The Disappearing Act(19)
Three network executives, who’d all seen Eyre, and three scenes that flowed in all the right places. It couldn’t have gone better. Them asking about my availability at the end had been the icing on the cake.
I drive into the Ellis Building’s underground car park and catch sight of Miguel at the valet station. He gives a cheery wave as I pull up and jogs over to meet me.
“Mia, Mia, lovely Mia, it’s so very good to…see ya,” he singsongs through my open window. I cut the engine as he appraises my broad smile. “Oh? It’s a good day, huh? Nice casting?”
“Yeah, I think so, Miguel,” I say tentatively, not wanting to jinx myself. As I get out of the car, he assesses my audition outfit and nods his approval.
“Nice. A 1940s part, right?” he guesses.
I nod. Correct.
“Okay…Secretary?” he hazards. “Politician’s wife?”
“Harvard Med.”
“Oooo! Nice!” He does a finger slap, delighted with himself.
“Yep.” I grin, his energy infectious. “Feeling pretty good.”
“Damn straight.” He slides into the car with my keys to valet-park. “Well, you let me know how it goes. I want to know what they say. But if your getup is anything to go by”—he nods to my 1940s hair and makeup—“you got options, girl. You know what I mean?”
It’s only when I get into the lift that I realize, in all of today’s excitement, I’ve misplaced my own apartment keycard. I head back down to reception to get another card coded.
* * *
—
Upstairs, I dump my stuff and head straight for the fridge. I’m in the mood for something fancy. I definitely deserve it after the day I’ve had. But as I pull my chilled bottle of gifted Perrier-Jou?t from the fridge door compartment, it suddenly occurs to me that my bag was left unattended today. Did I lose my key or could someone have taken it? I pause with the fridge door still ajar as I scan the apartment, the chill from the dewy bottle in my hand making me shiver. The empty apartment stares back at me, silently, exactly as I left it this morning. Nothing out of place. Besides, no one could have gotten past the reception downstairs without being noticed. I shake off the eerie feeling that someone else has been in the apartment. No one stole my apartment card; it probably just fell out of my bag when I was rushing around today. Why steal a blank white card and leave a wallet and phone? I grab some grapes from the fridge compartment to go with my drink.
I pop the champagne cork and let a puff of effervescent sparkle loose before carefully filling a single flute. A memory of New Year with George flashes through my mind but then I suddenly realize I haven’t thought about him since that first audition today. Not once since then. All thoughts of the article Cynthia sent me this morning watered down to nothing. Well, almost nothing.
If anything is worth celebrating then it’s that. Outside the light is fading and I toast the twinkling city lights beyond the glass of the apartment, taking a cool sip of fizz as I wander to the bathroom to run a hot bath. I bequeath myself: self-care.
Salts in, steam rising, I hear the familiar ping of a text message from my bag in the living room and suddenly Emily and everything that happened earlier today comes back to me.
Oh shit, her stuff.
I look at my already nearly drained champagne glass. If it is her, I can’t drive anywhere to meet her tonight. I feel a strange thrill of excitement. I cannot wait to hear her excuse for disappearing—the reason an adult woman would leave all her money and her only method of transportation with a complete stranger for a whole day. I mean where the hell did she go? That thought, and the fact that I’m suddenly dying to talk to someone about this beyond-weird day, propels me back into the living room. I think, after this, Emily and I could become pretty good friends. I mean, in script terms, it’s a pretty great best-friend meet-cute.
I skip into the living room, towel tight around me, pour myself another quick glass, and tip the contents of my audition bag out onto the sofa.
High-heeled boots, makeup pouch, white blouse, my wallet, Emily’s wallet, Emily’s Avis car keys, my water bottle, folded-up audition pages, and my phone. The lit-up screen showing a text from a number I don’t recognize.
“Oooo!” I plop down next to the pile of stuff and read.
Weds Feb 10, 6:36pm
Hi Mia, this is Delilah from reception at Casting Ground Zero. Thought I should let you know: nobody collected your note today. We’re closing up now but I’m in tomorrow so will pass on your cell number if she shows up then. Del x
I stare at the text, unblinkingly.
What? Emily didn’t show up. My eyes find her wallet beside me. Her car keys with their Avis key fob containing its hastily penned number plate info. What the hell happened to her? With no money and no car.
I shiver and reflexively take a sip of my drink, the sound of the bath thundering on in the other room. What should I do? Should I call Michael and tell him what happened today? But I don’t want him to make trouble for her with her agent. I’m pretty sure if something bad happened to her someone else at the studio would have noticed.
I have a habit of assuming something terrible has happened to someone when in actual fact they’re just ghosting me. George was absolutely fine, just moving house and having a drink in the pub without any intention of ever speaking to me again.