“Yeah.” I answer brightly, knowing full well the danger of pack animals showing weakness. “I’m really good actually. Keeping busy, trying to get on with it to be honest.”
“I can’t believe he did that, Mi.” There it is. But I’m not going to take the bait and ask her how she knows. She continues regardless. “But I suppose if he was going to leave you for anyone then Naomi Fairn is a pretty good choice. She basically looks like an angel, right?” I pray that’s a rhetorical question and I’m not supposed to answer. “I mean, imagine if he’d left you for someone less attractive. She’s ridiculously sexy too, bloody hell. You are dealing with it so well, Mi. I’d be going absolutely mad, have you seen her underwear shoot for La Perla on Instagram?”
I sip my tea, shake my head, and try to work out how to end this sojourn in hell.
“Anyway, you’re going to be fine,” she assures me. “You’ll get something great out here and before you know it you’ll be on to the next.”
Outside the café we promise to catch up next week but as I trudge back to the car park a broken woman, I vow to never ever brunch again.
In the car I pull a banana from my bag and gorge, ravenous after my dry and salty breakfast. Maybe I’m just not cut out for LA. Maybe I’m not cut out for relationships.
My phone pings in my bag. I lazily tip it out onto the passenger seat and continue to concentrate on my banana. It’s Souki. She wants to meet up tomorrow. Thank God, an actual friend, but I’m way too drained to reply. Instead I scroll absentmindedly through my new messages and pause to reread Nick’s. I feel a little stir as I think of his eyes, his smile, the collar of his shirt against his neck. The way he found my irritation amusing. The way he spoke to me. He was flirting, wasn’t he? Bloody hell.
My eyes catch a glint of metal on the seat beside me. Emily’s keys. And my stomach tightens as I remember the reason Nick and I met in the first place. I still haven’t heard from her. Her wallet and keys stare back at me accusingly. She’s been without them for almost twenty-four hours now. How did she get home? And suddenly, for the first time since she disappeared, I get the sensation that something bad really has happened to Emily.
And with that thought I start the engine and update the satnav. I’m going back to sort this out.
* * *
—
I don’t see the car at first, and for a second the relief is overwhelming. I imagine that earlier this morning, roadside assistance helped her pop the locks so she could drive home. Her bank cards canceled and new ones issued. But as I pull along the street past a brown delivery van her car comes into view. She didn’t come back for it.
I park farther along the street, shut off the engine, and think. I should call Michael at this stage and drop Emily’s things off at his office. He can contact her agent and pass them on to her. I look into my rearview mirror at her car sitting there, in the California sunlight, as if nothing were out of the ordinary.
The clock on the dash reads 11:28. Nick topped up the meter until noon. Half an hour until it runs out. Without thinking I grab my wallet, her car keys, and mine and get out. I’m across the road in a couple of strides. My plan is to top up the meter but as I approach a thought occurs and before I know it I’m depressing the door fob, the electric clunk of the lock responds, and I’m opening her car door.
My thinking is this. Perhaps there’s something in the car with her information, some way of contacting her or at least verifying her name is actually Emily Bryant so I don’t sound completely mad when I talk to Michael on the phone.
I dive into the passenger seat as if I own the car and scan the backseat. A sweater. Gray marl with an NYU logo. Some old scripts. In the front cupholder: a pack of gum, sunglasses, pocket tissues. I lean forward and pop the glove compartment. And there it is. The car rental document. I feel a smile burst across my face. Just call me Miss Marple.
I slide it out and unfold the carbon-copy paper. Name, address, phone number. Jackpot.
Something in my peripheral vision catches my attention. I see a figure approaching fast in the rearview mirror. I spin in my seat just in time to catch a young man’s eyes as he power-walks past my open door with a white poodle in tow. My heart is racing. I have no idea if what I’m doing is illegal but it feels like it might be.
I don’t know how the American legal system works and I don’t want to find out—best to quit while I’m ahead. I hastily fold the rental agreement, slip it in my pocket, and exit the vehicle. Once it’s safely locked, I feed the meter up to the limit of midday tomorrow and head back to my own car.
Inside I crank up the Audi’s air-conditioning, the sweat rolling down my back from my brief stint of sleuthing. I let my pulse settle as I pull the rumpled paper from my pocket and smooth out its wrinkles on my thigh.
Customer name: Emily Bryant
Address for duration of rental: 1929 Argyll Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90068
Her name, the same as the bank card. And an address. It occurs to me that I could pop over to her apartment right now and drop off her keys and that would be the end of it. I reach for my seatbelt but then something stops me. I should probably try to call her first. I check the rental document for a number and find one at the bottom of the page in tight neat scroll. Her cell number.
I type the digits in carefully and press dial. The ringtone burrs, once, twice, three times then connects to answerphone. I bite my lip and then speak.
“Hi Emily, it’s Mia from the Mars casting yesterday. Listen, I don’t know what happened but somehow I totally lost you.” I hear myself let out a nervous laugh. “I’m guessing…something came up, but don’t worry I still have your wallet and keys and the meter is all paid up until midday tomorrow. So hopefully the car will be fine there.” I pause, not really sure how to continue. “So listen, when you get this, can you call me back? Anytime, and we can arrange a hand-over. I’m hoping this is the right number for you, but if I don’t hear back from you, I’ll let my agent know what happened and pass all your info on to him. I’m going to get your stuff back to you if it kills me.” I let out another joyless chuckle in the silent car. “Anyway, this is my number. Call me. Oh, it’s Mia, by the way.” I hang up and frown as I add her name into my phone contact list.
I’m doing the right thing.
12
An Unexpected Visitor
THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 11
I’m making fajitas when the text comes through.
Necessity means I’ve managed to keep myself busy with research for the Kathryn Mayer meeting at Universal tomorrow. My mind only strays from the DVDs Kathryn’s office sent me occasionally to respond to texts from Nick asking if I would like to grab coffee this week. With no lines to learn for tomorrow I’ve had time to make copious script notes and familiarize myself with the scenes in general, and I’m feeling as ready as I’ll ever be for whatever tomorrow may hold.
It’s after six p.m. when my phone finally pings and I hop over to it, spatula in hand, half expecting it is, half knowing it isn’t, Emily. I swear, if it wasn’t for the physical fact of that empty white car parked in North Hollywood, I’d start to wonder if I’d made Emily up completely.
I’m half right. The text isn’t from Emily, it’s from my friend Souki. Asking: Do I, or do I not, want to go on a Hollywood Homes of the Stars four-by-four tour around LA tomorrow afternoon?