Subject:
I know you were in my apartment.
And I know what happened on New Year’s Eve.
I am so so sorry about what happened to you but I don’t understand why you stole from me, or why you made Joanne come here, or why you repeatedly broke into my apartment. What is going on? Are you hiding from someone?
I haven’t contacted the police yet but if I don’t get some kind of explanation—and I know you can read this—I’m reporting it all.
After my shower I slip into the clothes I picked out for the screen test. I know I’ll be in full costume and makeup all day but I want to look good when I arrive at the studio. I leave my skin fresh and makeup-free, though. I pull my hair back into a slick ponytail and I’m ready.
I decide to grab breakfast on the go. I don’t want to spend any longer in this apartment than I have to. I need to get out and into the fresh California air. I grab my phone, car keys, laptop, script, and bag, and head off.
* * *
—
In the car park beneath the building Miguel dashes off to get my car. While he’s gone I find the pin-drop Nick sent me for the Italian deli. Biscotti. I’m going to follow his advice and swing by to grab that first-day gift. It’s not something I usually do, but knowing that it is a thing people do in LA has somehow emboldened me. My thoughts stray back to our date last night and I can’t help feeling a twinge of sadness that I’ll be back in London by tomorrow night. I find myself wondering absentmindedly if Nick would ever consider moving to England.
Somewhere deep within the car parking structure there’s a loud, choking, mechanical noise spluttering away. I can’t see where it’s coming from but a knot starts to form in my stomach. The noise stops for a second and then there’s another cataclysm of throttled croaks. After a brief moment of silence, I see Miguel bobbing back over through the car park, his expression confirming my worst suspicions.
“It won’t start,” he puffs, clearly more surprised about it than I am.
Refusing to let this turn of events affect my pre-game focus, I tell him not to worry, pull out my mobile once more, and order an Uber to Guidi Marcello. Nothing is going to throw me off course today, not car tampering, not anything. I will get there on time and I will do a good job, even if I have to get through the ten plagues of Egypt to do it.
* * *
—
It’s only in the back of the Uber that I let myself think about what the car means: either Emily did this or whoever she’s hiding from did. Is it a warning? I push the thoughts away. Regardless of who is responsible I need that car fixed. I shoot off a quick email to Leandra at Audi explaining the mechanical problems with the car as Miguel described them before I left. I ask her to arrange for a mechanic to take a look at it while I’m working today; that way I can drive myself to the airport tomorrow.
Email sent, I heave my Galatea script out of my bag and dive back in.
Forty-five minutes later we pull up outside the glass shopfront of Guidi Marcello. Inside is packed higgledy-piggledy with produce from all across Italy, walls of ruby-red wines from Tuscany, Sicily, and Venice. Amarones, Chiantis, Cabernet Sauvignons, and Barolos. Giant wheels of fresh Parmigiano Reggiano DOP and salty Pecorino Romano, misty glass-fronted fridge cabinets stacked with caramelized cured meats, fresh egg pastas, and jars filled with olives. My stomach groans at the sight of it all and the scent of freshly brewed coffee in the air.
I follow the soft plumph of shelves being stacked through the maze of overflowing aisles until I find a young dark-haired man in his twenties. He looks at me, surprised to see a customer.
“Hi, is it Marco, by any chance?” I hazard.
A smile breaks across his face. “Of course. And you are Mia. I have some good things for you at the register. Come.” He rises from the stacking stool and slips past me back to the cash register, where he hefts a small selection of packets from a shopping basket up onto the counter. “Okay. So, biscotti. Cantucci. We have, from Prato, Italy, this one is the best. Handmade at Antonio Mattei.” None of that means anything to me but he proudly presents an intense cobalt-colored package with blue string and golden lettering. It looks great. “Or just as good—but for me, not so good.” He winces, comically. “The Seggiano Cantuccini Biscotti, from Tuscany also.” He presents a clear packet with ten slices of golden-amber biscuit within. “Same price.”