it matter if it becomes a film script?”
Like it would ever be produced. “No.”
Franco went to the telephone table and returned with a pen and pad of paper and began scribbling. “Now what else is bothering you?”
“My mother is going to Paris,” Marnie threw in for good measure. She’d just found out.
Franco gasped. “And not taking you?”
“She’s chaperoning the French club. She teaches high school.”
Franco gestured dismissively. “Consider yourself lucky, then. You don’t want Paris at this time of year. Now, what do you want?” He stared at the pad of paper. “Do I understand that you wish construction workers to objectify you?”
“No! Well, kinda… Actually, I guess I just want to be the sort of woman they would want to objectify—whistle at. You know.”
“I’m getting the idea, but please enlighten me.”
And so Marnie told him all about Barry and not being girlfriend material and the construction workers and the foreman thinking she was a homeless person. Franco nodded and said “Uh-huh” and “mmm” a lot as he took notes.
He was such a good listener that Marnie even told him how she’d worried about telling her mother she’d be staying here and how her mother had misunderstood and thought she was moving out and that her mom had been so happy that now Marnie was really going to have to look for somewhere else to live. None of this had anything to do with being girlfriend material, but Marnie had thought she was helping her mother by living with her and now her mother didn’t need help anymore and it was Just One More Thing.
“I’m sorry to be such a drama queen,” she moaned, holding her head.
“Drama is my life,” Franco said fervently. “What are you going to do?”
Marnie drank her entire mug of lukewarm tea. “I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.” Franco tapped his pencil impatiently.
She did know. “Okay, but I don’t know how.”
“Oh, hon, you don’t want that Barry creature.”
“Oh, no. But I want him to ask me out to Tarantella. I want him to beg me.”
“And you want the construction workers to whistle at you.”
“Maybe just once.”
“I could pay them for you.”
Marnie laughed, then immediately sobered. “You’re saying that’s the only way—”
“No, it was a joke. A bad one. But I did make you laugh.” He studied her and Marnie was reminded of the construction foreman’s thorough scrutiny.
“We have a lot of work ahead of us.” Franco stood.
“We?”
“You didn’t think I wouldn’t respond to your cry for help, did you? We’ll start by doing your colors.”
“What?”
“We’ll ascertain which colors are most flattering to you before we go shopping, my little Cinderella.”
“Shopping isn’t one of my favorite words. I mostly order online.”
Franco gave a world-weary sigh. He used sighs very effectively. “I shall return with my swatches. You need to change.”
“I know.”
“I meant your clothes. What did you bring?”
Marnie looked down at herself. “Uh, more jeans. Some T-shirts.”
“Do you have a white T-shirt?”
“Mostly white. It’s got the blue writing on it from the Carnahan Easter 10K Fun Run.”
“Wear it backward or turn it inside out. And let me check my costumes—”
“You have costumes?”
“Yes, I’m an actor and a playwright and sometimes due to budgetary constraints in the small theaters, one must exercise many talents.” He headed for the door. “I’ll be back.”
Marnie cleared away the teacups and unpacked her suitcase. The closet was empty, except for a large hanging bag. She hung up three T-shirts, two pairs of jeans and her pajamas and robe. She didn’t know what to do with her underwear, so she left it in the duffel, which she set on the closet floor.
“Yoo-hoo,” she heard. Marnie couldn’t remember a time when she’d ever heard a grown man say “Yoo-hoo.”
Franco was in the living room. He’d pulled a chair over to the bay window and had taken the shade off the lamps, which he’d turned on. “We’ll need to see how you look in both natural and artificial light.”
Marnie pictured the Carnahan offices. “I spend most of my day in fluorescent light.”
“How ghastly.” Franco grimaced. “I found a nice, plain, black skirt I think will fit you. Go put it on.”
“A skirt? Isn’t denim a neutral color?”
Franco pinched the top of his nose and inhaled. “Marnie, please start thinking outside the box.”
Apparently thinking outside the box meant putting on the black skirt. Fine. Whatever.
Marnie already had on the white T-shirt and now she added the skirt. It slipped smoothly over her head and settled around her hips, swirling around her thighs before brushing its hem around midknee.
Marnie couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn a skirt or a dress and yet she’d been faithfully shaving her legs just the same. Now was the payoff. Who would have known?
She zipped up the skirt and looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door. Even she, fashion nihilist that she was, could see that the black skirt was probably the most flattering thing she’d ever worn. And it fit. Maybe a little loose at the waist, but that was just lasagna-eating room.
She smoothed her palms against the material noting the thick, rich feel. She turned to the side and thought for a moment that she saw a glimmer, but when she looked closer, it was gone.
What material was this? Some kind of silk, she guessed. Good quality stuff.
“Marnie? Are you about ready, hon?”
“Coming.” With a last look at herself, she headed for the door, the skirt warmly caressing her legs as she walked. She’d taken off her hiking boots and was walking barefoot across the wooden floor. The skirt made her walk differently. She could feel it in the sway of her hips and the placement of her feet and caught herself emphasizing certain movements in order to feel the material of the skirt against her skin.
She could be on to something here.
“Come, come.” Franco gestured impatiently. “And let down the hair—oh those ends…well, baby steps…baby steps.”
Marnie took a seat in front of the window and for the next few hours—actually only about thirty minutes—Franco draped scarves next to her face and made her look into a hand mirror. There were three piles of scarves: those that made something about her “pop,” which she learned was a good thing, and those that made her look like a corpse, which was a bad thing. Then there was the secondary pile, the “only if it’s on sale” pile.
She was gratified that the colors in her parka made the pop pile, but Franco only shook his head. “Colors aren’t everything. However, you lucky, lucky girl, you’re a Deep Autumn. You can wear black.”
“Everyone can wear black.”
“Everyone does wear black, but not everyone should.”
Franco gathered up his scarves then presented