The Disappearing Act(22)

Kind regards,

Jimmy Torres

Assistant to Kathryn Mayer



As I read, the plot of My Fair Lady comes back to me. Rex Harrison barking orders at a doe-eyed Audrey Hepburn in the 1960s blockbuster, where an arrogant British phonetics professor wagers he can turn a Cockney flower girl into a princess. It was a musical. My blood runs cold. Oh my God please let this not be a musical! I think back to my one day of a cappella singing on Eyre, how my cheeks flushed so much that the hair and makeup department had to stop filming to deal with my redness. Jane was supposed to be embarrassed, sure, but not visibly on the verge of an aneurysm. I feel my heart thumping at the mere idea that I might be asked to sing at the Universal meeting. I flick through the script desperately scouring for songs but thankfully find none.

I tap Galatea into my phone and Wikipedia tops the searches. The myth of Pygmalion and Galatea. A sculptor, Pygmalion, creates a statue of the ideal woman out of ivory. He names it Galatea and falls in love with it. And then Galatea comes to life. Every man’s dream.

My mind instantly flashes to Naomi Fairn and I immediately feel guilty. She can’t help being who she is. Don’t hate the player, Mia, hate the game.

I heft the script in my hands. I suppose I had better get reading.



* * *



—

I’m ten pages from the end, propped up in bed, when my phone pings. I check the screen and I’m surprised to see the name of an actress I haven’t seen in years, Bee Miller. I sent a generic, I’m-in-town WhatsApp to almost every actor in my contacts, but I wouldn’t have necessarily expected her to get back to me. The text says she’s in LA too and she suggests grabbing brunch tomorrow morning in Venice. It’s a bit of a drive and we’ve never been close friends but I could definitely use the distraction. If there’s one thing I don’t need any more of it’s time alone. All I have to do tomorrow is background research on this new script anyway. I fire back a response and we make a plan.

As soon as I’ve read the screenplay’s final line I flip the manuscript to inspect the title page once more.

Bloody hell. I stare at it, floored, as I smooth my hand over its silky paper. Wow. This is good. This is a very, very good part. This could be it. The big one.

I try to think why Kathryn Mayer could have thought of me for this role. But then it’s obvious, it’s because of Jane. Kathryn Mayer wants Jane Eyre to play the lead role in this film. That’s who she wants to meet on Friday, not me, not Mia from rural Bedfordshire. Not Mia whose boyfriend left her with four words less than a week ago. Not Mia who hasn’t touched another human being in days except for the odd arm squeeze. Kathryn doesn’t want me. Yes, that makes more sense. Kathryn Mayer wants Jane Eyre—with her self-worth, her fierce independence, and her unwavering dignity—to be the lead in her studio’s new film. Well, luckily, I can do that. I can play Jane in my sleep and if Jane can get me this job, this film, then I’ll be her for as long as I have to.

I look down at the bright new script. It’s not a musical, it’s a tragicomic feature film with complex and incredibly human characters. An award-bait part for an older actor and the role of a lifetime for a younger actress. The role of a lifetime. And instead of fear coming with that thought, I feel only hope, pure and clean and bright. I can do this part. I already know how to do every scene in this script. The words are mine.

I just need to reassure Kathryn at the meeting. I just need to be who she wants me to be.

My phone pings loudly in the silence of the apartment. I look at the screen. The text is from another unknown number.

The situation with Emily floods back to me. Her things, my promise to return them.

But she doesn’t have my number. She never went back to collect my note.

Tentatively I tap the text.


Weds Feb 10, 10:57pm


Hey. Nick here. Sorry, to contact you like this…I got your number from the casting studio this afternoon. Just wanted to let you know I paid her meter till tomorrow. A parking attendant showed up and I sort of went with my gut. She should be okay for parking until midday tomorrow. Excuse the number theft. Just wondering if everything worked out? Nick



I’m not really sure how to respond. I imagine him lurking outside the casting studio until Delilah left and then accosting her with some story of chivalric good-deed-ery in order to get my number. But then I remember that he works directly opposite her building and he is stop-in-your-tracks-and-take-a-good-look attractive. Delilah probably just offered him my number straight off the bat. And if I’m being completely honest with myself, he isn’t exactly stalker material. Stalkers aren’t usually above-averagely handsome men with good jobs. At least not in real life.

It is also kind of sweet of him to pay Emily’s meter.

I find myself suddenly wondering if Nick is interested in me. If after George anyone ever could be. Is this Nick’s stab at making a connection? Will we one day, bleary-eyed, be telling our grandchildren this story of how we met? I hope not, because I’m not in a good place to start any kind of relationship right now. Even a holiday fling. And after George I’m sure as hell not going to go out with a man more attractive than me.

I let my thumb hover over the message keyboard, regardless. He’s probably just being nice. Talking to him can’t hurt and I have an overwhelming urge to discuss today’s events with someone.