The Disappearing Act(18)

He raises his hands in casual defense. “Yeah, sure. Just trying to help. I’m sure you’ve got it covered.” He smiles gently. “I hope it all works out.” He studies me for another second before nodding and turning back up the street. I feel guilt rise inside me. The only person who’s genuinely tried to help me today and I’ve essentially told him to fuck off.

“Nick. Wait, sorry.” I call after him. He turns back to me, eyebrows raised. “You didn’t see her, did you? Earlier?”

He looks down for a second seeming to weigh the pros and cons of getting involved with the crazy British woman again. When he looks up his face is different somehow, serious for the first time.

“What did she look like?”

I’m not sure how to answer that. Not because I don’t know, I do, I would recognize her anywhere, but because the truth is she sort of looked like me, or every other woman that entered the building opposite his today. Shit.

“She was about my height, brown hair tied back, blouse, jeans, heels.”

He’s grinning again. “So exactly like you!”

I look down at my outfit and back up at him wryly. “Yeah.”

“Okay. It was a casting, right? Well, if it helps, I’m pretty sure I only saw you loitering around the cars. You’ve got a certain way about you.” His eyes crinkle around the edges again. “You’re quite…British-y.”

What the hell does that mean? Am I stumbling around LA like some cake-addled Bridget Jones character or something? I hold his gaze. “You know British-y is not a real word, right?”

He laughs. “Noted. But the point stands. Plus no one else has been hanging around here, except you. You’ll have to take my word for it. But I can keep my eyes out, I’m here at the office until”—he looks at his watch—“about six this evening. If she comes back, I can pop out and give her your cell number or something? If that helps?”

I think of the receptionist upstairs, and decide an extra pair of eyes would help. But it’ll mean I have to give him my number. And I’m not entirely sure I should be giving it out to any more strangers today. I give him an apprehensive look.

“Okay, listen,” he adds, registering my concern. “Why don’t I just give you my cell number? That way if you don’t hear from her by this evening you can check in with me to see if she came back. Sound good? Sound safe?”

Bizarrely just the acknowledgment of my safety somehow puts me more at ease. And perhaps he’s right. What harm could me taking his number do? It’s easy to hide your caller ID on an iPhone, the police showed me how to do it after my problems with Shaun the stalker.

“That would actually be really helpful, Nick. Thank you. Yes. If you see her then let her know they have my details at reception and she can call me. That’d be great.” I feel a twang of regret at having been so obstructive up until now. He’s just a nice guy trying to be nice. I unearth my phone from my bag and jab his digits in as he reels them off.

“And what’s her name?” he asks as I save his contact.

“Emily. She said she had a video call or something to do, so I’m hoping it’s just that.”

“You got a surname for Emily? We could google her, get an agent contact?”

“The last name on her card is Bryant. So if she doesn’t call this afternoon, I’ll get my agent on it, I guess. But hopefully she’ll show up.” I feel my stomach rumble. It’s 2:08. I might just have time to grab lunch en route if I leave now. “Nick, thank you. Really appreciate your help but I absolutely have to go or I’m going to be late.”

“Casting?”

“Yeah. Burbank.”

“Jesus. Okay, good luck with that. Rather you than me.” He grins.

I slide into the leather seat of the Audi and start the engine. I can’t help but watch his sharp suited figure recede in the rearview mirror as I join the flow of traffic back toward the freeway.

I just have time to hit an In-N-Out drive-through and ravenously inhale a cheeseburger and fries on the way to Burbank. I might have to acquaint myself with the apartment gym if this keeps happening.

When I get to the Warner Bros. parking lot I have only ten minutes to spare. I check the surrounding vehicles for inhabitants and once I’m sure the coast is clear I wrestle off my blouse and pop on a short-sleeved cashmere jumper. I need to go from the near-future, fictional Mars terra-former Rose Atwood to the real-life Raquel Eidelman, in 1945, one of the first female students ever accepted at Harvard Medical School. I swap my jeans for slacks and slip into some low pumps, stuffing my clothes into the back footwell. Then I flip down the sun visor mirror, loosen my hair, and fluff it out, letting its natural wave do its thing. Finally I apply a deep-plum lipstick to my lips, comb through my thick brows, and spritz a healthy spurt of perfume to cover my burger shame.

Done. I give myself a look in the mirror. I throw a few of Raquel’s lines at myself with a warm American hum. Then I pop the door, grab my bag, and wiggle with intent straight into my next appointment, ready to slam the patriarchy 1940s-style.





9


    New Friends


WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 10

I’m still riding high on the buzz of the second audition when I get back to the apartment building that evening.