The Disappearing Act(17)

The receptionist balks slightly. “So I don’t actually have anything to do with the casting. I just work for the studio space. I just…Well my duties are more focused on the suite facilities themselves than anything else. I’m sure the casting directors have some kind of list. Maybe ask through your agent, though. I mean they’re pretty busy right now. Sorry I can’t help more.” She gives me a rallying shrug. “But you can definitely leave your note and if an Emily does turn up I’ll pass it on.”

Outside I dither for a moment by Emily’s car. It’s 1:54 and still no sign of her. Her parking time is up again. And so is mine.

I make a decision, top up her meter, and amend the note under her windscreen wiper.

    Hi Emily,

Sorry, couldn’t find you anywhere and had to dash. Hope your casting went well. Left keys & wallet with the receptionist.

Couldn’t leave your stuff with receptionist and I’ve got a meeting across town now—so I’ve still got them. Left my number at reception. Call me as soon as you get this and I’ll get them to you asap.

Best, Mia x



It’s just as I wedge the tightly folded note back under her windscreen wiper that I feel a hand grab my shoulder.





8


    Passerby


WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 10

My heart leaps into my throat and I spin, coming face-to-face with the hand’s owner.

It’s not Emily, with her gleaming chestnut hair loosely tied back in its low bun. It’s not even the receptionist with more unhelpful suggestions. It’s a man. A tall and conspicuously handsome man wearing a suit. His brown hair is rumpled, his intelligent eyes crinkled with mild amusement at my shock. He’s looking at me like I know him. His smile denotes a level of intimacy between us that I am absolutely certain we do not share. I don’t know why but I suddenly find his confrontational attractiveness just as infuriating as Emily’s absence. Because I really don’t have time for all this right now.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice warm. There’s genuine concern in his tone and I realize I’ve been lurking around the parked cars long enough to draw attention.

I give him a look I hope conveys that this is really none of his business. “Yes, yes. All good. Thank you.” I notice I’m leaning hard into my accent like a particularly indignant Maggie Smith, but this only seems to amuse him more.

“Car trouble?” he asks, and I realize a conversation is happening whether I want one or not. He’s not going anywhere. I take a breath and dive in.

“No. No car trouble. I was at an audition and the girl before me needed someone to feed the meter for her car so she gave me her wallet and keys and now she’s gone.”

“Ah! I see…so, then—gone girl?” he says with a mock seriousness that, if I wasn’t so annoyed and late, might have elicited a laugh.

But I am, so it doesn’t.

I raise my eyebrows in acknowledgment of the joke and brace myself for more hilarity. “No, ha, very good. But yes, actually, she is gone. Which isn’t ideal. And now I have these.” I hold up her wallet and Chevrolet keys.

He nods, sagely, and points behind me. “I work across the street.” I turn to look at the glass and plant-wall-covered work unit opposite. “I’ve been watching your progress so far.” His smile turns sheepish, or, as sheepish as, I’m guessing, a former college athlete’s smile can ever really turn. I frown slightly at his confession but he counters with a light shrug. “Slow workday.”

He appears to be waiting for me to say something or maybe continue with my story but I have no desire, or time, to do that. I turn back to my note and re-wedge it firmly. “Well, thank you for your concern but I have to go.” I give him a tight smile as I grab my bag and root out my own car keys. “Running late.”

Undaunted by the brush-off or just oblivious to the nuances of British social interaction, he continues brightly.

“So what’s the plan? I’ll keep an eye out. Who are we looking for?”

We?

I suddenly wonder if I’m going mad. Is this guy really not reading my signals or am I losing my touch? I open my car door and turn back to him.

“Right, well…Um…?” I realize I don’t know his name, but he’s ahead of me.

“Nick.”

Of course. Of course, it would be something like Nick.

“Okay. Well, Nick, I appreciate your concern but I’ve left a note and everything is under control so we’re fine. Thank you.” I think there’s a firmness to my tone but, again, judging by Nick’s amused expression, somehow my desire for him to bugger off is still miraculously not getting through.

“Wait, so, you’re just leaving with this woman’s wallet and keys?”

I freeze momentarily, one leg in the footwell, one on the sidewalk. I suppose he’s right. I am leaving with her property, and actually I haven’t really waited that long. Put like that it doesn’t sound great. I retract my leg from the car and turn back to Nick.

“Yes, okay, I see your point. But I can’t stay any longer. I really do need to go. I’ve got another meeting. I’ve left a note with someone about the keys and wallet, they’re passing on my phone number, so it’s all sorted out. Okay?”