Chapter Thirty-Two
Miranda
Miranda has been driving her hire car rather aimlessly so far this morning, turning left or right at junctions as the mood takes her, but she seems to be nearing a town called Poros now. Already breakfast feels like ages ago, and she could do with stretching her legs, so she finds a spot to park. The heat wraps around her as soon as she steps out of the car, and as she wanders down to the waterfront she’s grateful for the breeze that comes stroking in from the sea. The water is a perfect light blue– the exact shade of her favourite scarf back home– and there are a few people swimming beyond the waves, while others sunbathe on the beach. It’s a picturesque spot, with a lush green mountain behind the bay and a briny tang coming from the sea. No doubt it’s far busier here in the summer months but today, mid-September, there’s a calm, unhurried atmosphere about the place, and her walking pace slows in response.
She passes a beachside taverna with cushioned wicker armchairs and lanterns strung between poles, and it looks so inviting that she stops on impulse, takes a seat and orders herself a gyros and a Diet Coke. Evelyn would love this, she thinks, taking a photo of the view and sending it to her. Poros is nice! she writes. Hope you’re feeling a bit better. Then she checks to see if her gramps has replied to her text, following his previous intriguing comment. Nope. Hopefully later.
‘Oh my God, what are you going to do ?’ Bonnie had said, that fateful day when Miranda finally poured her heart out about the Felix situation. They’d been in her dressing room as usual, the site of most of their chats when they weren’t needed on set. Miranda’s dressing room was one of the larger ones, much coveted by other cast members for its size and comfortable sofa, on which Bonnie had become such a fixture that they had their own regular ends where they preferred to sit. This was where they’d been when Miranda had been dumped by Maxim over text (‘Inever thought he was good enough for you, Mims,’ Bonnie had consoled her, busting out an emergency bottle of tequila); this was where they’d sat for numerous rounds of Shag, Marry, Kill featuring cast and crew members; this was where they’d read each other’s horoscopes, tried face packs, eaten numerous Marks SOUIG S. She reads it in surprise, then smiles to herself. Oh dear. That must be Evelyn sitting on the phone or something, she assumes.
Okay I’ll see if Ican pick one of those up for you ,
she replies, adding a winking emoji to show that she’s joking.
But then comes another response, similarly cryptic –
Qlk23 ta76– and Miranda’s smile fades, replaced by a frown. Evelyn is all right, isn’t she? This isn’t some weird cry for help, is it?
She dials her number, and hears it ring once, twice, expecting to hear Evelyn’s girlish laugh, an apology– she can’t find her glasses, maybe, or she just dropped the phone. Or—
The phone is answered and Miranda can hear breathing, but nothing you’d call an ordinary response. ‘Evelyn?’ she says after a moment, her frown deepening. ‘Are you all right?’
There’s a faint sound– a crackle on the line maybe, or perhaps a croak, as if the older woman is trying to speak.
‘Evelyn?’ Miranda repeats but there’s just that croak again, the rasp of a dry throat. Miranda’s heart starts to pound. Something’s wrong, she’s sure of it. She knows it. ‘Okay, I’m going to hang up and call the hotel reception,’ she says, thinking rapidly. ‘All right? I’ll get someone to come and check on you, make sure you’re okay. Are you in your room?’ she asks, before remembering that Evelyn doesn’t seem able to respond. ‘I’ll send them to your room,’ she says, feeling increasingly desperate. ‘Hang on, Evelyn, okay? You just hang on in there– and help will come, Ipromise.’