Page 28 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
She eyed him sideways. “Why wouldn’t that be it?”
“Because you still think I’m an asshole?”
“Because we leadcompletelydifferent lives.”
“Maybe they’re not as different as you think.”
“Are you kidding?” She choked out a laugh. “I spend fourteen hours a day hauling shopping bags or taping receipts to eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheets of paper so they can be copied in triplicate as though we don’t have budget apps for this stuff. I take actresses shopping for six-hundred-dollar shoes because one of them found out hers only cost half as much as her costar’s and now she demandsequal treatment. I track down black fabric to replace blue fabric because a director looked at Xeroxed research instead of a colored costume sketch and we have to rebuild a ball gown so it matches his mistaken vision. I pick sesame seeds off my boss’s hamburger bun even though she hasn’t eaten a bread product in years. I grovel. I bury my passion and opinions. I ‘pay my dues.’”
Angus crossed his arms and dropped the casual lean.
“And you think everything in life is easy for me?” he asked.
“No. I know you have your own crap to deal with, but it’s different. You show up and doors open for you. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”
“Apparently I have to prove something to you.”
Marlowe rotated to face him straight on, prickling with defensiveness.
“Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean. You’re rich. You’re famous. You’re also”—she frowned, regarded him, searched for the right word—“confusing.”
His brows shot up. “Confusing how?”
“I don’t know.” She blew out a breath, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut. But now that she’d started… “Flowers. Lunch. Your agent. The smoothie. I can’t tell if you’re being friendly or flirting or expecting me to return the favors somehow. But also, all that stuff on social media. The manufactured perfect lifestyle. The idyllic couple shots. The look-how-hot-I-am selfies. The self-congratulatory or condescending Instagram captions. It’s not my scene. I think it makes other people feel shitty about their own lives, which is a task most of us manage well enough without help.”
His jaw shifted as his shoulders squared with hers. Everything about him seemed to ratchet a notch tighter. Marlowe braced for arebuke, but Angus didn’t make one. Instead, he threw back his head and rubbed his face with both hands.
“Of course,” he muttered into his hands. “Of fucking course.”
Marlowe took a step back, buying herself space.
“What?” she asked. “What did I say?”
For a painfully long moment he just stood there, running his hands over his face and shaking his head skyward, but eventually he rolled his head forward to look at her.
“I’m such an idiot,” he said. “I had this crazy notion that because you were a costumer you knew the difference between reality and appearances. ‘She does this for a living,’ I thought. ‘She knows you’re not Jake or Kip or some bullshit version of yourself publicity people invent to build a fan base. She knows what’s fake.’” He backed away from her, still shaking his head as though he was trying to rid himself of a painful but persistent thought. “I thought you’d judge me based on who I was when I was right in front of you. I thought you’d give me a chance. Turns out you’re just like everyone else.” He threw up his hands as he spun away and headed toward the front of the diner.
Marlowe watched him, open-mouthed, torn between wanting to defend herself and wondering if she had a right to do so. Before she could even begin to sort through the possibilities, he whipped around and marched toward her.
“Just so we’re totally clear,” he said, “the flowers were a sincere and deserved apology. The offer to buy you lunch was an attempt to do something nice for someone who spent her whole day taking care of other people. An attempt you foiled by trying to prove I was a food snob, which I’m not. Sending in my agent was an act of basic human decency. The producers were hovering like vultures after that hashtag broke. I don’t care who you are. No one deserves tobe treated like carnage to pick at. And the smoothie”—he pressed his lips together, locked his eyes on hers—“thatwas flirting.”
He held her gaze a moment longer.
Then he turned and walked away.
Chapter Thirteen
A strident techno beat pounded in Marlowe’s ears as she trudged through the crowded club behind Cherry and the other crewmembers. Pink and blue neon tubes framed every wall, giving the space a 1980s jukebox feel. A pair of DJs spun tracks on a balcony at the opposite end of the room while a tight mass of at least three hundred people bounced to the beat on a dance floor. Countless kitschy toys dangled from above, completely obscuring the ceiling. Rusted jack-in-the-boxes hung limply from their cubes while creepy dolls with matted hair ogled the dancers. Tricycles hung down between Slinkys and stuffed animals. The panoply of lost childhood was an odd design choice against the neon and techno, but few people present had their eyes trained upward.
Marlowe was one of those few. She took in the scenery as she dodged elbows and attempted to keep up with the rest of her group. After fighting with Angus and then filming for three more hours as though everything was fine between them, she was in no mood to go dancing. She’d said as much, but Cherry had already laid the groundwork for her crush to consider coming. Marlowe didn’t need to dance, but she did need to be here.
“First round’s on me!” Cherry shouted over the noise, collecting orders while the group claimed squatter’s rights on a high top that was vacating.
As Cherry’s spiky topknot disappeared into the crowd, Ravi fled to the dance floor with two of the other makeup artists. Marlowe grabbed napkins and wiped spilled beer off the table. Patrice, one of the key hairstylists, found a chair they could pile with shed clothing or personal belongings. The gesture was barely necessary since everyone had carpooled over from the studio and most had shed their extra layers back in the parking lot. Marlowe was the only who didn’t know the drill. Her last club outing had involved a subway ride, several layers of winter gear, and no convenient trunks in which to store anything. Score one for L.A.
Already sweating from the sheer mass of bodies around her, Marlowe shimmied out of the bland linen blouse she’d thrown on early that morning, leaving her in a white spaghetti-strap tank top and a short black skirt she’d bought for its ample cargo pockets. If she ever gave up costuming and went into fashion, she’d crusade for more pockets on women’s clothing, and not the decorative pockets, but the ones that could actually hold stuff.
Cherry soon returned with a tray of cocktails and a round of tequila shots for anyone who wanted one and wasn’t driving. Marlowe was not driving. Her car was back at the studio lot, where she planned to leave it for the weekend. After a quick survey of drinking plans and Uber or Lyft options for returning to the studio as needed, Ravi and Cherry had volunteered to drive everyone that night. Marlowe had also volunteered, but with one look at her dilapidated vehicle, the group took up Cherry’s and Ravi’s offers instead.
