Four brand-new Roses turn to look as I reenter the waiting room.
There’s no sign of Emily. I check my watch. That only took about five minutes so she’ll still be in there.
Thankfully I have time to check over my scenes again before I go in. It’s then that I realize I don’t have my bag with me anymore. I feel a rush of blood to my face—everything is in that bag, my wallet, keys, phone—and try not to think about what the hell I’m going to do if I’ve lost them as I leap from my chair and hurry back out into the sun. I feel inquisitive eyes follow me as I dash out, but thankfully as soon as I clear the doorway I see its soft crumpled leather nestling safely next to the bench’s armrest. Disaster averted. I grab it and head back inside to a bank of staring Roses. I take a seat, ignoring my audience, dig out my script pages, take a breath, and start to skim the scenes one last time before I go in.
After a few minutes the audition room door opens a crack and I hear the mumble of voices beyond growing in volume. Emily must be done. I can hand back her keys and wallet before I go in, maybe we can exchange numbers and grab a coffee. It would be great to have a friend out here—if nothing else I’m sure she could teach me a thing or two about navigating LA. I take a last-chance look at myself in the mottled mirror across the room, smooth down my hair, and straighten my silk blouse as they exit the audition room.
It’s not Emily, though. The actress the casting director leads out is one I haven’t seen before. They exchange goodbyes as I gawk at them completely baffled. I lean forward to look around them hoping to see Emily emerge behind. Though why she’d be in with another actress is beyond me. The room behind them is empty. Emily must have gone into the other audition room. Perhaps she wasn’t here to read for Rose Atwood after all.
A strange dread starts to stir inside me. This is weird. I try to think who she might be auditioning for, maybe Melaya Tulli, the ship’s medical officer. I look around the waiting room but nobody else here could possibly be auditioning for that role. Melaya is clearly a Hispanic character, and Emily was most definitely not Hispanic.
The actress who isn’t Emily turns and gathers her things from one of the waiting room chairs. Emily’s car keys are still clenched in my hand.
“Is there a Mia?” The casting director turns and looks up from her list.
Bugger. I rise from my seat and plaster on a smile as I plunge the offending car keys into my pocket. “Yes, that’s me.” I smile, telling myself that it’s fine. She’ll be in the other audition room. They were running over time-wise and started using both rooms. That must be it.
I let my shoulders relax and head into the casting suite, leaving my jacket and bag behind, trying to clear my head of everything not pertaining to Mars as I go.
Twenty minutes later, I reemerge into the waiting room, my eyes readjusting to the daylight, my heart rate still elevated from screaming into the soul-less abyss of space.
The casting suites must be soundproofed as I didn’t hear any of the earlier Roses screaming at the end of their scenes. My eyes scan the waiting room for Emily.
She’s not there.
I head outside to the bench, but it stands empty in the warm sunlight. Maybe she went to the restroom. I go back inside and scan the waiting room again. One of the Roses stares at me curiously as another is called in.
I leave my things and follow the RESTROOM sign behind the reception desk down a very long corridor. The women’s restroom is the third door along the empty cream hallway. I push its heavy-hinged door and enter. A fresh scent of bleach and synthetic lemon hits me. It’s a large industrial bathroom, eight cubicles, the stall doors floating above freshly mopped polished-concrete floor. All of the work units in the building must connect and share these facilities. The end cubicle’s door is closed.
The clack of my heels echoes around the space as I enter. And suddenly I feel shy.
“Hello?” I hazard, my voice a reedy British apology. I grimace at the sound of it. “Emily?” I ask hopefully.