The Disappearing Act(40)

“Hi there! How’s your day going so far?”

“Fantastic, thank you. Is this a resort?” I ask, taking in the other spotlit portfolios spread across the stand: palms against bruised sunsets, idyllic waterfalls in leafy groves, twinkling beach lodges, and cool clear waters.

“Not as such, we work in conjunction with the real estate branch of Christie’s auction house.” She hands me her card. “We’re gifting private island stays today. Is that something you’d be interested in?” She grins, possibly at the ludicrousness of her own question.

“Yes. Yeah, that would definitely be something I’d be interested in,” I answer hesitantly, certain I must be missing the catch here.

“Fantastic,” she nods, businesslike. “So let’s see what I can offer you.” Her eyes go to my lanyard again, this time noting my name as well as my tier. She cross references her clipboard.

“Right, so,” she says, laying some brochures out before me. “This is an exciting one, we can offer you a two-week stay on Leda, a private island in Greece. This one’s got real pedigree: you’d be staying in the fully serviced main house, which was built in 1960 and has since played host to everyone from the Beatles to Sir Winston Churchill.”

Not to look a gift horse in the mouth but I suddenly realize what section of her list I must be on. I’m on the “classy” British cultural heritage list. As far as these guys are concerned, I’m basically the swinging ’60s, tea bags, and beans-on-toast. Greece is great but I was hoping for something a bit closer to this hemisphere and preferably not haunted by the ghosts of old British men.

She catches my hesitancy and flips open another brochure, spinning it toward me. “Or, if you’re more of a beach person?”

I soak up the two-page spread of warm sand and jade waters. “Yeah. I think I am,” I say, hopefully.

Ten minutes later I leave the stand with an information pack and a penciled booking for the private Bahamian island of Bone Fish Cay, private jet flights and island chef included, still a little unsure how it happened or why. And all of this for the price of an Instagram post or two—I feel a stab of guilt at the excess of it all but quickly remind myself that the point of booking a holiday in the first place was to take my mind off things and try to relax.

I find Bee deep in conversation at the Burberry concession, a small red Cartier gift bag and a large Gucci one swinging from her tiny wrist. After another hour of perusing and nabbing, we call it a day, wandering back out into the California sunlight bag-laden with our hauls.

Back in the car after our goodbyes I start the engine and think about getting back to work on the script. It’s only when I look at the GPS that I realize how close I am to the 101.

Emily’s house. Curiosity, like creeping ivy, wraps itself around the idea as it forms. I zoom in on the GPS map. Perhaps I could just drive past, check if her car is there. Perhaps I did see her here earlier, that flash of chestnut hair disappearing into another room; maybe she saw me and left and went home? Who knows. But I’m so close to her apartment, it can’t hurt to swing by, I might even see her from the street. A quick look at her place can’t hurt. I tap the address into the satnav and it tells me the building is only twenty minutes away. I tap start journey and roll out onto the open road.



* * *



—

My heart starts to flutter as the satnav destination dot draws closer. I’m suddenly not sure what it is I’m trying to achieve here. The police said everything was fine. But I suppose that’s the problem, I don’t trust that they knew what they were looking for. If I can just see Emily’s face for myself, I’ll know. If I can be sure it’s not the woman who came to my apartment the other night, then I can put the whole thing to rest.

When I take a left onto her street, I slow. There’s on-street parking both sides of the mainly residential avenue, cars tightly parked bumper-to-bumper. According to the satnav, Emily’s building is at the end of the street. I keep my eyes peeled for the bright white of her Chevrolet rental as I approach but there’s nothing, no white cars sticking out among the silver and black Priuses and Hondas. Her building comes into view on my right, a two-story 1960s prefab with a concrete staircase leading up to the entrance. The building is dwarfed by high-rise apartment blocks looming on either side so that it appears to stand alone, an innocent relic of simpler times in a sea of architectural brutalism. The building’s entrance is obscured by an overhanging tree and remains a mystery as I sail past. If I can’t even see the entrance, how am I going to see her face? I realize I need an actual plan, or I’m just a lonely tourist driving around pointlessly.

I pull off the avenue and start to loop back around for another pass when I see the PARK HERE sign, painted massive and garish onto the side of a strangely geometric 1960s building.

LAST

CAPPUCCINO

BEFORE THE 101





PARK HERE



Without a second thought I swing the car into the car park and find a space. This is ridiculous. I’m not achieving anything by slinking around her neighborhood like a creep. I turn off the engine and consider my options. I flip up the armrest and stare down at the neatly folded rental document. I’ve certainly got an excuse to pay her a visit. I take it out and straighten it, some of the carbon-copy dust coming off on my fingers.