Miguel nods sagely. “Yeah, me too, you know. I’ve been acting for, maybe, about ten years now.” The porter’s eyes sparkle as they stare out through the glass to the white letters in the distance, then he turns back to me with a quick grin. “You know the story about the actress and the sign, right?” he asks breezily.
“No, I don’t think so.” I try to recall any industry gossip I might have heard recently but my mounting jet lag stops me from fully investing. “What was it? Which actress?”
“Oh no, it’s just an old story. From the ’20s. This theater actress. She jumped off the sign. It’s such a tragic story. Every now and then I think of her when I see it, you know.”
“Oh God,” I say looking out at the sign once more. The height from the letters to the sloping hills beneath seems monstrous even from this distance. “That’s awful.”
“Yeah, she came to LA to do a small part in a movie and after that movie they called her in for this huge lead role. You know, a really big part. So she screen-tested and everyone was sure she’d get it but then there was a disagreement between the producers and they went with this other unknown actress instead and that unknown actress turned out to be Katharine Hepburn! That role was Katharine Hepburn’s big break instead of this girl’s. Then the studio canceled her contract a few days later. So she jumped.”
I shake my head, unable to think of a more appropriate response to Miguel’s tale. “Wow, okay.”
“Yeah, I know. But the real kicker? The thing that gets me every time? Three days after they found her body in the ravine a telegram arrives at her place from the studio. Turns out the contract canceling had been an administrative error! And they want her to come back in for another huge part. They wanted her to test for another lead role.” Miguel shakes his head and then a thought suddenly occurs to him. “Actually, ha, she was British too. Like you!” He grins innocently.
Thanks, Miguel.
* * *
—
After Miguel leaves I try to shake off his creepy story as I wander the state-of-the-art apartment. I take it all in hungrily, the muted Scandinavian design, the low wool-upholstered furniture, a security video entry monitor in the hallway, discreet wall-mounted plasma screens in all the rooms, oversized coffee-table books. This apartment must be costing someone an absolute fortune. Why on earth they are putting me up here, I do not know. I wheel my case into the larger of the two bedrooms and dig my mobile out from my handbag.
I feel my insides squirm as I remember I’m supposed to start posting things on Instagram during this trip. Hashtag-gifted. Oh bloody hell. After years of holding out, I really thought I’d gotten away with not getting dragged into the Insta-bubble. But I guess there really is no such thing as a free lunch. I’ll have to double-check with Cynthia if an iPhone apartment photo shoot is somehow part of my accommodation deal. It’s starting to look like my new social media account might be doing all the heavy lifting this trip. I try not to think of Naomi’s account; I will not check her grid again, not today. I feel the loneliness beginning to seep back in and I briskly head back into the kitchen.
On the countertop I find a package of essentials: filter coffee, snacks, and a fruit basket with a note from my new American agent Michael.
Welcome to Los Angeles, Mia! Looking forward to meeting you in person tomorrow. M Spector.
Next to his gift is a bottle of Perrier-Jou?t champagne, another note attached to its dewy glass, from the producers of Eyre:
Congratulations on the “top-secret” award news!! You absolute star! You’re a winner to us already. Thanks for all your continued hard work x
A warm feeling spreads through me at the reminder of my good news as it wakes up and stretches inside me.
I send a quick message to my friend Souki who I know is in LA right now too. I do not mention George. After all, I can tell her if I see her. But I’m not ready to let my thoughts go back to him right now. The point of coming here was to move on. I need to keep things light, easy.
I haven’t spoken to Souki in months—another quirk of the job—but she’s exactly the kind of person I should be hanging out with right now. Fun, exciting, and not at all hard work. We basically lived together for three months while we filmed an indie horror movie on location in Bulgaria two years ago. The people you work with tend to become an instant family on acting jobs. You’re thrown into close quarters in strange new countries, which means high-stress bond-forming relationships happen fast. There’s only so many hotel dinners you can share in a row without the polite veneer of professionalism slipping into comfortable familial frankness. Souki and I had a blast—on a job that wasn’t. Though we may drop in and out of each other’s lives, our bond is eternal.
* * *
—
An email from Cynthia updates me on the details for the Universal meeting with Kathryn Mayer, which will be at the end of the week—they still won’t let anyone see a script, which of course only adds to the mystery and allure of the meeting.
In the meantime I have a magazine photo shoot for Eyre scheduled for tomorrow morning and my first LA audition in the afternoon. Two big scenes. Eight pages of mostly my lines in dialogue as an overworked female Boston cop who discovers her new husband is involved in historical rape allegations. Sounds intense, but I do get to dust off my Boston accent, which is always fun. I give the empty apartment my best “Car park. Car park,” with New England vowels.
I decide to take my audition sides up to the building’s outdoor pool on the thirty-second floor and combine line learning with a post-flight/pre-bed swim. I wriggle into my swimsuit, shrug a beach cover-up over myself in case I run into any other apartment residents, and slip into sandals.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the bedroom mirror, my pale British skin, my tired puffy eyes. I think of Naomi Fairn and try not to compare. But I do. Then like a chain reaction I’m thinking of them together, talking, eating, laughing. As if I never existed. And all I got was four words. I warranted no warning or explanation from a man who, I imagine, couldn’t really care less what happened to me now. I’ve been thrown out like old clothes.
I force myself to stop. I must not obsess. What’s done is done, there is nothing more to be learned from circling back and back and back. The habit that has served me well in my career—that need to unearth the fundamental meaning in any human interaction, to rehearse and rehearse until everything finally makes sense—will not serve me here. He left. He didn’t love me. He found someone else. There is no more. That way madness lies.
I grab a towel, a bottle of sunscreen, and my script and head up to the roof terrace. I need to keep my mind away from the dark places it longs to go.
5
Diving In
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 8
My jet lag means I’m up before dawn the next morning.
Lying awake staring at the light seeping slowly in through the corners of the blinds sends my thoughts in dangerous directions. I rehash the first night after George left. I’d started to worry. George hadn’t sent me his four-word text yet; that wouldn’t come till the next day and Andy from Fantastic Movers had long gone. In the quiet of my flat I’d suddenly been convinced that something was wrong. The idea blossomed that perhaps something bad had happened to George; perhaps Andy hadn’t worked for Fantastic Movers. I’d been so convinced at the time that something else had happened, after all, that I’d even made a call to George’s friend Harry to check George was safe. I cringe in my crisp LA sheets as I recall the conversation. George was fine, Harry told me. And while Harry couldn’t tell me if George was seeing anyone new—it wasn’t his place—he gave me his sympathy on our breakup. And of course registered his personal disapproval of George’s methods though he had been the one to help George unload Andy’s truck at the other end. They’d gone to the pub after.
They’d gone to the pub.