But Maisie doesn’t pick up on the thread that might otherwise direct the conversation down another path and instead she says quietly, almost childishly, ‘Mum?’
‘Yes?’
‘I really hate that you’re in the papers for a story about someone getting raped.’
‘Nobody was raped.’
‘I know that. But it’s still a story about that.’
‘I don’t like it either. It’ll blow over.’
‘OK. I fucking hate Amber Heath.’
‘Language.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I’m sorry if this is hard on you at school. Just remember that … this isn’t me. It’s a story about someone I work with.’
‘OK.’
‘Focus on your revision.’
‘I will. Are we going to be all right if the company goes under?’
‘Why would it go under?’
‘If nobody wants to work with Matthew any more.’
‘That wouldn’t be very fair, would it?’
‘The world’s not fair. You’ve said that, like, a million times.’
‘I know, I’m sorry, I’m really trying to be less cynical. Here, look at my new smile.’ She grins but Maisie is unconvinced. ‘Look, please don’t worry. I can always get another job.’
‘Are you going to?’
‘No. I want to make my film. I’ve put a lot into that. I can’t walk away from that. And besides, I completely love my job. Shouldn’t that count for something? Why should I have to lose all that over a story that has nothing to do with me?’
‘Can I meet Emilia?’
‘You can come to set and hang out, absolutely.’
‘Can I bring Jules?’
Becky’s phone rings. It’s Sam, Emilia’s agent, again. She diverts the call. ‘I have to get going,’ she says quickly. ‘Maybe work on your chemistry or Spanish today?’
‘Sì.’
‘Oh, very good. Chemistry it is then.’ Becky kisses her quickly, puts the paper under her arm, and heads for the shower.
Becky is on her way to Matthew’s house in an Uber when she returns Sam’s call.
‘Hey there, rock star,’ he says. ‘How’ve you been?’
It must be the middle of the night but agents in LA seem to be as on call as doctors, and despite the hour Sam sounds like he’s been playing tennis, drinking green juice and generally having a great time. Like this call is just one more thing he’s super looking forward to, even when the next thing he has to say is going to be bad news.
‘I’m great!’ she says. ‘And what about you?’
‘You know, I never bitch to my British friends because I know you guys have to tolerate a lot of bad weather on top of whatever’s going on in your lives, so I’m going to say all good.’ Sam laughs. And then he’s down to business. ‘OK, so we need to talk about these rumours. And let me first say that Emilia loves you, loves Sharon, loves the project, OK? But she’s a little, shall we say, a little twitchy.’
‘I understand her anxiety, I do, but what’s going on …’ She glances up at the driver and lowers her voice to a stage whisper. ‘It’s just hot air. It’s bullshit.’
‘OK, sure, and I’m the first person to stand up for Matthew, but we have to be honest that even if it’s bullshit, it’s bullshit that’s not going away, you know?’
‘If I thought there was truth in these rumours, I wouldn’t be anywhere near this project.’
‘It’s Matthew’s project though. It’s his company.’
‘His name’s not on it.’
‘You work for him! People aren’t going to be fooled by that shit. You’re his girl.’
Becky feels her phone slip in the sweat on her palm. She covers it with her other hand as Sam continues to talk and says to the driver, ‘I’ll jump out here.’
She is still a few streets away from where she needs to be and the route to Matthew’s house is horribly familiar.
‘People are believing women, Sam,’ says Becky, louder than she intended. ‘That’s a thing in our culture right now. Believe me when I say this film is watertight for your client.’
There is the wine shop. She crosses the road to avoid it, and half-turns her head away in case the man from that afternoon is in there.
‘And I think that helps, I honestly do!’ says Sam. ‘But, cards on the table, if Emilia turns round to me tomorrow and asks me outright if she should do this, I’m fucking torn. She loves it and I love it but let’s be honest, it’s not a payday for her, so what’s it about? It’s an awards movie. She gets a Best Actress nomination out of this. But if it turns into the film about feminism that a male rapist made … you hear what I’m saying? That film doesn’t get distribution, let alone a run at awards season. It’s bad. And what’s worse than that is if she goes ahead and does the film even though the story is on the table. We could cut it back a little, say she was under contract already and believes in due process, blah blah, but it’d still look bad, and all for zero upside. You see what I’m saying here?’
‘I don’t know what else to say.’
‘Well you need to think, friend, because what I need from you is something very smart and substantial to tell to my client, otherwise the thing I’m left saying is all the stuff I just laid out. And by the way, I’m only even having this conversation because I like Matthew a lot and because I think you have a big future as a producer. If it was anyone else I’d tell Emilia to bail already and be done with it. Fuck knows she has other options.’
‘I hear you.’
‘Cool, but what am I hearing from you?’
Becky is dizzy. She wants to ask for time. She wants to lie down. She needs a day – a week, maybe more – to figure out a way through this mess. She feels like a squash ball getting smashed around the court, flying at all angles. And Sam wants his answer or everything collapses.
She stops and leans against a garden wall, taking a deep breath. Even as the clock ticks and Sam waits, she can’t help but wonder whether Scott has ever had to justify himself so thoroughly for his actions in his entire life. Had another woman suffered at his hands since he touched her? She burns with shame and anger at her own weakness and inaction.
Then she straightens her spine, stands to her tallest height, plants her feet firmly on the ground.
‘First and foremost,’ she says, ‘this film is going to matter to women. It’s a call to women everywhere to stand up for justice. How much would it suck if, of all things, gossip about a man derailed that? I don’t think any of us should feel good about letting go of a film like Medea over something like that. How does doing another superhero film shift the conversation? Really? So that’s the first thing. Secondly, tell her that Sharon’s nobody’s fool and nobody’s little woman either and she’s still on the film. Emilia can sit behind that if she needs to. She’s not going to throw a great female director under the bus over an unproven rumour. That wouldn’t be very sisterly now, would it?’
‘Sharon’s definitely still on it?’
‘One hundred per cent.’
‘OK, that’s good. Because if Sharon bails then Emilia will too. You get that, right?’
‘Yes, I get that.’
‘OK, that’s solid. And can I tell Emilia that you’re looking at ways to potentially remove the project from Matthew and Kingfisher?’
She pauses. ‘We can try to position it like it was never really one of his things in the first place, but I’m not taking the film away.’
‘All right. So you’re going down if he goes down, huh?’
‘What?’
‘If you’re not cutting ties, you’re staying tied to him. It’s admirable, man. A true fucking friend, for sure. He’d better write you the biggest fucking Christmas bonus of his life.’
‘I owe him a lot.’
Scott must pay. Someone must pay.
‘OK. Cool. I think we’re done here. Great talking with you, cowgirl. Go get ’em!’
‘Bye, Sam. Send Emilia my love.’
With
perfect timing, she has reached Matthew’s front door. This time, she rings the doorbell and waits.
Chapter 19
‘Instant?’ Antonia says. ‘Hope that’s all right?’ She fills the kettle to the top. ‘There’s been no time to do a proper shop. People, lawyers, in and out. I don’t know where I am any more.’
Becky is now fairly certain that the morning Antonia whirlwinded into the office she was confronting Matthew about his indiscretions with Amber. It’s only now, as Becky recalls how much rage and determination were set in the creases of Antonia’s face, that she thinks maybe this was less shock than the signs of a woman who’d had enough. How had she found out? Had Matthew said something to her? What had he told her? But then why burst into the office to confront him? Is that not the action of a woman who has been given the awful truth by a third party and then rushes to confirm it?
For a fleeting, absurd moment, Becky wonders if she might not have been the only person to walk in on that scene. Plenty of their friends wander in and out. What if another woman, a friend of Antonia’s, walked in and out just as she had done? And called Antonia the next morning, to relate what she had seen? Then Becky would not have had to exist in this story. Erased from the scene, scrubbed out in post-production like an anachronism removed from the frames of a period drama. Gone, and so much lighter for her absence.
As Antonia moves between kettle and coffee and milk, she shows no sign of letting up on the diligence and care with which she talks about her husband. There is no reference to any indiscretion or other such thing. Instead, this is a crisis inflicted on them from beyond their gates.
‘Matthew is attached to his phone. He’s really suffering with spondylitis now, with his neck bent at that angle the whole time. I’m sure he’ll be out in a moment but it’s wall-to-wall calls. But you know that. Of course you do.’
Antonia turns, leans back against the butler’s sink with both palms bolstering her. ‘He’s not sleeping, I’m not sleeping. We were both shuffling around the kitchen in our dressing gowns last night before dawn. Like the living dead.’
Antonia’s eyes change, like storm clouds passing and in that moment Becky sees that Antonia has thought of something that cannot be voiced, cannot be shared. Becky is, after all, an employee.
‘It makes it all the more important to have good people around you, times like these,’ says Antonia instead. ‘Makes all the difference. So thank you, Rebecca.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘No, it means a lot to him. And to me.’
‘He’s been so supportive through my whole career. I mean, he is my career. I’d never let him down.’ Becky’s eyes travel to the sofa grouping. The rug.
Antonia passes her the mug of coffee. ‘I do wish I had something else to offer you.’
‘This is perfect. Thank you.’
Close up, the tension in Antonia’s body is manifest. Her face is drawn and pale. She holds herself as if she has a glass globe on her shoulders instead of a head. But above all else she holds herself like she still has her dignity. Despite these accusations of her husband’s infidelity, possibly his violent infidelity, she is calm. There will be no plates thrown by Antonia. Not in front of the children, not in front of the staff. Becky knows a little about that herself, the battle to look poised when inside it is all waves threatening to engulf you, filling the lungs and mouth.
Becky wonders whether Antonia has seen the words written by trolls on Twitter and in the blog posts. The comments under clips of Amber’s films on YouTube.
Becky remembers pushing Maisie in her pram, past a group of schoolkids two years below her. Hearing the word ‘slut’ mock-whispered and then their laughter. Knowing that she wouldn’t turn, wouldn’t shout, wouldn’t protest it. She had tried to walk taller. She had forced herself not to speed up. Don’t let them see that they’ve hurt you. Don’t give them anything. Not so much as a flinch. And with her back to them, while her pace went unchanged, unhurried, her face was free to twist into an agony of shame and anger and sadness. Antonia knows all this, thinks Becky. She knows which parts of her Becky can see and she has decided which other parts she’ll show her. The rest can only be guessed at.
How are Antonia and Matthew, truly, walking in their kitchen at dawn? Stepping around that rug?
She watches Antonia try to open a packet of Fox’s chocolate biscuits wrapped in matt-navy foil. Her fingers are long and thin and she is wearing one particularly striking ring, an almond-shaped sapphire circled with tiny diamonds. To Becky, it looks like the Death Star surrounded by angels. Becky wonders how Antonia would seem, clad in Medea’s robes. How would she wear her face, if allowed to be all rage, all revenge, all agony?
‘Here, let me,’ Becky says, taking the packet from Antonia. ‘These are Maisie’s favourites. There’s a bit of a knack to it.’
‘I’ll look and learn.’
Maybe it’s this small kindness that prompts Antonia to unlock another layer of her private hell to Becky.
‘Bart is having a horrible time, having to side-step the press every time he leaves the house. He’s very sensible, he’s a good boy, he’s got used to saying, No comment. I think it’s just awful how these people feel that they can do that to somebody. I feel sorry for them. They can’t have much else in their lives.’
Becky knows that Antonia won’t ever say anything to her about Matthew and Amber’s historic or recent indiscretions. Perhaps she has tried to wipe it from her mind entirely, knowing that their marriage, the business, the family, everything that they have built together, must now be protected. Fought for. And if there are casualties, well, so be it.
‘Have you ever met this girl?’ asks Antonia.
‘Who?’
‘Amber Heath.’
‘No,’ says Becky, fixating on the sheen of the fridge. ‘I think that what it is, I think that maybe … everyone’s looking for their moment in the sun? It’s an industry mostly made up of people who haven’t made it, or are realizing that they won’t make it. I think Amber was probably starting to feel like she was old news and wasn’t going to be someone who gets big parts. And now she’s in the papers. In a twisted way she’s probably got what she wanted, on some level. If that makes sense.’
‘You can see why I hired her, can’t you?’ says Matthew, entering the room from deeper in the house. He is wearing a white linen shirt, unbuttoned twice. ‘Becky already knows more about how things work than people who’ve made ten films.’
And in the brief and uncomfortable gap when it is clear she will not come to him, he walks to her instead, throws his arms round her, the cool edge of the phone in his hand digging into her as he hugs her like an old friend. She notices that he smells of soap and roses. He steps back from her, smiling, working just as hard as Antonia to be the exact version of Matthew Kingsman that the moment requires. ‘How’s the doorstepping going at your end of things?’
Like they’re the two ends of the situation, her and Matthew. A problem shared, equitably and easily. ‘Nothing more since The Sun.’
‘I think you’ve done a great job. Your character reference was, well, what can I say? Five stars.’
‘I’m glad if it was a help,’ she says quietly.
‘Anyway, I think it’s all on its way out.’
‘It is?’ Antonia’s face softens. Her eyes shine, perhaps there is a tear; she certainly looks as if she might cry and Becky knows that this will be the only evidence of Antonia’s storm.
‘Yes.’ Matthew steps toward his wife and puts his arm around her. ‘There isn’t enough of a story for it to get any more traction. The stuff about the witness this morning? It’s all a bit CSI. The police obviously aren’t going to do anything. Amber’s had her moment in the sun. I’m fairly confident, by the way, that she won’t be landing a good gig for quite a while. She’s burnt more bridges than she knew existed, pulling this stunt.’
‘It’s unforgivable, really,’ says Antonia.
‘I spoke to Sam,’ says Becky. ‘I think Medea mi
ght make it through if the story starts to go away like you say it will.’
‘Let’s spare Antonia the boring stuff. We’ll talk in my study.’
‘I was saying thank you to Becky,’ says Antonia. She wipes under her eyes with the pads of her fingers and fixes Becky with a strong, determined gaze, dredged up from the silt. Her eyes are sun-warm with gratitude. ‘It probably hasn’t been easy for her either.’
‘It’s nothing,’ says Becky.
‘Will you stay for lunch?’ says Antonia.
‘Thank you, no, I can’t. I’ve got to get back to the office.’
‘Right, let’s move things along,’ says Matthew. ‘To the bat cave.’
‘Darling, I’ll put lunch on the table for one-ish,’ Antonia calls after them brightly, a weight lifted from her on his promise of a return to normality, or something that looks like it.
A walk down a wood-panelled corridor. Matthew leads Becky further into the heart of the house than she has ever been before: into a red-wine-carpeted room lined with bookcases and more wood panels, varnished darkly. A cumbersome moss-green leather-topped desk sits in the middle of the room, flanked by two padded red leather chairs, high-back seats fastened to their frames with lines of brass buttons. She stands at the perimeter a little breathless, a little anxious that there might not be enough air to breathe the further she ventures inside this crypt that smells of old hide and damp pages, of furniture polish and freshly brewed coffee.
‘The story heading into the nationals could have gone a radically different way,’ Matthew says, not going for the desk and instead slumping back into one of his study’s plump, old-world armchairs. ‘I’ve had three people from IcePR working on this and I think it’s almost safe to say we’ve won the conversation.’
‘I saw a lot of stories by that guy Alex you introduced me to.’
‘Yeah, he’s one of the good ones.’
‘How does it work? Do you pay them?’
‘It’s not quite as blunt as that. But everyone gets rewarded eventually. It’s an ecosystem. The smart ones understand that. Why do you ask?’
‘Only because I want to learn.’
Blurred Lines: The most timely and gripping psychological thriller of 2020 Page 17
