The Disappearing Act(3)
“What do you mean?” I ask.
She looks confused for a second, then frowns. “Catcher in the Rye.”
My heart skips a beat—my God—I remember the day we taped two scenes in the spare room. That was well over a month ago. George’s Holden tape. But nothing came of that. I remember the weird art house direction we took pains to create for the Dutch director we were both desperate to work with, the way the script had changed the ages of the central characters, modernized the story, and transposed it into a university parable set in twenty-first-century New York.
I struggle to get up to speed.
George sent the tape. He got the part. And he didn’t tell me.
My mind flashes back through the last month. I think of George sitting quietly in the kitchen reading, leaving the house early to meet friends, rejoining the gym, smiling again after months of depression and…shit. He didn’t tell me he got it. He knew all along and he kept it to himself.
He must have had so many meetings, and chemistry reads, and screen tests since then. He sent the tape before Christmas. Why the hell wouldn’t he tell me? How the hell didn’t I notice?
I realize I haven’t responded to Cynthia yet. “Yes! Sorry. Yes, I know, right! He’s a…he’s a bloody genius.”
“I couldn’t believe it when I heard. My client Zula’s in it too. She’s only got a small part but she started rehearsals last week, said she met him yesterday at the cast read-through. Said he looked great. God, he must be so relieved. It was all looking a bit desolate there for a bit, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah, no, I know. So great!” The words are coming out of my mouth but all I can think is: Why? Why didn’t he tell me he got the part?
And then a thought solidifies, and the answer is suddenly very clear, the solution as ludicrously obvious now as it was impossible to imagine seconds ago. “I forget, Cynth, who else is in it again?” I ask as casually as I can. “George told me but I completely…”
“Yes, the love interest is—God!—I’m so terrible with names. Naomi Fairn, yes. Chris Fairn’s daughter. She’s twenty-one, I think, first job since modeling. Seems good, but even if she’s not, she’ll look amazing in it. Tell George not to worry at all, she’ll hold up on camera.”
And there we go. I take a slug of champagne and try not to look like my entire life is crumbling.
“Filming starts in, what, a week?” she asks, oblivious to what is happening to me. “I bet they’re putting him up somewhere gorgeous in New York, aren’t they?” And with that I gently push back from the table, make my excuses, and head to the ladies’ room. Somehow managing to keep a smile on my face while I do it.
* * *
—
Locked in a marble-lined bathroom stall, I google: Catcher in the Rye casting news. Nothing announced yet. Yet. My stomach rolls.
I think of George quietly watching the TV next to me last night, the same as ever. Texting. Now I wonder who.
I google her face.
Holy shit.
Things start to fall into place.
I tap on the least glamorous shot Google Images offers me in an attempt to work out what Naomi Fairn actually looks like. It’s a makeup-free shot from an impossibly cool magazine. I study the beautiful wrinkle-free planes of her face, and I want to die.
None of those things ever seemed to matter until now.
I read on. Even her parents are cool. Both gorgeous, both actors. Her dad basically was the 1990s. I think of my dad, Trevor, bicycling around the Bedfordshire countryside in an anorak.
With trembling hands, I tap out a message to George, hit send, and unlock the cubicle door. Standing in front of the vast washroom mirror I look at myself, checking my eyes to see if it’s possible to tell that my heart is cracking open just by looking.
You can’t.
I guess I am a good actress after all. I straighten up my hair, reapply some lipstick, and take in my twenty-eight-year-old reflection. And the face of Jane Eyre stares back at me.
I know what she’s thinking, because it’s what I’m thinking.
We’re so fucked.
2
Stranger at the Door
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 5
I’m home alone, hours later, staring at my text to George.
Why didn’t you tell me about the job? x
I could have said a million things but I didn’t, I said that. And he hasn’t replied. So when I hear a knock on the front door—even though he obviously has his own key—I’m convinced it will be him: rain-soaked, sad, and contrite, prepared to explain everything away.
It might sound naive, given the circumstantial evidence, to expect this whole thing to be a purely innocent misunderstanding, crossed wires, but hope has gotten me this far in life. Every no I’ve ever received, in my mind, was almost a yes. And all I’ve ever really needed was an almost a yes.
I turn the latch letting a gust of wind and rain into the warmth of the house. But of course it’s not George standing on our doorstep, it’s a smiling stranger in a red bomber jacket.
“Hey. Mia, is it?” He’s about my age with an easygoing manner and a warm Irish lilt.
“Yeah?”
He looks down at a damp and crumpled piece of paper in his hand. “So, I’m supposed to be collecting George’s things.”