She remembers the first letter she wrote him asking for a job. It was his passion for story she had seen shine through in everything he produced. She had wanted the same for herself.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes.’
‘And then everything caved in. As you know. And I realized that maybe there would be no second chance after all. And with its loss would go … your film, your hopes. Antonia’s. My children’s. My reputation. Friendships with DB and a few others. I’d indulged in the hubris of trying to convince a lover that she is not loved, even as we made love – and the price to be paid for that was everything.
‘I’ve fought it with everything. I have tried to protect you, and my family, and my employees, and myself.’
‘So much to take on.’
‘I don’t wish Amber ill but I wish to God she’d step forward and take it back. But of course she won’t. Because I broke something between us with such cruelty. And so of course she hates me.’
‘Hate is such a strong word …’
‘If I could disentangle the rest of you from this, I would. I hope you know that. I’d take my punishment. But that has proved impossible. So now I have to work to atone, where I can, and protect the ones I love, if I can.
‘I know that when you said nothing about seeing us that night, when you said to the reporters that you were never here – those choices were an act of love. I imagine you might have found it difficult at times. You’re a good person. You must have wondered about me. Could I have done what Amber said I did? Did you know me at all? In my most hopeful moments, I believe you made those choices because you do know me. You know that I could never be violent. Predatory. I can’t make you believe that, I accept that. But I can hope. And I can acknowledge it. You’ve been a friend to me, is the simplest way of putting it. You have chosen to believe the best of me and at a cost to yourself, perhaps.’
‘You’ve been so wonderful to me. You’re the reason I’m doing everything I ever dreamt of doing.’
‘Sam texted me to say you’d refused to cut ties with me, even if it meant seeing your movie break apart. And I know that film means everything to you. So I know you’ve been asked to count the cost of our friendship. And it’s amazing to me that you’ve done that and you’ve decided, yes, the cost is worth bearing.’
Matthew wipes a tear away from his eyes. ‘We’ll get through this, but it won’t be the same as before. I know you won’t forget what I’ve told you today and sometimes I’ll feel humiliated by that. Ashamed. Well, so be it. But other changes will be better. I can’t ever again think of you as my employee. We’ll figure something out but I hope we’ll produce together. I’ll support you, of course, but I have seen who you are. I know you’ve got talent but you’ve got more than that. I want to help you take flight. It’s not a debt, Becky. It’s atonement. It’s clarity. It’s … simply a determination to do better from now on. To deserve the friendship you’ve shown me. And I’ll see that through.’
‘I know you will,’ she says, and she picks up her full glass. ‘To friendship,’ she says.
‘To friendship,’ Matthew says, before they both raise their glasses and put them to their lips at the same time – the best way to seal this thing, this togetherness. She allows the whisky to pass through her lips and flow over her tongue. It is warm and it stings.
Then Matthew turns around and pushes the window wide open for the outside air to finally rush in.
Chapter 20
Becky sleeps, but her dreams feel as vivid and urgent as her waking life: a thousand images, cracked and distorted, like an old television being tuned, passing through the channels and back again.
She wakes to the soft cotton of a heavy duvet holding her down on a mattress dampened with her sweat. She has dreamt of being trapped in a maze made of strings of beads, coloured candyfloss pink and chalk green, like the ones she’d worn to the party at the Hampstead house. Scott’s white-toothed smile. The fray of his jumper at a tanned neck. She was trapped, unable to find a route out, but worse was the sound of her own voice. From somewhere above is the mewling, childish sound of her own crying, that played its soundtrack over the images and, in time, brought her back to waking.
She gets to the office that morning, late, dragging herself to the doors with slow and heavy steps. Her mind feels blank, her heart heavy, her soul on the floor, drained by the effort of simply being.
She makes her calls and writes her emails in the hot and airless office that smells of printer ink and coffee. Siobhan is also subdued. There is none of the usual trickling chat between the two of them, a happy flow of words that usually cuts through their heavy workloads.
Becky edits a press release entitled: Kingfisher Films announce the attachment of Simon Bach to forthcoming feature Medea.
More emails pile in, many of them from Sharon: a meeting with a casting agent, script notes to consider, and an upcoming face-to-face about heads of department (now who best for set design, lighting, graphics, the edit?). Becky’s job now is to answer and solve or defer and deflect. To keep the dream she fought so hard for moving, moving, moving.
Simon Bach said: ‘I am so looking forward to joining the dream team that is Sharon, Emilia and Becky. These are three passionate, clever and fabulous beacons of progressive film-making. The story they have to tell is vital and I could not be more thrilled that they’ve invited me along for the ride.’
Becky Shawcross said: ‘I am over the moon that Simon has agreed to play the role of Jason in our forthcoming production. He brings magic to everything he does.’
Further notes to editors: with MEDEA, Kingfisher Films will be one of the first UK film companies to implement an ‘inclusion rider’ across the whole production, ensuring that during pre-production, production and post-production both cast and crew fully reflect British society in terms of gender, BAME identity, sexuality and disability status.
Becky stares down at her own quote. It’s too short. It’s a bit flat. Can she really not think of anything else to say about this actor?
‘Have you ever even met him?’ asks Siobhan. ‘He makes it sounds like you’ve all been camping together. Had a fabulous night on magic mushrooms under the stars and are planning to buy a holiday house together.’
‘That’s just actors, isn’t it? Best friends by day two on set, cry at the wrap party, don’t bother replying to each other’s emails the following week.’
‘He and Matthew are good mates, aren’t they? They worked together on that Russian sports film. Matthew’s really pulling it out of the bag for you, isn’t he?’
But it’s not a question.
‘He hasn’t done that much,’ Becky insists. ‘I’ve been making all the calls and doing all the meetings. Besides, it’s a good role for Simon.’
‘Chill,’ says Siobhan. ‘I’m just saying he’s obviously going above and beyond because he totally loves you.’
‘He totally loves the film.’
‘Come on. You’re his number one girl since you testified in his defence.’
‘Testified?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Well what else would I have done?’
‘Don’t get me wrong, I’d have done exactly the same.’
Becky looks up, face flushing hot with shame at the memory of giving too much, anything, to that iguana-faced Sun reporter.
‘While we’re here.’ Siobhan places her hands on both her hips. ‘I want you to know that I don’t need to be mollycoddled. Yes, I dropped Emilia into both your minds as a casting suggestion, yes it was kind of genius on my part, but it’s not like I own her. I’m happy she’s attached to your film. It’s good for all of us. But it sucked to find out the news online. Like one of the civilians. You could have just texted me.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Becky’s face burns a degree warmer. ‘I’ve been preoccupied.’
‘Throw me a bone here! I’m stuck doing, like, ninety per cent of the shit stuff and you’re planning how many ballgowns you need for awards season.�
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‘I’m thinking five?’
‘Seriously though. Don’t get too grand.’
‘I was being thoughtless, I’m sorry. All the stuff in the papers has been freaking me out a bit.’
‘Well,’ Siobhan says, reaching into the filing cabinet and pulling out a bottle of pitch-black nail polish. ‘With great power comes great responsibility.’ She has no tools, no nail polish remover; she smudges her nail borders, botches the job and yet, cracks on. ‘God I love this colour. It’s so goddam goth,’ she says. ‘Yeah, all that stuff in the papers with you was heavy. Not sure I’d like my face in The Sun. I’d prefer the Guardian, to be honest.’
‘A better class of witch-hunt?’
‘If someone’s going to accuse me of terrible things, I want them using really long words so my mum won’t understand when she reads it.’
‘That’s very strategic.’
‘Strategic is a good example of what I’m talking about. That’s a classic Guardian word.’
‘Can you look at this press release for me? I’m doing a shit job.’
‘Which bit are you struggling with?’
‘My own quote.’
Siobhan laughs. ‘I’m putting: Becky says, I like eating dropped pasta off the floor.’
‘That’s better than what I’ve got. Oh God,’ Becky slaps a palm to her forehead. ‘I’ve been so busy, I’ve completely forgotten to do the expenses. Would you mind? Please?’
‘Because I’m not busy at all.’
‘I’ll make it up to you.’
‘I want to play Jason in your movie then.’ She blows along a row of nails. ‘I’m going to put that in the press release now. If Simon dies before cameras roll, the part will be played by Siobhan. At the very least you owe me a pint and a sharing platter.’
‘I know you won’t let me forget.’
Becky hands over the print-out. She begins to pack her phone and some other papers into her bag.
‘Going somewhere?’
‘I’m taking Maisie to Camber for her birthday. I’m having a couple of days off.’ Becky clocks Siobhan’s raised eyebrows and speaks quickly. ‘It’s her sixteenth, a special one, and besides, I can’t keep on ditching her whenever work gets crazy. I’ve done that a lot recently.’
Siobhan tries a smile, but it is effortful, far from her usual wide-eyed generosity.
‘So do you want me to do the expenses because you’re busy being a hotshot producer, or because you’re fucking off on holiday? I’m finding it hard to keep up.’
‘Both. Please, do me this favour?’
Siobhan doesn’t answer the question and instead asks, ‘Where are you staying then?’
‘A place in Kent that was recommended to me.’
‘Who by?’
‘Matthew.’
‘Oh how bloody lovely for you and your good hair.’
‘Thanks, it needs all the support it can get,’ Becky says, trying to steer them back to their usual chatty rhythms.
‘And does that support come from a hair salon, or does Matthew trim it himself?’
‘Simon Bach did it, actually. He’s playing my haircut in my next film so …’
‘Can I be honest actually?’ Siobhan says, her smile now entirely flatlined. ‘This is all a bit fucking galling given I started work here before you. I get that Medea was your idea, but doing your expenses while Matthew gives you foot rubs and sends private chefs to prepare your morning porridge like you’re Beyoncé?’
‘It’s not forever. It’s just while he’s feeling bad that he nearly fucked up my film.’
‘I thought the whole thing was a totally baseless rumour?’
‘It was. But nobody was accusing me of being their rapist. I’m having to fend off reporters while keeping my work going, I’m—’
‘Wow, I’m going to get one of my mates to bang him just so I can tell the papers it never happened and then get a private jet off him.’
Becky doesn’t laugh like she’s meant to.
Siobhan shrugs defensively. ‘If that’s what it takes, right? Until then, how’s about a big old-fashioned “Thank you” for agreeing to do all your work while you sun yourself on Kingsman-recommended sun-loungers?’
Yes, there is a definite edge to her.
‘Thank you, Siobhan. I’ll let Maisie know I only managed to get away because you’re a lovely, kind person.’
‘And sexy and talented.’
‘And because you always smell amazing.’
‘Fingernails?’
‘Very witchy.’
‘I want you to credit my fingernails for your whole mini-break.’
‘Will do.’
And with that, Becky hurries out of the office, towards the chauffeur-driven car waiting outside the building, that Matthew has laid on to drive her and her family out of the city in style and comfort.
Chapter 21
Becky leans against reception waiting for their paperwork to be completed and their key cards to be issued, fingers pinched round the bottom of a champagne glass, absorbing the low light and neutrals, the peaceful string music, the interior water feature of tiny rocks and bonsai. She breathes it all in like clean mountain air, allowing herself to feel hope that a break, a change in place and pace, could really, genuinely, be what she needs. Her own childhood family holidays in Rye and Camber Sands weren’t exactly sunshine, Snakes and Ladders and sea-salted skin – there were arguments and feuds and a lot of being alone. She can do better, can’t she? Surely she can.
She’s already made a start by building a dam against the fretful toxic sludge that seeps through Twitter, Instagram, the Daily Mail, the Guardian, YouTube and the blogs. She’s closed down every unhelpful window and app on her phone, determining that she will leave the speculation about Amber well alone and that she will leave Scott well alone to get on with his preening and preparation, while she spends proper time with her family.
And yet, she has already spent the journey to Camber Sands fretting over Maisie. Her classmates have been making digs about the fact that Becky was in the papers. Maisie tells Becky that she batted them away ‘like annoying flies’, but what remains at the end of the conversation and stays with Becky for some time after is a sense of her daughter collecting battle scars. She saw her daughter’s sad eyes in the rear view mirror and Becky blamed herself for it.
But now Maisie and Adam seem to be happily fussing over a luggage label, discussing when they should set their alarms for pancakes and eggs the next morning, and maybe there is hope after all. Let it be simple. Let it be fun. Let nobody ask her about Amber ever again.
The receptionist, dressed like a health spa specialist, in a cream tabard, looks up and smiles at Becky. ‘Breakfast will be served from eight and I’ll need your credit card for any incidentals.’
Becky hands it over. ‘Can you put the rooms on this one too?’
‘Everything’s paid for. By Matthew Kingsman.’
Becky hesitates then glances around her, as if someone’s watching her. When she’s sure no one is, she says, ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘You just need to pay for any incidentals.’
She pulls her sleeves over her fists. ‘Honestly? I’d rather pay for the whole thing if that’s all right.’
‘It’s all done, all gone through. Is there a …’ She checks a sheet of paper by her keyboard. ‘Is there a Maisie Shawcross with you?’
‘Yes? Why? Do you need her?’
‘Please.’
Becky turns to Maisie. Thinks twice. ‘Hold on, can I ask what it’s about?’
‘Of course.’ The receptionist hands the sheet of paper to Becky. It reads:
Dear Maisie, Please enjoy a trip away in this hotel, all expenses paid. If you’d like to try horse riding on the beach tomorrow, just ask and they’ll arrange it. Have a great birthday. If you grow up anything like your mum then you’ll be an amazing human being. Best birthday wishes, Matthew Kingsman.’
Becky folds the paper in four and drops it into her
handbag. She is shivering. The air-con is up too high.
All presents are reciprocal. Aren’t they?
Her mind is shivering now, darting all over the place like it can’t find a place to settle, or hide. She takes the paper out of her bag and throws it in the bin like it’s contaminated. She doesn’t immediately untangle the details of why: all she knows is she doesn’t want Matthew’s promises within an inch of her daughter.
Maisie runs over, Adam in her wake. ‘This place is amazing, Mum! They have an omelette bar at breakfast.’
‘Traitor,’ growls Adam behind her. ‘We are pancake people. Don’t go chasing after other round foods at breakfast. No bagels. No omelettes. Definitely no pizzas.’
‘Omelettes get folded in half.’
‘That’s because they’re sneaky!’ shouts Adam, collapsing Maisie into giggles.
‘Mais,’ says Becky, ‘can you go to the bar and order us three nice cocktails?’ She hands her a credit card. ‘Make sure you pay for them on this. Oh, and non-alcoholic.’
‘Coming right up.’
‘What’s up?’ Adam says as they watch Maisie skip to the bar with its low-lit oceanic lighting. ‘You’re tense.’
‘Matthew’s paid for the whole thing,’ she says quietly.
‘Wow, that’s generous,’ he says. ‘And that’s a … problem?’
She wants to tell him everything: for it to pour out of her like news headlines racing across the bottom of the screen. But instead she is silent.
‘I’m disappointed not to be allowed to pay for it,’ says Becky. ‘For the first time in ages I can treat her, properly, you know?’
This is also the truth. She had wanted to make up for the things Maisie lost along the way – all the missed bags of sweets, magazine subscriptions, school trips to Sorrento and Venice. She could have asked Adam for the money for all of that, but she didn’t. He’d done so much already.
‘And, you know,’ her throat tightens at the memory of those Volt trainers he paid for, ‘I wanted to show Maisie this time: Look, this is what hard work gets you.’
Blurred Lines: The most timely and gripping psychological thriller of 2020 Page 19
