We meet in the lobby of Sunset Tower Hotel at noon. Bee, camera-ready, dressed in a minuscule doll-like playsuit, with sheer black tights and ankle boots, looking every inch a millennial Edie Sedgwick with the wide eyes and thigh gap to match.
She clutches me in a tight sinewy hug and gives me a lipsticked peck on the cheek. “This is so exciting, babes. I did one of these last year at the W, West Hollywood, for Final Conflict, but this one is better—I asked around. This is a really good one.” Her hot flushed cheeks are my only clue to the excitement bubbling beneath her implacable poise. “So I asked at reception,” she continues, her tone businesslike. “It’s on the fourth floor, we get our passes up there. Apparently, I get a plus-one guest pass but I’m going to have a word with PR up there. See if I can get a proper pass. I got that new show, by the way, the one I was telling you about the other day.”
“Oh,” I say as delicately as I can. “I thought they’d offered it to Poppy Fenchurch?”
Bee pulls a tight little face. “Yeah, they did. I’m actually quite annoyed about the way they went about the whole thing to be honest. Apparently I was always the showrunner and the studio’s favorite but the director went with Poppy Fenchurch, for some unknown reason, and then Poppy pulled out anyway. I got the call last night. Poppy’s doing a film instead, God knows what, anyway, I think it’s all worked out for the best. I’m going to have to keep an eye on this director, though, God knows how she got the job.”
I struggle for a response before settling on, “That’s great! Congratulations.” Though I’m pretty certain neither sentiment fits the news Bee has just told me entirely.
On the fourth floor Bee disappears into a back room with two PR assistants and emerges victorious with a Gold-tier pass, the joy of her acquisition barely dimmed by seeing my Platinum version.
“Oh babes. You got Platinum. Nice. So listen, we need a game plan. If there’s something you’re not into then grab one for me anyway, okay?”
I let out a laugh. I don’t know why but I really was expecting an actual game plan. Still, there’s something refreshingly straightforward about Bee’s attitude to life that sits well with me after the last few days I’ve had. I don’t have to worry about her intentions at least, and for the next few hours I don’t have to think about Emily, or the apartment, or George, or my screen test. And with that we’re ushered past security and into the glittering belly of the beast.
17
Gifted
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 13
An entire floor of the five-star Sunset Tower Hotel has been taken over by super brands. Every room is filled with concession tables, each with discreet tier pass color-coding to signify who is allowed what and save our blushes.
My eyes drift through open doorways, as we glide along the corridors, taking in the glittering tables of high-end jewelers, brightly colored fashion lookbooks, designer bags, and concessions offering monthlong villa residencies, private yacht chartering, skiing vacations, and Learjet rental. There’s something almost scary about it: being surrounded by luxuries that in real life are so far beyond my pay grade.
The atmosphere from room to room is calm with quiet, discreet conversations between brand liaisons and lanyard wearers. There are faces I recognize, faces that anyone would recognize. Stars, big and small, beautiful and handsome, wander past, just living their everyday lives, as if they weren’t the people they clearly are.
“Holy shit!” Bee’s viselike grip latches onto my forearm. “Do you know who that is?” she rasps at me under her breath. Her eyes direct mine up the corridor to an incredibly tall blond actress who is laughing at a joke one of the PR liaisons has just told her. It’s clearly a rhetorical question as I’m certain half the population of the world would know who it is, and when I look back, Bee’s gaze has already moved on, scanning the milling clientele for more. “This is definitely a good one, Mia,” she adds quietly, lost in her own haze.
I lose Bee at the Cartier stand and wander on through the rooms, stopping briefly to hear a talk at a personal trainer concession. But as I listen to nutritional advice from the towering muscle-bound athlete in front of me, something catches my eye. It’s just in my peripheral vision at first, but the uncanny sense of import turns my head before my rational brain understands what I’m seeing. I turn just in time to catch sight of a sweep of chestnut hair leaving the room. Emily.
And without a word I’m following her into the next room, the bemused personal trainer left in my wake. I scan the faces in the connecting room but she is not one of them. I spin in the crowd wondering if I saw her at all.
And then, as the security guard by the door shifts, I see her. She’s bent over a jewelry concession inspecting one of their pieces closely, her focus down.
My stomach flips. It’s her, not the woman who came to my apartment two nights ago. She’s here, she’s okay. Curiosity, relief, and a twist of anger propel me forward. I approach briskly, my mind desperately trying to work out what the hell I’m going to say to her. Before I can reach her she rises, oblivious, and makes to move on. A jolt of panic shoots through me and before I can stop myself, I grab her arm.
“Emily?”
She turns and, as in a nightmare, I realize I’m firmly grasping the upper arm of an incredibly well-known A-list celebrity who is clearly not Emily Bryant. The actress looks back at me startled before the security guard next to her shifts between us and I immediately release my grip.
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry. God,” I babble in apology. “I thought you were someone else. A friend. Sorry-sorry-sorry.”
“Okaaay,” the starlet drawls, staring up at her security in response.
“I’m going to have to ask you to move right back, miss,” her security guard rumbles down at me tactfully, at least doing me the service of not drawing too much attention to us.
I feel my cheeks burn neon. “Of course, of course,” I mutter, backing up as the pair make their way past me, back into the room I just left.
I let out a held breath and scan the people around me. Eyes flutter away. My shame is palpable but thankfully no one is looking anymore, though they’re all very aware of what just happened. Classic LA: everyone knows something weird is going on but we’re all pretending we didn’t see it happen.
I make a quick exit, finding myself drawn toward the reassuring darkness of the room opposite. Inside I let myself relax, feeling the flush of embarrassment in my cheeks slowly ebb away. I need to get a handle on myself. I need to forget about Emily or I’m going to do something really stupid. I know I need to drop it, so why can’t I?
Because something about it still doesn’t sit right. I swear I just saw her. I can’t just drop it. If Emily isn’t okay, if something terrible happened and I’m the only who saw, how can I drop it? And however crazy it sounds, I can’t help feeling that it could have just as easily been me who vanished that day—and if I had who would have noticed? Not George. Not my family or friends thousands of miles away on another continent. Maybe Cynthia would have noticed after a day or two of missed emails. Perhaps Souki, but then we hadn’t spoken in months. And if they had noticed would they assume it all had to do with George? That I’d flipped out because of him and disappeared? I quickly shake off the thought because I didn’t disappear. And Emily didn’t disappear either. The police told me she’s fine. I did my bit. I need to move on.
In the darkness of this room, a cinema screen plays an exotic beach resort trailer. Caribbean waters lapping a pink-sanded beach, tall palms swaying, slow motion, in the tropical breeze. I take a deep breath in and slowly let it out. Maybe once all this is done, I’ll take a break. Get my head straight. What could ever go wrong in a place like that?
The redheaded concession assistant looks up as I approach, her gaze dipping to my lanyard where she finds her answer. Her smile widens, perfect and white, as our eyes meet.