I stare at the laptop’s lifeless screen, and the more I think about it the more certain I am that I did plug it in before bed. And one thing’s for sure, cleaners don’t come in the night and move laptops. Did someone come in here last night while I was sleeping? Could this have something to do with Emily? Or am I being completely crazy?
I head over to the computer and tap the cursor; the screen lights up showing the desktop. I look along my app dashboard. Nothing is open, nothing appears recently used. But if someone did use it then they would have access to everything. Everything is here: email, messages, FaceTime, contacts. The hairs on my arm rise at the thought of what could be possible with all that information.
Instinctively I head straight into the hallway and grab the intercom phone. It rings twice before a male receptionist’s voice answers. “Hello, front desk, how can I help?”
“Hi there, could you tell me if anyone was let up to my apartment last night?”
“Were you expecting someone?”
“No, I just wasn’t sure if, perhaps, someone had come past reception last night and come up?”
“Not if you weren’t expecting them, ma’am. We only let residents come and go freely within the building. We would have called up to you if you had an unexpected visitor and checked you were expecting a guest. We take building security very seriously.”
“So no one could have sneaked past and—”
“No ma’am.”
“Okay. Oh, and what days does the cleaner service the apartments?”
“Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“I see. Thank you.”
I place the receiver back in its cradle. Cleaners did come the evening the script must have gone missing. So that potentially solves that. But it certainly doesn’t explain how my computer got up onto the counter.
But if no one unaccounted for went past security last night, and my computer was moved, then that means whoever moved it either lives or works in this building. For some reason my mind immediately flies to Miguel, Miguel who knows when I’m coming and going, Miguel the actor with so much interest in my career. I feel a twinge of guilt. Miguel might be a bit overfriendly at times but I really don’t see him as criminal. Then there’s Lucy, the concierge, but again she’s hardly the stereotypical criminal—though she could definitely get into my apartment if she wanted to. But why would she? Why would anyone?
I try to recall the details of last night after my phone call with Nick but they blend with the previous night’s evening routine. It must have been me who moved it. There’s no way someone could have come past reception last night without being seen. And Souki’s right that I’ve just replaced one preoccupation with another. I won’t let myself fixate on George so I’m fixating on everything else instead. I have jet lag, I’m busy and stressed and sad; I’m probably responsible for moving my computer. No one came in last night, and the police have told me categorically that Emily is fine. I need to stop leaping to ridiculous conclusions and focus on why I am here.
There’s a very urgent email from Cynthia on my laptop asking me to respond as soon as possible. Kathryn Mayer has set the chemistry screen test for Monday morning and Cynthia needs me to okay the time immediately in order to confirm with the studio. I send her a quick confirmation and ask if she can get another script sent to me though it’s clear from her email she still has no idea who I’ll be testing with. I guess it’s just between Kathryn and me—and him, of course—for now. A fizz of excitement shoots through me at the idea of working with my co-star. He has screeners of my work; he’s actually sat down and watched me in Eyre, and he still wants to screen-test. He must have liked it, which means a lot, especially from someone like him.
Cynthia’s email tells me not to worry about parts that I’ve already auditioned for over here; everything must come second to this. But there’s no mention of which Galatea scenes I need to prepare for the screen test yet, so it looks like I’m free for the day. A full day off.