The Disappearing Act(5)
So I ask myself: What would Jane do?
And without a second thought, I know. I’ve lived with her now for so long.
In the book Jane asks herself: Who in the world cares for you? The answer is: I care for myself.
I need to care for myself.
She would cut her losses. She would protect herself. Jane would move on. Cauterize the wound to protect from infection. That’s what I need to do: control the fallout, change the story he’s written me into.
If I were Jane, I’d send a letter, an email. I’d secure another position, far from here. I’d move on and I’d adapt.
I think of my one lifeline, my bright bolt of good news in the darkness. The next few months are going to hurt, but I’m going to be okay. I will not play the role he’s cast me in. I will write my own story.
On the counter my phone sits silently. No word from him. Not even an apology. Nothing. I am not even worth a sorry.
Jane would not crack, or cry, or drunk-text. Jane would focus her mind.
I breathe deep and think only of two letters…
LA.
And with that thought I pick up my phone and dial Cynthia’s number.
3
Another Country
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 7
Sunshine and a fresh California breeze hit me as I descend from the plane. London’s February chill long forgotten, five thousand miles behind me, as I pull in a lungful of spring air and squint up into the cloudless azure sky above.
I wriggle out of my cashmere jumper and fish my sunglasses from my bag as I follow the other passengers across the hot tarmac of LAX toward the terminal.
Cynthia called yesterday, to finalize the details of the trip, just as I was deep-cleaning the flat, desperate to erase the final traces of George’s abrupt departure. Still no call, only a text, four pointless words: Sorry. I had to.
Had to lie, had to cheat, had to run away. But if he can, so can I.
“Right. First things first,” Cynthia had explained. “I spoke to a couple of the studios over in LA. Now, they’re all eager to have general meetings with you—but Universal in particular wants to talk to you about a new project.”
“Universal Pictures or TV? Are there sides?” I’d asked. Sides are the pages of script that casting directors send actors to learn for their auditions.
“Ha. Sides! They won’t even tell me what the project is let alone the role. It’s a film, that’s all I know at this stage. And they just want ‘a chat’—no audition. Which could mean a number of things. But they love you, they seemed very concerned about who else you’d be meeting over in LA and for what. It’s Kathryn Mayer you’ll be meeting, she’s a new division president at Universal, she’s building a production slate for next year. I don’t want you to feel any pressure obviously, but this is a big deal, Mayer hardly ever meets actors. Apparently she adored Eyre, she got hold of a screener. Have a Google of her.”
Although I’ve never braved LA before, I know that right now actors from all over the globe are migrating here for the three-month period of pilot season. Every television network in America will be hustling to grab the best, or cheapest, or most in-demand actors they can to fill their roster of new shows for that year. And all those actors end up auditioning for the same roles. It’s a fire sale. Contracts are offered, careers are launched, dreams get made…and some get broken. Not everyone who flies over can get what they came for, not everyone can get what they deserve. Luckily I just need to get away from my life, a distraction, and I’m guessing I’m going to get that in spades.
She talked me through some of the selected shows and roles she’s scheduled for me during the three-week trip. And the American agent she’s arranged to represent me.
“Michael Spector at United. He’s good. I’ve got a couple of US clients with him and he’s really on it. Very savvy. Let me know how he is and we can shop around if it’s not a fit.”
Handheld name signs pepper the LAX arrivals barrier, and I’m surprised to spot the familiar swirl of my own name held by a woman in a sharp trouser suit. She catches my eye, gives me a bright smile of recognition, and makes her way over, smoothly, her hand extended.
“Mia? I recognized you from the press pack they sent me. It’s Leandra from Audi. It’s so great to meet you. How was your flight?”
Her hand is cool and strong in mine. Her freshly blown-out hair and crisp business suit putting my comfy travel wear and puffy eyes to shame.
“Sorry, Leandra. Did you say you’re from Audi? The car company, Audi?”
“Yeah.” She lets out a breezy laugh. “I guess someone must have dropped the ball on this one. We reached out to your agent. Let me show you to your vehicle.”
A quick call to Cynthia confirms the matter. Audi is loaning me a sports car for the duration of my stay. All I have to do is Instagram it. My stomach flips at the thought of it. I explain to Cynthia that while I theoretically have an Instagram account, I have never actually posted anything and have absolutely no followers. At which stage Cynthia informs me that I now have a new verified Instagram account set up in my name to get posting on.
Leandra keeps the conversation easy and light as she leads me out of LAX into the daylight. A shiver of excitement jolts the sadness out of me as the sun hits my bare arms again, warming my air-con-chilled skin. Gone is the airport smell of chlorine; in its place recently cut grass carries on the Los Angeles breeze. Fresh beginnings.