“You certainly are a pretty pussycat,” Fleur continued with a stroke over Nip’s head, “but no, that’s not my project. That would be far too easy. This one is the first step in my greatest challenge yet.”
“Talking a big game there, Mum. You sure you can back it up?”
Fleur smiled a little Mona Lisa smile. “Like I said, the spirits are on my side with this one. Everything is already in motion.” She reached over and patted Sasha’s cheek. “I can’t lose.”
Sasha squinted. “You’ve definitely entered your hash cakes in the WI baking competition.”
Sasha closed the door to her bedroom and glanced at the clock. Eleven o’clock. She needed to be up at six thirty so she’d have time to get ready and make it for the seven twenty-five bus. If she didn’t, she’d never get into work by eight. She should really get ready for bed and try to get some sleep. But exhaustion and she were becoming long-time companions, it would seem. She sighed heavily and resigned herself to another sleepless night as a need even more pressing urged her to her desk rather than her bed.
Powering up her laptop, she cracked her knuckles, twisted her head from side to side, listening for the satisfying crunch as her vertebrae realigned themselves, and then opened up the document she’d been working on. She quickly scanned the last page she’d written, re-familiarising herself with where she was, then let her fingers find the keys. Dialogue, scene descriptions, actions, and the final act of the script began to take shape beneath her fingers.
This one was a little different to her previous scripts. A murder mystery set against the sometimes bleak and sometimes stunning landscape of the Norfolk Coast. Sasha pictured each scene, watched through her mind’s eye as her heroine approached the villain, weapon raised, ready to strike.
Sasha was captivated by these characters. In them she could see so much potential. She hadn’t finished the first script, and already she could picture the second and the third. Maybe more.
She smiled as she concluded the last action scene and moved to the more sedate ending to the story. A hospital room, perhaps? Yes, a hospital.
Was it strange that her world felt more complete when she could escape to her fictional realm? Was it wrong that the words, the characters called to her and kept her awake when little in her actual life could do the same? The stories she created fulfilled her in a way her job could never compete with: giving a massage to some hairy-backed bloke or creating a narrative where she could see her wildest dreams and deepest fascinations played out and explored. It wasn’t even a real choice.
Sasha needed her escape, her release. Her fictional friends kept her company when others could not, offered her a way to vent her frustrations, to weep the pain and fear away with. They allowed her to be herself with in a way she could not be with anyone else.
There was no judgement, no fear, and no consequences in her make-believe world. There were no pressures, no responsibilities, no ties.
As her characters kissed passionately and promised to return for another book, Sasha felt free.
Chapter 2
Jac Kensington ran her fingers through her hair and propped her head in the other hand. She glanced around the glass-topped conference table in the company headquarters. Mags French and Sophie Angel were scanning spreadsheets or reviewing contracts as they waited for her to finish her phone call.
She ended it and cleared her throat, “Okay, ladies, I hereby call this board meeting of Kefran Media Limited to attention.”
Sophie rolled her eyes and flicked her gaze to Jac. “Just because you’re the major shareholder doesn’t mean I’m going to let you hijack this meeting like you did last year. This might be an annual scriptwriting competition, and our decision deadline might be looming, but the three of us will make this decision together. Then we can call it quits for the night.”
Jac tapped her pocket, checking for her packet of cigarettes before remembering she’d quit. Again. She waved her hand at the scripts in front of them. “Fine, let’s get this sorted so I can go home. I’ve got a really good bottle of vodka waiting for me.”
“You shouldn’t drink alone.” Mags frowned at her. “It’s not a good sign.” She pushed her fingers through her short bob, frowning a little when her arm seemed to want to continue after her hair had run out. Still getting used to the new shorter hairstyle and colour on her long-time friend, Jac grinned as Mags pushed her horn-rimmed glasses up her nose.
“Vanessa will be there to share it with me.” Possibly. Jac didn’t really want to think about the odds that her girlfriend of the last eighteen months would actually be at home waiting for her when she finally left the office. But she certainly wasn’t prepared to put money on it, a fact that must have shown on her face as Sophie snorted at her. “Fine,” Jac said with a sigh, “then I’ll go to a bar and get drunk before I go home. Happy?”
Sophie and Mags both shrugged unhappily before Sophie folded back the pages on one of the scripts, her long blond hair falling over her shoulders, blue eyes watching her, worry adding to the creases there, creases they were all beginning to notice at the corners of their own eyes.
“If you do,” said Sophie, “at least have some crisps or pork scratchings to soak it up, then. It’ll help with the hangover.”
Jac cast her what she hoped was a withering look but said, “Fine,” as she stared at Mags. “You start. Favourite and why?”
Sliding her glasses up her nose, Mags launched into a hearty speech supporting Jac’s least-favourite script, but she made some good points. It was lighter and had a frivolous subject at the heart of it, so it would probably do quite well.
“Yeah, yeah,” Sophie said. “It’ll do okay and then fade into the background with all the other forgettable films we see produced.” She waved the other script in front of them both. “This one has some funny moments in it. It’s a romance, but, damn it, it’s got a soul too. It has a meaning at its core, values that offer a moral to the story, rather than just some empty laughs that will be forgotten as soon as the credits roll.”
Jac nodded—all points she’d noticed about Nightingale too.
“It has a bite to it, and it’s so, I don’t know, relevant. Maybe that’s the right word. The cultural issues that we face today. Women’s rights, human rights, religious differences—”
“That’s where I have a problem with it,” Mags said. “We could end up staring down the barrel of huge religious backlash as a result. If we got any of the religious elements wrong or out of context, we could be in real trouble. I don’t know about you, but I don’t fancy getting on the wrong side of all this.”
Jac understood Mag’s point of view. The script was culturally and religiously sensitive—a Muslim girl and a Christian girl falling in love with each other. Arranged marriages. The views of other religions and cultures on homosexuality and marriage. Honour killing. Sharia law. The rights of women in Muslim countries… Sensitive was an understatement. Yet this script handled it well. They could fact-check all the relevant points. They could get an expert on board to consult with.
“Yeah, but aren’t you sick of just creating fluff films, Mags?” Sophie asked. “When we started this company, it was with the idea that the three of us could make a difference. Could use our skills and talents to really do some good. I know we had good reasons to move into the popular films, the romcoms. If we hadn’t, we wouldn’t be able to tackle the odd film that means something. Something like this is why we made those. Seventy-five percent market pleasers, twenty-five percent soul redeemers, remember?”
Jac nodded in acknowledgement as Mags slumped back in her chair a little. Sophie was right. That was exactly what they’d always planned to do. It just hadn’t really happened yet.
“But we’ve always wanted to find the film that could do both, the one we could make ends meet with and yet was also important.” Sophie waved the sheaf of papers she was holding in her hand. “This could real
ly do that. The writer hasn’t slammed Islam. She’s pointed out cultural differences, but in a lot of ways she’s also pointed out similarities between Middle Eastern and Western cultures, and the hypocrisy of people who commit the same abuses they condemn others for, by calling them something different.” She dropped the script back on the table. “Domestic violence and crimes of passion are no different to honour killing, they just have a different name.”
“We punish those crimes—” Mags began.
“Ladies, I think we can leave the social debate out of this. Between these two scripts, I think it’s clear that Nightingale is the superior piece of work. Agreed?” Jac waited until both Sophie and Mags nodded. “Good. Our decision has to be whether or not we are comfortable going with the heavy subject matter that is a potentially risky prospect or sticking to the romcom that we know will do okay.”
Sophie folded her arms over her chest and slumped back in her seat. “You know how I feel. I think this film is a must.”
Jac turned to Mags. “Are you truly uncomfortable or just playing devil’s advocate?”
“A little of both. I do think we need to be careful. But I do agree that Sophie has some good points.” She grinned. “And I don’t think it would be that big of a risk either. I think the marketplace is crying out for something like this. No one’s been brave enough so far to do it.”
“I agree,” Jac said. “It has all the elements of a classic film: a great premise, great action, hot love scenes, and a few great monologues for the actresses to really sink their teeth into.”
“And she’s a local girl,” Sophie added. She took a quick, excited-sounding breath before she launched into her next point. “It’s set in Manchester, so we’ll have all our assets and resources on hand to work this. No location issues to drive up production costs and make logistics a nightmare. We can all effectively work from home base. After all, it’s not like we’d be able to go to Pakistan to film, so we would be looking at CGI for those scenes. We’ve got the best tech here in all of Europe.”
“Another good point.” Basing themselves at MediaCityUK—the most sophisticated HD production facility in Europe—in Salford Quays, rather than trying to find office and studio space in London, had been a decision they’d deliberated many times when they started their company, but it was one they hadn’t lived to regret. It had, however, meant that Jac had worked on location for extended periods on more than one occasion, and one day soon she would again. But not this time. This time they could all work together from start to finish. It had been a while since they’d had a project like this. She’d have fun directing it, a fact that always showed through positively in the end product.
Really, she was finding fewer and fewer reasons to say no to this script.
“Okay.” Jac held up her hand, a sheaf of pages wedged in her grasp, curling about her fist. “We’re going with this one. Nightingale by Sasha Adams.”
Sophie did a little dance in her chair until the top button on her blouse popped open. Jac and Mags stared, then burst out laughing, pointing like schoolchildren. Sophie rolled her eyes and quickly refastened it.
“Want me to contact the winner?” Sophie asked.
Jac shook her head as she glanced at her watch. “It’s after ten. Too late to call now. I’ll do it tomorrow and set up a meeting with her to start the paperwork and get the ball rolling.”
“Gotcha.”
Sophie and Mags collected their things and stood. Sophie looked Jac up and down, her expression softening, switching from driven business executive to concerned best friend in an instant. “You sure you’re going to be okay?”
Jac gave her a small smile, then deliberately tried to broaden it. “Go on, I’m fine.”
Sophie squeezed Jac’s shoulder as she passed behind her chair on her way out of the conference room, then planted a kiss atop her head. “You know where I am if you want to talk.”
“I do, thanks.” She patted Sophie’s hand. “Now go and get out of here before your wife comes looking for you.” She threw her a practiced cheeky wink as the door closed behind Sophie and Mags, but not before she caught the look that flashed between the two of them. Dubious would be a generous word for it. The silence settled around her and she patted her pocket again, checking for her cigarettes. “Fuck.” She sighed and picked up the screenplay they’d just decided to make a film and started reading again.
“Third read and it still has me vacillating between wanting to laugh and cry.” She shook her head. “That’s a good sign.”
The beauty of living in an apartment in Salford Quays was that Jac’s commute was less than five minutes. On foot. Thank God, because her leather jacket did bugger all to keep out the chill, or the rain, as she made her way down Broadway to the apartment block, fishing in her pockets for the fob that would let her into the building.
Cursing to herself, she checked the pockets on her messenger-style laptop case, chuckling when she found the fob and her keys in the main compartment. She’d slid them in with her MacBook when she was packing up. Getting forgetful in your old age, Jac. Better watch that.
She held up the fob to the outer door and pushed it wide, then hit the Call button between the two lifts. She spun the small bunch of keys around her finger by the metal loop that held them together, catching them in her palm every once in a while. When she realised what she was doing, Jac frowned. Yet another fidgeting habit to add to all the rest since giving up the evil tobacco.
She hated smoking. Hated the way the smoke clung to her and the way her body craved the nicotine. She hated how her fingers itched to hold one of the little sticks, hated her dependency on something—anything—that wasn’t her alone. But she hated the process of quitting anything even more. The fact she wasn’t always driven purely by her own will… Well, that was not something she ever wanted to admit, not even to herself.
The lift alert chimed, and she stepped inside. Pizza? Curry? Chinese? She hopped back and forth between her dinner options before deciding it was likely to be a beans-on-toast night before falling into bed, ready to start again the next day. She was looking forward to talking to Sasha Adams. The woman could write, and if even half of that came across in her personality, she was going to be fun to talk to.
The doors opened at the penthouse floor and the spacious hallway that led to the four-bedroom apartment she called home. Jac spun her keys one last time and crossed the highly polished wooden floor to her door. It swung open, and she stepped inside, pleased the lights were on. Vanessa was home. Maybe they’d order a curry after all.
“Hey, Vee. Where are you?” Jac tossed her keys onto the table next to the coat rack, dropped her bag onto a chair, and hung her jacket on the peg. She ran her fingers through her hair, straightening the asymmetrical style so it hung over her right eye. Vanessa had told her how she loved the way it fell across her face like this. Made her look mysterious and sexy, she’d said. Granted, it had been a while since she’d said that. But she had said it. Once.
Across the apartment, the door to their bedroom opened and Vanessa walked out, pulling a rolling suitcase behind her. Her long red hair cascaded down her back like a wave of burnished copper, glinting in the light as she glided across the floor, heels clicking on the solid oak. Her blue eyes flashed with annoyance.
“I didn’t expect you home so early.”
Ah. So that’s the way it’s going to be. “Sorry to interrupt your plans.” Jac didn’t feign ignorance as to what was going on. Nor did she have any inclination to ask the obvious question. “Were you planning to leave a note, or was I going to find out when I reported you missing to the police?”
Vanessa held up the envelope Jac hadn’t noticed she was holding. She didn’t cross the room to give it to her. Instead, Vanessa leant over with an arm outstretched and let it plummet onto the coffee table. “I’m not that callous.”
Jac disagreed, but it didn’t really matter now.
“We had a good run, but we want different things, Jac.”
Despite her earlier resolve, Jac managed to bite back any questions before they escaped her lips. They’d spent eighteen months as a couple, twelve of those living together in this apartment. At least a few of those months had been good. But this isn’t a surprise, she told herself. It was never going to be.
“Maybe it’s the age difference, but I’m not ready to just be at home all the time. I want to have fun,” Vanessa said needlessly into the silence.
The twenty-five-year age gap wasn’t really the issue at all. She wanted to scoff at that. And that Jac had only been looking for a beautiful distraction from the loneliness she didn’t want to look at or analyse any more closely than she did her need for a cigarette. Both impulses made her fidgety and crave something to do with her hands.
“Aren’t you going to say something?”
Jac’s chuckle was absolutely without mirth. “What do you want me to say? Would you like me to ask who it is that’s offered you a better part than I would?”
Vanessa slammed balled hands to her hips and squinted at Jac. The look formed hard lines on her face that suddenly made her look considerably older than her twenty-five years. It wasn’t flattering.
“No?” Jac asked into the silence Vanessa left. “Would you like me to offer you a part in the new film I’m making? Lead role? Biggest part of your life? That’s what you want, isn’t it?” That was all you ever wanted, wasn’t it? When will I learn? That’s all I’ve ever been for any of them.
“I knew you didn’t care.” She grasped the handle of her suitcase. “You’re not even putting up a fight for me.”
Lost for Words Page 2
