“Okay, listen,” he adds, registering my concern. “Why don’t I just give youmycell number? That way if you don’t hear from her by this evening you can check in with me to see if she came back. Sound good? Sound safe?”
Bizarrely just the acknowledgment of my safety somehow puts me more at ease. And perhaps he’s right. What harm could me takinghisnumber do? It’s easy to hide your caller ID on an iPhone, the police showed me how to do it after my problems with Shaun the stalker.
“That would actually be really helpful, Nick. Thank you. Yes. If you see her then let her know they have my details at reception and she can call me. That’d be great.” I feel a twang of regret at having been so obstructive up until now. He’s just a nice guy trying to be nice. I unearth my phone from my bag and jab his digits in as he reels them off.
“And what’s her name?” he asks as I save his contact.
“Emily. She said she had a video call or something to do, so I’m hoping it’s just that.”
“You got a surname for Emily? We could google her, get an agent contact?”
“The last name on her card is Bryant. So if she doesn’t call this afternoon, I’ll get my agent on it, I guess. But hopefully she’ll show up.” I feel my stomach rumble. It’s 2:08. I might just have time to grab lunch en route if I leave now. “Nick, thank you. Really appreciate your help but I absolutely have to go or I’m going to be late.”
“Casting?”
“Yeah. Burbank.”
“Jesus. Okay, good luck with that. Rather you than me.” He grins.
I slide into the leather seat of the Audi and start the engine. I can’t help but watch his sharp suited figure recede in the rearview mirror as I join the flow of traffic back toward the freeway.
I just have time to hit an In-N-Out drive-through and ravenously inhale a cheeseburger and fries on the way to Burbank. I might have to acquaint myself with the apartment gym if this keeps happening.
When I get to the Warner Bros. parking lot I have only ten minutes to spare. I check the surrounding vehicles for inhabitants and once I’m sure the coast is clear I wrestle off my blouse and pop on a short-sleeved cashmere jumper. I need to go from the near-future, fictional Mars terra-former Rose Atwood to the real-life Raquel Eidelman, in 1945, one of the first female students ever accepted at Harvard Medical School. I swap my jeans for slacks and slip into some low pumps, stuffing my clothes into the back footwell. Then I flip down the sun visor mirror, loosen my hair, and fluff it out, letting its natural wave do its thing. Finally I apply a deep-plum lipstick to my lips, comb through my thick brows, and spritz a healthy spurt of perfume to cover my burger shame.
Done. I give myself a look in the mirror. I throw a few of Raquel’s lines at myself with a warm American hum. Then I pop the door, grab my bag, and wiggle with intent straight into my next appointment, ready to slam the patriarchy 1940s-style.
9
New Friends
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 10
I’m still riding high onthe buzz of the second audition when I get back to the apartment building that evening.
Three network executives, who’d all seenEyre,and three scenes that flowed in all the right places. It couldn’t have gone better. Them asking about my availability at the end had been the icing on the cake.
I drive into the Ellis Building’s underground car park and catch sight of Miguel at the valet station. He gives a cheery wave as I pull up and jogs over to meet me.
“Mia, Mia, lovely Mia, it’s so very good to…see ya,” he singsongs through my open window. I cut the engine as he appraises my broad smile. “Oh? It’s a good day, huh? Nice casting?”
“Yeah, I think so, Miguel,” I say tentatively, not wanting to jinx myself. As I get out of the car, he assesses my audition outfit and nods his approval.
“Nice. A 1940s part, right?” he guesses.
I nod. Correct.
“Okay…Secretary?” he hazards. “Politician’s wife?”
“Harvard Med.”
“Oooo! Nice!” He does a finger slap, delighted with himself.
“Yep.” I grin, his energy infectious. “Feeling pretty good.”
“Damn straight.” He slides into the car with my keys to valet-park. “Well, you let me know how it goes. I want to know what they say. But if your getup is anything to go by”—he nods to my 1940s hair and makeup—“you gotoptions,girl. You know what I mean?”
It’s only when I get into the lift that I realize, in all of today’s excitement, I’ve misplaced my own apartment keycard. I head back down to reception to get another card coded.
