It must have been true, what Marla told me about her childhood, because no one has missed her. There were no reports on Marla. Emily’s family was plastered across the papers after her body was discovered, photos of her grieving father. He had filed his own missing persons report on Emily a week after Marla fell. That whole time he’d thought she was fine because Marla was texting him back as Emily. And when she stopped Emily’s dad noticed. Cortez must know someone was impersonating Emily but without real evidence, or even a name, Marla’s trail must have gone cold.
But Marla didn’t kill Emily. Moon Finch killed Emily. It’s odd being able to see things from the other side. I watched with interest as a few weeks after Cortez’s phone call Moon Finch was quietly bought out by another company. Ben Cohan and his business partner, Mike, moved on who knows where. Did they cut their losses or were they pushed? I don’t know if without that recording, or a witness, any of it could even be traced back to them. The most I can hope for is that what happened with Emily and then Marla scared them enough that they’d think twice before doing anything again.
I start on Galatea in two weeks. I got it. After everything. I’m excited to do it, of course, but I’d be lying if I said the sheen hadn’t rubbed off the role to an extent. It caused too many people too much heartbreak to still feel like an entirely good thing. I’m not so sure about the actor’s life anymore either. But things have a habit of changing quickly, don’t they? For now, I’m happy pootling along. Happier than I’ve ever been.
Nick moved over to London a couple of weeks ago. We did long distance for a couple of months but we hated it. Now he’s renting a warehouse flat in Dalston, just down the road from me, and I’m basically living there with him. He’s got plenty of productions to keep him busy over here and though he moans about the weather, I can tell he loves it.
There’s a knock at the hotel suite door, the bleep of a keycard, and Nick’s head appears around the door.
“Mia?” he asks, coming in tentatively. He hoicks the sleeve of his immaculate evening suit and checks his watch. “It’s time. You ready to go?” He looks perfectly handsome in every way, my American man, my plus-one.
“Yeah,” I whisper and clear my throat, tucking my cue cards carefully into my clutch.
I told him everything that happened after I saw Emily on the news. I told him about Emily, Marla, the sign, my stupidity, and the craziness. The aftermath and the crash. The only part of the tale I skipped was the part where I brought my fists down hard on hers and watched her grip loosen.
In Nick’s story she slips. In Nick’s story I am innocent. I prefer Nick’s version. He only told me things I already knew. Not to get involved unless I’m asked to, not to offer anything that might incriminate me. To protect myself. To protect us.
Nick holds the door wide and I gather my things. If I don’t win tonight that’s okay. If I don’t ever act again then that’s okay, because I’m alive and free and no longer alone. I count myself lucky, even with all my flaws, with all my failings and sorrows and hopes and dreams. Whatever happens tonight, it’s going to be okay.
* * *
—
Snapshots of memories. Nick’s warm hand in mine leading me down the red carpet then setting me free. Microphones, questions, camera flashes, and umbrellas. Crowds of faces. The fizz of champagne and the pinch of sequins on skin. An auditorium of people I recognize but do not actually know, jokes and the sound of a thousand people’s laugher, the swell of music and then some words I can’t quite make out. Nick looks to me, his eyes alive with meaning, he stands and I find myself standing too.
A camera races up the aisle toward us and I lean into him, terrified, to whisper, “Did they say me, Nick?”
He laughs, his eyes full of love. “Yeah, yeah, they did, Mi.” He kisses my cheek. “Now get up there.”
The walk is long, a blinding tunnel of nerves and unbridled happiness. The warm imprint of Nick’s kiss still on my cheek.