“Okaaay,” the starlet drawls, staring up at her security in response.
“I’m going to have to ask you to move right back, miss,” her security guard rumbles down at me tactfully, at least doing me the service of not drawing too much attention to us.
I feel my cheeks burn neon. “Of course, of course,” I mutter, backing up as the pair make their way past me, back into the room I just left.
I let out a held breath and scan the people around me. Eyes flutter away. My shame is palpable but thankfully no one is looking anymore, though they’re all very aware of what just happened. Classic LA: everyone knows something weird is going on but we’re all pretending we didn’t see it happen.
I make a quick exit, finding myself drawn toward the reassuring darkness of the room opposite. Inside I let myself relax, feeling the flush of embarrassment in my cheeks slowly ebb away. I need to get a handle on myself. I need to forget about Emily or I’m going to do something really stupid. I know I need to drop it, so why can’t I?
Because something about it still doesn’t sit right. I swear I just saw her. I can’t just drop it. If Emily isn’t okay, if something terrible happened and I’m the only who saw, how can I drop it? And however crazy it sounds, I can’t help feeling that it could have just as easily been me who vanished that day—and if I had who would have noticed? Not George. Not my family or friends thousands of miles away on another continent. Maybe Cynthia would have noticed after a day or two of missed emails. Perhaps Souki, but then we hadn’t spoken in months. And if they had noticed would they assume it all had to do with George? That I’d flipped out because of him and disappeared? I quickly shake off the thought because I didn’t disappear. And Emily didn’t disappear either. The police told me she’s fine. I did my bit. I need to move on.
In the darkness of this room, a cinema screen plays an exotic beach resort trailer. Caribbean waters lapping a pink-sanded beach, tall palms swaying, slow motion, in the tropical breeze. I take a deep breath in and slowly let it out. Maybe once all this is done, I’ll take a break. Get my head straight. What could ever go wrong in a place like that?
The redheaded concession assistant looks up as I approach, her gaze dipping to my lanyard where she finds her answer. Her smile widens, perfect and white, as our eyes meet.
“Hi there! How’s your day going so far?”
“Fantastic, thank you. Is this a resort?” I ask, taking in the other spotlit portfolios spread across the stand: palms against bruised sunsets, idyllic waterfalls in leafy groves, twinkling beach lodges, and cool clear waters.
“Not as such, we work in conjunction with the real estate branch of Christie’s auction house.” She hands me her card. “We’re gifting private island stays today. Is that something you’d be interested in?” She grins, possibly at the ludicrousness of her own question.
“Yes. Yeah, that would definitely be something I’d be interested in,” I answer hesitantly, certain I must be missing the catch here.
“Fantastic,” she nods, businesslike. “So let’s see what I can offer you.” Her eyes go to my lanyard again, this time noting my name as well as my tier. She cross references her clipboard.
“Right, so,” she says, laying some brochures out before me. “This is an exciting one, we can offer you a two-week stay on Leda, a private island in Greece. This one’s got real pedigree: you’d be staying in the fully serviced main house, which was built in 1960 and has since played host to everyone from the Beatles to Sir Winston Churchill.”
Not to look a gift horse in the mouth but I suddenly realize what section of her list I must be on. I’m on the “classy” British cultural heritage list. As far as these guys are concerned, I’m basically the swinging ’60s, tea bags, and beans-on-toast. Greece is great but I was hoping for something a bit closer to this hemisphere and preferably not haunted by the ghosts of old British men.