I didn't say anything.
Ariana said, "Would you do something for me?"
I looked at her warily. "Possibly. What?"
"Don't pursue it, Kylie, please. It's better for both of us if you forget the whole thing."
I gazed at her for a long moment. "I didn't Google her name. I didn't do anything to find out who she was."
"Thank you for that."
"But I'd be lying if I said I'd forget. Obviously whoever Natalie is, she's important to you. That makes her important to me."
I was jolted to see tears in Ariana's eyes. She blinked rapidly, then took a breath. Whatever she might have been about to say was lost when Melodie bounced into the kitchen, having arrived at work astonishingly early by her standards.
"Quip's written a play!" she announced. "It's going to be staged in a little theater on La Cienega Boulevard. That's just the beginning. Quip's thinking off-Broadway." She paused, smiling, to let us absorb this, then added, "Fran's coming in before work with audition scripts so I can go over them before tonight!"
Melodie fanned her blond hair fetchingly in a head toss she'd got down to a fine art. "The stage is real acting," she declared. "You and the audience magically bond in a profound dramatic relationship. Live theater challenges an actor to dig deep, to reveal the hidden depths of her craft."
"Good morning, Melodie," I said.
"Oh, hi, Kylie. Hi, Ariana. Isn't it great news?"
"Very exciting," said Ariana, picking up her mug from the counter. She turned at the doorway to say, "Kylie, when you get back from your first day at UCLA I'd like to hear how it went."
"Right-oh," I said, offhand.
I wanted to follow her to her office. I wanted to say, "Tell me, Ariana. Tell me what it is that makes you cry." I wanted to, but I wouldn't because pushing her that way could destroy the tentative relationship that was growing up between us.
"You're going undercover today?" Melodie clasped her hands as if in prayer. "College types are real smart, Kylie."
"You mean they'll see through me?"
Melodie considered this for a moment. "You're not born to act, like me. Larry, my agent, says it's in the blood."
"Acting is genetic?"
"Well, there's natural talent, of course. Fortunately I have that in spades. But it's not enough. Talent has to be honed, techniques perfected. Dance classes, speech classes, movement classes…" She shook her head." 'Fraid you're behind the eight ball, Kylie, before you even start."
"Hardly seems worthwhile to even try," I said, shaking my head in turn.
Melodie patted my arm consolingly. "It's real lucky you're an Aussie," she said. "Like, you're foreign, and you talk funny."
"That's exactly what Snap-on Ashlee said to me last night."
"Ashlee was at the Bloodblot premiere?" Melodie seemed seriously irked.
"She was. Accosted Chantelle and me on the red carpet."
A scowl darkened Melodie's face. "Ashlee swore to me she couldn't get passes. She lied. And she knew how much I wanted to go."
Wondering how Ashlee would have access to these prized tickets to premieres, I asked where she worked.
"She's a receptionist at Crucial Casting, Incorporated," said Melodie moodily. "Ashlee knows I'm a major fan of Sigfried Smithey's. She could have helped a sister receptionist out-but no!" Melodie sagged against the kitchen counter. "Why? I ask myself, why?"
"Bad apple," I said, adding with a grin, "Probably rotten to the core."
"Damn," Melodie said, suddenly invigorated. "I'd do anything to stop her hearing about the auditions for Quip's play." She stamped her foot in vexation. "It's too late to put a gag order out."
"The receptionist network can censor information?"
Melodie tsk-tsked. "It's not censorship. That would be un-American. It's more a selective hush-up."
"What does it matter if Ashlee hears about the auditions anyway?" I inquired.
"She thinks she can act," said Melodie with deep derision. "Act! Even you'd be better than Ashlee."
"Thank you, Melodie."
Melodie ignored my sarcastic tone. "It may not be too late after all," she said thoughtfully. "A careless-with-the-truth strategy might still work."
"Receptionists lie?"
"Oh, please," said Melodie. "It's a basic requirement. You don't think it's always a good morning or a good afternoon, do you? And when we say someone's in a meeting, do you really believe that's always true?"
While I was digesting this, Melodie caught sight of Jules, who was washing her whiskers. Fastidious things, cats. Melodie put both her hands to her head in a dramatic gesture. "I feel a psychic moment coming on."
Jules halted the whisker cleaning to look at her with a quizzical expression. "Julia Roberts!" Melodie exclaimed. "I sense Lonnie's door is open. Why don't you mosey down the hall and make yourself comfortable in his chair? He'll really appreciate it." "You opened Lonnie's door?" Melodie smiled meltingly.
"Could you doubt it?"
"You're dinky-di evil," I said.
I'd sussed out exactly where the biology department was on my first visit to UCLA, so I didn't have to wander around looking lost but could make a beeline straight to the building. The interior was what I mentally labeled "institution decor." The long corridors were lined with anonymous doors, each with a glass panel of frosted glass. The flooring was that grayish composite stuff everyone knows has been selected because it doesn't show the dirt that much and is easy to clean.
Every now and then there was a notice board on the wall. I stopped at one to read instructions for actions to take in the event of a major earthquake. Thoroughly unsettled by this information, I made for Dr. Rubin Wasinsky's office.
I don't mind admitting my nerves were snapping like old rubber bands, but Rube smoothed the way. He introduced me to the people in the biology department as someone fresh off the plane from Western Australia and quite jet-lagged. This gave me a reasonable excuse if I made some awful slipup, such as making a total hash of a biological term, or giving some marsupial the wrong Latin name.
Actually, I was aiming to steer clear of scientific names as much as possible, as my Latin was pretty well limited to nil desperandum, tempus fugit, caveat emptor, and carpe diem. Although I could imagine there might be opportunities to casually comment on not despairing, the tendency of time to fly, the warning for buyers to beware, and the philosophy of seizing the day, I sensed that occasion was not now.
Yesterday, Rube had given me a rundown on who was who in the department, so my main role today was to try to fit names to faces. One person with whom Rube said it was vital I cultivate a working relationship was administrative assistant, Georgia Tapp. She was a plump, motherly woman with faded brown hair, a cloyingly sweet expression, and dimples to rival Lonnie's. Then I met Zoran Pestle, thin and intense, a colleague of Rube's who was on the committee running the symposium.
"And this is Erin Fogarty," said Rube. "Erin, meet Kylie Kendall, visiting doctoral student from Australia."
"G'day," I said, regarding her with interest. This was the graduate assistant who had upped and shot through on Oscar Braithwaite, only to turn up later here at UCLA, working with Jack Yarrow.
Erin Fogarty was a gangling young woman with a weak chin and high color. Her best feature seemed to be her short, curly hair, which shone with copper highlights.
"Hi," she said, eyeing me narrowly. "Will you be working with Professor Yarrow?"
"Kylie is here for ten weeks to work on a research paper with me," said Rube.
"Great," Erin said, visibly perking up. It was clear she wanted no competition as far as Professor Yarrow was concerned.
I'd assumed Erin would be an Aussie, since she'd been working out in the field with Oscar in Western Australia, but obviously I was wrong, as this sheila had a twangy American accent.
Rube resumed the introductions to the members of the faculty, with me trotting along compliantly the way I thought a jet-lagged overseas student would. Professor Yarrow himself I glimpsed from afar, rushing along as though on very important business.