MONDAY, FEBRUARY 15
Two scenes down and I’m walking on air back to my dressing room, my heart fluttering light in my chest, my face aching from suppressing my happiness. He is so good. He makes me so good. I’m terrified to think about how well it’s all been going so far. I even saw Kathryn Mayer give me a covert thumbs-up between takes from the dimness behind a camera monitor.
We have an hour for lunch, and while they’ve told me I can take it in my dressing room, I’d prefer to get some fresh air after being in the studio for so long. With the help of a wardrobe assistant, I wriggle free from my corset, slip on some joggers and a hoodie, and take a stroll out onto the lot.
My eyes take a moment to readjust to the glare of the California sun as I breathe in the cool spring air. Then following signs, I wind my way through the studio lots in search of the studio coffee shop.
Coffee shop located, I inhale a pastrami sandwich and a bag of potato chips before heading back across the lot with an ice-cold Frappuccino in hand. And that’s when it happens.
I feel the antique hair comb fixed onto the back of my second updo loosen and I’m too slow to catch it as the delicate tortoiseshell-and-rhinestone piece hits the tarmac of the lot. I watch a single rhinestone pop from its setting and skitter along the ground. Damn it.
It’s as I bend to pick it up that he knocks into me, sending a splash of Frappuccino cascading down my hoodie and jogger leg.
“God, sorry. Sorry, sorry,” he exclaims, as shocked as I am, a phone glued to his ear. “Sorry, Danny, I’ll have to call you back,” he says into the receiver as he offers me a hand up and ends his call. But I do not take his hand, I just stare, because I’ve seen this man before. I’ve seen his photograph smiling back at me from the Moon Finch “About Us” page. But more important I’ve heard this man’s voice before on a muffled audio recording that I would give anything to be able to forget.
I rise quickly, desperately trying to keep my expression neutral because this is the man who raped Emily Bryant and got away with it.
He looks at me concerned. “Are you okay?” he asks.
I struggle for words. He’s being so normal, he’s being so nice. “Am I okay?” I repeat. “Yes, I dropped my comb.” I bizarrely hold it up as evidence.
He smiles. “And your comb’s okay?” he jokes.
The joke catches me off guard; I remind myself that he doesn’t know me and he doesn’t know that I know what he did.
“Ha, yeah,” I reply with a halfhearted chuckle. “It’s good.”
He nods, then his demeanor suddenly changes as something clicks into place in his mind. “It’s Mia Eliot, isn’t it?”
My heart skips a beat; he does know me. He knows exactly who I am. I feel Jane waking up inside me.
“Yeah,” I answer with a strident confidence I do not feel. “It is. Have we met?”
He shifts his weight. Clearly, we haven’t. “No, but I saw Eyre. I’m one of the producers over at Moon Finch, Ben Cohan. Eyre was fantastic by the way. You’ve got a…a real connection with the lens, it’s great to watch.” He studies my elaborate hair. “You’re here for the Galatea screen test.”
“Just on lunch break. But yeah.”
He nods knowingly. “That’s great. Great to hear. You’re great for this,” he says, gesturing to the comb in my hand.
If he says great one more time I’m going to scream.
“Galatea was on our slate,” he continues, “before Kathryn. We did a lot of development on it before we handed it over. But Kathryn is the best, she’s got a good eye. Hey, listen, we’d love to get you in for something at Moon Finch soon, too, you know.”
I bet you would.
He grins. “I’ll send some stuff over to your agent. You in LA for long?”
Actors and crew from other productions bustle by on their way to the canteen; we’re not alone here, and I’m not in danger, but I feel it. My entire body is telling me to walk away from this man, but Jane holds fast. “I’m playing it by ear out here,” I manage. “One day at a time.”
He lets out a laugh, probably mistaking my rudeness for dry British humor. I can feel my anger building beneath the surface. Jane’s anger, my anger. I need to get away or I’m going to do something stupid. I try to shake off the images in my mind associated with his voice.
“Well, maybe you can pop by my office sometime this week,” he continues, oblivious. “We’ll see what we can find for you.” He gives me a grin and it’s the final straw.
“I think you know a friend of mine,” I say brightly. “Emily Bryant?”
I watch his face melt from polite interest into slow understanding. I catch the light behind his eyes flaring in horror before quickly covering itself.
“Emily Bryant?” he repeats politely as if he has no idea who I’m talking about. He’s a good actor but I’m better.
“Yeah, Emily Bryant. She’s a good friend of mine. I think you met her at New Year.” I don’t know why I’m doing this but I can’t stop myself. I want to see him squirm. I want to see him pay even if it’s not my debt that needs to be repaid.
I watch him try to normalize what is happening until he works out that acting normal is no longer an option. His expression suddenly darkens and he steps closer, threateningly, all sense of the polite man I met a moment ago gone. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing but you need to stop,” he says, his tone low and aggressive. I’ve rattled him.
Instead of feeling triumphant, I suddenly feel the vulnerability of my position. Even in a crowded place this man, now unveiled, seems dangerous. I take a step back, opening up space between us. There are witnesses everywhere, there are security cameras all over this lot, I know I’ll never be in a safer, more protected place with this man. So if I want to say something, now would be the perfect time.
“Why is she hiding? What did you say to her to make her disappear?”
Ben’s eyebrows rise. “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mutters, scanning the faces passing us by. “You need to drop this,” he continues, his voice low, “you don’t know what you’re talking about.” Then a thought seems to occur to him. “Wait. How long have you been in town? What, like a week? Two weeks?”
His eyes are serious, his expression insistent, and I find myself answering, “A week.”
“And Emily is a new friend, I’m guessing?” he asks, his tone unremitting.
“Yeah,” I admit.
“Yeah, well. In that case, you don’t really know Emily at all, do you? If you only met her a week ago, you don’t really know her.” There’s something about his tone that makes me pull up short.
He must pick up on my hesitation because he presses on. “Don’t feel too sorry for her. She’s not who you think she is: look her up. Watch some of her old stuff. You’ll see. You have no idea what you’re getting into here. You’re not going to help her, or yourself.” His tone is calm but threatening. “Let this go. You’ve got a good thing going here. Cut your losses. Or you make a move, because you’d better believe we’re ready.”
A studio buggy beeps as it whizzes toward us. Ben holds my gaze silently for a moment more before striding away. I stand shell-shocked as the studio buggy whips around me and rattles off.