“Yes, that’d be great,” I say. “Thanks.” She ushers me in past her and I hear the clunk of the latch dropping as she pulls the door closed behind us.
The apartment isn’t what I was expecting. As my eyes adjust from the sunlight outside, I see it actually has a light and clean IKEA aesthetic. The brilliant white of the walls is softened by the rich emerald of houseplants, ferns, and hanging succulents dotted along bookshelves and low coffee tables. Littered used scripts, half-drained coffee cups, and the odd item of discarded clothing are the only signs of inhabitance in the ordered minimalism. “I returned the car because Ubers are just easier, you know. Parking in LA is too much stress,” she says with a sigh as I follow her through to the eat-in kitchen.
She returned Emily’s car, and no one batted an eye. I don’t know what the hell is going on here but I resolve that I will not leave this apartment until I find out.
We enter a kitchen with its original 1960s design, mint green, with a round-edged sink, arched chrome taps, and a freestanding gas hob cooker. A ’60s housewife’s dream and clearly where the apartment’s millennial modernization stopped.
The woman clicks on the kettle and pulls out a chair at the Formica table, gesturing for me to do the same.
But I don’t.
She looks at me curiously. “Is something wrong,” she asks, “you seem a little…？”
I could just come out and say it. I could, or I could play along a little longer and see where this goes. There’s still the possibility I’ve gotten all this wrong. In which case I have hounded this poor woman, stalked her, reported her to the police, and now I’ve forced my way into her house to confront her with my own complete delusion.
“No, I’m fine.” I smile. “Just jet lag.” I pull out my seat and sit down opposite her. “So how’s the ex-boyfriend with the dislocated ankle?” I ask brightly, knowing full well that he’s completely made up.
She hesitates and then shrugs. “I’m sure he’s fine. He’s not in LA anymore.”
“Gone back to New York?”
“Yeah.” She nods. “You’re from London, right?” she asks, pleased with her knowledge.
“Yeah. Whereabouts are you from in New York?” I ask lightly, watching carefully for a hint of something in her eyes. She doesn’t disappoint: her eyes shift away from mine.
“Pretty central,” she answers quickly. “You know New York well?”
I shake my head. “Not really. Only been once.” I notice something out of the corner of my eye as the kettle rattles to a boil and clicks off behind her. It’s an ashtray. Clean and neatly tucked on a shelf. The woman rises and lifts a cafetière from a cupboard and sets about adding coffee. My eyes scan the kitchen table, counters, and shelves but find no lighter, no cigarettes, no butts.
“Could I bum a cigarette?” I ask, my voice slightly louder than anticipated.
“Sorry, I don’t smoke,” she replies, engrossed in her task and oblivious to the relevance of her answer.
And the words fly from me before I can stop myself. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but who are you?”
She turns to look at me, confused. “Sorry?”
“Who are you?” I ask simply.
She stares at me wide-eyed before answering. “I’m Emily,” she says, her confused gaze holding mine. She wants to know where I’m going with this, how far I’m going with this. But it’s telling that she doesn’t ask me why I would ask something like that. And if I was Emily I’m pretty sure that would have been my first question. But she remains silent.
“No, you’re not Emily, are you?” I ask. “I think we both know that.”