a real ordinary girl into a fake ordinary girl. By the time a plan was in place, Marlowe realized why she’d been called to set so early. She wasn’t a background player this time, able to appear on-screen as a slightly polished version of herself. She had to match the rest of the world. In order to achieve this highly ambitious goal, her hair was highlighted, cut, and styled into a more dramatic version of her previous ponytail, complete with face-framing tendrils that were carefully extracted from an elastic. Her brows were waxed and plucked. Her lashes were extended. Her nails were painted and then carefully chipped. When the assistants had completed the broader strokes, Ravi, one of the head makeup artists, spent over an hour applying liners and powders while repeatedly assuring Marlowe the goal was for her to look natural. Oh, the irony.
“You’re supposed to draw attention to this,” Ravi said as he drew a large freckle on her left earlobe. “That’s how Jake recognizes you as the girl from his past.”
Marlowe played with her earlobe, testing variations of the gesture while trying to recognize herself with her blemishes concealed and with every hair in place—except for the hair that was intentionally out of place. She was still experimenting when Cherry arrived, looking effortlessly fabulous, as always, in a sharp black blazer and with her spiky topknot brushing the doorframe. She paused in the doorway, a garment bag in one hand, the other hand pressed to her chest.
“Aww. Look at you. My baby girl’s all grown up.”
Marlowe gingerly patted her head. “I’m afraid to move or I’ll ruin something.”
“Relax.” Ravi laughed while cleaning brushes. “You have nothing to worry about. We shellac you. And someone will be on set to make sure you don’t shine.”
He soon stepped out so Marlowe could get dressed. Cherry unpacked the garment bag and handed off the underwear Babs had picked out during the fitting a few days ago: a padded bra that turned Marlowe from barely a B cup into a rather assertive C cup, and contoured underpants that amplified her hips and butt. Marlowe put them on and assessed her reflection in the trifold mirror at the end of the trailer.
“Don’t you think audiences will notice the difference?” She turned sideways, marveling at her profile. “I had no boobs at all in the other episode. No butt, either.”
“With so many episodes between your appearances, most people won’t catch on. Anyone who does will talk about it on Twitter. Hashtag waitress got a boob job.”
“It’s ridiculous.” Marlowe took the uniform from Cherry and slipped it on. “We’re perpetuating a myth that only girls with hourglass figures deserve male attention. We’re also making the bar for looking ‘natural’ completely out of reach for anyone without a six-person crew and hundreds of dollars of hair and make-up products. Why can’t a small-town, middle-America, minimum-wage waitress look like a real woman?”
Cherry flicked her wrists and adopted a dramatic, Babs-like tone. “You foolish girl! You knownothingabout working in television. You and your little theater career. What do they even teach you at Yale?! Watch and learn, dear. Watch and learn.”
Marlowe laughed as she fastened her buttons, but soon she was shaking her head at her lowered neckline and shortened hem. Babs had a good eye for fit. The changes were flattering on Marlowe’s figure—her fake figure. They were also unnecessary.
