by Alice Feeney
“How well do you know Alicia?”
“Not so well.” Jack laughs. “But I don’t think she’s been taking secret pictures of us on her iPhone and selling them to the press, if that’s what you mean.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that.” I think, however, I might have been. I try to think about it logically. “It was a closed set, only a member of the crew could have taken a photo of our sex scene. I suppose there are lots of people who could have taken a photo of us in the bar last night, but the picture in my dressing room?”
“Jennifer Jones was waiting in your dressing room for you on the morning you did the interview.”
“So?”
“So, she must have planted a small camera before you arrived.”
“Really? That sounds highly unlikely. She’s a showbiz journalist, not James Bond. Is that even legal?”
“I think you’ll find people will do almost anything for a story nowadays, regardless of whether it is ethical or true.”
We head downstairs, and I pause in the kitchen to drink some water. Going into town to see my agent with a hangover is not ideal, but I’m keen to get this, whatever it is, over. I catch sight of the bin in the corner of the room and remember what is inside it: the empty bottles of lighter gel that the police think I bought. I feel sick all over again.
“I’m just going to put the rubbish out, I think it’s starting to smell.”
Jack comes towards me. “I can do that for you—”
“No, really I’m fine. Why don’t you wait in the lounge, it will only take a minute.”
Jack is staring at something in his hand when I come back inside a short time later.
“Who’s this scary-looking chap?” He holds up the framed black-and-white photo of my husband as a child.
“Ben when he was a boy. It’s the only photo I could find of him.”
“Strange.”
“I know. I looked everywhere, there used to be lots—”
“No, I meant strange as in it looks nothing like him.”
I had forgotten that Jack and my husband met at a party a few months ago. Ben invited himself along in a fit of jealousy and paranoia, and I was furious. I found it flattering when we first got together, the way he wanted me all to himself. But as time went on, the flattery faded into an afterglow of resentment. I’ve made a bad habit out of loving people who put me down, hoping they’ll pull me up. They never do. I just fall further, harder, faster.
I remember seeing Jack and Ben talking together in the corner at the party that night, as though they were thick as thieves, and finding it strange. The memory unsettles me, as though I preferred the two of them being separate entities in my life, the fact that they’ve met somehow contaminating my future with my past. A mental note scratches itself onto my subconscious; like a sharpened pencil it leaves a mark, but will be easy to erase.
Jack puts the creepy picture back down, follows me out of the lounge and into the hallway. I open the front door, not expecting to find someone standing on the other side about to ring the bell.
“Well, well. Fancy finding the two of you together this morning,” says Detective Croft with a wide smile. Wakely stands by her side, and I can see two large police vans parked on the street behind them.
“I might head off.” Jack looks almost disappointed, as though he was expecting there to be someone else outside. “I’ll see you later.” I frown, not sure why he is saying that, especially in front of the detective. “At the wrap party,” he explains, seeing the confusion on my face. I had forgotten that was tonight.
“The wrap party! How exciting, what a thrilling life you superstars lead. Can we come in?” Croft is already stepping towards the door.
I block her path. “No, I’m sorry. I’m on my way out.”
“It won’t take long. I wanted to update you about the stalker you mentioned.”
She has my attention now, but I still can’t be late to meet my agent, not today. “So, update me.” I keep the front door half-closed.
She smiles again. “All right. First, I just wanted to show you some more footage we’ve obtained. It’s from the day you reported Ben missing.” She takes out her trusty iPad and gives it a swipe. “Here is some CCTV footage of the bank, at the exact time your account was emptied and closed.”
I stare at the screen and see the back of a woman who looks just like me walk up to a counter. “I told you, she dresses like me—”
“She had your passport as a form of ID.”
I hesitate. “Well, then it must have been fake, I—”
“We checked the emails that you claimed were sent to you by someone calling themselves Maggie O’Neil. We traced the IP address and discovered that you had sent them to yourself. From your own laptop.”
I can’t speak at first. The suggestion is ludicrous, I haven’t been sending myself emails, why would I? “You’re mistaken,” I say, hearing my voice crack a little as I do.
“We traced the IP address. There’s no mistake.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Is your passport missing?”
I think for a moment, then remember that it wasn’t just Ben’s passport that had disappeared from the drawer where we keep them. “Yes, it is!”
She sighs. “Does anyone else have access to your home?”
“No. Wait. Yes, we used to have a cleaner.”
“Used to?”
“She returned her key, but she could have made a copy.”
“Why did you fire her?”
“I didn’t fire her … we just stopped using her.”
Because I’m a private person and didn’t like the idea of someone snooping around my home, touching my things.
Croft stares at me long enough for my cheeks to flush with color, but I’ve learned not to say more than I need to.
“Do you think your ex-cleaner is your stalker?”
It seems unlikely, but I still consider the possibility. Maria was a little older than me, but about the same height. She changed her hair color more often than most people change their sheets, but she had access to my clothes and my passport. I suppose we might look the same from the back. But it can’t be her, she always seemed so … nice.
“We also checked the search history on your laptop,” Croft continues without waiting for my conclusions. “Someone, presumably you, was looking up divorce lawyers … or do you think that might have been your former cleaner too? Perhaps she doesn’t have internet at home.”
That was me. But I didn’t call any of them. I was just upset. How dare Croft invade my privacy in this way. I let them take my laptop in good faith, and once again she’s using everything against me.
“Do you own a gun, Mrs. Sinclair?”
I don’t answer.
“According to our records, you do. Do you think that the amnesia your husband mentioned might have made you forget that too?”
No. I remember everything. I always have.
“It’s not a crime to own a legally registered gun.”
“That’s right, it’s not. Can I see it?”
I hold her stare. “If you had anything real on me, you would have arrested me by now.”
She smiles, takes a step closer. “You’re right, I would.”
“Have you even heard of innocent until proven guilty?”
“Yep, sure have. I’ve heard of God and Father Christmas too. I don’t believe in them either. We’d like to search the property again, if it’s convenient.” She looks over her shoulder at the two police vans. The side doors are open and I can see several officers inside each one.
“It isn’t convenient, and don’t you need a warrant to search my home?”
“Only if you refuse to give us permission.”
“Then I suggest you get one.”
Thirty-one
Essex, 1988
“I’ve got you some new tapes,” says Maggie, walking into my bedroom. She smells of hairspray and her number five perfume all at once. She’s wearing a yellow suit tod
ay, and for some reason the shoulders are padded to make them look bigger than they are. I’m pleased about the new tapes. I’ve listened to all the old ones over and over, and I know all the stories by heart.
“Now, these tapes are very special.” She slides one of them into my Fisher-Price cassette player and presses Play. A strange voice comes out of the machine.
“Today, children, we are going to learn about vowel sounds. Repeat after me: ‘How now brown cow.’”
Maggie hits the Pause button. “Well, go on then, do what she says.”
This story tape doesn’t sound fun at all. I open my mouth, but I’ve already forgotten what I am supposed to say. Maggie tuts. She hits another button, and when the sound of the tape rewinding stops, she presses Play again. I try hard to remember this time.
“Today, children, we are going to learn about vowel sounds. Repeat after me: ‘How now brown cow.’”
Maggie hits Pause and I repeat the words. “How now brown cow.” I think she will be pleased, but she isn’t.
“Not like that! You have to say it the way she says it. No more Irish, you need to start sounding more like her, like them. You need to fit in.”
“Why can’t I speak like you?”
“Because people judge you for what’s on the outside, for how you look and sound, nobody cares what’s on the inside. I want you to think of it like acting, that’s all it is, and there is nothing wrong with that. Some people make a pretty good living from it.”
“I don’t want to act.”
“Sure you do. That film you love so much, what’s it called? The NeverEnding bloody Story, that’s just actors acting, it’s not real.” She’s making me want to cry, but I know she’ll slap me if I do, so I blink the tears away. “Acting is super fun, and if you can learn to speak like them, then you’ll be able to have all kinds of amazing adventures when you’re older, just like the little boy in the film.”
“Can I fly a dragon dog one day?”
“Probably not, but you can do other things if you work hard and learn to speak nicely.”
“If I need to learn things, then why don’t I go to school?”
Maggie’s face starts to change. “Because you’re not old enough yet.”
I am.
“Then why is there a school uniform in my wardrobe?”
Maggie’s face twists and I think it might turn into her angry one, but it doesn’t do that, it does something different, something I don’t remember seeing before. She walks over to the wardrobe and opens the doors, slowly, as though she might be scared of what is inside. Her hand moves along all the little hangers, until her fingers find the one right at the end. She lifts it out. The price tags are still attached to the blue jacket, shirt, and stripy tie.
“You mean this?” she asks, so quietly I almost don’t hear her. I nod. “Well, this was meant to be a surprise, and I think the pinafore might still be a little too big for you, but by September, I reckon it will fit just right.”
“You mean I’m going to school in September?”
“Yes,” she says after a little while, and I stand up and jump on the bed. “If…” I sit back down. “If you learn to speak like them. You just need to listen to all these elocution tapes and do what the lady says. You’ll soon get the hang of it.”
“But why do I have to? Why can’t I just sound like me?”
“People judge your dad and me because of how we speak, and I don’t want that for you, Baby Girl. I want you to grow up to be anyone you want to be. It’s just an act, that’s all. We all have to learn to act, Aimee. It’s never, ever, a good idea to let strangers see the real you. So long as you never forget who you really are, acting will save you.”
Thirty-two
London, 2017
I’m pretty good at acting as if I’m okay, even when I’m not. I’ve had a lot of practice. But the face I’m wearing today doesn’t feel like my own, and piece by piece, it feels like my life is falling apart. There seems to be nothing I can do to keep what remains of it together. And my agent thinks now is a good time to drop me, which will be career-ending.
Tony’s office is right in the middle of town. It’s a sunny day, so I walk some of the way, avoiding the tube and the army of people who crowd onto it. Just because I’ve chosen a life on-screen, it shouldn’t mean that I am no longer entitled to a life of my own, a life that is private. Despite today’s online attack, I’m not too worried about people recognizing me; people tend to see what they want nowadays rather than what is actually there. I’ve seen other actresses go out in hats and sunglasses, but that just draws attention. Leaving my hair curly, not wearing too much makeup, and dressing just like everyone else is a much better disguise. Sometimes people stare in my direction for a fraction longer than average, you can see it in their eyes, that moment of recognition. But they can’t place me, can’t remember where they’ve seen my face before.
And I like that.
I’m early, so I wander around Waterstones in Piccadilly. For the first time in days I lose myself just a little, and it is a nice place to get lost; there are so many books all under one roof. I come here quite often and love that nobody ever knows who I am. Sometimes I wish I could hide in here and only come out when everyone else has gone, and the staff have locked up and left for the day. I’d spend the night reading something old, and at dawn I’d read something new. You can’t allow the past to steal your present, but if you siphon off just the right amount, it can help fuel your future.
I’ve always felt safe in bookshops. It’s as though the stories inside them can rescue me from myself and the rest of the world. A literary sanctuary filled with shelves of paper-shaped parachutes, which will save you when you fall. Some people manage to blow their own childlike bubbles, to hide inside to protect themselves from the truth of the world. But even if you float through life, safe inside your own bubble, you can still see what’s going on all around you. You can’t shut the horror out completely, unless you close your eyes.
I buy a book. Surrounded by so many, it would seem rude not to. It’s a story written in 1958. I’ve read it before, but it brings a curious sense of comfort to slip it inside my bag. As I leave the shop, and the world of fiction, behind, it feels as if I’m taking a little bit of fantasy with me. A talisman made of paper and words to help ward off reality.
I stroll out with a little more hope in my heart than when I entered. I’m starting to think that everything might be okay after all. Then a woman grabs my arm, pulling me backwards out of the road, just as a double-decker bus hurtles past. A blur of red rushes right in front of my face as the driver’s horn fills my ears.
“Watch where you’re going!” snaps my rescuer, with a shake of her aggressively permed head.
I mumble a thank-you, not quite able to form the words or catch the breath that seems to have been stolen from me. That was close. Too close. Sometimes I just don’t know what is wrong with me; I seem to have spent my whole life looking the wrong way.
I walk the final couple of streets to my agent’s office, then take the lift to the fifth floor. The lift is empty, so I check my reflection in the mirror and spray myself with Chanel No. 5, not because I want to smell nice, but because this particular perfume has always made me feel calm when I’m most scared, I’m not sure why. Seeing myself reminds me of the CCTV of the bank Detective Croft showed me earlier. It wasn’t, but it really did look like me. I didn’t close our account and then forget about it. I’m not crazy. I’m more convinced than ever that Ben is working with someone else to try to destroy my career, but I have to lock these thoughts about him and her—whoever she is—away for now. Bury them both.
I stare at the fancy sign behind reception that says TALENT AGENCY and, as usual, wonder what I am doing here. I’m not talented and I don’t fit. I always thought it was just a mistake when Tony signed me, so I suppose it was only a matter of time until he figured that out too. I wait, trying not to fidget, while someone goes to tell him that I’m here.
It�
��s a big place. A tightly packed warren of glass-fronted offices, like a zoo of agents feeding on a healthy mix of talent and ambition. Dream makers one day, heartbreakers the next. The woman on the front desk smiles at me when we make eye contact. She’s been staring at me since I walked through the door. She’s new. I haven’t seen her before, and I wonder if she knows why I’m here. I wonder if they all know.
Agents dump their clients all the time.
I thought about checking Tony’s client list online on the way here, but I couldn’t make myself, just in case my name and photo had already been removed from the page. The eye in the needle of my confidence has shrunk so small that I can no longer see a way through it, and even the tiniest threads of hope can’t find their way inside. Alicia was right: I didn’t fit with his other clients in the first place and I still don’t. A couple of movie roles was never going to be enough to change that.
My nerves get the better of me and I think I’m going to throw up. Just as I stand to go to the bathroom, Tony’s latest assistant appears to take me to his office, so I make myself smile and follow her instead. I’m convinced that everyone is looking at me as we walk down the maze of corridors, every step forwards requiring the most enormous mental, as well as physical, effort. As though I were fighting gravity itself.
Tony is middle-aged, middle-class, and always in the middle of something. He wears a permanent tan accompanied by an expensive suit, and his frown is a fixed feature, unless someone is looking his way, then he switches it off and lights his face with a mischievous grin instead. His hair has turned prematurely white recently, and I’m hoping that representing me didn’t cause it. He looks busy through the glass wall, hunched over his desk, glaring at his screen. His assistant asks if I want a drink and I say no, even though I’m thirsty. I’ve never got used to other people doing things for me, it feels wrong. Tony sees me and it takes a second longer than it used to for his frown to convert into a smile. I try not to take it personally.
