I found time to follow this dude’s blog. He was a former boxer, like you, but he was also a Mr. Know-it-All, and he ran an awesome boxing-slash-survival-slash-life hacks-slash-lonely hearts website.”
There was a pause. “The lonely hearts part wasn’t intentional,” he said. “Everyone kept asking all kinds of personal questions, even though it was supposed to be just life hacks.”
“Oh, you know the blog, too?”
“I do,” said Julian. “It’s mine.”
“No, the guy was an actual boxer, plus he also knew a ton of survival stuff. Not that I needed it, but it was so much fun to read.”
“I’m that guy.”
There was a second or two of processing silence. “Shut up—you’re not Julian Cruz!”
“Um . . .”
Her smile, wide before, became Hawaii-wide. She stuck out her hand. “Well, well, Mr. Julian Cruz, we meet at last. I’m Mia. Actually, Mirabelle, but most of my friends call me Mia. But you can call me Mirabelle or Mia, or whatever you want.”
Her soft slender hand remained in his. Julian let go first. That didn’t happen. The girl was usually the one to pull away.
“What’s your stage name?” he said. “I’ll look you up on IMDb.”
“You’re going to look me up, are you?” Irrepressibly grinning.
Now he was at a loss for words.
“I’m kidding. It’s Mirabelle McKenzie.”
“That’s a good name.”
“I like it. For a while I wanted to change it to Josephine Collins. I saw it written out in an old diary and liked the ring of it, and how it looked on the page. It sounded so historical and posh, like British aristocracy, Josephine Collins, a Shakespearean star of film and stage! But my mother said she would kill me.”
“Mirabelle McKenzie is better.”
“I told my mom if she kept making me mad I’d change it to Mystique McKenzie. Moms was not amused. She doesn’t even know who Mystique is.”
“Do you?”
“Oh, yeah, baby.” She clicked her tongue. “I know everything. I’m like Miss Know-it-All. You said the morning bun?” It was her turn at the counter. “What else?”
“The sausage rolls are good. Australians run this place. They know their coffee and sausage rolls.”
“So you come here a lot?”
“Yes, semi-regularly.”
“Like around lunchtime?”
“Uh, no, different times. Depending on the day.”
She ordered, paid, and barely waited for him to order his own coffee before resuming. “I have an audition coming up for a London play,” she said. As if London and Australia were interchangeable. “The director is flying in all the way from London, casting for a revival of Medea at the Riverside Theatre. It’s right on the banks of the Thames. My life’s dream is to live in London and be on stage there, ideally at the Palace Theatre, which is my favorite. Have you heard of it—the play, I mean? Medea, the woman who kills her children to avenge her betrayal. Dress up murder in handsome words, why don’t you.”
“Well, kids can be such a handful,” Julian said dryly. “I hope you get the part. London sounds fun. Though I hear the weather’s not great. Five months of drizzle followed by a day of sun.”
She laughed. “Clearly you’ve been to London.”
“No. Always wanted to go, though.”
“Me, too. Did you know that if you laid all the streets of London end to end, they would reach from New York to L.A.?”
“Yeah, but who’d want to?”
“Well, there’s that. I really hope I get the part. It’d be like a year commitment, though.” She blinked at him, as if inviting him to follow up with . . .
“But what an opportunity,” he said. “And you’ll get used to the rain.”
“How do you know?”
“Because people can get used to anything,” he said.
They waited for their food and drinks in the mobbed place. She got hers first, but wouldn’t leave, kept talking to him.
“Well, best of luck to you,” Julian said, when he got his coffee. “Break a leg.”
She was chewing her lip, her eyes darting up and down.
He turned to walk out.
“Jules, wait!”
37
Paradiso and Purgatorio
THEY HURRIED DOWN THE STREET.
“I hope it’s not a terrible inconvenience,” she said. “I know the Greek Theatre is out of the way.”
“It’s not a problem. Don’t worry about it. I’m right here.” Julian pointed to his black Mercedes AMG two-seater with its top down, parked just around the corner on Larchmont.
“Oh, swerve! Look at your car,” she said, impressed. He held the door open for her, closed it behind her, walked around. “Must be smoking fast out in the desert.”
“It’s smoking fast everywhere,” Julian said, “and the City of Beverly Hills never lets me forget