The Disappearing Act(60)

His eyes flick to me apologetically as it rings. “It’s my line producer. Do you mind if I take it?” It’s a genuine question—he’s seriously contemplating not taking a work call in case it’s rude. I wonder if years of living with George have inured me to such rudeness. George would have just picked up a work call—George always picked up work calls. Nick mistakes my surprise at being asked for reticence. “There’s probably more problems on set but I can call them back later,” he says.

“No, no, it’s fine, seriously! Take it.” I nod him on encouragingly and he lets the caller’s voice fill the car.

I turn my attention out onto the nighttime sky past the window, vaguely aware of the background hum of their conversation. Unbidden memories from last night flit through my mind: Emily’s breath whispering through my head, the echo of the distant party, sounds of laughter and music.

I can understand why she didn’t report it. And while it’s impossible to know what I would do in similar circumstances, I can understand her thinking. She didn’t want to fuck up her career, she didn’t want to rock the boat. All reasons I might have had for not getting involved with this if I hadn’t been threatened anyway. There’s always that fear that by diving into the murk, you’d somehow become tarred and feathered by it too.

I’d imagine she didn’t report it because she didn’t want a court case, she didn’t want more indignity, she didn’t want justice in that sense, she just wanted what she’d always wanted, a proper career. I guess she felt she was owed that, at least. But blackmail is a crime too. I don’t know if I agree with what she did but I certainly understand why she might have done it.





26


    St. Valentine


SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 14

We pull up outside the concrete-and-glass structure. A valet takes Nick’s keys in hushed tones and we are led into the roughhewn-floored reception of an achingly modern restaurant.

The space beyond is hard and minimalist and beautiful just like the diners inside it. Its polished-concrete floors give way to panoramic glass walls with under-lit terraces beyond. All around us the quiet, cool hum of conversation babbles.

We’re up in the hills, though from the view alone I couldn’t tell you where exactly, having wound up endless snaking roads to get here. Beyond the glass, LA sprawls out into the distance beneath us, glowing bioluminescent as plankton in a lake.

We are guided out to the candlelit terrace, and to a front-row table overlooking the twinkling city. I’m struck by how beautiful LA is from a distance, like a fading ingénue with just the right lighting once the harsh light of day has passed, its gray arterial freeways, bald-patch car parks, and low sun-bleached buildings all melted from sight, leaving behind only the winsome sparkle in Hollywood’s eyes.



* * *



—

We’re partway through our second course and swapping stories about growing up in small towns when the free drinks arrive.

“Compliments of Mr. Chapman,” the waiter says, placing them on the table between us.

Nick scans the crowded restaurant, finally alights on someone, and gives a curt nod. I follow his gaze and meet the eyes of a burly man in his mid-forties at a booth behind the glass of the restaurant. He’s with a very attractive, very thin, very young woman. She’s on her phone, her soft blond hair falling across one cheek, completely uninterested in her dining partner. He gives us a tight grin and tips his head in acknowledgment, his eyes locked with Nick’s—half challenging, half collegial. Nick raises one of the recently delivered champagne flutes and tips it in thanks. The interaction complete, their gazes break.

Nick leans in. “That’s Ben. He’s a producer. He probably recognizes you.”

My blood runs cold. Ben. The name on Emily’s recording.

That hushed authoritative voice saying, “Ben, leave the room.”

I look back at Ben across the bustle of the beautiful restaurant. He doesn’t look like his picture on the Moon Finch website, he looks a good twenty years older, tougher. But why would he need an up-to-date photo—he’s not an actor, is he?

“I’ve never met him,” I mumble. “How could he recognize me?” I watch the man across the restaurant slice into a hunk of Wagyu steak, plunge the resulting fleshy clump into his distracted mouth.

Nick gives a surprised chuckle and my gaze is drawn back to the table. Nick is smirking at me. “He knows you because he’s Ben Chapman and you’re a BAFTA-nominated actress…remember?”

It takes a moment for Nick’s words to really reach me through the haze of my fear. I release the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, because he’s not the Ben from Emily’s recording. The man gazing in our direction across the restaurant is not Ben Cohan, he’s Ben Chapman. And now that I think about it I’ve seen Ben Chapman’s name scroll by on the credits of countless film. I’ve seen it on emails, press releases, and casting breakdowns for years. He’s a heavyweight in the industry, with the power to make and break careers. I look back at him across the crowded room; he looks nothing like the photograph on the Moon Finch website, and now that I look again the girl with him is smiling as she shows him something on her phone. He gives her a jovial avuncular smile before digging back into his meal. He’s not the awful predator of my imaginings. And there’s no law against dating someone a third your age.