But she doesn’t seem to notice as she flops her bag down onto the bench next to me and starts digging around inside for her keys.
“Urgh,” she groans. “I don’t know if I should chance it. It’s a rental car and I literally have no idea what I’m supposed to do if it gets clamped or towed. My agent sorts car stuff out for me. I don’t drive in New York.” She turns to me, clearly preoccupied. “Seriously, it’s fine if you want to go in first, I don’t mind. I just need to feed the meter.”
She’s quite worried, her earlier confidence strangely absent. I feel my guilt rising. Might she get towed? I hadn’t considered that. I don’t know what I’d do if that happened to my car either. “Do they do that in LA, tow you, if your parking runs out?” I ask.
She’s still not really listening as she fumbles for her wallet. “Dunno, but I don’t want to find out.”
The casting director reappears. “Whenever you’re ready, ladies,” she chirps passive-aggressively before disappearing again.
I feel my stress levels rising now. I’m not going in next with the casting director in that mood. No way. And it’s out of my mouth before I can stop it. “I’ll feed the meter for you. Just go.”
Emily pauses mid-bag-scramble. “Seriously?” She seems suddenly caught off guard as she takes a second to think it through. “Uh. Okay.” She flicks a glance down to the wallet and keys in her hands, realizing she’ll have to hand them over to a stranger.
And suddenly I find that I’m now the one trying to convince her. “It’s fine,” I assure her. “It’ll only take me a second. It’s just downstairs, right?”
“Yeah.” Her forehead creases as she looks back toward the audition room, her wallet held tight in her hand. Then her eyes land back on me decisively. “Yes. Okay. Okay, great! Here.” She hastily hands me her wallet. “It’s the meter for the white Chevrolet. Oh, and take these just in case you have to move it to the next bay if it’s reached a limit or something.” She quickly pushes the car keys into my hand too. Then she straightens her outfit and grabs her script. “Great. Thanks. I owe you one. It’s Mia, right?” She beams over her shoulder. I nod and she slips into the darkness of the casting studio.
I find her car two spaces from mine. A clean white Chevrolet as basic as a rental car comes.
The parking meter has no minutes left on it. I squint at the faded digital readout. It ran out twenty minutes ago. Why the hell didn’t she come down and top it up earlier? I suppose she got her timings wrong. There’s no fine yet, thankfully. I scan the street for traffic wardens but I have no idea what a California traffic warden looks like so quickly give up. There’s no one on the street anyway.
I carefully read the blurb on the parking meter. I put two hours on my car when I got here. But it doesn’t say anything about exceeding a maximum stay on her bay so I guess I don’t need to move her car for her, thank God. It suddenly occurs to me how annoying and time consuming that would actually have been as the bays here are full and I wonder why on earth she would suggest I do that in the first place. And why on earth she gave a complete stranger her bank card. I guess neither of us is particularly good under pressure—which, I note, might not bode well for our choice of career.
As I fumble through her wallet I wonder why I felt the need to do this. I guess I felt obligated. I don’t know. I couldn’t help notice the break in her cool. The change in her demeanor—the genuine fear. I think getting this audition could possibly mean more to her than it does to me. Although I have to remind myself that I didn’t offer to help solely for her benefit. I just didn’t want to go in early without being prepared.
I slide her card into the slot, select another hour on the meter, and Emily’s parking meter dial shoots up to one forty-five.
And all things considered, I head back to the casting office feeling pretty good about myself.
7
A Rose by Any Other Name
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 10
Four brand-new Roses turn to look as I reenter the waiting room.
There’s no sign of Emily. I check my watch. That only took about five minutes so she’ll still be in there.
Thankfully I have time to check over my scenes again before I go in. It’s then that I realize I don’t have my bag with me anymore. I feel a rush of blood to my face—everything is in that bag, my wallet, keys, phone—and try not to think about what the hell I’m going to do if I’ve lost them as I leap from my chair and hurry back out into the sun. I feel inquisitive eyes follow me as I dash out, but thankfully as soon as I clear the doorway I see its soft crumpled leather nestling safely next to the bench’s armrest. Disaster averted. I grab it and head back inside to a bank of staring Roses. I take a seat, ignoring my audience, dig out my script pages, take a breath, and start to skim the scenes one last time before I go in.
After a few minutes the audition room door opens a crack and I hear the mumble of voices beyond growing in volume. Emily must be done. I can hand back her keys and wallet before I go in, maybe we can exchange numbers and grab a coffee. It would be great to have a friend out here—if nothing else I’m sure she could teach me a thing or two about navigating LA. I take a last-chance look at myself in the mottled mirror across the room, smooth down my hair, and straighten my silk blouse as they exit the audition room.
It’s not Emily, though. The actress the casting director leads out is one I haven’t seen before. They exchange goodbyes as I gawk at them completely baffled. I lean forward to look around them hoping to see Emily emerge behind. Though why she’d be in with another actress is beyond me. The room behind them is empty. Emily must have gone into the other audition room. Perhaps she wasn’t here to read for Rose Atwood after all.
A strange dread starts to stir inside me. This is weird. I try to think who she might be auditioning for, maybe Melaya Tulli, the ship’s medical officer. I look around the waiting room but nobody else here could possibly be auditioning for that role. Melaya is clearly a Hispanic character, and Emily was most definitely not Hispanic.
The actress who isn’t Emily turns and gathers her things from one of the waiting room chairs. Emily’s car keys are still clenched in my hand.
“Is there a Mia?” The casting director turns and looks up from her list.
Bugger. I rise from my seat and plaster on a smile as I plunge the offending car keys into my pocket. “Yes, that’s me.” I smile, telling myself that it’s fine. She’ll be in the other audition room. They were running over time-wise and started using both rooms. That must be it.
I let my shoulders relax and head into the casting suite, leaving my jacket and bag behind, trying to clear my head of everything not pertaining to Mars as I go.
Twenty minutes later, I reemerge into the waiting room, my eyes readjusting to the daylight, my heart rate still elevated from screaming into the soul-less abyss of space.
The casting suites must be soundproofed as I didn’t hear any of the earlier Roses screaming at the end of their scenes. My eyes scan the waiting room for Emily.
She’s not there.
I head outside to the bench, but it stands empty in the warm sunlight. Maybe she went to the restroom. I go back inside and scan the waiting room again. One of the Roses stares at me curiously as another is called in.
I leave my things and follow the RESTROOM sign behind the reception desk down a very long corridor. The women’s restroom is the third door along the empty cream hallway. I push its heavy-hinged door and enter. A fresh scent of bleach and synthetic lemon hits me. It’s a large industrial bathroom, eight cubicles, the stall doors floating above freshly mopped polished-concrete floor. All of the work units in the building must connect and share these facilities. The end cubicle’s door is closed.
The clack of my heels echoes around the space as I enter. And suddenly I feel shy.
“Hello?” I hazard, my voice a reedy British apology. I grimace at the sound of it. “Emily?” I ask hopefully.