I feel a warm rush of blood through my chest and if I was in any doubt before, I’m not now. Nick likes me. I suppose he must have liked me to recognize me after a brief meeting two years ago. I clearly stuck in his head. I try to remember the night we must have met. Scott of the Antarctic was George’s first premiere, and it was a lot to take in; he took me as his plus-one. I was so proud of him. After years of dreaming, it was thrilling for one of us to suddenly have achieved something real, something tangible. I remember it feeling like magic was being dusted over our lives. I remember what I wore. It was the first time I’d been given a gown to wear, a figure-skimming dusty-pink Giambattista Valli gown, its deep V making my pale skin look almost translucent. I don’t often feel it but I felt I looked good that night. I could tell by the way George clung to me as he guided me through crowds of people I didn’t know. It’s no wonder I don’t recall meeting anyone that night when I remember how in love with George I was back then.
“Do I have any actor-handling tips?” I smile. “Afraid not, Mr. Eldridge. If I knew how to deal with actors I’d bottle it and sell it. I certainly wouldn’t be giving it away for free.”
He laughs, his eyes alive. “Well, it was worth a try.” He looks away a second, thinking. And when he looks back he seems decided. “Listen, Mia. Is George still—”
I know what he’s going to ask so I save him the effort. “No, he’s not.”
He nods his understanding. “Okay. That’s good.” He studies my face for a moment, perhaps looking for reassurance before the fact. But that’s not the way we’re going to do this and he knows it. “Let’s skip the coffee. Can I take you out for dinner, Mia?”
“I would love that.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah, text me. Go save your sound guy. And I’ll see you then.”
* * *
—
After the call it takes me a full minute to remember why I called Nick in the first place. And suddenly all I can think about is what is happening right now at a small Airbnb out by the 101 freeway.
16
All Is Well
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 13
The next morning I force on my swimsuit and drag my heavy body up the service stairs to the pool, hoping a short burst of exercise will kick away the fug of sleep after another bad night.
I shiver in the dawn breeze as I drop my robe and slip into the warm pool water. I thought about texting Emily in the early hours but I couldn’t think what I could possibly write and to whom I might be writing. I try to imagine what might have happened last night somewhere out across the glowing brilliance of Los Angeles. I try to imagine Emily’s rented apartment by the 101, functional, easy, magnolia-painted walls, veneered floors, plug-in air scents to cover cooking smells. I might be wrong but I’m almost certain I’m right.
As I glide through the water, I imagine the police knocking on her front door and no answer. Their knocks echoing through dark empty rooms, past open suitcases, rumpled sheets, and used script pages. Emily gone.
But in the same breath, I can also imagine the opposite. The soft hum of a Netflix show, Emily pausing to answer those knocks, tying her hair back as she cautiously opens the door. She retrieves her license from her bag after a few questions from the police, handing it over with a mixture of bemusement and annoyance. The officers apologize for the inconvenience and Emily returns to the warm glow of her apartment to live her life in peace.
God, I hope that is what happened. I don’t care about the fuss I’ve caused if that is how it went last night.
I dive down under the surface and let the water play across my face, my eyes held tight shut against the chlorine. It is silent down here, silent save for my own movements, my heartbeat thumping in my ears.
I break the surface to the sound of my phone ringing from my discarded robe. I heave myself out of the water and hop across the chilled flagstones to grab it.