I try to think rationally, morally, legally. Was it my responsibility to save her if the impact didn’t kill her?
She tried to kill me but I certainly didn’t intend to do the same. I only pushed her because she was trying to drag me down with her. I could feel my own feet slipping and I knew she’d never stop. Even if it killed us both. I let her fall to save myself. Is that okay?
Lost in thought, I finally pop the waiting chunk of cheese into my mouth. It will have to be okay, I decide, because that is what I did.
But I didn’t call the police, did I? I didn’t call an ambulance. If I was so sure I did the right thing…wouldn’t I have called someone to help us afterward? I could have even called anonymously but the thought never crossed my mind at the time.
I don’t think calling an ambulance would have helped her, a quiet voice inside me answers.
No, but that’s the way things are done, isn’t it? If someone has an accident you call an ambulance.
You did what you thought was right at the time. You did the best you could, the quiet voice answers. That’s all you can ever do.
* * *
—
After showering I examine my damaged body in the mirror. The swelling around my nose has gone down; in its place a sickly green-yellow bruise now runs horizontally from under one eye straight across the bridge of my nose to under the other eye. An eye mask of bruising. Another livid purple-and-red contusion under my right eye, a small cut in the middle of my lower lip. I don’t remember when, but I must have bitten down hard on it at some point. My unremoved makeup is now clogged under my eyes, my skin sallow, and my freshly rewashed wet hair adds to the horror show. I push my hair to one side and look at my aching neck, the skin blood-blistered and bruised, scabs already forming where Marla’s thumbnails broke the flesh. I rifle through my washbag and pull out a tube of antiseptic cream, too late by far but the act of gently applying the cool cream gives me the illusion of clawing back my own body. Across my left shoulder and running diagonally over my chest is the blood-blistering and bruising caused by the seatbelt last night.
I cover my neck with my hand. Without the neck injury everything can be explained by my car accident last night, if it comes to that.
I dry my hair and put on a high-necked sleeveless top and jeans in silence as I work through a plan in my head.
Basically, I have three options now.
One: I go down to the station and I tell them everything that happened, beginning to end, and face the possible consequences of what happened to Marla.
Second: I call the police anonymously and say I saw something in the ravine under the sign. Just like the hiker who found the actress that jumped did in 1932. Then I would leave them to find Marla’s body and construct a narrative themselves.
Or third: I pack, make my excuses, and go home. After all, I’ve been involved in a car accident; no one would begrudge me leaving LA on the basis of that. I’m sure even Kathryn Mayer and the studio will understand.
I know which option I’d prefer. Every instinct in my body is telling me to go home, right now. There is no way I can meet Kathryn Mayer or the producers looking like this. And I have no intention of handing myself in at a police station. I have the perfect excuse to leave LA today. A bruised face and body. A damaged voice. A trauma.
I fire up my laptop and wander into the living room with it. Outside the sun hangs low and sickly over the smog of the city and yet somehow, it’s still beautiful.
My phone pings. A message from Nick, oblivious to all that has passed, thanking me for a wonderful night last night and asking if I want to grab a coffee later.
I feel a deep twist of shame. I was so quick to assume the absolute worst of Nick on that dusty hillside last night—that he could have done such terrible things—when the truth is he might be the kindest man I’ve ever met. I have no idea what to say to him right now, though, so I leave the message unanswered. I remind myself that I still have something of his—but I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it.
I set about searching for a flight back to London. I’m leaving, there’s no two ways about it and I’m not waiting for permission. I find a possible red-eye and call the airline and book a ticket for 9:05 tonight.
I check the oven clock in the kitchen. I need to be at the airport by 7:05 to check in.
That doesn’t give me much time to do what I need to do.
I dash back into the bedroom, haul my suitcase onto the bed, and stuff everything I own into it. I tip everything from the bathroom unceremoniously into the mess of the suitcase and close it up. I shove my laptop, passport, headphones, and book into my handbag and drag everything out into the hall.
I sweep the rest of the apartment for left items, scoop the remaining contents of the fridge into the bin, and place the Audi keys and welcome pack into a cloth bag to leave at reception. Ready to go, I pull out my phone and dial.
Cynthia picks up after two rings. It’s the middle of the night back in London. Her voice is thick with sleep but her tone is suddenly alert. Calls in the dead of night are rarely a good thing.
“Cynthia, hi. It’s Mia,” I croak. It’s the first time I’ve heard my voice out loud since last night and it almost sounds like a joke, a crank call. I try to gently clear my throat before continuing but it makes no difference to my voice. “Listen, don’t worry, I’m fine but I had a car accident last night.” I hear her shift up in bed on the other end of the line.
“Are you okay? What happened?”
“I’m fine,” I answer but the sound of my own voice loosens something inside me and the intensity of everything that’s happened over the last few days hits me. I try to stop it but my voice is emotional as I speak. “I’m fine. I’m just a bit banged up and not exactly audition-ready but…I’m alive,” I answer, relief heavy in my voice.
“And the other guy?” she asks. I know she means the other car in the crash but I think of Marla nonetheless. I force myself back to my story. “I rear-ended a garbage truck,” I say. I’m not sure if it’s my own flat delivery, my relief at speaking to a friendly voice, or the bizarre facts of the situation but I let out a laugh and Cynthia does too. I welcome the second of levity it affords me.
“My face is a mess and as you can hear, I won’t be bagging any musicals in the next couple of months but otherwise I think I’ll be okay.”
“Thank God!” She sighs heavily.
“Listen, I changed my flight, I’m flying back tonight.” I pause, considering how best to phrase this. “I need to go home, Cynth.”
“Of course,” she coos. “I totally understand. I’ll sort everything out with everyone over there. Just leave the apartment keys there. I’ll deal with it all.”
“The car’s—” I begin.
She cuts me off. “Don’t worry about the car, what matters is you’re safe, besides that’s what insurance is for. I’ll deal with it. We’ll sort it all out once you’re back in London. It’s nothing to worry about.”
“Okay. And Kathryn, the screening, will that be okay?”
Cynthia pauses down the line; I hear her duvet shift. “Listen…you’ve been involved in a car crash. I mean, come on. It’s perfectly understandable that you’d want to fly home, see your own doctor, be around your family. I can’t imagine it being a problem for the studio but to be honest, if it is then…well…fuck ’em, frankly.”
I feel my eyes prickle warm and sharp. I can’t express the affection I have for Cynthia right now. A smile breaks across my face in spite of everything that’s happened in the last few days. “Thanks, Cynth.”
I’m going home.
* * *