Page 52 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
After Marlowe emptied the glass, she set it aside and adjusted the front of the gown where it dangled from her neck, gaping overher chest before spilling into an unruly mass of tulle. It really was a beautiful dress, far nicer than the one she’d selected for herself. The one she hadn’t quite bought, which was probably a sign in itself.
“Guess I wasn’t ready to see myself in a wedding gown,” she said. “Not unless it was one I was wearing to a real altar with a real groom. I don’t even know why I care. Kelvin was the one who was dying to get married, who wanted a big ceremony with lots of guests. I made theater every day. I didn’t need to center myself in it.”
Cherry took Marlowe’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
“You care because marriage is about more than a ceremony,” she said. “It’s about companionship and mutual support. It’s about two people promising to shield each other from loneliness until the day they die. That’s a powerful fucking offer.”
Babs let out a quiet but harsh bark of laughter. Marlowe and Cherry craned around to face her. Babs eyed them with raised brows, pursed lips, and a general air of superiority, as though they were ignorant little children and she was put out by their simplistic babbling. She pocketed her phone as she stood, pausing to scan the shop, taking in the décor and merchandise, the gowns, the veils, the shoes and jewelry.
“SayingI dodoesn’t guarantee that love will last,” she said as if she was addressing the veil display and not the girls seated on the floor. “It doesn’t erase any relationship problems you had before your marriage. It doesn’t make both partners put in the same effort after marriage. And it doesn’t stop your husband from leaving you twenty years later for a woman half your age.”
Marlowe’s jaw dropped open as Cherry’s eyes widened. Babs looked down on them both, her expression the usual combination of strained patience and mild disdain.
“The world we live in offers men more choices than it offers to women. Might as well seize the ones weareoffered.” She met Marlowe’s gaze for the briefest of seconds, a fleeting moment of understanding that bordered on encouragement withoutquitereaching it. Then she marched away and joined the saleswomen near the main desk.
Marlowe continued gaping, unable to turn her head or avert her eyes.
“Did you know she’d been married?” she whispered.
Cherry shook her head, still wide-eyed. “She’s never mentioned a husband. I thought she’d always been single, perhaps by choice, perhaps… not by choice.”
Marlowe stifled a smile at that. She knew as well as anyone that Babs wasn’t the easiest person to get along with, but maybe she hadn’t always been so abrasive and dictatorial. Maybe her relationship scars couldn’t be painted over, either. Whether those scars ran shallow or deep, her irritability about Angus had a whole new dimension now, and Marlowe had new motivation to stop lingering in unknowable what-ifs about Kelvin.
While Marlowe continued reeling, Cherry snuck her a wink.
“Conversation for our next night out.” She clambered up and assisted Marlowe to her feet. Marlowe pressed the gaping gown and bustier to her chest while smoothing out the worst of the wrinkles in the tulle. Cherry lent a hand, though the dress needed a proper steaming after being crumpled on the floor. “You going to be okay?”
“Eventually,” Marlowe said. “The timing on all of this isn’t ideal. It’s too bad. Anyone else would be thrilled to be trying on couture wedding gowns.”
“Not anyone.” Cherry grabbed the gelatinous cutlets from thefloor. “And don’t forget, you’re not trying on gowns. You’re trying on costumes. Costumes are magical. What we do is magical. It’s about fantasy and make-believe. With the right costume, a girl can be a princess or a warrior or the queen of the goddamned intergalactic alliance. So go with it. Seize the fantasy.” She slung an arm over Marlowe’s shoulders and ushered her toward the dressing room. “Next week you’ll enter a church where your imaginary groom will be waiting. He can be anyone at all. Knowing that, do you really want him to be a guy whotellsyou what you know instead of asking you? Or who only does nice things when other people can see? Hell, no.” She flung out her free arm, practically beaning a nearby saleswoman. “Put Prince Fucking Charming at that altar. Make him whoever you want him to be. Dream it. Own it. You with me?”
Marlowe glanced over her shoulder to see Babs watching her, brows raised.Might as well seize the choices we’re offered,she’d said, and Marlowe had heard her, loud and clear. She took in the racks of gorgeous dresses, the amazing friend by her side, and the boss she hated a little bit less than she used to. This wasn’t a moment for looking back. It was a time to look forward.
“Yeah.” She leaned into Cherry’s embrace. “I’m with you.”
Chapter Twenty-one
On Wednesday morning, after packing her entire Tuesday checking off items on Babs’s most menial and extensive task list to date, Marlowefinallyread the Adrienne Achebe play Chloe had emailed. Taking advantage of her second day as an actress—or, more notably, of her time away from her punishing PA duties—she carefully flipped pages while Ravi did her Adelaide makeup and an assistant touched up her nails.
The story revolved around a group of young women who disappeared on a nameless road in a timeless place. They wandered as ghosts, searching for someone who’d record their stories, as told in languages that were no longer spoken. The dialogue was complicated and dense, delving into issues about gender, race, privilege, power, generational trauma, the flaws of the legal system, and the malleability of language.
The script provided little concrete information about the world of the play, so the team producing the work would have a lot of freedom with the design. The thought was both frightening and inspiring. Mostly the latter. By the time Marlowe finished the last page, her mind was racing with images of colorful art about theGreat Migration, early daguerreotypes of glassy-eyed women, news articles about the Highway of Tears, and the hidden text that asylum inmates used to embroider into their clothing, lacking paper and ink.Thiswas why she’d pursued her design career.Thiswas what she craved. Art. Symbols. History. Identity. Meaning.
“Better thanHeart’s Diner, season six, episode twenty-one?” Ravi handed Marlowe a tissue. She used it to dab at the tears she didn’t even realize had formed.
“It depends on your taste, but to me, yeah, way better.” She fanned the corners of the script, buzzing at the sheer possibility of working on the production. If not this play, something similar, and soon.
With only a month left on her contract, Marlowe could head east sometime in October. If her old room with her friends wasn’t available yet, she could visit her parents for a week or two. Sure, she’d voiced interest in working on Babs’s film gig, but a lot had happened over the past few days. Between her conversations with Angus, her pep talk from Cherry, and Babs’s unexpected advice to seize her choices, Marlowe was ready to stop running away from what she really wanted to do, and where she really wanted to be.
In fact, she was so ready to build forward momentum, she’d texted Kelvin last night. The text had taken her ages to compose, to ensure it was kind and clear and honest, but once she hitsend, she was pleased to note that she wasn’t overcome with her usual swell of guilt and doubt. She’d said what she needed to say. No regrets. No backpedaling.
Kelvin: You know this isn’t right. Can we at least talk about it?
Marlowe: It is right. Messy and complicated but right.I’m sorry I hurt you and that the end felt so sudden. I should’ve realized sooner. I should’ve handled things better once I did realize. We were good in some ways but not in enough ways. Thank you for all the times you were there for me. I’ll always be grateful for what we had but it’s over. I’m moving on. You should too. There’s nothing more to talk about. I think it’s best if we don’t text for a while. I need some time on my own. Take care of yourself.
Setting aside thoughts of big futures for more immediate stresses, Marlowe drew the TV script from beneath the play script and reread her scene for the umpteenth time. It was only three pages long. Reconnect with Jake. Reveal the ring. Look tortured. Walk away. That was it. She knew the words. She’d been in front of a camera already. She was even getting along with Angus now. It was all going to be fine. Totally, utterly fine.
Ravi set a hand on her shoulder. “Stop shaking. It’ll be over before you know it.”
