“Yeah, it was completely covered in lights, over four thousand twenty-watt bulbs, it used to light up the hills in the 1920s. Used to flash, pulse, you know, like a heartbeat. HOLLY—WOOD—LAND.” He puffs, finally releasing the bag’s temperamental handle, narrowly avoiding trapping a finger.
“You’re an actor, right?” he asks cheerfully as he offers me my new apartment keycard.
“I am.”
Miguel nods sagely. “Yeah, me too, you know. I’ve been acting for, maybe, about ten years now.” The porter’s eyes sparkle as they stare out through the glass to the white letters in the distance, then he turns back to me with a quick grin. “You know the story about the actress and the sign, right?” he asks breezily.
“No, I don’t think so.” I try to recall any industry gossip I might have heard recently but my mounting jet lag stops me from fully investing. “What was it? Which actress?”
“Oh no, it’s just an old story. From the ’20s. This theater actress. She jumped off the sign. It’s such a tragic story. Every now and then I think of her when I see it, you know.”
“Oh God,” I say looking out at the sign once more. The height from the letters to the sloping hills beneath seems monstrous even from this distance. “That’s awful.”
“Yeah, she came to LA to do a small part in a movie and after that movie they called her in for this huge lead role. You know, a really big part. So she screen-tested and everyone was sure she’d get it but then there was a disagreement between the producers and they went with this other unknown actress instead and that unknown actress turned out to be Katharine Hepburn! That role was Katharine Hepburn’s big break instead of this girl’s. Then the studio canceled her contract a few days later. So she jumped.”
I shake my head, unable to think of a more appropriate response to Miguel’s tale. “Wow, okay.”
“Yeah, I know. But the real kicker? The thing that gets me every time? Three days after they found her body in the ravine a telegram arrives at her place from the studio. Turns out the contract canceling had been an administrative error! And they want her to come back in for another huge part. They wanted her to test for another lead role.” Miguel shakes his head and then a thought suddenly occurs to him. “Actually, ha, she was British too. Like you!” He grins innocently.
Thanks, Miguel.
* * *
—
After Miguel leaves I try to shake off his creepy story as I wander the state-of-the-art apartment. I take it all in hungrily, the muted Scandinavian design, the low wool-upholstered furniture, a security video entry monitor in the hallway, discreet wall-mounted plasma screens in all the rooms, oversized coffee-table books. This apartment must be costing someone an absolute fortune. Why on earth they are putting me up here, I do not know. I wheel my case into the larger of the two bedrooms and dig my mobile out from my handbag.
I feel my insides squirm as I remember I’m supposed to start posting things on Instagram during this trip. Hashtag-gifted. Oh bloody hell. After years of holding out, I really thought I’d gotten away with not getting dragged into the Insta-bubble. But I guess there really is no such thing as a free lunch. I’ll have to double-check with Cynthia if an iPhone apartment photo shoot is somehow part of my accommodation deal. It’s starting to look like my new social media account might be doing all the heavy lifting this trip. I try not to think of Naomi’s account; I will not check her grid again, not today. I feel the loneliness beginning to seep back in and I briskly head back into the kitchen.
On the countertop I find a package of essentials: filter coffee, snacks, and a fruit basket with a note from my new American agent Michael.
Welcome to Los Angeles, Mia! Looking forward to meeting you in person tomorrow. M Spector.
Next to his gift is a bottle of Perrier-Jou?t champagne, another note attached to its dewy glass, from the producers of Eyre: