Page 79 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
Marlowe watched him for a long moment, searching for the words that would make everything okay. When the words didn’t come, she got out of the car and retrieved Edith from the back seat, peering in through the open door.
“Angus…”
“Don’t.”
“Please.”
“Just. Go.”
And so she did.
Chapter Thirty
The next four days passed in a blur. Thankfully Babs took pity on Marlowe, allowing her to hide in the wardrobe building and start packing up the season. Aside from Cherry—to whom Marlowe had confided everything—no one on set mentioned the media explosion. They crept around Marlowe as though she was fragile or ill, sneaking her sympathetic looks as Sunday’s tweets turned into sensationalized tabloid articles and heated gossip panel discussions. What gossip reporters didn’t know, they built from the scraps of her past, eager to paint a picture of the woman who’d wrecked Hollywood’s It Couple. A no-name background actress trying to sleep her way to the top. A fickle girl who’d jilted her ex. A wannabe designer who’d been laughed out of the New York theater scene.
Angus didn’t go ignored, but a placid “boys will be boys” tone pervaded the discussion of his supposed infidelity. If the articles of the last ten years were to be believed, he went from one girl to the next faster than Edith ate spring rolls. People weren’t surprised he was sleeping around. They were surprised who he was with.
Marlowe blocked what she could, but the chatter was inescapable. When she asked her landlord about breaking her lease, he asked ifshe was moving in with her movie star boyfriend. The rental car clerk she met on Monday snuck in a few lofty insinuations about the value of fidelity. A trio of women at a grocery store did double-takes when they saw her, before gathering close to whisper and cast appalled looks at each other. And of course, Marlowe’s parents couldn’t believe she’d “let this happen.”
Angus and Tanareve both denied the rumors, but they kept their statements brief and to the point, likely coached by their PR reps. The two of them were friends. They were fine. No one cheated on anyone. Neither of them offered up lengthy explanations of the various relationship dynamics at play. Nor did they mention Marlowe, possibly to keep the focus off her. As Angus had so often said, defending himself did little good. The more he said, the more he’d open himself—and everyone else involved—to further inquiry. People saw what they wanted to see. The only viable response was silence.
At least once every ten minutes, Marlowe considered texting Angus. Equally as often, she talked herself out of it. There was nothing to gain. She’d said she couldn’t live in the center of public speculation. He’d said he understood. What more was there to say?
At around 5:30A.M.on Friday, Marlowe pulled into the parking lot of a run-down strip mall in Glendale. White trailers filled one side of the lot while the other side was marked off for cast and crew parking. Half a block away, a cute adobe church was surrounded by gear as grips scurried around it like so many black ants, hauling cables and unpacking road boxes. Marveling at their energy so early in the morning, Marlowe got out of her rental car while blinking her way through a long, drawn-out yawn.
“Still can’t sleep?” someone said behind her.
Marlowe spun around to see Cherry crossing the lot toward her, chunky heels clicking against the pavement, two hot beverage cups in hand. Under her black jacket, she wore a vivid magenta shirt that sparkled with the wordsMORE GLITTER, LESS LITTER.
“What’s sleep?” Marlowe asked. “Also, I do mornings about as well as I date famous TV actors without getting dragged through the mud.” She dropped her keys into her purse, or at least she tried to. In her tiredness, she missed completely. While bending to pick up her keys, she banged a shoulder on the rearview mirror. Straightening up, her purse slipped off her shoulder and spilled its contents. She muttered curses as she crouched and collected everything. “At least no one’s filming and tweeting this.”
Cherry helped gather Marlowe’s goods before handing off one of the coffee cups.
“Fame is so overrated,” she said.
“Thank you for not saying you told me so.”
“Not my style.” Cherry downed a gulp of what was probably scalding-hot coffee. Then she draped an arm around Marlowe’s shoulders and pivoted her toward the trailers. “The situation sucks and I’m sorry. At least attention spans are short. People tune in but they also move on. Shake it off if you can. Don’t forget. You’re getting married today!”
Marlowe groaned. Yes, she was about to get dolled up like Wedding Barbie, but she was also going to see Angus for the first time since Sunday’s disaster. Four days of packing and inventorying clothes hadn’t dulled the sharp ache of loss that had set in when she left him in the studio parking lot. She told herself she hadn’t really lost anything. She’d only known Angus for a few weeks. They didn’t have a relationship, just a rush of sexual attraction that would’ve faded soon enough. She didn’t even want a relationship. Not really.With friends, a career, and a sense of home waiting for her in New York, she didn’t need anything else to feel fulfilled. She had everything she wanted.
Of course, she knew she was lying to herself, but the lies got her by.
For the next three hours, Cherry attended to background actors while Patrice styled Marlowe’s hair. Predictably, Babs’s style suggestions were well beyond what the average waitress might accomplish for a small, DIY wedding. The final look was a low mass of curls, bound by velvet ribbons and sprinkled with forget-me-nots. It was sleek and modern in the front and unabashedly romantic in the back, all of which matched the dress. Though Marlowe had expressed her share of doubts about Babs’s disinterest in realism, she recognized that the heightened sense of style clearly indicated that the show was a fantasy. In some ways, it was less problematic than the images that abounded on social media, where idyllic lifestyles were peddled in tidy squares while just outside the frames, a completely different story unfolded. Maybe a little glamor wasn’t the worst idea, as long as Marlowe could stop using it as a bar she’d never reach.
Ravi was working on Marlowe’s makeup at around 9:00A.M.when Babs made her first appearance for the day. She wore a black linen pantsuit with a jacket that plunged in a deep V. Her lips and nails were neatly colored in a deep, brick red. Her silver jewelry was plentiful but sleek. Combined with her starkly dyed black hair, she looked like a graphic print of a woman, all sharp edges and high contrast. She dropped a large, boxy handbag on a chair while eyeing the water bottle in front of Marlowe.
“Don’t worry,” Marlowe said. “It’s not carbonated.”
Babs’s face twitched into what could almost be called a smile,but not quite. She got straight to business, parking herself behind Marlowe’s chair and giving her a full inspection. After due consideration, she asked Patrice to reposition a few flowers and she suggested Ravi use a darker plum tone on Marlowe’s lids. The three of them discussed and finessed the details until everyone was happy with the bride-to-be.
As Ravi and Patrice tidied up, Marlowe took a good look in the mirror. Her reflection was almost unrecognizable. Sure, the bone structure and eyes were hers, as was most of the hair, but four-plus hours of professional help had otherwise transformed her. Her lips were fuller. Her lashes were thicker and longer. Her barely there cheekbones popped with a dusting of rosy blush against a miraculously smooth complexion. Her brows formed perfect slender arches atop plum-tinted lids, and her hair lacked even a hint of frizz. She felt like Cinderella preparing to go to the ball: beautiful, elegant, refined, and worthy of the kind of attention she usually felt was reserved for other people. And yet… the costumer in her still wished the woman in the mirror looked more like an ordinary, messy, often frazzled, always conflicted, deeply insecure, nail-chewing, hot-sauce-spilling, no-time-for-makeup-or-lunch, working-class girl.
“You still want dirt under your nails, don’t you?” Babs asked beside her.
Marlowe turned her head side to side, still trying to recognize herself. “I get it. I do. This isn’t realism. But representation matters. Seeing only conventionally attractive girls on-screen, or brave and strong girls, or skinny girls, or white girls, or straight girls, or girls with perfectly groomed eyebrows sends a message to all the girls who don’t fit those categories.” She glanced sideways at Babs, prepared for a rebuttal. The rebuttal didn’t come. Instead Babs foldedher arms and waited for Marlowe to continue. “I was so confident as a kid. I was stubborn and outspoken, but over time I started to feel like only certain kinds of girls deserved to be listened to, and deserved to be loved. I don’t think all this… polish helped.” She waved a hand over her face.
Babs turned toward her own reflection, dabbing at the liner around her eyes.
