The Disappearing Act(8)
5
Diving In
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 8
My jet lag means I’m up before dawn the next morning.
Lying awake staring at the light seeping slowly in through the corners of the blinds sends my thoughts in dangerous directions. I rehash the first night after George left. I’d started to worry. George hadn’t sent me his four-word text yet; that wouldn’t come till the next day and Andy from Fantastic Movers had long gone. In the quiet of my flat I’d suddenly been convinced that something was wrong. The idea blossomed that perhaps something bad had happened to George; perhaps Andy hadn’t worked for Fantastic Movers. I’d been so convinced at the time that something else had happened, after all, that I’d even made a call to George’s friend Harry to check George was safe. I cringe in my crisp LA sheets as I recall the conversation. George was fine, Harry told me. And while Harry couldn’t tell me if George was seeing anyone new—it wasn’t his place—he gave me his sympathy on our breakup. And of course registered his personal disapproval of George’s methods though he had been the one to help George unload Andy’s truck at the other end. They’d gone to the pub after.
They’d gone to the pub.
I fling back the covers in a flash of rage and get dressed to head up to the pool for a predawn swim. I need to burn off this anger, this shame.
As I push open the heavy pool terrace doors and head out into the fresh California air, I feel a welcome ripple of excitement as I remember my BAFTA news. I snuggle it tightly inside me. I remind myself that my LA adventure is only just beginning, and just like that a Christmas-morning feeling dawns.
The rooftop is empty except for me, and I take a moment to look out over the glass barriers at the edge of the building. Below, the city is just beginning to wake. Apart from Miguel and the receptionist I haven’t seen another soul in this apartment block so far. But then that’s not a huge surprise given I only arrived yesterday evening.
I shed my layers down to my swimsuit and let my still-bed-warm skin sink into the cool pool water. The splash and ripple around me is the only noise as I glide smoothly through the blue-green water.
I pause after a few laps, half in half out of the water as I watch the sun rise across LA, my chlorine-stung eyes hazy as I take in its streaks of lilac and peach. In the new silence I can just make out the distant rumble of the highways beneath the sound of my own breathing, as the poolside cabana’s curtains dance gently in the morning breeze.
I push myself in the water again, sinking into a rhythm that pushes away all other thoughts. Blocking out everything until there is only the present and the water and my labored breath.
Mind cleared and body warm with post-exercise ache, I head back down to my apartment and shower off.
* * *
—
Miguel seems happy to see me when I head down to the building’s valet station to collect my car.
“Auditions?” he asks with a knowing look.
“One this afternoon. CBS.”
He grimaces as he hands over my car keys. “That’s in Studio City. You’ll be fine on the way out but watch that rush-hour traffic on the way back. It’s a killer. I hope you like listening to podcasts,” he jokes.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” I say with a chuckle. “I’ll download some!”
The audition’s not until the afternoon, so first I’m on my way to an abandoned 1930s diner in Echo Park for the midmorning magazine photo shoot. The magazine’s called Atelier and after an hour in makeup, I look like the sort of person you might see in a magazine called Atelier. A company security guard fastens $1.3 million worth of air-con-chilled Boodles diamonds around my neck while a team of wardrobe girls lifts the delicate train of the gown I’m wearing into the corner booth of the dusty atmospheric diner. I’m arranged artfully in situ against the mint green of the art deco background. Incongruous hip-hop music is pumped up, and a fan is sourced to keep us cool under the hot lights. Finally the helpers and crew drop away until it’s just me and the photographer and a wall of bass-y music. As the camera flash pulses, I try to forget that I’m no Naomi Fairn. I try to forget my anger and my shame and the fact I’m all alone and instead I focus on the shoot and I do my fucking job.
There’s a costume change. The atmosphere is buzzing on set, smiling faces, easy conversation. Somehow I’m pulling it off. They can’t tell that all I really want to do is put on an oversized sweater, hide at home, and eat cupcakes for a month. The next outfit is subtle, my haute couture gown replaced by a caramel oversized Victoria Beckham suit with vertiginous barely there heels, my hair tumbled chicly to one side. The next setup is at the bar counter, my sharp stilettos digging into the vinyl padding of one of the stools. And suddenly for the first time since George left me, I start to have real fun, slipping into creative mode with the kind of gratitude I usually reserve for post-filming baths. Jane was right. I can do this. I’m already starting to feel better.
During the next coffee break I shrug off the caramel jacket to reveal the matching bustier beneath. I kidnap one of the makeup artists, a skinny blue-haired nineteen-year-old called Marchesi, and we sneak off to do an impromptu Instagram shoot of me and the Audi in the diner car park. Cheeky I know, but (a) I might never look this good again, and (b) I’m under strict orders to post about the free car. What’s a few more pictures while I’m already at it?