The Disappearing Act(74)

I think of Emily, obliviously turning up to meet these two men with her little audio file and her demands. How scared she must have been as she tried to play a game she didn’t know the rules of—one that, given their connections, she never stood a chance of winning. Nick alludes to witnesses, competitors, paid off or warned off, some more heavy-handedly than others.

“You believe that?” I ask. “That they’d do something like that?”

Nick shrugs. “God, after everything that’s come out in Hollywood over the last few years, it wouldn’t surprise me at all.”

“Then why doesn’t anyone do anything? Say something?” I know I’m hardly the one to be arguing this point but here I am arguing it.

“Payoffs. NDAs. Fear. Lack of evidence. It’s a gamble, it could ruin you just as easily as it could ruin them.”

“Oh,” I concede.

I catch sight of the time on his watch. It’s nearing eleven.

I head to the bathroom, and Nick offers to go upstairs to grab me a coffee. I’m going to need to leave in the next fifteen minutes, but the idea of meeting Marla at this point fills me with so much dread I consider dropping the whole thing. I could just stay here with Nick and forget all about Emily and Marla and everything that’s happened over the last week. I could just curl up here safe with him. I could take Ben’s advice and drop the whole thing.

But what about Emily? And now that I’m involved, will the whole thing drop me even if I drop it?

I take a look at myself in the low-lit bathroom mirror, in my lace camisole and jeans, bare skin cooling now that I’m away from the warmth of the fire. In the half-light I look like her, Emily. Just as much as Marla looked like her, or Joanne, or any slim, white, brunette actress I’ve seen in any audition waiting room anywhere in the world. We’re all the same no matter how different we are; that’s the point of casting brackets.

The truth is I’m scared but I think I have to go. Not because I’m a daredevil; I’m not. But because I’m already involved in this. I don’t know how I fit in to Emily’s story yet but I need to find out if I’m in real danger and from whom. Because someone has already tampered with my car. Of course I’m scared. I’m no hero, I’m just a nearly-thirty-year-old actress from Bedfordshire. All I’m actually good at is pretending I’m different people and remembering lines. I know the bad things that happen to “difficult women.” And right now I wish more than anything I had some way of protecting myself.

I check my watch quickly and make a decision, slipping quietly out of the bathroom and back along the corridor I came down. I pause as I pass the master bedroom.

I don’t know why I’m so certain I’ll find it there. Perhaps because Nick lives alone, perhaps because the nearest help is a dark and winding drive away.

My gaze flicks back up the corridor into the house and I hear the tinkle of cups in the kitchen upstairs, coffee being prepared. Here’s my chance.

I stride into the room, heading straight for his bedside cabinet. If there’s one here I’ll just borrow it. I won’t even load it; it’ll be a visual aid, nothing more. But one that might just get me out of a terrible situation if it unfolds.

I slide out the bedside drawer carefully. There’s only a remote control. Huh. The sounds of the coffee machine being used drift down to me from upstairs. I think fast, dashing across to the other side of the bed and rolling its bedside drawer open. I stop abruptly as its contents rattle loudly. This could be it.

I inch the drawer out bit by bit, careful not to make too much noise, the drawer’s contents slowly unveiling themselves. Condoms, mints, pocket tissues, batteries, painkillers, loose change, another remote. Then I spy the edge of a small cardboard box, the rattle of small metal bullets inside, and finally, I catch sight of what I’m looking for, the corner of a dark metal object. Nick has a gun. Throwing a quick glance back to the door I carefully take it from the drawer.

The handgrip reads SIG SAUER and the slide tells me it’s a P938 9mm Para, which I know from countless armor talks means it takes Parabellum bullets. I check the gun’s safety: it’s on. I run a full safety check just like I’ve done a hundred times on set in front of grim-faced firearms captains. Safety on: check. Mag empty: check. I do not take bullets. Bullets will only open up a whole new set of problems.

I will bring it back. It’s insurance more than anything else; something to show and run.

As I said before, I always thought the story of my life would be a coming-of-age story and I suppose, in a way, it is, even if I got the genre wrong. But the thing that never occurred to me, until now, is that I might not even be the main character.

I carefully store the Sig into the snug inside pocket of my bag, close Nick’s drawer, straighten the sheets, and head back out to the terrace.





32


    The Truth


TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 16

I arrive at the 101 Coffee Shop past midnight, half hoping she’s already gone, and park in the darkest spot farthest from the warm glow of the entrance.

I shrug on a sweater then pluck the Sig from its pouch. I release the mag, checking once more that it is safe, and then reflexively check the chamber too. My breath catches; I forgot to check it at Nick’s house. A single gleaming bullet stares back at me from the ejection port. Nick must have left one in the chamber. I pop it out. I don’t know how I missed this, nerves maybe, but it changes everything.