The Love of My Afterlife(46)

I wait for a response.

Nothing. She’s dipped again.

“Nice. Really nice. Thanks, Merritt.”

I sigh, patting cold water onto my sticky hot cheeks. I’ve searched the internet, The Orchestra Pit, the park, the drawing class, and the Shard! I’ve run into terrible luck and stupid obstacles each and every time. I think about what Cooper said last night, about Jonah actively avoiding me. But that can’t be possible. He doesn’t know I exist. Does he?

Once the cool water has helped to lower my temperature a tad, I turn off the tap, noticing as I do a little logo on the rim of the sink. London Alabaster. Something flickers in my brain, a small crackle at first and then a lightning bolt. I get a vision of the irritable woman at the Shard last night, asking if Maurice Alabaster had sent us there to dance and how she was going to make a complaint to him. Then I remember how the Northern girl in the jewelled dress said Jonah had been dancing on the podium just before me. Hmm. Maurice Alabaster must be a manager or an agent or something? And if he provided the dancers for last night’s event, that means there’s a very real chance he represents Jonah…

I speedily dry my hands on a paper towel and open up my phone to search. Aha! The Maurice Alabaster Talent and Casting Agency! I scroll quickly through the list of dance clients and—oh my god—there he is! It’s Jonah—a black-and-white headshot of him looking handsome and sweet and kind, just like he was in Evermore. His name is not Jonah Truman here, though. It says Jonah Electric. Huh. Is that a stage name? Is that why he didn’t show up in any of my internet sleuthing?

I scan down the bio, my eyes widening as I see that Jonah is an actor and a dancer and just last year appeared in a French Riverian Cruise production of Cats. I picture him in a furry outfit, whiskers painted onto his face. I immediately shove the image away to the lockbox of doom and scroll back up to the headshot to admire his warm, sparkling eyes. There he is. Jonah—actor, dancer, saver of my life, soulmate.

I glance at the lipstick note on the mirror again, then type out a message.


Cooper, I have an encouraging lead on Jonah and have to go. Please tell Amy and Bev I’m sorry.



If I find Jonah, I would really like to hang out with them again. But if I don’t find Jonah, I won’t get to hang out with anyone but Merritt and whatever other Deads she sets me up with for her weird dating service.

Cooper replies right away with a thumbsup, the worst but most efficient of all the emojis. An improvement on signing off with “Best, Cooper” I suppose.

“Maybe I don’t need your help after all!” I call out to Merritt. “Maybe I can figure this out all on my own.”

Then I fly down the stairs of the aquarium, speed past the tourists and the fish nerds, and run out into the sunshine.





23



Well, all of my Abstract 23 collection has sold out! Every single one bought before the exhibition!

That’s great Mum. Congratulations! Did you see my drawing? Is something wrong with your phone? I keep trying to call but no answer.



I generally avoid most places outside my little corner of West London but nowhere more than Soho. Soho is the grubbiest, seediest, most self-satisfied area in the entire city. The pavements are all too narrow, the people hanging around there are all obnoxious, and there are so many weird noises and smells and colours that you’d need to lie down in a darkened room for an hour afterwards just to decompress.

To my chagrin, the Maurice Alabaster Talent and Casting Agency is located in an office above a bar on Old Compton Street, smack bang in the middle of the fray. After the disaster of the last few days’ attempts to locate Jonah and Merritt’s unwillingness to give me any intel, I don’t have a choice but to go there.

I reach the bar, and to the left of it there’s a shiny black door with a little intercom pad on the brick wall beside it. I trace my finger down the names and the buttons. Aha! There it is. The Maurice Alabaster Talent and Casting Agency. I press the buzzer and am quickly greeted by a female voice.

“Name.”

“Delphie. Delphie Bookham.”

“One moment…You’re not on my list. Did you confirm attendance at the callback online? The system’s been a little glitchy, I’m afraid.”

“I’m just here to speak to Maurice Alabaster. I’m looking for Jonah Truman—I mean, Jonah Electric as you might know him—and I hoped Maurice could help.”

The woman sighs. “Today Maurice is holding the open call only. He does not have time for anything else. Feel free to send an email. Goodbye.”

I hear a clink through the intercom speaker. Damn it. This is way too urgent for an email.

I’m nudged out of the way by a young brunette woman who leans over me to press the buzzer.

“Name?” comes the intercom voice.

“Here for the callback. Ellie Damson, three thirty appointment.”

The buzzer sounds, and the young woman is immediately let into the building. I quickly slip in behind her and covertly follow her up the stairs to a shabby-looking office lobby, the walls plastered with framed black-and-white headshots like the one I just saw of Jonah on the website.

“Through there.” The woman at the reception desk thumbs down a brown-carpeted corridor, barely looking up at me or Ellie Damson, Three Thirty Appointment.

We shuffle into a tiny waiting area filled with other young brunettes. A door creaks open and a white-haired, moustachioed man pokes his head around it. His face is craggy and tanned, grey eyes slightly bored looking. I recognise from the website that this man is Maurice Alabaster himself. “Rachel Calloway?” he calls out with a spiritless sigh, glancing down at a piece of paper in his hand. “Three twenty?”