I head to the kitchen, chug back a tall glass of tap water in an attempt to rid myself of a suddenly intensely dry mouth, then stand there frozen thinking over what was just said, the police officer’s words fresh in my head.
I need to talk to someone about what just happened. I check the time on my phone. It’s after seven, Nick should be finished at work. He might even be home by now. I realize I still know nothing about Nick, what he does, where he lives, even if he’s single. Though if he’s not then I’d have serious concerns. And he doesn’t wear a wedding ring. I bring up his number and pause. Who else am I going to tell? I’m absolutely certain Souki would not like this.
The call tone pulses for a few beats before Nick’s face fills the screen. The image is dark for a second before he reaches overhead and clicks on his car’s interior light, his face thrown into relief by the shadows. I make out the multistory car park in the background behind him. He looks distracted, like I’ve caught him in the middle of something.
“Hey! Sorry to keep calling,” I say quickly, my tone businesslike. “I just wanted to let you know that I spoke to the police. The LAPD.” His focus sharpens at my words so I continue. “It was a bit daunting, but I think…I think I did the right thing?” It’s a question, not necessarily for either of us to answer, but a question nonetheless.
“Oh right! Okay. And what happened, what did they say?”
“I told them about paying her meter, and her disappearing, and I told them I’d had her things and I was worried something might have happened to her because she didn’t show up. They basically weren’t interested, they said it’s not a crime to be missing and unless I had evidence that an actual crime has taken place, blah, blah, blah. So I told them about the woman who pretended to be Emily. And then they suddenly got really interested.”
“I’ll bet they did. And?”
I hesitate for a second, part ashamed, part fearful of the series of events I’ve set in motion. “They said I should go to a local station and physically file a missing persons report. And they said they’re going over to Emily’s house. Now.”
“Seriously? Now? They told you that?”
“Yeah, they said they were sending a car over to check the address. They said if someone stole her wallet and keys, then it’s a valid cause for concern.” I shudder at the thought of Emily answering her apartment door completely oblivious to any of this, wondering who the hell called the police on her.
“Anyway,” I continue, “they said they’d go over and if anyone’s there then they’ll ID them and ask about the wallet. They said they’d let me know one way or another if there’s an issue.”
Nick is silent for a moment, the seriousness of the situation sinking in. “Wow. Well, fingers crossed you’re wrong, I guess.”
“Yeah. I really hope she’s home and fine, you know. Even if they tell her some crazy British woman called the police on her. I just want to know she’s safe. I’d want someone to do the same for me, if it was the other way around.”
Nick gives me a rallying smile. “Me too. She’s lucky she met you. Not many people would have bothered to do this. I doubt she would have expected you to either. Don’t worry, you definitely did the right thing.”
I feel a flush rising up my neck and realize that’s all I really wanted to hear. I’ve done my bit and now I really can drop it. I wander, phone in hand, away from the harsh kitchen lights toward the twinkle of LA beyond the glass. The glittering city lights fill the screen behind me.
“Thanks for the advice,” I say, genuinely grateful for his help. A horn honk sounds from his audio, and my attention turns to his situation. “Are you on your way home?” I ask.
He looks out at the car park beyond his window and sighs. “No, not yet, there’s been a bit of a problem at work. I’m down at the studio.” He says it in a way that assumes I know what it is he does but this is the first time he’s given me any indication of what his job is. It’s funny but I still get the feeling, just like that first time we met, that he thinks we know each other much better than we actually do.
“Studio?”
“Yeah, there’s a problem with one of the films we’re doing.” My heart sinks slightly at the mention of a film. I don’t know why but I really did think Nick was separate from that world. “Actor trouble,” he continues. “He’s stopped filming, it’s a long story, but here I am.”
“Nick, I literally have no idea what you do.”
He blurts out a laugh. “Oh, okay. Really?” He chuckles incredulously. “Well, this is embarrassing.” He holds my look for a second trying to judge if I’m being serious. “You really don’t know who I am, do you? No idea. This whole time?” He shakes his head briefly. “Well, I suppose it’s not that unexpected, can’t say it’s the first time it’s happened. We met, I think, about two years ago at the Scott of the Antarctic premiere in London. It was only a brief hello—”
I feel the blood drain from my face. Nick knows George. Scott of the Antarctic was George’s last big role before things dried up. George played one of the explorers on Scott’s last expedition. It was a decent supporting role, it should have gone somewhere, but it didn’t even though the film did well. And I met Nick at the premiere? I desperately try to place him.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Nick, I had no idea. Did you work on Scott?”
He looks genuinely surprised. “Did I work on Scott? Erm, yeah, you could say that. I sort of produced it, Mia. Nick Eldridge. You don’t remember meeting me at all, do you?”
My stomach flips like I’ve just missed a step, like I’ve just realized the whole floor is completely transparent. Nick is Nick Eldridge? I plonk down gently onto the sofa nearest the vast windows. Outside, Hollywood glows like dying embers.
Oh God, how could I have been so stupid? Nick isn’t just the lovely, easygoing, sexy all-American Nick I’ve been talking to over the last few days. He’s also the fucking film juggernaut, cutthroat, super producer Nick Eldridge. A man who buys up film rights from under people just to stop them from making anything even vaguely similar to what his production company is working on. Everything he touches turns to gold but he’s notoriously single-minded. My mind whirs as I desperately try to pair up the two images I have in my head: this Nick and the Nick Eldridge.
Holy fucking shit. I’ve been flirting with him, and acting like a complete fucking moron, and I had no idea who he was. I want the fault line beneath the building to open up and swallow me whole.
I catch sight of my pale face in the tiny box at the top of my iPhone screen. A rabbit in the headlights. There’s no getting around it. “Oops?” I offer. Because what the actual hell am I supposed to say. Thankfully, he laughs.
“Don’t worry, it was two years ago and you had a lot going on. It happens surprisingly often—producers don’t tend to lodge in people’s minds the same way actors do.”
The terse way he says the word actors brings me back to what he was saying before my world-class social blunder. “So what’s the problem at the studio then?” I ask.
“The lead actor won’t go back on set for the night shoot until the sound guy is fired.”
“What? Why? What did the sound guy do?”
“God knows. Hopefully, he told the actor to get his lines right and stop wasting everyone’s goddamn time.” He shakes his head, drained. “Sorry, not helpful, I know. But I mean, why can’t people just do their jobs?” He smiles wanly. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to lead with that when I get to the set.”