Page 64 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
“I did warn you. The threshold should never be crossed.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve already established that we both suck at obeying warnings.” He picked up the owl painting and flipped it over, hiding its beady eyes from view. “I don’t know whether to be impressed, annoyed, or scared out of my mind.”
“How about really,reallypatient?” She rose to her feet and extended a hand.
He took it and followed her into the bedroom. While he stretched out on her bed, she removed the rest of the owl paintings and hid them in her closet. She tossed the Teflon comforter in with them, just in case. Then she surveyed the space for anything else that might find a way to attack. The room was sparsely decorated, and only big enough for a full-size bed, side table, and crappy dresser, but she set her bedside lamp on the floor and made sure the blinds were securely fastened to the window frame.
“I think we’re safe now,” she said as she lay down beside him, sharing her one, flat, lumpy pillow and adjusting her position so a bedspring didn’t dig into her hip.
“Speaking of safe…” He trailed the back of his hand over hershoulder and down her arm. “I took your ‘just friends’ request seriously and didn’t bring any condoms.”
“Right. Good. I mean, not good, but, yeah, it would’ve been weird if you showed up expecting something.” Marlowe scratched her head, trying to remember if she’d seen any condoms when she unpacked six months ago. It was unlikely, since she’d left New York so quickly, and with no thoughts about dating anytime soon. “I don’t have any, either. This apartment hasn’t seen much action. Because of the curse, obviously.”
“Obviously.” He nudged her toes with his. “I can go buy some, but…”
“But everyone will be tweeting tomorrow about what brand you bought?”
He shook his head. “But I’d rather stay here with you. If that’s okay.”
“To fool around some more or—?” She didn’t bother finishing the question. She could tell from the look in his eyes that he wasn’t talking about fooling around. As the weight of that realization sank in, her chest seized so hard, she struggled to take a full breath.
“Even in this terrible bed with no decent bedding and the smell of rotting things everywhere and blinds that let in more sun than they keep out and the knowledge that at any second, hordes of zombies might attack from across the street?”
He kissed her forehead. Her nose. Her cheek. Her lips.
“Even then,” he said.
She studied him in the dim light that seeped in from the living room, tinting his freckled cheekbones and drawing out the blond tones in his stubble. His eyes were serious. His smile was barely there. She knew what his expression meant. If he stayed, this wasn’tabout sex anymore. It was the beginning of something else entirely. Something that seemed totally, utterly impossible. Then again, so was asking him to leave.
“Okay,” she said. “But if the zombies show, I’m letting them eat you first.”
“You’ve got yourself a deal.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Two days later, Marlowe sat in her car in a strip mall parking lot, on a phone interview with the director of the Achebe play. The director had contacted her yesterday, shortly after Marlowe left Angus asleep in her bed while she headed to work. He’d stirred with her alarm but he drifted off again while she tiptoed around her apartment. He’d looked so peaceful, his copper-penny hair tousled, his mouth ajar against her pillow. She didn’t have the heart to wake him. Admittedly, she had also been avoiding an awkward “morning-after” conversation. She had a pretty clear sense of what he wanted. Her own wants were more confusing, and full of contradictions. While wrestling with those wants, she went ahead and scheduled the interview, assuming she’d be running mindless errands for the rest of the week and could sneak in a half hour call. Her assumption proved true.
The interview started off rocky. The director had seen Marlowe’s last show. She also shared critics’ opinions about it. However, the discussion of the new work was energetic and inspiring. Marlowe spoke passionately about the themes and the director liked her initial thoughts on the clothes. Other designers were being considered,but the offer was at least possible. Even if it didn’t come through, the conversation was enough to confirm without a doubt that Marlowe should pursue design work again.
Not that jump-starting her career would be easy. Competition was fierce for every job and Marlowe despised selling herself, but she could start by reaching out to her former classmates to see if they knew of any opportunities. She might even set up some interviews in L.A. The city had several really good theaters. It also had a major opera company and countless dance troupes, ranging from small grassroots companies to internationally renowned touring groups. While she was gearing back up, anything that made use of her creativity would be a step forward.
By the time she ended the call, several texts were waiting. Three were from Babs, requesting that Marlowe pick up bulk suspenders from a formalwear place in West Hollywood, bras from a lingerie store in Culver City, and dog treats from an organic pet market in Brentwood. The fourth text was from Cherry with a simple apology for Babs’s latest attempt to make Marlowe’s workday last as long as possible. The fifth text was from Marlowe’s dad, with a link to a “helpful” article on how arts degrees could be good stepping-stones toward business or legal careers. The sixth text was from her mom, asking if Marlowe wanted to fly out for the New York marathon next month. Marlowe wouldn’t run it, of course. She’d cheer on her mom as she’d done in past years when she lived on the East Coast. Her mom even offered to cover the flight since she knew Marlowe was “struggling with all that debt.”
The offer rankled. Her parents never offered to pay for things without heavy insinuations that Marloweshouldbe able to pay for them herself. Yes, her student loans had a lot of zeros. Also yes, she had attended an expensive grad school and pursued an artisticcareer that didn’t come with a six-figure salary and a tidy benefits package. But the choices were hers. She’d made them for good reasons and she was tired of her parents waiting for her to have an epiphany about how wrong she was.
The final text was from Angus. He’d sent a group selfie with Idi and Tanareve, hanging out before the museum benefit. The guys were in tuxes, both looking predictably gorgeous. Tanareve was as stunning as ever in a vivid green Grecian gown that showed off her athletic shoulders. It was the kind of dress that practically dripped off the body, all drapey and flowy with no structure or padding, the kind of dress Marlowe could never pull off in a million years. The trio was laughing about a joke Marlowe would never hear and raising cocktails she could never afford. Below the photo were the simple but heart-wrenching words,Wish you were here. Marlowe sincerely doubted Angus sent the text to make her feel guilty about declining his invite. He sent it because he was thinking about her. The guilt came anyway, thick and heavy, along with a tidy side order of anxiety.
Marlowe tried to shake off her discomfort but she suspected it was only the beginning of what promised to be a swift downward spiral. Despite one fun, flirty, and surprisingly intimate night, she hadn’t changed her stance on public appearances. Now red-carpet photos of the museum benefit would be popping up all over the Internet. Each photo would be a vivid reminder that Marlowe couldn’t give Angus what he really wanted: not a one-night stand, but a partner, by his side. A partner who wasn’t there.
With concerted effort and alotof therapy, maybe Marlowe could work through her fear about public criticism, but was it really worth the effort? After all, Angus lived in a world of press ops and paparazzi, of mansions and managers, of agents, social mediaexperts, high fashion, and adoring fans. Marlowe lived in a world of shoe repairs and shopping bags. She and Angus didn’t fit together, not really. As friends? Sure. As lovers? Maybe, for a little while. But as a couple in a serious long-term relationship? Unlikely.
With that ugly thought swimming through her brain—along with Babs’s extension of her workday and her parents’ unique brand of disapproval-masked-as-help—Marlowe dropped off two bags of shoes at the strip mall cobbler. Her mood was still souring as she got back in her car. It soured even further when she turned the key in the ignition and her car emitted a grinding, gasping noise before going dead silent. She tried again with the same results. After several more failed attempts, she sank onto the steering wheel in despair, cursing her life. She’d barely lowered her head when a largesplatmade her jerk upright. Bird shit ran down her windshield, not the innocuous little spots dropped by sparrows and pigeons, but the disgusting multicolored ooze-balls the seagulls shat out after dumpster diving. Gross, but almost poetic, all things considered.
Remaining inside her car lest the gull return, Marlowe called AAA. Then she texted Cherry to ask what she should do about work. She still had a trunkful of returns to complete, as well as pickups at three design houses in Beverly Hills and the new errands Babs had added. Cherry suggested she find a comfortable place to wait. If the AAA guy couldn’t start her car, Cherry would send someone from transport to drive Marlowe around for the rest of the day. And if her car remained out of commission for more than an afternoon, Marlowe could sort out a rental over the weekend.
The AAA guy came about half an hour later. He checked the battery and any other issues that might be solved on the spot, but ultimately he ascertained that he’d need to tow the car to a mechanic who could take a closer look. Marlowe texted Cherry backto confirm that she needed a ride. Then she emptied the trunk and hauled all the bags over to the sidewalk where she could wait for transport to show up.
Naturally, the strip mall had no benches, just dirty pavement speckled with blackened gum spots. Too deflated to stand, Marlowe sat down on the sidewalk, hoping her gray pants would hide any accumulated dinginess. The hot afternoon sun forced its way through brown smog. Out in the parking lot, an exhausted-looking mom dragged her screaming child by the hand while a guy in a faded Hawaiian shirt stuck fliers under windshield wipers. A few yards away, an overflowing trash can spilled food waste and packaging onto the sidewalk. A few miles away, a crew was unrolling a red carpet.
