Page 7 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
“Drinks on me after work that night?”
“Thanks. Sounds perfect.” Marlowe perked up, grateful to anticipate her first social event since moving to L.A. After living with three roommates in New York, and sharing any free time with her boyfriend, the endless nights alone had been wearing on her. The sheer lack of activity made her want to text Kelvin, which made her reopen every wound, seeking evidence that their relationship really had been bad enough for her to walk away. Some days—hell, some moments—theyeswas harder to find than others.
She headed to the background tent, her arms laden. For the better part of an hour, she parked herself at a folding table, cross-checking invoices, but soon enough, she was setting aside her work to head inside the diner. There, an assistant director gave her a potof fake coffee (aka flat diet Coke) and explained her blocking. She walked the path and performed her business. Once the AD was satisfied that she understood the camera placements and stopping points, he asked her to stay put until they were ready to roll.
Marlowe took advantage of her position by anchoring herself to the counter and watching the crew. Though this wasn’t her first time on set, she was still dazzled by the size of the operation. The cameras, lights, sound equipment, monitors, snaking cords and gearboxes, and all of the people. It was so strange after years of watching TV to realize that just outside the frame was a crowd of crewmembers. In this particular case, that crowd numbered over thirty, though she’d previously seen it reach more than fifty.
“Keep a firm grip on that thing,” said a low voice behind her, possibly teasing but probably not. “You wouldn’t want to spill on anyone.”
Marlowe spun around to see Angus standing a few feet away, fanning the pages of a worn paperback. Lacking the patience to pander to him, she held up the coffeepot.
“I asked if I could put this in a tote, but Lex said no.” She nodded at the director, a portly, bearded guy who was scowling at a nearby trio of monitors.
Angus studied her, impenetrably serious. She let her gaze drift to his costume, assuming he’d made his jibe, she’d made hers, and they had nothing further to say to one another. Over his usual jeans and T-shirt, he wore the leather jacket Cherry had mentioned earlier. It was custom built with aged brown leather, a cross between a classic motorcycle jacket and a pre-war aviator style. It did look tight in the shoulders. Also, he wasn’t walking away yet.
“What?” she asked when she couldn’t stand his scrutiny any longer.
“The hair.” He mimed flicking bangs off his forehead. “You have a face.”
“Turns out it’s a standard amenity with the whole being-born thing. I hit the jackpot. I got a full set of limbs and organs, too. Oh, and also a name.”
“Yeah. Marlowe. My assistant tracked it down. Though I didn’t think to inquire about limbs and organs.” Still failing to reveal even a hint of a smile, he tucked a thumb into his leather belt, all James Dean swagger with an easy stance and a chin that rested alittlehigher than necessary, covered with a carefully cultivated three-day shadow.
“Why did your assistant want my name?” she asked.
“I figured I should find you and apologize after being so rude this morning. All those people. They can be so—There was a—They want me to—Never mind. It’s not your problem. Anyway. I was mad at everyone. I probably said some things I shouldn’t.”
Marlowe softened at that, though his apology confused her after the Instagram post. If he was truly sorry, wouldn’t he have kept their interaction to himself?
“What are you doing here, anyway?” he asked. “I thought you were in wardrobe.”
“I am. There was a mix-up. I’m the solution.” She spread her arms in a limp voilà motion, displaying a full view of the yellow shirtwaist dress and a cute little apron.
He kept his eyes on hers while lazily tipping an eyebrow. “Must’ve been a pretty serious mix-up to warrant putting someone like you on camera.”
At that, she tensed right back up, tightening her grip on the coffeepot.
“Could’ve been worse,” she said with exaggerated civility. “Atleast no one required a towel. Apparently that indicates a real tragedy.”
He huffed. She flashed him a brief but insincere smile. They squared off as the hum of activity continued buzzing around them. Grips angled reflective umbrellas while props artists dropped plastic ice cubes into tumblers of water. A makeup artist dusted an actress’s cheeks with powder. An AD arranged background players in one of the booths. The crew was obviously shooting soon. Andstill, Angus didn’t walk away.
“You’re the one who swore at me,” he said.
“I sworenearyou. And I couldn’t help it.”
“Because ‘I’m sorry I crashed into you’ was too many syllables?”
“Because you looked like you wanted to murder me.”
“I told you. I was… having a day.”
“Having a day or being a jerk?”
“I had a right to be pissed.”
“Pissed? Yes. Condescending? Questionable.”
“You scalded my chest.”
