Page 4 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
Chapter Two
Marlowe clambered to her feet, utterly mortified. As she stood, Angus Gordon handed his coffee cup to a jittery member of his entourage, a gangly girl in her early twenties with a tightly pulled French twist that made her look as if she’d had a facelift. Then again, this being L.A., a facelift might’ve made her look as if she’d had a facelift. Beside her, a hipster in rolled-up jeans and a pinstriped suit vest whipped out a napkin. Angus used it to pat at his wet T-shirt, frowning below his not-quite-auburn/not-quite-ginger brows.
“Nice greeting,” he huffed out. “Let me guess. You’re new?”
Marlowe managed a wry smile. “If ten weeks counts as new.”
“Close enough. I’ve never seen you.”
Naturally, Marlowe thought.Because, of course.
She gestured toward the wardrobe office trailer. “Should I get you a towel?”
“I have towels in my trailer. What I don’t have, apparently, is a way to get there without requiring a towel.” He paused his shirt-drying efforts to give Marlowe a head-to-toe scan. The look wasn’t sexual or predatory. It was direct, almost clinical, as if he wascataloguing information, taking in her shifting stance, her anxious expression, her off-brand clothes, noting each as support for his low estimation of her character.
While he handed his soaked napkin to the jittery girl who carried his mug—because didn’t everyone have people waiting around to carry their crap?—Cherry stepped forward.
“Do you need time to shower?” she asked. “I can let Ravi know over in makeup.”
He checked his phone. “I’ll be on schedule. Just introduce your helper girl to a tote before she takes out half the crew.”
Marlowe opened her mouth, a retort ready, but Cherry set a hand on her arm.
“On it,” she said. “Sorry about the spill. We’ll get everything cleaned for you.”
He flapped a hand and carried on, sauntering across the lot with the jittery girl, the hipster, a security guard, and two other people whose roles Marlowe could only guess at.
“‘Your helper girl’?” she squeaked once Angus was out of earshot.
“Whatever.” Cherry stacked shoeboxes in Marlowe’s waiting arms. “He’s a douche but arguing with him won’t change that and you don’t want to risk pissing him off even further. Once an actor’s face is on camera, they’re set. The show can’t continue without them. You and I, however… our jobs are a little less secure.”
Marlowe watched Angus’s retreating back as she balanced the last of the shoeboxes, ensuring she could see over the top, and ensuring her improved shoe-carrying capabilities were on display, on the off-chance Angus turned around to see if his orders were being followed. While she wasn’t crazy about her job, she was determinedto hold onto it through the end of her contract. And as her mom had so often drilled into Marlowe’s head: there was no point doing a thing unless she could do it well.
“Do you think people who are born beautiful naturally evolve into assholes?” she asked as she and Cherry carried the shoes toward the background tent. “Especially if they get famous when they’re young? Like, if you grow up surrounded by people desperate to please or impress you, maybe you can’t help being entitled.”
“That’s bullshit.” Cherry neatly skirted a cluster of lighting gear. Marlowe followed with far less grace but at least her stack of shoeboxes remained upright. “Janie, Kamala, and Idi are all hot and famous and they’re super nice. Most of the cast is. Kindness is a choice, not a default or an exclusive club for the ordinary. Besides, beauty is subjective. What you find beautiful is way different from what I’m attracted to.”
Marlowe considered all this as they dropped off the shoes with a background dresser. She appreciated Cherry’s point, but then why did some of the actors turn into such raging narcissists while others took all of the attention in stride?
She and Cherry were about to return to the wardrobe trailer when Elaine, the costume coordinator, pulled them aside. She was a short, stout woman with a froth of dusty-blond curls and a love of the color orange. Today the color only appeared on her sneakers and her oversized earrings, but where it appeared, it made itself known.
“Please tell me you sorted out the spare waitress uniforms,” she begged.
“They didn’t come over from the shop with everything else?” Cherry asked.
“I thought you were grabbing them from the dyer.”
“From the—?” Cherry blanched, planting a palm against her forehead. “Oh, god. The color matching. I was supposed to follow up on that this morning, wasn’t I?”
Elaine’s brows shot up. “‘Supposed to’?”
“Long night. I’m so sorry. What can I do?”
With a full complement of brusque gesticulations, Elaine explained that the background performer who was supposed to play the waitress in today’s shoot called in sick. Casting sent someone new who was supposedly the same size, but the girl was significantly larger than her measurements had claimed. Not a problem if Cherry had ensured that the other uniforms were on set as scheduled, but in her sleep-deprived state, she’d forgotten all about them. While she got on the phone and started tracking them down, Marlowe searched a nearby rack as though they’d magically appear before her.
“What happens if Cherry can’t get the uniforms here?” she asked Elaine.
“We’ll have to find someone who fits the one we have.”
