The Disappearing Act(66)

I decide to grab breakfast on the go. I don’t want to spend any longer in this apartment than I have to. I need to get out and into the fresh California air. I grab my phone, car keys, laptop, script, and bag, and head off.



* * *



—

In the car park beneath the building Miguel dashes off to get my car. While he’s gone I find the pin-drop Nick sent me for the Italian deli. Biscotti. I’m going to follow his advice and swing by to grab that first-day gift. It’s not something I usually do, but knowing that it is a thing people do in LA has somehow emboldened me. My thoughts stray back to our date last night and I can’t help feeling a twinge of sadness that I’ll be back in London by tomorrow night. I find myself wondering absentmindedly if Nick would ever consider moving to England.

Somewhere deep within the car parking structure there’s a loud, choking, mechanical noise spluttering away. I can’t see where it’s coming from but a knot starts to form in my stomach. The noise stops for a second and then there’s another cataclysm of throttled croaks. After a brief moment of silence, I see Miguel bobbing back over through the car park, his expression confirming my worst suspicions.

“It won’t start,” he puffs, clearly more surprised about it than I am.

Refusing to let this turn of events affect my pre-game focus, I tell him not to worry, pull out my mobile once more, and order an Uber to Guidi Marcello. Nothing is going to throw me off course today, not car tampering, not anything. I will get there on time and I will do a good job, even if I have to get through the ten plagues of Egypt to do it.



* * *



—

It’s only in the back of the Uber that I let myself think about what the car means: either Emily did this or whoever she’s hiding from did. Is it a warning? I push the thoughts away. Regardless of who is responsible I need that car fixed. I shoot off a quick email to Leandra at Audi explaining the mechanical problems with the car as Miguel described them before I left. I ask her to arrange for a mechanic to take a look at it while I’m working today; that way I can drive myself to the airport tomorrow.

Email sent, I heave my Galatea script out of my bag and dive back in.

Forty-five minutes later we pull up outside the glass shopfront of Guidi Marcello. Inside is packed higgledy-piggledy with produce from all across Italy, walls of ruby-red wines from Tuscany, Sicily, and Venice. Amarones, Chiantis, Cabernet Sauvignons, and Barolos. Giant wheels of fresh Parmigiano Reggiano DOP and salty Pecorino Romano, misty glass-fronted fridge cabinets stacked with caramelized cured meats, fresh egg pastas, and jars filled with olives. My stomach groans at the sight of it all and the scent of freshly brewed coffee in the air.

I follow the soft plumph of shelves being stacked through the maze of overflowing aisles until I find a young dark-haired man in his twenties. He looks at me, surprised to see a customer.

“Hi, is it Marco, by any chance?” I hazard.

A smile breaks across his face. “Of course. And you are Mia. I have some good things for you at the register. Come.” He rises from the stacking stool and slips past me back to the cash register, where he hefts a small selection of packets from a shopping basket up onto the counter. “Okay. So, biscotti. Cantucci. We have, from Prato, Italy, this one is the best. Handmade at Antonio Mattei.” None of that means anything to me but he proudly presents an intense cobalt-colored package with blue string and golden lettering. It looks great. “Or just as good—but for me, not so good.” He winces, comically. “The Seggiano Cantuccini Biscotti, from Tuscany also.” He presents a clear packet with ten slices of golden-amber biscuit within. “Same price.”

“Easy choice then.” I smile, pointing to the bright blue of the Antonio Mattei packet. “I’ll go with your favorite.”



* * *



—

Fifty dollars lighter but now with a coffee, a pastry, and a multiple-Oscar-winning-actor peace offering in hand, I slide back into my Uber.

At the studio gates, I dust the pastry crumbs from my clothes and head into security to sign in. Twenty-five minutes later I’m in the hair and makeup truck, a friendly makeup artist working on my elaborate updo for the first scene. It’s the scene after Eliza successfully fools the royal court into believing she’s a Hungarian aristocrat so I need to look like one. When she’s finished working on me, she turns me back around toward the mirror proudly and I see her work for the first time. My complexion is bright and flawless, she’s brought out my eyes with hidden lashes, my hair is piled high in a glossy Edwardian updo, and all is finished off with an understated pearl tiara. Worthy of a Hungarian princess or, at least, a counterfeit one. I rise and pull the makeup artist into a tight hug, and she lets out a throaty laugh. If I don’t get this role it certainly won’t be because I don’t look the part.

Next, I’m taken to costume in a temporary dressing room in the studio building. It’s a blank room with nothing but a space heater, an armchair, and a clothing rail with my three costumes.

I strip down to my underwear and a team of people from the costume department hoist and hoick me into my Edwardian corset and gown. My waist now a good three inches thinner, I slip easily into the antique ivory fabric of my ball gown.

As the costume designer and his team fuss around the hemline and sleeves, I give myself a look in the full-length mirror. I look like a nervous bride, my skin pale and cheeks flushed from the exertion of being laced in so tightly by two wardrobe assistants. But it’s a relief to see I no longer look like Mia, I no longer look like Jane—I look like Eliza.