Page 81 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
As the weight of Babs’s revelation settled, she renewed her filing.
“The girls in that film would all end up in logo T-shirts,” she said.
“Which wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” Marlowe offered.
Babs pursed her lips, the picture of annoyance. Ravi and Patricepaused their tidying. As the trailer went quiet again, Babs took in the faces around her. The annoyance faded from her face, replaced by what Marlowe could only call amusement.
“You’re right,” she conceded with a chuckle. “It wouldn’t be bad at all.”
Discounting the occasional derisive bark, this was the first time Marlowe had ever heard Babs laugh. The look of respect she sent Marlowe a second later suggested that a certain stubborn, outspoken girl was still alive and well, and her voice hadn’t gone unheard.
Chapter Thirty-one
Setup on location took longer than expected, but shortly after noon, an AD escorted Marlowe toward the church to walk through her blocking before she’d get into costume and cameras would roll. As a guy from the art department hurried past with a potted shrub, and a trio of grips trudged by with thick coils of cable on their shoulders, Cherry stepped out of the background tent. Her eyes lit up when she spotted Marlowe.
“Holy shit, you look amazing.”
“Better than dog spit and vanilla shake?”
“Low bar, Banks. Low bar.” Cherry fell in step with Marlowe and the AD, heading toward the church. “You’re never going to believe this, but Babs called the producers on the girls’ rock camp film. They’ve agreed to meet with me tomorrow.”
Marlowe grinned ear to ear while her chest could’ve burst with pride.
“That’s fantastic!” she said. “Congratulations!”
“I don’t officially have the job yet, but if Babs has anything to say about the matter, I have nothing to worry about. I know she’s been hard on you, and she can be tough to work with, but I think she had to be tough to gain respect in this industry.”
Marlowe nodded, smiling to herself. She had a less flattering view of Babs’s “toughness,” but that view didn’t really matter. Babs was making a major sacrifice to help advance Cherry’s career, and Marlowe kind of loved her for it.
When they reached the church, Cherry got called back to wardrobe while Marlowe met with Damon, the director of the final episode. He was a short, stocky, bald guy in his mid-to-late thirties with full tattoo sleeves that made his crisp oxford appear ironic, though maybe he simply liked oxfords.
After a brief introduction, he talked Marlowe through her blocking. She’d enter from the back of a limo, followed by her bridesmaid, as played by a slight girl named Olga with a toothy smile and a blond pixie cut. Marlowe would walk up the church steps, pause at the top, and scan the street. Seeing nothing, she’d turn to head in. The sound of the motorcycle would halt her. She’d turn again. Jake would pull up on the other side of the street. As he got off his bike, she’d step forward. A moment of indecision. Look at her flowers. Back at Jake. Behind her at the church. She’d tug her freckled ear. He’d step forward. She’d shake her head, cast him one last longing look, and enter the church. As before, they’d shoot the entire sequence through. Once they had what they needed, they’d set up for shorter takes, close-ups, etc.
Marlowe and Olga walked through the action a couple of times, stepping into the church where crewmembers were working with the lighting and sound gear that surrounded the entrance. Past the bustle of activity, the church stood empty, with about twenty rows of pews and an unadorned altar at the end of the aisle. The space had a mass-produced quality to it, from the wood paneling to the bland stained-glass windows beyond the altar. Despite Cherry’s instructions to imagine a fantasy wedding, Marlowe couldn’t muster enough imagination to manage the task. The lackluster church wasonly partly to blame, but it served as an excellent scapegoat for her heartache.
Marlowe saw no sign of Angus on set. Maybe he was avoiding her. Maybe the production staff was keeping the pair apart, hoping to prevent an altercation that could affect filming. Maybe their distance from one another was simply a product of chance. Regardless, Marlowe was grateful. Better to see Angus when they were both acting. When the only grief or confusion on display would be completely, utterly fake.
Back in the trailer, Elaine helped Marlowe into her enormous dress while Cherry stood by for moral support. The dress really was gorgeous, though its sheer quantity of ruffles made Marlowe thankful she was wearing it and not making it. As she faced the mirror, centered in a delicate ivory cloud, with her dramatic makeup and fairy-princess hair, the reality of what she was about to do finally hit her.
“How do I get through this?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” Cherry straightened a few errant ruffles. “Ignore the reality. Embrace the fantasy. Channel the costume. Don’t forget, you’re wearing fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of couture. You look gorgeous, even if your boobs are, like, eighty percent synthetic materials. You’re not the only one in L.A. who can make that claim.”
Marlowe smiled but a lump built in her throat.
“Have you seen him?” she asked.
Cherry nodded. “He’s hurting, too. That’s pretty obvious. But he’s a pro. He’ll do his job, just like you will. At least you guys don’t have to talk to each other. You just have to look angsty and unhappy. Pretty sure you’ll both nail it.”
Marlowe snuck in a loose hug, careful not to crush the dress. Minutes later, she was being packed into the back of a limousinewith Olga while a familiar flurry ensued. The art director handed off her bouquet. Makeup and hair experts performed final checks. Crewmembers consulted lighting meters, adjusted cameras, and positioned booms. The episode director and director of photography stationed themselves by a set of monitors, competing for Most-Animated Hand Gesture. The driver started the car. With a cue from an AD, everyone settled. After a few seconds of suspended quiet, the car moved forward.
The driver pulled up to the curb about twenty yards from where he started. Marlowe swapped a quick smile of encouragement with Olga before they opened their doors and climbed out. Marlowe fussed with the explosion of featherlight ruffles that fluttered all around her while Olga skirted the car and joined her on the sidewalk. Thankfully, Babs had decided to forgo a veil. Between the bouquet, the dress, and a thousand jolts of nervous energy, Marlowe had enough to manage.
With a deep breath, she followed Olga up the half dozen steps to the landing in front of the church. Olga opened one of the doors and held it for Marlowe, beaming like an eager bridesmaid on her best friend’s wedding day. Marlowe stared into the church. Beyond the crew and equipment positioned immediately on the other side of the doors, empty space stretched out before her. Empty pews. Empty aisle. Empty altar. It was all so hollow, so deserted. The aloneness swept through her like a frigid wind, reminding her of solitary nights, and of days on end without company, without the warmth of shared laughter or physical touch. The strange brittleness of being lonely. A feeling so familiar, and one she shared with the last person in the world she would’ve imagined being lonely. For a few brief and beautiful days, they’d been each other’s remedy. But now…
Olga cleared her throat. Marlowe blinked herself back to task. She turned and looked both ways down the street, stepping forward, craning her neck, seeking a flash of copper-penny hair. So many people. So much gear. No Angus.
She spun toward the church and stepped onto the threshold. The rumble of the motorcycle halted her, on cue. She sucked in a breath. Braced herself. Turned around.
