It makes sense but I feel my annoyance bubbling to the surface again. Because now I have to wait out here on the sidewalk until she finishes her call like an absolute mug. I feel the frustration building and try to disperse it with a tense wander along the line of parked cars. And ask myself what undeterrable, fiercely self-sufficient Jane would do? She would have said no in the first place. Why didn’t I just do that? Jane counter: no point in retreading that when you can just say no now.
I stop in my tracks. That’s the solution. I head back to the audition room, grab my stuff, and wander back out to Emily’s car. Plonking my bag on the hood, I ferret out a pen and tear a section of paper from my script to scrawl her out a note.
Hi Emily,
Sorry, couldn’t find you anywhere and had to dash. Hope your casting went well. Left keys & wallet with the receptionist.
Best, Mia x
I tuck it beneath her windscreen wipers and briskly take the stairs back up to the casting office to leave her things.
There’s only one Rose left in the waiting room and I’m unsurprised to see it is not Emily. I wander up to the reception once more with as much lightness of touch as I can.
“Hi, me again,” I trill, as if we’ve both had just about enough of me for today, and I plow on. “Right, so, I can’t find that girl. Emily. She gave me her car keys and wallet. I’m guessing she’ll be back for them soon but I have to go—so I’m just going to leave them here with you, if that’s okay?” I plonk them down on the counter between us. She looks at them for a moment before gazing back up at me.
“Who gave you their keys and wallet?” she asks, incredulous, disapproval written clearly all over her face.
I sigh internally. “I don’t know her full name. Emily something. She was auditioning before me. You saw her. She asked me to feed her meter.”
The receptionist’s expression turns to one of mild disbelief. “And you did.”
This time my sigh isn’t internal. “Yeah, yeah, I did.”
She shakes her head, I presume at my na?veté. “Okay, well, you can’t leave her valuables here.”
For a second I think I’ve misheard her. “Sorry, what?”
“I mean, we can’t offer to take legal responsibility for someone’s car and wallet, can we? Obviously.”
I hear the unspoken addendum to her statement: that I probably shouldn’t have either. I breathe through my irritation. I hate this day.
“Right, so what you’re saying is, I can’t leave them here for her with a note?”
“No. You can’t,” she says simply. And then, perhaps feeling the harshness of this, adds, “Well, you could leave a note here, I suppose.”
“I guess that would be something. Right, I’ll leave her my phone number and I guess she can call me and get the keys whenever.”
She slides me a pen and a Post-it pad and I scrawl out my phone number and name.
“You’ll give her this when she comes back?”
The receptionist eyes my writing. “Yeah, sure. What was her name again?”
“Emily.”
“Surname?”
“I don’t know.”
The receptionist frowns again. “Did you look in her wallet?”
It hadn’t occurred to me. I rifle through the card holder and find only the bank card I used earlier.
E. A. Bryant.
“It’s Emily Bryant? Sound familiar?” I say looking up. The receptionist shrugs. “I suppose she could have a different stage name?”