The Disappearing Act(35)

He looks out at the car park beyond his window and sighs. “No, not yet, there’s been a bit of a problem at work. I’m down at the studio.” He says it in a way that assumes I know what it is he does but this is the first time he’s given me any indication of what his job is. It’s funny but I still get the feeling, just like that first time we met, that he thinks we know each other much better than we actually do.

“Studio?”

“Yeah, there’s a problem with one of the films we’re doing.” My heart sinks slightly at the mention of a film. I don’t know why but I really did think Nick was separate from that world. “Actor trouble,” he continues. “He’s stopped filming, it’s a long story, but here I am.”

“Nick, I literally have no idea what you do.”

He blurts out a laugh. “Oh, okay. Really?” He chuckles incredulously. “Well, this is embarrassing.” He holds my look for a second trying to judge if I’m being serious. “You really don’t know who I am, do you? No idea. This whole time?” He shakes his head briefly. “Well, I suppose it’s not that unexpected, can’t say it’s the first time it’s happened. We met, I think, about two years ago at the Scott of the Antarctic premiere in London. It was only a brief hello—”

I feel the blood drain from my face. Nick knows George. Scott of the Antarctic was George’s last big role before things dried up. George played one of the explorers on Scott’s last expedition. It was a decent supporting role, it should have gone somewhere, but it didn’t even though the film did well. And I met Nick at the premiere? I desperately try to place him.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Nick, I had no idea. Did you work on Scott?”

He looks genuinely surprised. “Did I work on Scott? Erm, yeah, you could say that. I sort of produced it, Mia. Nick Eldridge. You don’t remember meeting me at all, do you?”

My stomach flips like I’ve just missed a step, like I’ve just realized the whole floor is completely transparent. Nick is Nick Eldridge? I plonk down gently onto the sofa nearest the vast windows. Outside, Hollywood glows like dying embers.

Oh God, how could I have been so stupid? Nick isn’t just the lovely, easygoing, sexy all-American Nick I’ve been talking to over the last few days. He’s also the fucking film juggernaut, cutthroat, super producer Nick Eldridge. A man who buys up film rights from under people just to stop them from making anything even vaguely similar to what his production company is working on. Everything he touches turns to gold but he’s notoriously single-minded. My mind whirs as I desperately try to pair up the two images I have in my head: this Nick and the Nick Eldridge.

Holy fucking shit. I’ve been flirting with him, and acting like a complete fucking moron, and I had no idea who he was. I want the fault line beneath the building to open up and swallow me whole.

I catch sight of my pale face in the tiny box at the top of my iPhone screen. A rabbit in the headlights. There’s no getting around it. “Oops?” I offer. Because what the actual hell am I supposed to say. Thankfully, he laughs.

“Don’t worry, it was two years ago and you had a lot going on. It happens surprisingly often—producers don’t tend to lodge in people’s minds the same way actors do.”

The terse way he says the word actors brings me back to what he was saying before my world-class social blunder. “So what’s the problem at the studio then?” I ask.

“The lead actor won’t go back on set for the night shoot until the sound guy is fired.”

“What? Why? What did the sound guy do?”

“God knows. Hopefully, he told the actor to get his lines right and stop wasting everyone’s goddamn time.” He shakes his head, drained. “Sorry, not helpful, I know. But I mean, why can’t people just do their jobs?” He smiles wanly. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to lead with that when I get to the set.”

I laugh. God, he’s cute. There’s something ridiculously sexy about his world-weariness. And I realize that I don’t think I can marry the two different versions of Nick together, and I don’t think I want to. I like the Nick I met two days ago too much to let him change into someone else.

I know it’s totally inappropriate to ask but I can’t help myself. “So what exactly are you going to say to him when you get there, Nick Eldridge?” My tone is confrontationally flirty. Start as you mean to go on, I figure, and if I do intend in any way to “go on” with Nick I want to make it clear that our dynamic isn’t going to change just because I now know who he is.

His eyes twinkle and crease around the edges in the car light. “Oh, I see. I see how this is going to be.” He smirks. “What would you suggest I do? Any actor-handling tips from the front line?”

I feel a warm rush of blood through my chest and if I was in any doubt before, I’m not now. Nick likes me. I suppose he must have liked me to recognize me after a brief meeting two years ago. I clearly stuck in his head. I try to remember the night we must have met. Scott of the Antarctic was George’s first premiere, and it was a lot to take in; he took me as his plus-one. I was so proud of him. After years of dreaming, it was thrilling for one of us to suddenly have achieved something real, something tangible. I remember it feeling like magic was being dusted over our lives. I remember what I wore. It was the first time I’d been given a gown to wear, a figure-skimming dusty-pink Giambattista Valli gown, its deep V making my pale skin look almost translucent. I don’t often feel it but I felt I looked good that night. I could tell by the way George clung to me as he guided me through crowds of people I didn’t know. It’s no wonder I don’t recall meeting anyone that night when I remember how in love with George I was back then.