“To be perfectly honest—” Mitchell winced. “He seems very British, doesn’t he?”
“When he slated, maybe,” said Julia, bewildered. “His American accent during the scenes was perfect.”
“Maybe. But he’s not well-known to American audiences.” Shaking his head and frowning, Mitchell rose and began gathering up the headshots and résumés. “Let me think about it over the weekend and I’ll get back to you.”
There wasn’t really anything Julia and Ellen could do but accept that he needed more time, so they agreed to call it a day. While Ellen and Mitchell went off to their offices, Julia headed out to the parking lot. She had just unlocked her car door and was tossing her tote on the front passenger seat when she saw Nigel at the bus stop halfway down the block, leaning against the back of a bench, reading.
She hesitated for a moment before approaching him. “Hello,” shegreeted him from a few paces away, raising her hand in a little wave that felt so artificial and ridiculous that she was glad his gaze remained fixed on his book. “Nigel Crawford, right?”
At that, he glanced up and smiled. “Yes. And you are Miss Julia Merchaud.”
“That’s right.” She inclined her head toward the bus shelter. “Where are you headed? If it’s on my way, I’d be happy to take you.”
“That’s very kind, but I couldn’t possibly impose.”
“It wouldn’t be an imposition. With you along, I can use the diamond lanes and get home faster.” When his brow furrowed slightly, she added. “Carpool lanes. High-occupancy-vehicle lanes. They’re marked with a diamond.”
“Really. I hadn’t noticed.” He closed his book and straightened. “Too busy admiring the scenery, I suppose.”
She glanced up and down the street, all asphalt, adobe, red tile or shaker roofs, and plastic signage, and fixed him with a skeptical look. “This is hardly one of California’s most scenic regions.”
“Not to one such as yourself, perhaps, accustomed as you surely are to palm trees and sunny skies.”
She took another look around, smelled flowers over the car exhaust, glimpsed snow on the Santa Monica peaks in the distance, and decided he made a fair point. “Where are you headed?” she asked again.
His apartment—a rather grim place suitable as a temporary residence only, he told her—turned out to be not far out of her way, so she led him back to her car, quickly grabbing her tote and tossing it into the back seat before he climbed in. They set out for Beverly Hills, but before they reached the 405, they both admitted that they were famished. Julia offered to take him out to dinner at an iconic restaurant on the beach that no overseas visitor seeking a quintessential Southern California experience should miss. When he accepted, she continued on to the PCH instead of turning north.
By the time the hostess was seating them at a table on the long,narrow deck at Moonshadows, they were friends; over drinks and starters, they became confidantes. Julia learned that Nigel had succeeded beyond his wildest expectations in British television and film and on the stage, but, craving new artistic experiences, he had made the jump to Hollywood. His agent had soon found him a modest part in a casino heist picture that had shot on location in Las Vegas, quickly followed by a drama about a corrupt narcotics cop filmed in Los Angeles, but then he had hit a dry spell. He had contemplated returning to Britain when his agent had put him up for the part inA Patchwork Life.“I couldn’t bear to leave America without doing a single Western,” he remarked, sipping his white wine. “This might be my last chance.”
She felt a brief pang of disappointment when he explained that he had a longtime partner, Alistair, a gorgeous, brilliant, brooding brunet with doctorates in archaeology and art history. Alistair had encouraged Nigel to audition forPatchwork, but left unspoken were misgivings about how long this new role might prolong their separation.
“He would never say so, but I think he’d be relieved if I didn’t get the part but returned home instead,” Nigel said ruefully as the server set their entrées before them.
“At least you have someone at home who misses you,” Julia said. “I haven’t known that feeling since my husband died.”
“I’m so sorry.” Nigel’s brow furrowed in concern, and his eyes were kind. “How long has it been?”
“Sometimes it feels like yesterday,” she admitted. She told him how she and Charles had met when she had been cast as the voice-over narrator for one of his documentaries, how they had fallen in love over a shared passion for film and art, and how she had lost him suddenly to a heart attack after nearly twenty-nine years of marriage. Her work had sustained her through the aftermath of his death, but it could carry her only so far. Longing to replace what she had lost, she had married again. “Twice remarried, and twice divorced,” saidJulia, with a self-deprecating frown. “Impetuous and foolish decisions I deeply regret, although at the time, both times, I thought I was in love. But I’m older and wiser now. Never again.”
“Never?” Nigel echoed, eyebrows rising. “Are you so certain?”
“I have my work and my friends. I’m content. Someone truly extraordinary would have to come along for me to risk my heart again.”
“Well, as long as you’re happy.” Nigel raised his glass. “To rewarding work, excellent friends, and a heart open to possibilities.”
She hesitated a moment before she lifted her glass and clinked it against his.
Later, when she dropped him off at his apartment, she called to him through the open window, “When you get the role, Alistair should join you here in LA. We have excellent museums and universities. I’m sure he’ll have his choice of opportunities.”
“I’ll tell him you said so,” Nigel replied, raising a hand in parting.
On Monday morning, Julia met Ellen and Mitchell at the studio to decide whom to cast as Ben Atherton. Julia and Ellen wanted Nigel, but while Mitchell conceded that Nigel was very good, he wouldn’t concur, and he wouldn’t explain why.
“Should we review the videos again?” Julia asked, barely keeping her exasperation in check after fifteen minutes of Mitchell’s dithering. “Let’s run their clips back to back, Nigel Crawford and your favorite. You can even pick two favorites. I won’t complain.”
“Not possible,” said Mitchell. “The actor I want to cast didn’t audition. He doesn’t need to. Stars of his caliber never do.”
“Really?” Ellen threw Julia a dubious look. “Who did you have in mind?”
