Back in the apartment I hop in the shower, letting my cold skin warm under the water. I can let this go now. I have enough on my plate without adding in a police investigation. Emily is fine. They assured me Emily is fine. Order is restored.
I towel off and head into the pristine marble kitchen to make breakfast. Halfway into the room I stop dead in my tracks. My laptop sits open on the kitchen counter. I stare at its blank screen. I didn’t leave it there last night, did I? I left it charging next to the sofa as I usually do. The charging cable lies abandoned on the thick carpet. Did I forget to plug it in last night? A little shiver runs through me as I remember my missing script yesterday morning. Another thing seemingly moved in the night. I had meant to ask Lucy yesterday if the cleaners might have been up to the apartment. If they came up while I was out, they easily could have mistaken the script for rubbish underneath all that crumpled packaging. They could have thrown it out. I’d meant to ask Lucy but after the meeting at Universal and seeing Souki the whole incident had gone from my mind.
I stare at the laptop’s lifeless screen, and the more I think about it the more certain I am that I did plug it in before bed. And one thing’s for sure, cleaners don’t come in the night and move laptops. Did someone come in here last night while I was sleeping? Could this have something to do with Emily? Or am I being completely crazy?
I head over to the computer and tap the cursor; the screen lights up showing the desktop. I look along my app dashboard. Nothing is open, nothing appears recently used. But if someone did use it then they would have access to everything. Everything is here: email, messages, FaceTime, contacts. The hairs on my arm rise at the thought of what could be possible with all that information.
Instinctively I head straight into the hallway and grab the intercom phone. It rings twice before a male receptionist’s voice answers. “Hello, front desk, how can I help?”
“Hi there, could you tell me if anyone was let up to my apartment last night?”
“Were you expecting someone?”
“No, I just wasn’t sure if, perhaps, someone had come past reception last night and come up?”
“Not if you weren’t expecting them, ma’am. We only let residents come and go freely within the building. We would have called up to you if you had an unexpected visitor and checked you were expecting a guest. We take building security very seriously.”
“So no one could have sneaked past and—”
“No ma’am.”
“Okay. Oh, and what days does the cleaner service the apartments?”
“Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“I see. Thank you.”
I place the receiver back in its cradle. Cleaners did come the evening the script must have gone missing. So that potentially solves that. But it certainly doesn’t explain how my computer got up onto the counter.
But if no one unaccounted for went past security last night, and my computer was moved, then that means whoever moved it either lives or works in this building. For some reason my mind immediately flies to Miguel, Miguel who knows when I’m coming and going, Miguel the actor with so much interest in my career. I feel a twinge of guilt. Miguel might be a bit overfriendly at times but I really don’t see him as criminal. Then there’s Lucy, the concierge, but again she’s hardly the stereotypical criminal—though she could definitely get into my apartment if she wanted to. But why would she? Why would anyone?
I try to recall the details of last night after my phone call with Nick but they blend with the previous night’s evening routine. It must have been me who moved it. There’s no way someone could have come past reception last night without being seen. And Souki’s right that I’ve just replaced one preoccupation with another. I won’t let myself fixate on George so I’m fixating on everything else instead. I have jet lag, I’m busy and stressed and sad; I’m probably responsible for moving my computer. No one came in last night, and the police have told me categorically that Emily is fine. I need to stop leaping to ridiculous conclusions and focus on why I am here.
There’s a very urgent email from Cynthia on my laptop asking me to respond as soon as possible. Kathryn Mayer has set the chemistry screen test for Monday morning and Cynthia needs me to okay the time immediately in order to confirm with the studio. I send her a quick confirmation and ask if she can get another script sent to me though it’s clear from her email she still has no idea who I’ll be testing with. I guess it’s just between Kathryn and me—and him, of course—for now. A fizz of excitement shoots through me at the idea of working with my co-star. He has screeners of my work; he’s actually sat down and watched me in Eyre, and he still wants to screen-test. He must have liked it, which means a lot, especially from someone like him.
Cynthia’s email tells me not to worry about parts that I’ve already auditioned for over here; everything must come second to this. But there’s no mention of which Galatea scenes I need to prepare for the screen test yet, so it looks like I’m free for the day. A full day off.
At a loss for how to fill it, I scan the rest of my inbox and find an old email from Michael: an invitation to attend a gifting suite this afternoon at the Sunset Tower Hotel. I’d been hoping I might be free but hadn’t expected I would. Because it’s the week running up to the Oscars, gifting suites are cropping up all over town—and as Eyre starts to air on streaming services in the US within the next two weeks, I’ve obviously been added to someone’s PR list. I’ve been to a gifting suite before with George and understand the concept, but this could be my first official time.
Essentially PR companies invite actors in popular shows and films to a series of hotel suites in order to receive free gifts. And not just goodie bags either but larger things: holidays, luxury brand endorsement, villa stays, island-hopping, private jet usage. A good gifting suite does not pull its punches. Depending on what type of actor or celebrity you are, you’re offered a certain color and tier of pass that you have to wear around your neck on a lanyard. I’m sure whatever list I’m already on specifies my preordained gifting level.
Much to my shame I feel a thrill of excitement. I may like to think I’m a relatively egalitarian, un-shallow person, but when push comes to shove, I have to admit I love sparkles and presents just as much as the next person.
The suite opens at noon, which gives me something to do before the screen-test scenes arrive, but I really don’t want to go to this alone. I dash off a quick text to Souki and slip into a jewel-toned outfit: emerald cashmere sweater, deep-amethyst pants and slip-ons, finishing off with a clean makeup look and my thick hair tied back into a loose bun. It’s a PR event so I know there’ll be photographers there for the brands, and while I’m sure there’ll be more interesting people for the photographers to snap than me, it’s worth being camera-ready just in case.
A text lets me know Souki can’t make it, she’s meeting her agent for lunch. I look in the mirror and my heart sinks: all dressed up, no place to go.
I definitely don’t want to go alone but, other than Souki, I really don’t know anyone in LA. I can’t ask Nick to be my plus-one—that would be the most embarrassing first date ever, not to mention we said we’d go to dinner. I scour my phone for a last-minute savior but at the back of my mind I already know there’s only one person guaranteed not to turn this event down, even at such short notice. She may not be the perfect brunch companion but I can’t think of a better gifting-suite ally than Bee Miller.
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