I shake my head like a starstruck kid talking to Big Bird for the first time.

“That’s right. I was. So I cooked for myself.”

“That...that’s a good idea,” I say. My throat is dry and embarrassingly tight, like I might start to cry right here in front of Camilla Vargas. This time when I look at Amy she doesn’t turn away, and neither do I. All of these people are saying the things Amy would say, the things she has said, when what I really want is to hear it directly from her. But I’m the fool who told her to leave me alone.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Amy

“Have you seen Sophie?” a PA asks. I think her name is Tamara. She looks like she should have stopped drinking coffee three ventis ago. She takes a long swig out of a paper cup then crumples it like a frat bro crushes beer cans. “That chef?” she clarifies.

“Yay high?” I hold my hand to just below my chin. Great tits? Hates my guts? “No, I haven’t seen her. Are you...?” I look around. The kitchen is empty but the dining room is a mess of people preparing to film. “Is she missing?”

“We need to go over some of the shots. She needs to start the prep. Camilla is nice but she does not like to be kept waiting.” The PA speaks as if from personal experience.

“Okay.” I hold my hands out. “I’ll find her. Why don’t you have some water or something.”

She looks at me, confused. “I’m not thirsty.” She stalks away and I go in the opposite direction, checking the office, the staff room. Both are empty. We’ll have a few staff come in later. Friends and family are encouraged to come in and sit as “diners” and a few servers will bring them food and drinks from a set menu that Sophie has already prepared and that Jameela will cook, to make the restaurant look busy and give the impression that we’re filming during regular service. She’s not out back hiding in her truck and when I text her a short where are you? she doesn’t respond.

Things are starting to get louder out front. I ignore the twisting in my gut, the fear that she’s bailed, that she’s given up. The fear that she’s done exactly what I told her to do: she’s gone to find Paul and tell him she wants that job. I go back out to the kitchen, hoping that she’ll be there as I push the door open, chopping or seasoning or washing something. That she’ll be her old self, a little snarly, a kitchen goddess; that the grill will already be hot and she’ll already have some kind of protein defrosting on the counter.

Oh.

Oh.

“I know where she is,” I say to no one.

The door makes that suction release sound, sticking a bit as I open it. At first glance the freezer is empty but as I step deeper inside, I hear her. A soft sniffle. She leans against a rack of shelves at the back, her cheeks and nose absurdly red. Her arms are wrapped around her chest, her shoulders up by her ears. It could be from the cold or the nerves or both.