The Disappearing Act(42)

She returned Emily’s car, and no one batted an eye. I don’t know what the hell is going on here but I resolve that I will not leave this apartment until I find out.

We enter a kitchen with its original 1960s design, mint green, with a round-edged sink, arched chrome taps, and a freestanding gas hob cooker. A ’60s housewife’s dream and clearly where the apartment’s millennial modernization stopped.

The woman clicks on the kettle and pulls out a chair at the Formica table, gesturing for me to do the same.

But I don’t.

She looks at me curiously. “Is something wrong,” she asks, “you seem a little…?”

I could just come out and say it. I could, or I could play along a little longer and see where this goes. There’s still the possibility I’ve gotten all this wrong. In which case I have hounded this poor woman, stalked her, reported her to the police, and now I’ve forced my way into her house to confront her with my own complete delusion.

“No, I’m fine.” I smile. “Just jet lag.” I pull out my seat and sit down opposite her. “So how’s the ex-boyfriend with the dislocated ankle?” I ask brightly, knowing full well that he’s completely made up.

She hesitates and then shrugs. “I’m sure he’s fine. He’s not in LA anymore.”

“Gone back to New York?”

“Yeah.” She nods. “You’re from London, right?” she asks, pleased with her knowledge.

“Yeah. Whereabouts are you from in New York?” I ask lightly, watching carefully for a hint of something in her eyes. She doesn’t disappoint: her eyes shift away from mine.

“Pretty central,” she answers quickly. “You know New York well?”

I shake my head. “Not really. Only been once.” I notice something out of the corner of my eye as the kettle rattles to a boil and clicks off behind her. It’s an ashtray. Clean and neatly tucked on a shelf. The woman rises and lifts a cafetière from a cupboard and sets about adding coffee. My eyes scan the kitchen table, counters, and shelves but find no lighter, no cigarettes, no butts.

“Could I bum a cigarette?” I ask, my voice slightly louder than anticipated.

“Sorry, I don’t smoke,” she replies, engrossed in her task and oblivious to the relevance of her answer.

And the words fly from me before I can stop myself. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but who are you?”

She turns to look at me, confused. “Sorry?”

“Who are you?” I ask simply.

She stares at me wide-eyed before answering. “I’m Emily,” she says, her confused gaze holding mine. She wants to know where I’m going with this, how far I’m going with this. But it’s telling that she doesn’t ask me why I would ask something like that. And if I was Emily I’m pretty sure that would have been my first question. But she remains silent.

“No, you’re not Emily, are you?” I ask. “I think we both know that.”

The woman blinks, dumbfounded, and I suddenly wonder if I’m acting completely mad. From her expression it’s impossible to tell if she’s been caught red-handed or if she’s terrified of the madwoman in her kitchen.

But I’ve come this far, so I continue. “Why are you pretending to be Emily?” I demand.

The woman’s gaze falters, her eyes darting past me to the door. She’s scared. I notice a tremble in her hand and my resolve wobbles.

When she looks back at me there is a nervousness to her, but no fear. She’s calculating what to do next. There’s a subtle tell, a look behind her eyes that I recognize from years of improvising scenes with other actors. A look that tells you that your scene partner is trying to preempt where you’re going in the scene so they can figure out their own path through it.

And it’s that tiny glimmer that, finally, tells me I’m right about all of it. This woman isn’t who she says she is.

I play my ace card. “You know I was the one who called the police, right?” Her confidence suddenly falters. She isn’t Emily. She isn’t. I push on. “If you don’t tell me what the hell is going on, I’m going to call the cops again, now, ok—”

Her fear crescendos into exasperation. “All right!” she blurts, suddenly slamming the packet of coffee she’d been holding down on the counter, her change of energy jarring me not nearly as much as her sudden change of accent from New York to a thick Texas twang. Jesus. I step back, spooked.

“Okay. Good for you,” she says, hands raised in angry surrender, her body language completely different, all hint of the person she was a moment before gone. “I’m not. Well done, you want a fricking medal? Unbelievable. You are one strange person; do you know that? I give up. I quit, okay? Happy?”

I try to make sense of what’s happening right now but without any clues, I don’t get very far. “I’m sorry, what?” I hear myself ask pathetically.

“I’m sorry, what?” she echoes back at me in a painfully accurate British accent that makes me cringe inside. She shakes her head dismissively at my confusion and continues in her Texas drawl. “I can’t help not doing it exactly right if you only give me a day’s prep, can I? I’m doing the best I can and for the money you’re paying, I know for a fact you won’t find anyone better than me. Seriously, I don’t get what you want. You ask me to turn up and do a bunch of weird shit with you and then you start calling the cops. I thought the cops were part of it when they turned up! But they were real! Do you know how much trouble that could have landed me in? I mean, why would you do that?”