The Disappearing Act(25)

I slide it out and unfold the carbon-copy paper. Name, address, phone number. Jackpot.

Something in my peripheral vision catches my attention. I see a figure approaching fast in the rearview mirror. I spin in my seat just in time to catch a young man’s eyes as he power-walks past my open door with a white poodle in tow. My heart is racing. I have no idea if what I’m doing is illegal but it feels like it might be.

I don’t know how the American legal system works and I don’t want to find out—best to quit while I’m ahead. I hastily fold the rental agreement, slip it in my pocket, and exit the vehicle. Once it’s safely locked, I feed the meter up to the limit of midday tomorrow and head back to my own car.

Inside I crank up the Audi’s air-conditioning, the sweat rolling down my back from my brief stint of sleuthing. I let my pulse settle as I pull the rumpled paper from my pocket and smooth out its wrinkles on my thigh.

Customer name: Emily Bryant

Address for duration of rental: 1929 Argyll Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90068



Her name, the same as the bank card. And an address. It occurs to me that I could pop over to her apartment right now and drop off her keys and that would be the end of it. I reach for my seatbelt but then something stops me. I should probably try to call her first. I check the rental document for a number and find one at the bottom of the page in tight neat scroll. Her cell number.

I type the digits in carefully and press dial. The ringtone burrs, once, twice, three times then connects to answerphone. I bite my lip and then speak.

“Hi Emily, it’s Mia from the Mars casting yesterday. Listen, I don’t know what happened but somehow I totally lost you.” I hear myself let out a nervous laugh. “I’m guessing…something came up, but don’t worry I still have your wallet and keys and the meter is all paid up until midday tomorrow. So hopefully the car will be fine there.” I pause, not really sure how to continue. “So listen, when you get this, can you call me back? Anytime, and we can arrange a hand-over. I’m hoping this is the right number for you, but if I don’t hear back from you, I’ll let my agent know what happened and pass all your info on to him. I’m going to get your stuff back to you if it kills me.” I let out another joyless chuckle in the silent car. “Anyway, this is my number. Call me. Oh, it’s Mia, by the way.” I hang up and frown as I add her name into my phone contact list.

I’m doing the right thing.





12


    An Unexpected Visitor


THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 11

I’m making fajitas when the text comes through.

Necessity means I’ve managed to keep myself busy with research for the Kathryn Mayer meeting at Universal tomorrow. My mind only strays from the DVDs Kathryn’s office sent me occasionally to respond to texts from Nick asking if I would like to grab coffee this week. With no lines to learn for tomorrow I’ve had time to make copious script notes and familiarize myself with the scenes in general, and I’m feeling as ready as I’ll ever be for whatever tomorrow may hold.

It’s after six p.m. when my phone finally pings and I hop over to it, spatula in hand, half expecting it is, half knowing it isn’t, Emily. I swear, if it wasn’t for the physical fact of that empty white car parked in North Hollywood, I’d start to wonder if I’d made Emily up completely.

I’m half right. The text isn’t from Emily, it’s from my friend Souki. Asking: Do I, or do I not, want to go on a Hollywood Homes of the Stars four-by-four tour around LA tomorrow afternoon?

I burst out laughing at the incongruity of the question, choking on the spicy fug of fajita seasoning filling the kitchen. Souki knows me too well. The idea sounds like tacky, tourist heaven. I cannot think of anything I would rather do tomorrow, after the most stressful meeting of my life, than sit in a four-by-four and listen to a tour guide talk complete nonsense while we gawp at A-listers’ houses.

I shoot back an affirmative and pop my tortilla wraps in the oven to warm. It’s early for supper but I want to get an early night tonight. After eating, I’ll lay out my outfit for tomorrow, take a bath, then head to bed to reread the script and hopefully be asleep by ten. That way I’ll be bright-eyed when the alarm goes in the morning.

Belly full and bath running, I select a silk camisole for tomorrow to go under an oversized Ganni suit paired with some sharp heels; I want to look smart. It’s a business meeting, after all. And while I’m sure Kathryn can imagine me playing Cockney Eliza in Galatea, I want to convince her I can play post-makeover Eliza too.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I wander over expecting to see Souki’s name.

But as I get closer, my breath catches in my throat. Instead of Souki’s name I see Emily’s. It’s her.

I grab the phone and sink down onto the edge of the bed to read.


Thurs Feb 11, 6:43pm


So, so sorry about yesterday. Long story…Goes without saying, I am a complete disaster. Thank you so much for looking after the car. You are an actual lifesaver. Can I collect my wallet and keys tonight? Xxxx



I stare at her words for a long time. My first thought, though ghoulish, is simply Thank God she’s alive. Which is a strange thought considering that it hadn’t explicitly crossed my mind that she wouldn’t be—not consciously anyway. Not enough for me to raise any kind of alarm or tell anyone what had happened. And yet, there the thought is.