The truth is I’m scared but I think I have to go. Not because I’m a daredevil; I’m not. But because I’m already involved in this. I don’t know how I fit in to Emily’s story yet but I need to find out if I’m in real danger and from whom. Because someone has already tampered with my car. Of course I’m scared. I’m no hero, I’m just a nearly-thirty-year-old actress from Bedfordshire. All I’m actually good at is pretending I’m different people and remembering lines. I know the bad things that happen to “difficult women.” And right now I wish more than anything I had some way of protecting myself.
I check my watch quickly and make a decision, slipping quietly out of the bathroom and back along the corridor I came down. I pause as I pass the master bedroom.
I don’t know why I’m so certain I’ll find it there. Perhaps because Nick lives alone, perhaps because the nearest help is a dark and winding drive away.
My gaze flicks back up the corridor into the house and I hear the tinkle of cups in the kitchen upstairs, coffee being prepared. Here’s my chance.
I stride into the room, heading straight for his bedside cabinet. If there’s one here I’ll just borrow it. I won’t even load it; it’ll be a visual aid, nothing more. But one that might just get me out of a terrible situation if it unfolds.
I slide out the bedside drawer carefully. There’s only a remote control. Huh. The sounds of the coffee machine being used drift down to me from upstairs. I think fast, dashing across to the other side of the bed and rolling its bedside drawer open. I stop abruptly as its contents rattle loudly. This could be it.
I inch the drawer out bit by bit, careful not to make too much noise, the drawer’s contents slowly unveiling themselves. Condoms, mints, pocket tissues, batteries, painkillers, loose change, another remote. Then I spy the edge of a small cardboard box, the rattle of small metal bullets inside, and finally, I catch sight of what I’m looking for, the corner of a dark metal object. Nick has a gun. Throwing a quick glance back to the door I carefully take it from the drawer.
The handgrip reads SIG SAUER and the slide tells me it’s a P938 9mm Para, which I know from countless armor talks means it takes Parabellum bullets. I check the gun’s safety: it’s on. I run a full safety check just like I’ve done a hundred times on set in front of grim-faced firearms captains. Safety on: check. Mag empty: check. I do not take bullets. Bullets will only open up a whole new set of problems.
I will bring it back. It’s insurance more than anything else; something to show and run.
As I said before, I always thought the story of my life would be a coming-of-age story and I suppose, in a way, it is, even if I got the genre wrong. But the thing that never occurred to me, until now, is that I might not even be the main character.
I carefully store the Sig into the snug inside pocket of my bag, close Nick’s drawer, straighten the sheets, and head back out to the terrace.
32
The Truth
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 16
I arrive at the 101 Coffee Shop past midnight, half hoping she’s already gone, and park in the darkest spot farthest from the warm glow of the entrance.
I shrug on a sweater then pluck the Sig from its pouch. I release the mag, checking once more that it is safe, and then reflexively check the chamber too. My breath catches; I forgot to check it at Nick’s house. A single gleaming bullet stares back at me from the ejection port. Nick must have left one in the chamber. I pop it out. I don’t know how I missed this, nerves maybe, but it changes everything.
I pause for a second staring down at the shiny bullet in my lap. I could load it. But if it’s purely a deterrent, then why do that? I’d just be asking for something to go wrong. But then what if the deterrent doesn’t deter? If push comes to shove, couldn’t a warning shot be more useful?
I think of Chekhov’s gun. The theatrical trope that tells actors and playwrights: Never place a loaded gun on the stage if it isn’t going to go off. Don’t make promises you don’t intend to keep.
I peer down at my now loaded gun. Apparently, Hemingway hated Chekhov’s “loaded gun” advice. If every loaded gun in every story ever written had to go off then there would be no new stories.
A bell tinkles as I enter the 101 but nobody looks up, the diner music muffling my entrance. I scan the customers. Mainly men, various shapes and sizes, sit up at the counter.
The whites of a chef in the back, only his chest visible through the kitchen serving hatch. Two waitresses, one wiping the countertops, another refilling coffee. A middle-aged woman at a window booth tucking into a basket of sweet potato fries while quietly working on a crossword, reading glasses low.
Farther into the restaurant, I see the back of her head. Her long glossy chestnut hair twisted up into a bun, the back of her ivory neck visible through fallen strands. Marla. My stomach flips. The woman I’ve been looking for since she disappeared six days ago. The woman I thought was Emily Bryant. Emily’s best friend.
I make my way over and slide wordlessly into the booth opposite her. Then I catch sight of her face and recoil before I can stop myself. She’s definitely the girl I met at the audition six days ago, but the right side of her face from eyebrow to cheekbone is a smudge of deep-purple bruising. The delicate skin around her eye socket is swollen and puffy. She’s tried to cover the worst of it with concealer but the livid colors beneath are impossible to hide. A deep cut punctuates her right eyebrow, the wound beginning to scab over.
She darts a reassuring hand across the table as I pull back, her cold fingers circling my wrist gently but firmly. “Relax,” she coos. “It’s fine. It looks worse than it feels.” She smiles but the motion makes her wince.
I let my shoulders relax and place my bag down carefully beside me as I take in the damage to her face. She studies me with interest now too, the woman who has been doggedly tracking her for almost a week.
“Who did it?” I ask.
She knows I mean her face. “Who do you think?”
I think Ben Cohan. Probably not Ben himself, someone Ben knows.
“He sent someone, didn’t he?” I ask, and she nods almost imperceptibly. “Was it Ben or Mike who arranged for that to happen to you?”
“Same thing,” she answers. “You heard the recording?”
“I did.”
“So you know what happened that night.”
“Yes. And then Emily tried to blackmail them?” I clarify.
She nods again and it occurs to me that talking must be painful, damaged muscles aching under bruised skin.
“She played them the tape,” she says, her voice low. “She contacted a few other girls at the party. She had an actual witness, someone saw Ben’s assistant spike a drink. If she needed it Emily had a witness. But she said she’d drop the whole thing if they made it right.”
“And what would make it right?” I ask.
“A job. She didn’t want a trial. And she didn’t want the payoff she knew they’d offer her. And by God did they offer her a payoff. She wanted what she came to LA for in the first place. The price was too high but she figured she’d already paid it so she should get something in return. And they’d done it for other actresses.”
“What? Given them jobs after they’d…?” I blurt before I can temper my question. Marla nods. “Then what went wrong this time?”
She falls silent as menus arrive; she doesn’t speak again until the waitress is safely back behind the counter.
“The recording. The fact she had one. They wanted it. She wouldn’t give it to them until she was actually on set, in costume, deal done. She didn’t trust them. So she wanted to keep the evidence until they delivered.”
“But she could have kept copies. Not told them,” I argue.
Marla chuckles then winces. “They would have known. They wanted to send someone over, they wanted to wipe her hard drives, look through emails. That was part of the deal. They’d already taken so much from her, she wasn’t going to let them into her home, into her life as well.”
“So she said no?”
“Yeah.” Marla rips open a bright-pink Sweet’N Low, tipping it into her black coffee. “She told them she’d hand everything over once filming was complete. That way they’d have to reshoot the entire movie if they wanted to pull out of the deal, and there was no way they’d do that.” She pauses, her mug halfway to her mouth. “She was a good enough actress, by the way, good enough to handle a role like that. Genuinely good. They wouldn’t have had to reshoot for that reason.”