It opened, revealing a tall, redheaded woman with enormous almond-shaped eyes. She was dressed all in black—slim black trousers, a formfitting black turtleneck sweater. Stevie didn’t really know how cashmere was different from other materials, but somehow, she knew that everything Sooz was wearing was made of it.
“Isabelle!” She wrapped her arms around Izzy. It was a wide, all-encompassing embrace.
“This is Stevie,” Izzy said. “She’s a friend. I brought her along because—”
“No need to explain. When I was at university, I went everywhere with my friends as well. You know that. Come in, come in. Peter and Yash are on their way. They were just finishing up a rehearsal.”
They were admitted into a small but perfectly outfitted apartment. The main space had a white shag rug and two cobalt-blue sofas. There was a lot of black and silver and mirrors in curious places. By the door there was a rattan organizer that held shoes, magazines, books, purses, a hairbrush, a makeup case. The kinds of things a working actress might drop on the way in late at night or need on her way out the door again. Every inch of wall space was in use, encrusted in pictures and framed posters from shows. Dozens of them. Pictures in frames on the shelves. Pictures magnetized to the fridge and the hood of the stove. Pictures rotating through multiple digital frames. Sooz had selfied long before the world knew what a selfie was. There was Sooz with some vaguely familiar faces. Stevie had to look twice before she recognized an actress from one of her favorite English detective shows. There was Sooz in black and white, dressed as a ringmaster. Right by the galley kitchen was a long photograph of an entire class from Cambridge, all in white skirts, draped in black academic gowns, arranged in a formal photograph taken outside. In calligraphy at the top, around a double crest of two shields, were the words Cambridge University, Magdalene College, Matriculation, 1995.
Sooz noticed Stevie pause in front of it.
“Several of us in that one,” she said. “Angela, Peter, Noel, and I all went to Magdalene.”
She pronounced it “Maudlin.”
“Cup of char?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, please,” Izzy said.
At Stevie’s puzzled look, she clarified.
“Tea. Sorry. Would you like some?”
Stevie nodded.
“I’ve been racking my brain,” Sooz said as she filled the kettle. “I’ve been texting. I’ve been talking to the others. It makes no sense. It makes no sense, Izzy. She’s not like this. Not Ange. I don’t understand it.”
“That’s why Stevie and the others are here. Stevie is—”
“Sebastian told me. And I read about you when he explained. Can you help us?”
It was always a bit weird when strangers put their faith in her. Just this morning, Stevie had almost eaten the stopper they put in her coffee. She wanted to say something wonderful and brave and inspiring, but what came out was “Uh . . . I can . . . try . . . to . . . do . . .”
Sooz fidgeted around the kitchen, letting Stevie run out that sentence. She peered out the window to a roof beyond it, where three cats sat in a triangular formation, staring at each other.
“They do this,” Sooz said absently. “For hours. Stare at each other like this. I’m afraid one of these days they’re going to tear each other apart.”
“Which one is yours?” Stevie asked.
“Mine? Oh, none of them. I’m allergic to cats. Hives all over.”
Everyone considered the impending battle as the kettle began to rumble to a boil. Sooz was on it as soon as it clicked, dumping hot water into mugs. It seemed to focus her. She fussed around, grabbing tea bags and mugs and tiny spoons and a tray. She moved with the lilting motion of someone who ran through life on the tips of her toes.
They sat in the living room. Sooz draped herself elegantly in the corner of one of the sofas, tucking her bare feet under her, and stared out over the steam of her tea. No sooner had she done so than the buzzer rang.
“That’ll be Yash and Peter,” she said, bouncing up.
Yash Varma was a tall man, with dark brown skin and a thick, well-sculpted beard that rounded his jaw. He had sparkling brown eyes—there was genuine merriment there. He seemed like the kind of person who laughed easily and often. He came in, peeling off a green peacoat and revealing a scrappy Nirvana T-shirt and jeans.
“Sorry we’re late,” he said. “Terrible read-through for the show. We’re going to be absolutely bricking it by the time we film tomorrow unless we suddenly get much funnier.”
“I don’t hold out a lot of hope for that,” his companion said. Peter Elmore had a tousle of reddish-blond hair, which appeared even redder against the rust-colored pullover he wore. Everything about Peter had an air of intentional slouch, a comic casualness. Yash was the high energy, and Peter was the slower, lower note.
Izzy commenced with the introductions, explaining Stevie’s presence.
“We want to find out what she’s been doing recently,” Izzy said. “We’re just trying to get information in general.”
“Of course,” Sooz said. “Anything.”
“When did you last see my aunt?” Izzy asked.
“Last week,” Peter replied. “She was at a party I had at my house. We were all there.”
“Pete and I got an award for our show, so we were having a celebration,” Yash said.
“It wasn’t a tough competition,” Peter added. “We were only up against one other show, which wasn’t very good.”
“I wrote that other show,” Yash shot back. “That’s why he’s saying that. He’s been smug about it.”
“I gave you the idea for that show.”
“You wish.”
“You two,” Sooz said. “Shut it.”
“And how was she?” Izzy asked. “Did she do or say anything out of the ordinary?”
The three looked at each other.
“No,” Sooz said. “She was in good spirits. She’s working on that new program about Henry the Eighth. She was telling us about that. She’s always happiest when she’s working on a project. She was in a wonderful mood. We all had a bit to drink.”
“Maybe too much,” Yash said. “It was a proper, old-school party. I think she ended up sleeping on your sofa, didn’t she, Pete?”
“I gave her the bedroom,” Peter said. “I slept on the sofa.”
“She brought me a lip balm,” Sooz said. “I’d given her one a week or so before when we were out and her lips were chapped. It was a nice one—Penhaligon’s Orange Blossom. Nothing beyond the pale, but they cost maybe eleven quid. It’s my favorite. When she got to the party she had a replacement, the same exact one. That’s Ange. If she borrows something, she always replaces it. Always pays you back. She never wants anyone to worry or be put out. She wouldn’t go off and leave everyone worrying.”
“Would you mind talking a bit about what happened in 1995?” Izzy said. “Stevie really is an absolute genius. She has a way of working things out. I know it’s not an easy subject, but my aunt was talking about it with us that night, and maybe it was on her mind. Maybe if we knew more about it we could figure out if it played a role in where she went. . . .”