The Disappearing Act(20)

So perhaps Emily is fine, too. Maybe she has another bank card in a coin purse, or Apple Pay, who knows. Perhaps she’ll get in touch tomorrow. I should probably wait until the morning and reassess.

I head back to the bathroom to turn off the water, warm steam hanging in the air. Maybe something just came up, an emergency, perhaps she got a call and didn’t make it into her audition. I know if anything happened to my family, I’d be off instantly, leaving everything behind me. But the thought niggles slightly because how would she have gotten anywhere in an emergency without her car and her money? I suppose someone could have picked her up, or she could have ordered an Uber on her phone…Whatever it is, it won’t be a mystery for too long. If she doesn’t contact me by tomorrow then I’ll pass her things on to her agent through my agent. None of it is really my business. If she’d thought about me today half as much as I’ve thought about her, I’m pretty confident we wouldn’t be in this situation.

And with that thought I tap on some music, slip out of my audition clothes, and sink into the hot bubbles of the bath.

Half an hour later my self-care session has moved to the bedroom. Thick toweling robe on, dark chocolate selection box on my chest, and old Sex and the City reruns playing on the TV. The idea of ordering in some kind of udon is playing at the back of my mind when one of Carrie’s ill-advised shoe shopping excursions is unceremoniously interrupted by the loud electrical buzz of my apartment door bell. I bolt up reflexively, scattering chocolates across the bedding.

Someone’s at the door.

The clock under the TV reads 7:12. It’s not so much the hour that bothers me—it’s the fact that I literally know no one in LA except Souki and she doesn’t know where I’m staying.

I grab my phone, slip it into my robe pocket, and pull the robe tight around me. The buzzer fizzes loudly again as I pad out to the apartment hall. The security monitor next to the front door is illuminated and there is a woman standing in the hallway outside my door, holding something in her hands. Closer to the screen I take in her features. Dark-brown hair pulled back from her face, a white blouse—and for a second I’m certain it’s Emily.

But then there’s no way she could know where I live. She doesn’t even know my full name, let alone my address in LA. I squint at the monitor, the figure’s features slowly making sense. It’s the building’s front-desk concierge. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding and swing open the door.

She greets me with a warm smile. Her name badge is partly obscured by the large package she is cradling, and despite having seen her every evening since I arrived, I realize I can’t for the life of me remember her name.

“Hi, Mia,” she says. “Sorry to bother. This just came for you. Someone dropped it at reception—it wasn’t Michelle but it seemed pretty urgent so I thought I’d bring it straight up.”

“Okay,” I reply, baffled. I assume someone called Michelle must have delivered my welcome gifts to the apartment before I arrived on Sunday.

The tightly bound packet in her arms crinkles, the brown packing paper soft in her hands, something angular hidden within. There are no postage marks on it. No need if it was hand-delivered. I see my name written in neat precise black Sharpie across its front in handwriting I don’t recognize. I try to think who on earth would be dropping off a parcel for me at seven o’clock at night. My agent perhaps, it could be scripts. But he’d just email them.

I realize she’s waiting for me to take it or at least acknowledge her effort in bringing it up for me. I’m sure it’s not part of her job description to cart people’s stuff directly to their doors.

“Shall I?” I ask, taking the heft of it from her. “Thank you so much for bringing it up here—” I spy her name badge now. “—Lucy. I really appreciate it.”

She beams. “No problem at all. It’s a bit slow downstairs at this time of the evening, gave me something to do! I’m guessing you’ve noticed the building’s pretty quiet at the moment.”

She’s clearly bored and in the mood for a chat. I shift in my doorway, the package awkward in my arms, but I have to admit my curiosity is piqued.

“It’s funny you say that, I was thinking exactly that this morning. It does seem oddly quiet here.” She gives me a conspiratorial smile. “Did they build this place on an Indian burial ground or something?” I joke.

“You know what, they may as well have.” She laughs. “No, it’s, actually—” She stops herself abruptly, like a Transylvanian villager suddenly thinking twice about telling me about the local landlord. If a peal of thunder sounded now, it wouldn’t be entirely out of place. I let out a compulsive giggle at the sudden campness of the situation.

“Wow. That bad, huh?” I ask.

She flushes slightly. “Pretty sure I shouldn’t be telling you this. Are you, like, a nervous person? Do you get anxiety or…?”

I shift my heavy mystery package in my arms and briefly consider. “Nah, I think I’m pretty sturdy. I suppose it depends what it is.”

She considers before continuing. “Basically, during construction on the building some state geologists discovered that there’s a minor fault line running between Wilshire and Ninth. Right where we are. There was an article in the Los Angeles Times.”