The Disappearing Act(21)

It’s not what I was expecting. “What, like an earthquake fault line?” I ask. “Under us? Here?”

She snorts out a little laugh as my voice leaps an octave.

“Yeah. But the fault line’s inactive, so the city decided it was fine to carry on construction. Apparently they can stay dormant for up to three thousand years, so…I think we’re probably fine. But a lot of buyers read the article and pulled out of buying apartments. We opened last year and not many people actually moved in. Most of the apartments are foreign-owned, Asian investments, just sitting empty. We’ve got a couple of short-term lets over pilot season like you and a few out-of-town studio executives are renting up on the top floor but aside from that, I’d say there’s only about twenty full-time residents.”

“Out of how many apartments?”

“Two hundred.”

“Wow. No wonder I don’t see anyone. How can the building stay open?”

“Investors?” She shrugs her ignorance. “As long as I’ve still got a job, I don’t ask.” She answers before she addresses my expression. “It’s totally fine, I promise. Seriously, I would not be working here if I thought for a second that the whole place might fall in on me. LA hasn’t had a proper quake since the 1990s anyway. And if there was one then it wouldn’t really matter where you were in the Downtown area. There’s a lot of high-rises to topple.”

Well, that is a comforting thought. I think of the view behind me through the living room window, LA sparkling in miniature out in the darkness, three hundred feet up in the night sky with nothing but cool evening air between me and the concrete beneath.

“Fantastic!” I round up, raising my package in thanks. “Well, good night then, Lucy! Sleep well!”

She gives a friendly chuckle as she heads off down the hall. “My conscience is clear. You said you weren’t a nervous person!”

She rounds the corner, disappearing back toward the lifts, and I stand for a moment alone with my package, its handwritten label ominously staring back at me. I shiver in my bathrobe as I head back into my three-hundred-foot-high death trap.





10


    The Whole Package


WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 10

I lay the package on the rug in the living room and sit cross-legged before it. A present perhaps, from Michael, or from Cynthia back in London. An apology from George.

I don’t know why but I’m reminded of Shaun, my stalker, and the package he sent. The police officer in charge of the case told me, “If anything turns up at the house that you’re not expecting then give us a call.” I try to remember if he said to open it first or to definitely not open it. But that’s irrelevant really as there is absolutely no way Shaun my theater stalker (a) knows I’m staying here, or (b) is weird enough to follow up on that knowledge. At least, I assume.

I fish my phone out of my pocket and check my emails. Nothing new from Cynthia. But there is a new email from Michael just forty-five minutes ago.

Mia,

Just got a call from First Class (the Harvard med series) after you left the room today. They LOVED you. It’s looking good for this one. An offer has gone out for the professor, they’re trying for name, but all the female roles are still in the mix. Should hear tomorrow. They’re showing tapes to the network in the morning and pushing for you hard. That Boston series is coming back with a screen-test offer tomorrow too.

Also, as I mentioned in my previous email, Universal is emailing over some prep materials for your meeting with Kathryn Mayer. So keep an eye out. No idea what they are, they won’t tell me, and they want you to sign an NDA—I’ve attached below. E-sign it and shoot it back to them direct, details below.

M. x



I scroll up through my emails for his last one—I must have missed it—but all I find is one he sent yesterday. Perhaps he forgot to send it or it bounced back. I look back at the package. Very odd. Prep materials. I click on the NDA, drag my E-signature into the pdf, and send to the email address attached. Then I tear into the package, liberating a thick stack of bound paper heavily watermarked with my name. A script. A thick fresh script. I read the title page. Galatea. Can’t say the name rings a bell.

I shake the packaging for more information, and two recordable DVDs plop out onto the rug. Pygmalion is scrawled in Sharpie across one label and My Fair Lady across the other. I root around in the packaging for more and find a compliment slip with the Universal logo; my eyes flick down to the signature. Assistant to Kathryn Mayer.

    Dear Mia,

Please find enclosed confidential preparatory materials relating to your forthcoming meeting with Kathryn Mayer.

Kathryn has asked me to make these resources available to you with a view to discussing the title role in the proposed production, the adaptation of which will be based on the original idea by George Bernard Shaw.

Kathryn is keen to stress the reimagining of Shaw’s masterpiece will be modernized reflecting a 21st-century sensibility. Hence her desire for collaboration and your thoughts. She is also keen to stress the project will be adhering to Shaw’s amended ending so will strongly diverge from the material provided, and previous productions, in tone.

Also, enclosed is an early draft of the screenplay, please note dialogue and scenes will change.

We hope you enjoy the material and we very much look forward to meeting you in person on Friday.