I laugh. God, he’s cute. There’s something ridiculously sexy about his world-weariness. And I realize that I don’t think I can marry the two different versions of Nick together, and I don’t think I want to. I like the Nick I met two days ago too much to let him change into someone else.
I know it’s totally inappropriate to ask but I can’t help myself. “So what exactly are you going to say to him when you get there, Nick Eldridge?” My tone is confrontationally flirty. Start as you mean to go on, I figure, and if I do intend in any way to “go on” with Nick I want to make it clear that our dynamic isn’t going to change just because I now know who he is.
His eyes twinkle and crease around the edges in the car light. “Oh, I see. I see how this is going to be.” He smirks. “What would you suggest I do? Any actor-handling tips from the front line?”
I feel a warm rush of blood through my chest and if I was in any doubt before, I’m not now. Nick likes me. I suppose he must have liked me to recognize me after a brief meeting two years ago. I clearly stuck in his head. I try to remember the night we must have met. Scott of the Antarctic was George’s first premiere, and it was a lot to take in; he took me as his plus-one. I was so proud of him. After years of dreaming, it was thrilling for one of us to suddenly have achieved something real, something tangible. I remember it feeling like magic was being dusted over our lives. I remember what I wore. It was the first time I’d been given a gown to wear, a figure-skimming dusty-pink Giambattista Valli gown, its deep V making my pale skin look almost translucent. I don’t often feel it but I felt I looked good that night. I could tell by the way George clung to me as he guided me through crowds of people I didn’t know. It’s no wonder I don’t recall meeting anyone that night when I remember how in love with George I was back then.
“Do I have any actor-handling tips?” I smile. “Afraid not, Mr. Eldridge. If I knew how to deal with actors I’d bottle it and sell it. I certainly wouldn’t be giving it away for free.”
He laughs, his eyes alive. “Well, it was worth a try.” He looks away a second, thinking. And when he looks back he seems decided. “Listen, Mia. Is George still—”
I know what he’s going to ask so I save him the effort. “No, he’s not.”
He nods his understanding. “Okay. That’s good.” He studies my face for a moment, perhaps looking for reassurance before the fact. But that’s not the way we’re going to do this and he knows it. “Let’s skip the coffee. Can I take you out for dinner, Mia?”
“I would love that.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah, text me. Go save your sound guy. And I’ll see you then.”
* * *
—
After the call it takes me a full minute to remember why I called Nick in the first place. And suddenly all I can think about is what is happening right now at a small Airbnb out by the 101 freeway.
16
All Is Well
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 13
The next morning I force on my swimsuit and drag my heavy body up the service stairs to the pool, hoping a short burst of exercise will kick away the fug of sleep after another bad night.
I shiver in the dawn breeze as I drop my robe and slip into the warm pool water. I thought about texting Emily in the early hours but I couldn’t think what I could possibly write and to whom I might be writing. I try to imagine what might have happened last night somewhere out across the glowing brilliance of Los Angeles. I try to imagine Emily’s rented apartment by the 101, functional, easy, magnolia-painted walls, veneered floors, plug-in air scents to cover cooking smells. I might be wrong but I’m almost certain I’m right.
As I glide through the water, I imagine the police knocking on her front door and no answer. Their knocks echoing through dark empty rooms, past open suitcases, rumpled sheets, and used script pages. Emily gone.
But in the same breath, I can also imagine the opposite. The soft hum of a Netflix show, Emily pausing to answer those knocks, tying her hair back as she cautiously opens the door. She retrieves her license from her bag after a few questions from the police, handing it over with a mixture of bemusement and annoyance. The officers apologize for the inconvenience and Emily returns to the warm glow of her apartment to live her life in peace.
God, I hope that is what happened. I don’t care about the fuss I’ve caused if that is how it went last night.
I dive down under the surface and let the water play across my face, my eyes held tight shut against the chlorine. It is silent down here, silent save for my own movements, my heartbeat thumping in my ears.
I break the surface to the sound of my phone ringing from my discarded robe. I heave myself out of the water and hop across the chilled flagstones to grab it.
I towel-dry an ear and answer. “Hello?”
“Hello, this is Officer Maria Cortez from the Los Angeles Police Department. Can I confirm who I’m speaking to?”
I straighten and hastily pull on my robe with my free hand. “Yes, of course. Mia Eliot.”
“That’s great. Okay, Ms. Eliot, so I’m just following up on the report you made last night. Would now be a good time to talk?”
I look about the deserted pool terrace, its cabana curtains fluttering gently in the breeze, and pull my robe tighter around me. “Yes, now would be fine, thank you.” I sink down onto one of the deep cushioned loungers and try to stay calm.
The officer continues, friendly but professional. “Okay, so, the good news is we can confirm that Ms. Emily Bryant is now in possession of her wallet, her car keys, and her car so no further actions will be taken in regard to the report made by yourself.”
She is silent for a moment. I wait for more details but none come.
Is that it?
“So she was there then? Emily?”
There’s a pause before the officer responds. “I’m sorry, ma’am?”
“Sorry, I just…I was wondering if the officers who went to her apartment spoke to Emily herself. If she was there. If it was definitely her.” I realize I sound fully mad but I’m not sure Officer Cortez knows the fundamental aspects of the whole Emily situation.
“Ma’am. I can only tell you what’s written here in the report. Emily Bryant was present at the location; she was in possession of her wallet and her vehicle. The officers at the scene were satisfied and there were no grounds for further investigation.”
“Right.” I know I shouldn’t push it but I can’t help myself. “So the officers checked her ID?”
“Ma’am, is there a problem here? Is there something I should know?”
“No, I just wanted to make sure it was definitely Emily they spoke to. I know it sounds strange but I’m slightly concerned it might not have been.”
“Well, yes, they would have checked and confirmed her ID on the scene. So if the woman they ID’d is not Emily, then we’d be talking about a much bigger crime here than auto theft. Do you have any reason to believe the woman we spoke to is not who she says she is, Ms. Eliot?”
I shiver in the breeze, my wet hair icy cold now, my forearms goosebumped as I try to figure out what crime impersonating someone is, exactly. Is it fraud? Whatever it is I’m not sure being the only witness in a criminal investigation would be a great career move for me this week. But if I push this that’s what I’ll be.
“No, no. I’m sure if they checked, it’s all fine. Thank you for letting me know. Oh, and what happens to the report now?”
“It’s been closed. It’s in the system but as far as anyone’s concerned it’s gone.”
“Okay. Great, thank you, Officer Cortez.”
“You’re welcome. Have a great day.” The line goes dead.
* * *
—