The disappearing act A novel

Catherine Steadman

Large print - 2021

"A British actress discovers the dark side of Hollywood when she is the only witness to the sudden disappearance of a woman she meets at an audition. Once a year, actors from across the globe descend on the smog and sunshine of Los Angeles for pilot season. Every cable network and studio looking to fill the rosters of their new shows enticing a fresh batch of young hopefuls, anxious, desperate and willing to do whatever it takes to make it. Careers will be made, dreams will be realized, stars will be born. And some will be snuffed out. British star Mia Eliot has landed leading roles in costume dramas in her native country, but now it's time for Hollywood to take her to the next level. Mia flies across the Atlantic to join the hoar...d of talent scrambling for their big breaks. She's a fish out of water in the ruthlessly competitive and faceless world of back-to-back auditioning. Then one day she meets Emily, another actress from out of town and a kindred spirit. Emily is friendly and genuine and reassuringly doesn't seem to be taking any of it too seriously. She stands out in a conveyor-belt world of fellow auditionees. But a simple favor turns dark when Emily disappears and Mia realizes she was the last person to see her, and the woman who knocks on Mia's door the following day claiming to be her new friend isn't the woman Mia remembers at all. All Mia has to go on is the memory of a girl she met only once . . . and the suffocating feeling that something terrible has happened. Worse still, the police don't believe her when she claims the real Emily has gone missing. So Mia is forced to risk the role of a lifetime to try to uncover the truth about Emily, a gamble that will force her to question her own sanity as the truth goes beyond anything she could ever have imagined. Actress and author Catherine Steadman has written a gripping thriller set in a world close to home that asks the question: In a city where dreams really do come true, how far would you go to make the unreal real?"--

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Subjects
Genres
Psychological fiction
Thrillers (Fiction)
Novels
Published
New York : Random House Large Print 2021
Language
English
Main Author
Catherine Steadman (author)
Edition
First large print edition
Physical Description
404 pages (large print) ; 24 cm
ISBN
9780593295113
Contents unavailable.
Review by Booklist Review

Ethel Barrymore described Hollywood as "a glaring, gaudy, nightmarish set erected in the desert." That hasn't changed much, as we see in this engrossing thriller set during pilot season in Los Angeles. Cable networks and film studios are auditioning fresh faces to bring their new shows to life. British star Mia Eliot, fresh off a real-life stalker experience, a breakup, and--the good news--a BAFTA nomination for her portrayal of Jane Eyre, needs a change of scene, and seizes the opportunity to reach a new audience. She meets Emily, another actor, at an audition, and they immediately become friends. After Emily vanishes, a woman shows up at Mia's door claiming to be Emily. She is not the same woman; Mia is sure of it. But the police don't believe her. Mia puts an unbelievably good audition in jeopardy and her own safety on the line to find out what's going on. Steadman, both an author (Mr. Nobody, 2020) and an actress (she played Mabel Lane Fox in Downton Abbey), deftly brings her talent for characterization to her writing, combining an engaging mystery with a meaty look at the question of what is real in a land of make-believe. This glittering narrative with a totally beguiling protagonist makes for an absolutely perfect beach read.

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

The day that London actor Mia Eliot, the narrator of this entertaining psychological thriller from Thriller Award finalist Steadman (Mr. Nobody), learns she's on the shortlist for the prestigious BAFTA award, she also discovers her live-in actor boyfriend has accepted a role in a major film and is leaving her for his nubile young costar. Mia's agent quickly arranges a trip for her to Los Angeles to "drum up some studio interest." In an audition waiting room in L.A., Mia hits it off with the woman sitting next to her, Emily Bryant. When Emily asks Mia to feed her parking meter so she doesn't miss her turn, Mia agrees. Mia returns to the room to find Emily gone. The sordid tale of murder and blackmail that follows builds to a climactic battle atop the iconic Hollywood sign. The authentic movie business details and nicely developed characters more than compensate for some confused plotting and Mia's at times breathtakingly naive behavior. This tale of Hollywood glamour, cruelty, and myth is sure to win Steadman new fans. Agent: Camilla Bolton, Darley Anderson Literary, TV and Film Agency (U.K.). (June)

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Library Journal Review

Steadman follows Mr. Nobody with an entertaining, twisty tale of suspense and murder in Hollywood. British actress Mia Eliot is fresh from a star turn in a film adaptation of Jane Eyre and a BAFTA award nomination. Mia's agent encourages her to take advantage of this success by going to Los Angeles during pilot season to audition for as many roles as possible. Mia is glad for a change of scenery, as her longtime love has just abruptly left her for his much younger co-star. On arriving in LA, Mia goes to an audition where she meets an American actress named Emily. While they wait to audition, Mia gives Emily a hand by dashing out to feed her parking meter; she returns, still holding Emily's wallet and keys, to find that Emily has vanished. Mia begins a search for Emily, with a number of shocking turns. Steadman narrates the tale herself and is extremely convincing. Mia can be naïve, but Steadman sells it by emphasizing the actress's sorrow over her breakup. The narration is so good that it'll carry listeners through the book's rising tide of confusion, fear, and surprise. VERDICT Recommended for all collections where suspense is popular.--B. Allison Gray, Goleta Valley Lib., CA

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Review by Kirkus Book Review

An up-and-coming actress risks her career to find a missing woman, discovering the dark side of Hollywood's glamour along the way. Coming off a big film role and an unexpected breakup, British actress Mia Eliot heads to Los Angeles for pilot season and a string of big-name auditions. While she's waiting for her second reading, she starts chatting with Emily, a fellow actress who's up for the same part. When Emily is called in to audition, she's worried that her parking meter is about to expire, and Mia offers to run outside and feed the meter for her. When Mia gets back, however, Emily is gone--leaving her keys and wallet behind. Mia's desire to see the items safely returned sets off a hunt for the missing woman, taking Mia's focus away from work at a critical time in her career. Despite an engaging central mystery--what happened to Emily?--the rest of the novel doesn't hold up. Mia has a frustrating lack of complexity; all her auditions become opportunities, and she's inexplicably naïve. Supposedly an experienced actress, she reads like someone plucked from the street and dropped into Hollywood's orbit, and her constant surprise at the excessive luxury heaped upon her is grating. Her involvement with Emily--a woman she met once, for a few minutes--makes little sense, and the reveal at the end only makes it more implausible. The novel's consideration of Hollywood's dangers isn't unusual enough to be interesting, and the consideration of the gender dynamics of power is too clichéd to be thought-provoking. The Hollywood ground covered by this book is already well trodden. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

The Good with the Bad Friday, February 5 Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you just can't disappear. There's nothing you can do to melt back into the crowd around you no matter how hard you wish you could. The tube carriage rattles and jolts around us as we clatter along the tracks deep beneath the streets of London. And I feel it again, the familiar tug of the stranger's eyes on me, staring. I've been in their house. Or at least they think I have, but I don't know them. We're friends already, or we're enemies, but I don't know which. I'm part of some story they love or hate. I'm part of the story of who they are. They've rooted for me, cried with me, we've shared so much, and now I am right here in front of them. Of course they're going to stare. I'm the unreal made real. On the fringes of my awareness I feel the figure finally break the connection and whisper to the person beside them. I try to focus on my novel, to let my breath deepen and the story wash over me once more. All those gazes, like robins alighting on me and fluttering away, wary but interested. I know people always stare at one another on the tube. But these days it's different. The carriage rattles on shuddering around us. Since the show started airing, four weeks ago, I'm lucky to get through any journey without some kind of interaction from strangers. A shy smile. A tap on the shoulder. A selfie. A handshake. A late-­night drunken gush. Or a hastily scrawled note. And sometimes even, quite confusingly, a scowl. I don't mean to sound ungrateful; I love my job. I genuinely can't believe how lucky I am. But sometimes it feels like I'm at the wedding of a couple I don't really know. My face aching from meeting so many well-­meaning and complicated strangers, while the whole time all I want to do is bob to the bathroom so I can get away and finally relax. I don't feel threatened by attention, exactly, I know I'm safe. Although, of course, it's not always safe. I learned that the hard way, a month ago, when the police showed up in my living room after countless calls and emails, finally taking notice when my agent stepped in. He'd been waiting outside the theater, every night. Not particularly strange or concerning. Just an ordinary man. I'd leave the stage door tired from work. I'd gone straight from filming on Eyre into A Doll's House in the West End. At first he just wanted a signed program, and then a chat, and then longer chats that got harder to leave until finally he was following me to the tube station still talking. I had to start leaving with friends. I had to be chaperoned. One day he couldn't stop crying, this stranger in his fifties. He just walked behind me and my friend, silent tears dripping down his slack face. His name was Shaun. I'd tried to sort it out with the police myself but it wasn't until my agent received a package that they took it seriously. He was just a stalker. Not even a stalker really, just a lonely man trying to make friends. I told the police that, of course, but they insisted on following it up, issuing an official warning. I think his wife had died recently. They wouldn't tell me what was in the package he sent. I jokingly asked if it was a head, and they all laughed, so I guess it can't have been a head. I felt guilty about what happened; the friendlier I had been, the worse it had gotten and the more I strengthened his perceived connection to me. I hope he's doing better now. I wish they'd just told me what was in the package straightaway, though; instead I spent a week imagining the absolute worst. Weird photos. Skin. Teeth. Something his wife had owned. It was just a stuffed toy in the end and a slightly unsettling poem. But it's hard not to think the worst when you're trying not to think the worst. I know not everyone is strange. But some people are. At the next stop as I gather my things and disembark, a few eyes follow but when I surface at Green Park and the cold February air hits me, cooling my flaming cheeks, I chalk today's trip up as a success. No incidents this time, no drunken football chants demanding I "Say it! Say it!" Who knew Jane Eyre had a catchphrase? Who knew Arsenal supporters read Brontë? And yes, in case you're wondering--­much to my shame--­reader, I said it. "You're late," my agent, Cynthia, smirks as I plonk down into the restaurant seat opposite her. "Sorry. Tube," I counter. She's already ordered us two glasses of champagne. I eye the chilled bubbles in front of me greedily. "Are we celebrating, again?" I half joke as I shrug off my coat, but her silence makes me raise my gaze. "You could say that. Yes," she says, grinning before pointedly sipping from her champagne flute. "I got a call this morning," she purrs, placing her glass down calmly. "From Louise Northfield at BAFTA. A heads-­up if you will . . . Louise and I went to St. Andrews together; we tend to keep each other posted--­she loves you by the way. So the word on the street is . . . though they're not announcing the nominees until a month before the ceremony, which is in May, but . . ." She pauses for effect. "You're on the BAFTA list. Nominees. For Eyre. Best actress." For a moment her words don't make sense to me. Then they slowly shuffle into meaning. I feel the blood drain from my face, then my hands, and in its place a rush of serotonin floods in, the like of which I have never felt before, crashing through me. "Holy shit." I hear the sounds come from me, distant, as I fumble with a shaky hand for my champagne and gulp down a cool, crisp mouthful. The light-­headedness only intensifies. Seven years I've worked for this. This is it. This is what I wanted. "Jesus Christ," I mutter. "That's what I said." Cynthia chuckles, grinning from ear to ear. "Now here's the really good bit. All the other nominees are over fifty, and they've all won before." I sober quickly, brought up short. "Wait. Is that good?" "Yeah, it is," she says with a laugh. "People love discovering actors, even if they've been knocking around for years. Plus, you've got great credits, pedigree, even though this is your first major leading role. You're academy catnip. A safe bet that seems like a wild card. And everyone will be rooting for you, nobody needs to see one of the 'Ladies in Lavender' win another bloody award." I let out a nervous laugh and take another swig of my drink. Seven years of auditioning has taught me never to get my hopes up but right now I can't help it; my happiness bubbles up, irrepressible. Cynthia catches the waiter's eye. "Could we get a selection of everything? Just, whatever the chef thinks," she says airily, as if that's a thing that people actually say in restaurants. "Nothing too big, just a light lunch." She looks to me questioningly. "Is that okay, hon?" The waiter's gaze follows suit. Both deferring to BAFTA-nominated me. "Okay, sure, yes, that sounds great," I reply and the waiter heads off with total confidence in what I'd personally consider to be a very confusing order. Cynthia leans forward on the table businesslike. "This is all going to be new for you, and to a certain extent it's new ground for me too. I mean, Charlie Redman won best actor in, what, 2015? But it's different with men, they just show up in a suit. Best actress is trickier. I'll be fielding calls about you as soon as the press release lands in April. So here's my thinking. We've got two months to kill in the meantime. I don't want you tied up filming, I need you free for bigger meetings with this on the horizon. We're going to ride the crest of this. So how do you feel about a little work trip to LA so we can drum up some studio interest? Nom's still unofficial but we can certainly drop some hints." She clocks my expression and changes tack. "Sorry, I'm firing a lot at you, aren't I? It's a lot to take in. Here." She raises her champagne flute and clinks mine. "One thing at a time. Congratulations, Mia, you clever, clever thing." Cynthia has been my agent, advocate, and therapist since I graduated. We've weathered some soaring highs and soul-­destroying lows together over the years. In some ways we're unbelievably close and in others we're almost strangers. It's an odd relationship, but then it's an odd industry. Her energy suddenly changes. "Oh, and I heard about George by the way," she says, her eyes searching mine, alive with curiosity. "That's so exciting for him! He must be over the moon." I feel the smile slip from my face. I literally have no idea what she's talking about. George? My George? Excerpted from The Disappearing Act: A Novel by Catherine Steadman All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.