—
I don’t see the car at first, and for a second the relief is overwhelming. I imagine that earlier this morning, roadside assistance helped her pop the locks so she could drive home. Her bank cards canceled and new ones issued. But as I pull along the street past a brown delivery van her car comes into view. She didn’t come back for it.
I park farther along the street, shut off the engine, and think. I should call Michael at this stage and drop Emily’s things off at his office. He can contact her agent and pass them on to her. I look into my rearview mirror at her car sitting there, in the California sunlight, as if nothing were out of the ordinary.
The clock on the dash reads 11:28. Nick topped up the meter until noon. Half an hour until it runs out. Without thinking I grab my wallet, her car keys, and mine and get out. I’m across the road in a couple of strides. My plan is to top up the meter but as I approach a thought occurs and before I know it I’m depressing the door fob, the electric clunk of the lock responds, and I’m opening her car door.
My thinking is this. Perhaps there’s something in the car with her information, some way of contacting her or at least verifying her name is actually Emily Bryant so I don’t sound completely mad when I talk to Michael on the phone.
I dive into the passenger seat as if I own the car and scan the backseat. A sweater. Gray marl with an NYU logo. Some old scripts. In the front cupholder: a pack of gum, sunglasses, pocket tissues. I lean forward and pop the glove compartment. And there it is. The car rental document. I feel a smile burst across my face. Just call me Miss Marple.
I slide it out and unfold the carbon-copy paper. Name, address, phone number. Jackpot.
Something in my peripheral vision catches my attention. I see a figure approaching fast in the rearview mirror. I spin in my seat just in time to catch a young man’s eyes as he power-walks past my open door with a white poodle in tow. My heart is racing. I have no idea if what I’m doing is illegal but it feels like it might be.
I don’t know how the American legal system works and I don’t want to find out—best to quit while I’m ahead. I hastily fold the rental agreement, slip it in my pocket, and exit the vehicle. Once it’s safely locked, I feed the meter up to the limit of midday tomorrow and head back to my own car.
Inside I crank up the Audi’s air-conditioning, the sweat rolling down my back from my brief stint of sleuthing. I let my pulse settle as I pull the rumpled paper from my pocket and smooth out its wrinkles on my thigh.
Customer name: Emily Bryant
Address for duration of rental: 1929 Argyll Avenue, Los Angeles, CA 90068
Her name, the same as the bank card. And an address. It occurs to me that I could pop over to her apartment right now and drop off her keys and that would be the end of it. I reach for my seatbelt but then something stops me. I should probably try to call her first. I check the rental document for a number and find one at the bottom of the page in tight neat scroll. Her cell number.
I type the digits in carefully and press dial. The ringtone burrs, once, twice, three times then connects to answerphone. I bite my lip and then speak.
“Hi Emily, it’s Mia from the Mars casting yesterday. Listen, I don’t know what happened but somehow I totally lost you.” I hear myself let out a nervous laugh. “I’m guessing…something came up, but don’t worry I still have your wallet and keys and the meter is all paid up until midday tomorrow. So hopefully the car will be fine there.” I pause, not really sure how to continue. “So listen, when you get this, can you call me back? Anytime, and we can arrange a hand-over. I’m hoping this is the right number for you, but if I don’t hear back from you, I’ll let my agent know what happened and pass all your info on to him. I’m going to get your stuff back to you if it kills me.” I let out another joyless chuckle in the silent car. “Anyway, this is my number. Call me. Oh, it’s Mia, by the way.” I hang up and frown as I add her name into my phone contact list.