Blurred Lines: The most timely and gripping psychological thriller of 2020

by Hannah Begbie

  Becky laughs at her smudged mascara and puffy eyes. ‘Projecting an air of calm authority. A producer who never panics.’

  ‘I know that’s what you’re meant to be, but it’s all bollocks, isn’t it? Fucking hell, I look at my mistakes and I’m amazed anyone listens to me on set.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  ‘They’d get fired, obviously. I’m mean, I’m not having that!’ They both laugh now. ‘So what else have you made?’

  ‘Nothing as producer. I’ve been in development.’

  ‘First features are a fucker.’

  ‘I work with Matthew Kingsman and he’ll exec it, so it shouldn’t be as hard as I seem to be making it.’

  ‘That’s a good pedigree to stick on the table.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘I’ve done meetings.’

  ‘For anything I’d have worked on? I’ve been there a long time now.’

  ‘My thing with Matthew Kingsman is, you look at the films he’s made and you count how many women he’s had helming them.’

  ‘Andrea was on Eight Lies until she dropped out,’ says Becky.

  ‘However you cut it, he’s done north of twenty films and I can name one with a female director, which was Hellensgard.’

  ‘He got brought that with Lotta already attached.’

  ‘See, that’s even more depressing.’

  ‘He’s not a sexist. He hires women. He’s got me producing.’

  ‘Still. Back to the one out of twenty directors statistic …’

  ‘There aren’t that many women directors who can get a film made. I mean, even if you want to back women, if you can’t raise money because France or China or whoever hasn’t heard of them, then you can’t make the film. Believe me, I’ve gone through the lists hundreds of times. You’re rare. You make good films that also make money.’

  ‘Not sure Matthew agrees with you. I went for that Austen film you guys did. Didn’t get it.’

  ‘That’s a shame. You’d have been great.’

  ‘Might have dodged a bullet. It was all a bit bonnets and blushing in the end. So what’s your idea then? Your thing that got shat on?’

  Becky has to recalibrate for a moment. Then she plunges in. ‘It’s based on the ancient Greek myth Medea. It’s a contemporary retelling. It’s about a woman who takes back her power in a messy and destructive way. It’s about that moment when men realize that women can be every bit as dangerous and imaginative and vindictive and proud as the men they know.’

  ‘And what’s the story?’

  ‘Men take everything from her. Promise her things and betray her. She kills her own children to destroy their father.’

  ‘It’s usually men who do that to their ex-wives.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And you’ve got a script?’

  ‘Yes. It needs a bit of work, but it’s basically there.’

  ‘Can I read it?’

  ‘That’d be great. I’ll send it to you when I’m back in—’

  ‘Send it to me now. I’m on Gmail. It’s: Sharon 105 mm.’

  ‘Like the Nikon lens?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Becky has to tap the email address into her phone twice, her hands are shaking so much. She cannot believe she is sending Medea to a director as amazing as Sharon. She feels a true fizz of excitement until she catches herself, wondering if it’s all a big joke that is being caught on hidden camera, as she attaches the PDF from her Dropbox. Then with one tap it’s sent.

  ‘That’s my bedtime reading then.’ Sharon hugs Becky. ‘I’ve got to go back and be nice to my North American distributers now. Good luck. And chin up.’

  ‘Nice meeting you.’

  ‘Top tip? Don’t bother to look like you haven’t been crying. Just say you found someone’s film really, really moving. Even better if it’s their film. They’ll buy you drinks all night.’

  In the morning when she wakes, in her pretty hotel room facing away from the ocean, there is an email from Sharon waiting for her.

  FUCK YEAH I’M IN*

  (* terms and conditions apply)

  Chapter 9

  The location for their pitch meeting is the hotel restaurant area, timed for just after the breakfast rush, after the plates and cutlery are gone but when plenty of people are still milling around and chatting over coffee. The restaurant is unremarkable but for its glass walls on all sides that allow patrons to both watch (people, the sea) and be watched. When Becky arrives, Matthew is already there with Emilia, seated at a circular table that makes them particularly noticeable. Becky cannot help but inwardly applaud Matthew’s genius: nothing like a very visible meeting with a high-profile actress to get people wondering what that was about. What a way to kick off the buzz, thinks Becky.

  Matthew is leaning forward over the starched tablecloth and Emilia is leaning backward slightly, tilting her head, either laughing or making space; it’s hard to tell from across the room. Becky watches them for a second. It looks like an old dance: alpha man stretching out his arms to command space and pretty girl, like silk, supine, promising she’ll be hard to catch. Have they done this before? Have they been lovers once already? She imagines them on Matthew’s kitchen floor together, locked into each other, but dismisses it quickly as an unhelpful thought.

  Then she finds herself idly wondering whether Matthew has ever thought of her in that way before; as someone attractive or alluring or beguiling enough to want to sleep with. She knows that she can look pretty enough, sometimes, with the right make-up and clothes in the right light. It’s not as if she finds him physically attractive, she’s never wanted to sleep with him as such, and yet she still finds herself feeling a little disappointed when she reminds herself that Matthew is a man surrounded by exceptional beauty and talent and charisma and that she has none of those things in any great measure. She finds herself wanting, simply, to have the choice about whether she is thought of in that way, or not.

  When Becky joins them, there is a heavy pause, almost indiscernible, as if she might have interrupted something. But then Sam, Emilia’s agent, also arrives and suddenly everyone is on their feet kissing and bear-hugging and trading congratulations on the reception of her new film.

  They take their seats and order coffee. Becky sits opposite Emilia. She is smaller than Becky had imagined, even though she is used to actors being bird-like or doll-like in the flesh. She feels taller than ever, tempted to slouch, to throw away her height like it’s unwanted. Her gaze toggles between the actress’s bare, milk-white arms and the oversized, widely spaced eyes that take up so much of her face. She is beautiful. And she is dressed down, wearing a black tank top with her punky hair tied up in a loose and messy knot darting out at all angles – pale pink, yellow blonde, platinum – like a tasteful firework. Elegant without trying. Where did she learn how to do that? And she is already bored, her eyes flat, arms resting across her waist. With Matthew alone she looked alive. Now this is work. Becky feels like she has gate-crashed. But perhaps it’s only in her head.

  ‘Did you see Yarrow yet?’ grins Sam at Matthew in a smooth and tuneful American West Coast accent. ‘My God. I looked at that guy and thought, you lucky fucking son of a bitch. You have no idea what you’re doing and yet suddenly you’re the toast of the festival. And you know what? He doesn’t even understand that! Yarrow thinks he deserves it. Fuck me! I saw Jane and she was like: I’d like to fire him for proving the universe is cosmically unfair, only …’

  ‘… She’s making ten per cent on that cosmic unfairness,’ finishes Matthew.

  ‘My point exactly,’ grins Sam. He turns to Emilia, ‘You, dear Ems, are that rarest of things. A client I like better the more I get to know her.’

  Emilia gives him a small smile.

  ‘You’re having a great festival, too, I must say,’ says Matthew, addressing Emilia.

  ‘It’s Martin’s film,’ she says, in a low and considered Texan drawl, making her sound unfazed by anything. ‘He gets an easy ri
de from the critics.’ She gives a slow shrug, like success or failure mean very little to her. I’ll bet she does a lot of bikram yoga, thinks Becky.

  ‘Not always,’ says Sam. ‘I’ve seen Marty take a kicking more than once.’

  Sam is dressed in jeans, short enough to display sockless feet in tan leather loafers. Suit jacket and t-shirt. His job is to oil the wheels, smooth the seams and join the cracks, so that his client has a secure platform on which to stand. He is courtier and gatekeeper, turning on a dime between being a bad-ass deal-maker, sensitive confidant and cocktail party wingman. And for all his ice-breaking bonhomie, he never forgets – and never lets anyone else forget – that Emilia is the star, the epicentre of this meeting. Her work quickly dominates the conversation. Her recent gig with Spielberg. How the central heating broke down in a Nepalese hotel when she was shooting at the foot of the Himalayas, and how Sam nearly flew over there himself with a portable heater and bear skins, it got that bad, ha ha!

  And time is ticking. They’d have less than an hour, Matthew had told her. And nearly all of that has gone. Why is nobody raising Medea? Should she do it? Is Matthew silently wondering why on earth she’s sitting quietly when she should be pitching the hell out of this actress? She sees it all slipping away and begins to feel nauseous with the smell of bleached tablecloth and the soapy-sweet perfume of an aftershave. No one has committed to anything. They’re going through the motions. Emilia probably hasn’t read the script yet but has been told it’s too late to cancel Matthew, a man who she still wants on her side. But this is now a formality before the next rooftop party. Becky has seen it play out countless times. She has done it herself before, once when a script by a friend of a friend came in and, for the sake of her friendship, she spent an hour trying to tell him that he really couldn’t write without sounding anything less than enthused about his writing. Do you think you might buy it, he’d asked her, towards the end of the hour. It needs a few more drafts, she had said, confident that he’d never get round to that.

  ‘Were you at the gala party?’ Emilia asks Becky.

  Becky flushes, wondering if she’s been staring at the actress without realizing it. ‘No, last night I mostly hung out in the loos.’

  Emilia laughs.

  ‘The French do a great fucking ladies’ toilet, so I’m told,’ says Sam.

  ‘Good company?’ asks Emilia, rubbing at her kohl-lined eye as if it is gritty and bothering her.

  ‘I didn’t mean to spend so much time there. I got talking to a director and we just sort of failed to head back to the bar.’

  ‘Which director?’ asks Matthew.

  ‘Sharon McManus.’

  ‘Ah, she’s brilliant,’ says Sam. ‘Love her. Has she done one of yours?’ he asks Matthew.

  ‘No. Tried to get her for the Austen thing,’ he replies.

  Becky shifts uncomfortably in her chair, recalling Sharon’s very different version of events. ‘She’d have been great for that,’ she says: marvelling, not for the first time, at Matthew’s capacity to bend the truth in order to reach the finish line. It’s all just talk until the cheque is signed.

  ‘What do you think of her films?’ Becky puts it to Emilia too bluntly. She has given her no way out if Emilia hasn’t seen them. Does she need a way out? She’s just done a Scorsese film, at the artier end of his spectrum. Does she want to be that kind of actress?

  ‘I loved her early shorts,’ says Emilia. ‘There was one called Low Treason that was really funny and weird. She must have made it for about ten pounds.’ The words ‘ten pounds’ sound strange coming from Emilia. She could so easily have said ‘ten bucks’. She likes to be precise, thinks Becky. That matters to this woman. ‘I can’t remember its name, but she also did a short about two sisters trying to build a submarine.’

  ‘Blue,’ says Becky.

  ‘That’s the one! Both of them wanting to be in charge.’

  ‘Two periscopes!’

  ‘And they end up just staring at each other through them from opposite ends of the submarine, shouting at each other while it sinks. It was smart as well. It was like, Russia and America not remembering that it’s all one planet. It was the whole Cold War with two sisters and a bunch of scrap metal.’

  ‘It had that Dr Strangelove feel. Absurd and serious.’ Becky smiles, remembering it fondly.

  ‘Yeah. That stayed with me. I’m kinda jealous you met her, now.’

  ‘It’s free entry to the ladies’ loos. You just have to wait to pounce on her. Join me next time.’

  ‘I might do that!’ Emilia gives her a big, chalk-white, shiny, straight-toothed grin.

  ‘She wants to do Medea as her next film.’ Becky addresses this last remark to Matthew, like she’s sharing an interesting bit of news. A little update that he might like to know. No big deal.

  ‘Great fit,’ says Matthew, picking up the baton smoothly.

  ‘So is that a go thing for you guys?’ says Sam.

  ‘A bit of work to do, but it’s well on its way,’ Matthew replies. He turns to Emilia. ‘Look, if it’s something you’re interested in, we haven’t gone to anyone yet and you’d be top of our list for Medea.’

  ‘I’ve been so busy I’m behind on my reading …’ Emilia glances at Sam.

  ‘I need to cut more space into your schedule. I’ll get onto that. But it’s a great piece of work.’ Sam nods at his client and turns to Becky. ‘And if you put Sharon on it, well, that’s a movie.’

  ‘Can I read it and let you know?’ says Emilia.

  ‘Of course,’ says Matthew. ‘We’d be thrilled to talk to you about it.’

  ‘I actually talked to the screenwriter about one of your performances before he went to draft,’ says Becky. ‘That moment in Your Daughter when you stand at the edge of the sea and then walk in. There was something about the endurance and sacrifice of that character. It really got me. And even though this role isn’t anything like that, apart from those things, it was one of the only performance steers I gave him. I thought your work in that scene was incredible.’

  Emilia is listening to her now. Really listening.

  ‘If you like,’ Becky continues, ‘we could even try and find time to sit down with Sharon while we’re all here together?’ It’s a push, but Becky knows that the promise to read something fades fast. Getting into a room with a director you admire – that makes things real.

  ‘That’d be great,’ says Emilia.

  ‘I’ll hook us all up,’ says Sam. ‘Let’s make a fucking movie, guys!’ He raises his coffee cup in a toast, and then four coffee cups meet in mid-air, and Becky hears the blood pounding in her ears.

  Sam consults his iPhone. ‘We need to get you up to the Peacock Suite for the junket, we’re a little late already,’ he says to Emilia.

  ‘See you soon,’ says Emilia to Becky, giving her a big smile. And then they’re gone.

  Becky and Matthew sit there in silence for a full minute. Becky is savouring the moment, and hopes that he is, too.

  ‘Sharon McManus it is then,’ he says.

  ‘Was that OK? I’d have rather run it by you first.’

  ‘No. Look, Emilia gets it made. You could have my brother’s Labrador directing and someone’d still finance it with Emilia in the lead.’

  Disappointment pricks at her. She had wanted to impress Matthew with the value of what she, alone, had brought to the party. ‘Do you not rate Sharon?’

  ‘I think she’s good. My point is she doesn’t have to be better than good. Because you’ve landed Emilia.’

  ‘Have we?’ She feels better again.

  ‘I think so. Sam knows her better than anyone and he’s a big fan of the script. He wouldn’t roll out all that “let’s make a fucking movie” bollocks if he didn’t think she was thinking that. I’ll call him to check, but I think we can start talking about it.’

  ‘Don’t we need to get Sharon to approve Emilia first?’

  ‘No!’ Then, softer, ‘It’s your film. If you want to make Sharon feel li
ke she’s in charge, that’s up to you. Personally I don’t think it hurts for a director to feel like they’re coming onto something substantial. Something that will very easily survive them exiting it, if it comes to that. But you have to figure out what works for you and for the situation. It’s different every time.’

  ‘But you think we’ll get it made?’

  ‘I do. And I need to spend more time hanging out in the toilets. Not a tip anyone’s ever given me before.’

  ‘I got lucky.’

  ‘Bollocks. You somehow managed to attach Sharon to your project between pissing and washing your hands. That’s a rare talent, Becky.’

  She fills with happiness at these words, the ones she’s been waiting for. She feels silly for the disappointment she felt earlier. She should know Matthew by now. He always picks his time to roll out a deserved compliment for maximum effect. His eyes are shining and he is still smiling at her in an enquiring way, as if she is an artefact that has caught his eye. She wonders whether she’s closer to being more like Emilia, more alluring to him, and in the same thought, the possibility repulses her. Instinctively she takes hold of her own wrist.

  ‘What would you have tabled otherwise? To convince Emilia? Just out of interest?’ Matthew’s question is so professional that she is torn violently out of her magical, ridiculous thinking.

  ‘She did a fundraiser for a women’s refuge back when she was a teenager. Her mum was disowned by her family when Emilia was a baby. The father ran off with another woman and left them with nothing. She’s talked about it in a few interviews. I was going to go for a take on Medea as someone who gives love, gives birth, honours her family, and then gets left, disowned, betrayed. Despite having done nothing but try her hardest, men blame and punish her. That was going to be my thing. Try and make it personal.’

  ‘No, I get it.’

  ‘You can’t just launch in with all that over an Americano though, can you?’

  Matthew laughs. ‘Not a bad Plan B though.’ They grin at each other. Thoughts of being alluring now firmly shelved, she likes that she and Matthew are in on this together, side by side, players on the same team. If nothing else, she is on her way to feeling like she is someone interesting.