The Disappearing Act(24)

I push my now browning avo rice cake around the plate. “Nice. Okay. I will give that a go.” God, I would kill for some bacon. “So talk to me about these parties. Work or…”

“Work, kind of everything out here is work, right? Yeah, my agent has basically been sending me to them. Well, it’s like ‘oh, so and so is going from the agency do you want to tag along’—that kind of thing.” She leans forward across the table. “They are really handsy over here, right?”

I feel my eyebrows shoot up. “Handsy, like—?”

“Uh-huh.” She nods meaningfully.

“In public?”

“Kind of, yeah. Sometimes you get a warning but I mean what are you going to do? Best thing is just not to get caught alone with anyone, or if someone gets a bit grabby just make an excuse to get away or make a joke of it. It’s a minefield, but then isn’t everything?”

There are a million things I want to say, but of course I say none of them.

“They’re super useful, though. The parties. You get to meet a lot of faces. If you want I can get you invited to the next one I go to?”

I cannot think of anything worse. “You know, I’m not sure my jet lag is up to it yet, Bee. But thank you so much.”

She suddenly seems to realize that she hasn’t asked me anything about myself. “But what about you? How are you?” I can tell by her tone that she knows about George and Naomi. There’s no way she hasn’t seen the photos. I’m amazed she’s kept quiet this long. That’s the one good thing about being single now, the whole fucking world won’t know everything that happens in my private life from now on.

“Yeah.” I answer brightly, knowing full well the danger of pack animals showing weakness. “I’m really good actually. Keeping busy, trying to get on with it to be honest.”

“I can’t believe he did that, Mi.” There it is. But I’m not going to take the bait and ask her how she knows. She continues regardless. “But I suppose if he was going to leave you for anyone then Naomi Fairn is a pretty good choice. She basically looks like an angel, right?” I pray that’s a rhetorical question and I’m not supposed to answer. “I mean, imagine if he’d left you for someone less attractive. She’s ridiculously sexy too, bloody hell. You are dealing with it so well, Mi. I’d be going absolutely mad, have you seen her underwear shoot for La Perla on Instagram?”

I sip my tea, shake my head, and try to work out how to end this sojourn in hell.

“Anyway, you’re going to be fine,” she assures me. “You’ll get something great out here and before you know it you’ll be on to the next.”

Outside the café we promise to catch up next week but as I trudge back to the car park a broken woman, I vow to never ever brunch again.

In the car I pull a banana from my bag and gorge, ravenous after my dry and salty breakfast. Maybe I’m just not cut out for LA. Maybe I’m not cut out for relationships.

My phone pings in my bag. I lazily tip it out onto the passenger seat and continue to concentrate on my banana. It’s Souki. She wants to meet up tomorrow. Thank God, an actual friend, but I’m way too drained to reply. Instead I scroll absentmindedly through my new messages and pause to reread Nick’s. I feel a little stir as I think of his eyes, his smile, the collar of his shirt against his neck. The way he found my irritation amusing. The way he spoke to me. He was flirting, wasn’t he? Bloody hell.

My eyes catch a glint of metal on the seat beside me. Emily’s keys. And my stomach tightens as I remember the reason Nick and I met in the first place. I still haven’t heard from her. Her wallet and keys stare back at me accusingly. She’s been without them for almost twenty-four hours now. How did she get home? And suddenly, for the first time since she disappeared, I get the sensation that something bad really has happened to Emily.

And with that thought I start the engine and update the satnav. I’m going back to sort this out.



* * *



—

I don’t see the car at first, and for a second the relief is overwhelming. I imagine that earlier this morning, roadside assistance helped her pop the locks so she could drive home. Her bank cards canceled and new ones issued. But as I pull along the street past a brown delivery van her car comes into view. She didn’t come back for it.

I park farther along the street, shut off the engine, and think. I should call Michael at this stage and drop Emily’s things off at his office. He can contact her agent and pass them on to her. I look into my rearview mirror at her car sitting there, in the California sunlight, as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

The clock on the dash reads 11:28. Nick topped up the meter until noon. Half an hour until it runs out. Without thinking I grab my wallet, her car keys, and mine and get out. I’m across the road in a couple of strides. My plan is to top up the meter but as I approach a thought occurs and before I know it I’m depressing the door fob, the electric clunk of the lock responds, and I’m opening her car door.

My thinking is this. Perhaps there’s something in the car with her information, some way of contacting her or at least verifying her name is actually Emily Bryant so I don’t sound completely mad when I talk to Michael on the phone.

I dive into the passenger seat as if I own the car and scan the backseat. A sweater. Gray marl with an NYU logo. Some old scripts. In the front cupholder: a pack of gum, sunglasses, pocket tissues. I lean forward and pop the glove compartment. And there it is. The car rental document. I feel a smile burst across my face. Just call me Miss Marple.