Page 80 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
“I agree that a consistent ‘polish,’ as you call it, can be problematic, but shows with spectacle bring in viewers. People want an escape from reality. Princesses, party scenes, dances, red carpets, couture, a suggestion of the extraordinary. Yes, TV and film impacts culture, but audiences create that culture as well. It’s simple market and demand.”
“Then I guess we’re all to blame.” Marlowe slumped sideways but she paused before resting a cheek on her hand, worried she’d mess up Ravi’s work.
Without responding, Babs crossed the trailer and lifted the muslin cover from the wedding gown. She ran her hands down the front where two pieces of scalloped lace formed a halter-style neckline, meeting at the bustline and carrying on to the waist where a riot of swirling organza ruffles spilled out, filling the entire rack area. Her movement was slow and careful. Her eyes were distant and the usual tightness around her lips had softened. Maybe she was considering the spectacle, or maybe she was recalling her own wedding, and the vows that were broken twenty years later.
“I’m not sure how they’ll top this next year,” she said through a sigh. “If season six ends with a wedding, season seven will need a death or a baby.”
“It’ll probably be Jake’s.” Ravi chuckled from the corner by thesink. “The baby, I mean, not the death. Everyone loves it when a bad boy reforms.”
An awkward pause followed, filled with an exchange of uncomfortable glances. Marlowe sank lower in her seat and started chewing a nail. Ravi reminded her that her nails were sacred territory for the rest of the day. Marlowe lowered her hand, duly chastened, but a weight settled in her gut and showed no signs of leaving.
While she battled an onslaught of conflicting feelings, Patrice continued the speculation about what might be on tap in season seven, steering clear of any mention of Jake. Ravi was moving on to a sci-fi film, but Babs and Patrice planned to return.
“The design’s so well established,” Babs said. “No point handing it off now.”
“What’ll happen with the film you were going to design?” Marlowe asked.
“They’ll find someone else.” Babs dug through her giant handbag and pulled out a menacing-looking nail file. “Timing’s tight but the demands are minimal. Small cast, fast shoot, not a lot of background. Anyone could do it, really.”
“Anyone like Cherry?”
“Cherry will be on season seven with me.”
“But if you recommended her for the film, would they at least consider her?”
“Maybe.” Babs turned away, locking her focus on her nails. While she ran her file back and forth, Marlowe gripped the arms of her chair, steeling herself to press on.
“Cherry’s so smart and she has a great eye for fit, color, and character. She works harder than anyone I know. She deserves to move up from assisting.” Marlowe stopped there but when Babs continued filing, muttering only a low and noncommittalhmm,she inched forward. “I understand not wanting to create competition but I don’t think you have to worry. Cherry would never take a job from you.”
Babs glanced up, her file halted, her expression inscrutable.
“I’m not worried about competition,” she said.
“Then whatareyou worried about?” Marlowe pressed.
“It’s none of your business.”
“She’s my friend. She looks out for me. I can do the same for her.”
Babs scowled, flicking her file against the side of her thumb.
“Cherry will make more money here.”
“I don’t think that’s her top priority.”
“She still has so much to learn.”
“She can learn while she designs.”
“The script isn’t even that good.”
“AndHeart’s Dineris a masterpiece of literary fiction?” Marlowe stifled a laugh.
Babs’s scowl deepened, but after a moment, her face relaxed and her file stilled.
“Fine,” she said. “If you must know, I don’t recommend Cherry for other jobs because I don’t know how I’d get by without her.”
“Oh. Right.” Marlowe sat back in her chair, too startled to say more. She’d watched Babs and Cherry interact for six months and she had no idea Babs placed that kind of value on Cherry’s assistance. She suspected Cherry didn’t know, either.
