The Disappearing Act(23)

I type.


You’re a terrifying man, Nick. But thank you for letting me know. And thanks for paying the meter. No word on Emily though. Hopefully she’ll surface tomorrow. If not I’ll get my agent to contact hers. Weird that she hasn’t missed her wallet. All very strange. Hopefully she’s fine and just flaky. M



I type an x after my name, then delete it, then hit send. His gray dots pulse. I wonder what his job is, if he’s involved in production in some way. But maybe he has nothing to do with the film industry—all sorts of people live and work in LA. He could be an architect. I try to imagine him at an elevated desk, his head bowed, squinting at floor plans. No, he doesn’t seem the sit-down-all-day kind of guy.

His reply bursts onto the screen.


I didn’t even ask the receptionist for your number btw. She just gave it to me?! No problem about the meter. I kind of have history with parking attendants around here anyway. I’m slightly concerned about this Emily situation, all a bit strange, but I guess you’re right to give her the benefit of the doubt. Let me know if I can help in any way. Nick



His pulsing dots disappear. I guess that’s that for tonight. It’s eleven p.m. People with real jobs need to get their beauty sleep, I guess. And I should probably call it a night too.

I lift the heavy Galatea script from my legs and place it carefully on the desk in the corner of the living room. Outside, the lights of Hollywood twinkle magically all the way to the hills. I think of the distance from the apartment window to the ground below. I think of that actress’s dive from the blinding Hollywood sign into the darkness beyond and shiver.

I pull the heavy curtains closed and remind myself that fault lines can be inactive for years—I’m not going to fall. I’m safe up here in my sparkling tower. And I’m almost certainly nothing like her.





11


    The Abandoned Car


THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 11

All 110 pounds of Bee Miller sits across from me in the Serenity Cloud Buddhist tearoom in Venice Beach. Our brunch consists of chili-flaked avocado on rice cake and a pot of Himalayan salt tea. I am clearly being punished by the universe for yesterday’s In-N-Out burger.

Bee nibbles her smeared green rice disk. “I just don’t get it,” she protests, mid-flow. “They offered it to her. I know you’re not supposed to say it but she has two chins, Mia. She literally has two chins.”

She’s telling me about the screen-test part she lost to another actress on Monday. A new superhero-origin-story TV series.

She shrugs comically before continuing. “What am I supposed to do, get two chins? And I mean I know she’s not up to my standard physically, she can’t do action. How is she going to do the fight scenes? After two seasons of Final Conflict, it’s pretty clear my stunt work is going to be better than hers, right? She’s done, what, like a day of harness work in that crappy time-loop show. Was she even a series lead on that?”

It’s hard to know what to say so I just nod and sip my disgusting tea and try to think Serenity Cloud thoughts as the café around us buzzes with similarly fraught conversations.

“I mean, bless her,” she continues with terrifying earnestness, “I know she really struggles with her weight but how are they even going to film her? Like from what angle? They’ll have to shoot all her scenes from above.”

Something inside me flutters. I think I should probably say something now.

“I don’t know, Bee. She seems pretty in shape to me. And I’m not exactly a model myself, if you know what I mean.”

Bee’s eyes flare wide and innocent as if I’ve accused her of a hate crime. “Oh my God, Mia,” she blurts apologetically. “Please…I am not talking about you. You look fantastic. You’re naturally thin. And I would never even—God, you must think I’m such a bitch. But, I mean, this is an action series I’m talking about, you know. It’s based on a comic book. The costumes are basically latex. It’s not an issue for you, obviously, you do more Austen-y stuff anyway. I’m just saying, for her this series is going to be an uphill struggle. She’s really going to have to keep on top of it. I’m guessing production will have to hire a nutritionist for her. She is going to have to work really hard. Really hard. That’s all I’m saying.” She bites into her rice cake diplomatically.

I nod, pause for a moment, then try to wrangle back the conversation.

“So aside from that, how have you been finding it?”

She looks up from pouring more salty tea. “LA?”

“Yeah. It’s got a weird vibe, right?”

Her perfect little features pucker. “Weird how?”

“I don’t know. Empty,” I say. “Perhaps I’m just not going to the right kind of places?”

“Oh God, I don’t know, I’ve been too busy to notice. Literally it’s lines, tapes, meetings, and parties. It’s exhausting. I’m actually getting a bit puffy on it. You know, you try to drink enough water but it’s never enough, is it? Are you using ice in the morning?”

“Ice?”

“Yeah, on your face.” She looks at me expectantly.

I’m not sure how to reply as I don’t know what exactly I’d be doing with the ice on my face. “It’s good for my puffiness,” she adds, with her completely un-puffy face. “You dunk your face in a bowl of water with ice in. You do it first thing, like as soon as you wake up. It feels so good.”