I just need to reassure Kathryn at the meeting. I just need to be who she wants me to be.
My phone pings loudly in the silence of the apartment. I look at the screen. The text is from another unknown number.
The situation with Emily floods back to me. Her things, my promise to return them.
But she doesn’t have my number. She never went back to collect my note.
Tentatively I tap the text.
Weds Feb 10, 10:57pm
Hey. Nick here. Sorry, to contact you like this…I got your number from the casting studio this afternoon. Just wanted to let you know I paid her meter till tomorrow. A parking attendant showed up and I sort of went with my gut. She should be okay for parking until midday tomorrow. Excuse the number theft. Just wondering if everything worked out? Nick
I’m not really sure how to respond. I imagine him lurking outside the casting studio until Delilah left and then accosting her with some story of chivalric good-deed-ery in order to get my number. But then I remember that he works directly opposite her building and he is stop-in-your-tracks-and-take-a-good-look attractive. Delilah probably just offered him my number straight off the bat. And if I’m being completely honest with myself, he isn’t exactly stalker material. Stalkers aren’t usually above-averagely handsome men with good jobs. At least not in real life.
It is also kind of sweet of him to pay Emily’s meter.
I find myself suddenly wondering if Nick is interested in me. If after George anyone ever could be. Is this Nick’s stab at making a connection? Will we one day, bleary-eyed, be telling our grandchildren this story of how we met? I hope not, because I’m not in a good place to start any kind of relationship right now. Even a holiday fling. And after George I’m sure as hell not going to go out with a man more attractive than me.
I let my thumb hover over the message keyboard, regardless. He’s probably just being nice. Talking to him can’t hurt and I have an overwhelming urge to discuss today’s events with someone.
I type.
You’re a terrifying man, Nick. But thank you for letting me know. And thanks for paying the meter. No word on Emily though. Hopefully she’ll surface tomorrow. If not I’ll get my agent to contact hers. Weird that she hasn’t missed her wallet. All very strange. Hopefully she’s fine and just flaky. M
I type an x after my name, then delete it, then hit send. His gray dots pulse. I wonder what his job is, if he’s involved in production in some way. But maybe he has nothing to do with the film industry—all sorts of people live and work in LA. He could be an architect. I try to imagine him at an elevated desk, his head bowed, squinting at floor plans. No, he doesn’t seem the sit-down-all-day kind of guy.
His reply bursts onto the screen.
I didn’t even ask the receptionist for your number btw. She just gave it to me?! No problem about the meter. I kind of have history with parking attendants around here anyway. I’m slightly concerned about this Emily situation, all a bit strange, but I guess you’re right to give her the benefit of the doubt. Let me know if I can help in any way. Nick
His pulsing dots disappear. I guess that’s that for tonight. It’s eleven p.m. People with real jobs need to get their beauty sleep, I guess. And I should probably call it a night too.
I lift the heavy Galatea script from my legs and place it carefully on the desk in the corner of the living room. Outside, the lights of Hollywood twinkle magically all the way to the hills. I think of the distance from the apartment window to the ground below. I think of that actress’s dive from the blinding Hollywood sign into the darkness beyond and shiver.
I pull the heavy curtains closed and remind myself that fault lines can be inactive for years—I’m not going to fall. I’m safe up here in my sparkling tower. And I’m almost certainly nothing like her.
11