The Disappearing Act(68)

I bet you would.

He grins. “I’ll send some stuff over to your agent. You in LA for long?”

Actors and crew from other productions bustle by on their way to the canteen; we’re not alone here, and I’m not in danger, but I feel it. My entire body is telling me to walk away from this man, but Jane holds fast. “I’m playing it by ear out here,” I manage. “One day at a time.”

He lets out a laugh, probably mistaking my rudeness for dry British humor. I can feel my anger building beneath the surface. Jane’s anger, my anger. I need to get away or I’m going to do something stupid. I try to shake off the images in my mind associated with his voice.

“Well, maybe you can pop by my office sometime this week,” he continues, oblivious. “We’ll see what we can find for you.” He gives me a grin and it’s the final straw.

“I think you know a friend of mine,” I say brightly. “Emily Bryant?”

I watch his face melt from polite interest into slow understanding. I catch the light behind his eyes flaring in horror before quickly covering itself.

“Emily Bryant?” he repeats politely as if he has no idea who I’m talking about. He’s a good actor but I’m better.

“Yeah, Emily Bryant. She’s a good friend of mine. I think you met her at New Year.” I don’t know why I’m doing this but I can’t stop myself. I want to see him squirm. I want to see him pay even if it’s not my debt that needs to be repaid.

I watch him try to normalize what is happening until he works out that acting normal is no longer an option. His expression suddenly darkens and he steps closer, threateningly, all sense of the polite man I met a moment ago gone. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing but you need to stop,” he says, his tone low and aggressive. I’ve rattled him.

Instead of feeling triumphant, I suddenly feel the vulnerability of my position. Even in a crowded place this man, now unveiled, seems dangerous. I take a step back, opening up space between us. There are witnesses everywhere, there are security cameras all over this lot, I know I’ll never be in a safer, more protected place with this man. So if I want to say something, now would be the perfect time.

“Why is she hiding? What did you say to her to make her disappear?”

Ben’s eyebrows rise. “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, scanning the faces passing us by. “You need to drop this,” he continues, his voice low, “you don’t know what you’re talking about.” Then a thought seems to occur to him. “Wait. How long have you been in town? What, like a week? Two weeks?”

His eyes are serious, his expression insistent, and I find myself answering, “A week.”

“And Emily is a new friend, I’m guessing?” he asks, his tone unremitting.

“Yeah,” I admit.

“Yeah, well. In that case, you don’t really know Emily at all, do you? If you only met her a week ago, you don’t really know her.” There’s something about his tone that makes me pull up short.

He must pick up on my hesitation because he presses on. “Don’t feel too sorry for her. She’s not who you think she is: look her up. Watch some of her old stuff. You’ll see. You have no idea what you’re getting into here. You’re not going to help her, or yourself.” His tone is calm but threatening. “Let this go. You’ve got a good thing going here. Cut your losses. Or you make a move, because you’d better believe we’re ready.”

A studio buggy beeps as it whizzes toward us. Ben holds my gaze silently for a moment more before striding away. I stand shell-shocked as the studio buggy whips around me and rattles off.

Back in the dressing room I’m hooked and buttoned into my final costume, Eliza pre-makeover, poor, down-at-the-heel flower girl. I wish more than anything I had a moment to myself, because as much as I hate myself for falling for Ben Cohan’s words, I now have an intense need to look Emily up. Could there be more to the story than I’m aware of? It seems ludicrous that I haven’t looked her up already but what with one thing and another, it honestly hadn’t crossed my mind until he suggested it. And now I can’t think straight.

Hair and makeup dirty me up and then I’m led straight to set to shoot the final scene of the day. Standing in first positions waiting for action, I push away my desire to pull out my phone and google. I try to block out the sea of unfamiliar faces looming in the half-light beyond the camera and the studio lights; I try to block out my thoughts of Ben Cohan and Emily Bryant. I squeeze my eyes shut, clench the handles of my flower basket until my fingerless-gloved hands ache, and force myself back to Edwardian England, Covent Garden, pre-war, pre-iPhones, pre-all-of-this.

I hear action and just like that LA slips away, my own life slips away, and I am the person I am supposed to be.



* * *



—

On wrap the studio bell gives a final peal and a smattering of applause comes from around the set. I momentarily bask in the afterglow of a job well done.

The director pulls me into a tight hug. She grins and whispers, “Out. Of. The. Park.”

And in spite of everything, I smile.

Back in the dressing room, I de-rig from costume as quickly as I can and slip back into my normal clothes.

Kathryn pokes her head around the door. “Are you decent?”