‘OK, sure,’ she says. ‘Let me pop in and get him off the phone.’
Becky moves quickly, perhaps to get ahead of anything Antonia might be planning on doing, like bursting into the office. She pushes Matthew’s door open and hears the words, ‘She misinterpreted that. That’s not what happened at all.’
He looks up, cheeks flushed a deep pink.
Becky just has time to mouth the word ‘Antonia’ and for Matthew’s face to arrange itself in a way that Becky has never seen before. Something almost childish: both beseeching and perturbed. But before she has a chance to enquire, Antonia moves past her. ‘Thank you, Becky. I’ll take it from here. What the fuck are you playing at? In our house?’
Becky backs out quickly and sees the door is shut firmly behind her.
Siobhan whistles through her teeth like a bomb flying through the air. Then for a short time they listen to Antonia and Matthew’s raised voices behind the door, nothing distinct enough for them to understand exactly what the argument is about but enough for it to become clear to Becky that it might concern the woman on the floor of their well-appointed kitchen.
Becky fights the urge to cower under her own arms as if that were protection enough from the explosion that will surely come. And, as the net of aggravated people surrounding Matthew widens, Becky fears he will take his frustration out on her by frog-marching her out of the office saying she stepped over one too many boundaries. She saw him part-stripped of his clothes in his own home and part-stripped of his dignity and composure in the office and it’s too hard to maintain a professional façade after that kind of thing.
Becky finds herself googling her boss’s name, wanting to know the identity of the woman getting between such a couple.
She feels afraid of what might happen next and yet also relieved that someone other than her knows about the woman on the kitchen floor. Surely Becky can afford to forget what she saw now that it’s clearly just business between husband and wife?
She takes hold of her own wrist, lightly, instinctively, and bends the joint at small angles, back and forth, back and forth so that it aches a little.
Antonia leaves very suddenly and in silence.
Matthew appears in the doorway of his office.
‘Where were we?’ he says. ‘Siobhan. Yes. Your film outline. The idea doesn’t hold together. It’s muddled. But that casting idea you had. Emilia Cosvelinos?’
‘Yes?’ Siobhan’s eyes brighten with hope.
‘She’s a great idea for Becky’s film. She’ll be in Cannes promoting her Scorsese movie, we should get a breakfast booked in with her. I’m mates with the agent. I’ll put the call in. He’ll go out to bat for us if Emilia bites – but she won’t bite unless it’s fucking irresistible and if the Scorsese film’s as good as everyone’s saying it is, then she’ll want an Oscar for whatever she does next. It’s worth a shot.’
Becky squirms with discomfort. ‘Mightn’t it be better if you pitched it to her, Matthew?’ she says, trying to put some space between her and what is happening. ‘As your idea. I mean, you’ve won Oscars for actresses—’
‘No. I like the project. But you love it. It’s your baby. That goes a long way with actors. Pitch her like you pitched me and you’ll do fine. Right, that’s it. Siobhan, can you get our man from IcePR on the line.’ It’s not a request. ‘I need to speak with him as soon as possible. Tell him it’s urgent.’
Matthew used to be in PR. Telling a story, spinning a story, knowing when to take the heat off one character and put it on another: such a transferrable skillset for the film industry.
‘I’ll call him right away,’ Siobhan says quietly.
Becky’s house is on the way to City Airport so she plans a quick trip home to collect her things. She arrives to the sweet, steamy scent of pancakes on the skillet. It is the food that Maisie and Adam make together every time he comes to stay, their most enduring ritual. They mix it up in terms of the recipe – made extra fluffy with egg whites, coconut and banana added, criss-crossed with candied bacon – but always they have pancakes.
Adam’s chocolate-coloured leather weekend bag has been dumped at the top of the stairs next to a pair of unlaced Campers, worn in and bashed up to the perfect fit and level of comfort. She can hear Maisie and Adam talking in the kitchen, giggling their way through the rambling conversations they specialize in. Adam and Maisie are masters of mimicry together: if Adam is Kermit, Maisie will reach for her best Miss Piggy. Neither of them would ever say it, but clearly they don’t like it if Becky tries to join in. So that’s become the tacit rule when they’re all together. Becky speaks with just the one voice; Adam and Maisie are multitudes.
She doesn’t have long to get her things and catch her flight, but she still takes a moment to enjoy the sound they make together, then peeks in to see that Maisie is back in her pyjamas, school done with. Right now she is moving photographs around the surface of their fridge, like pieces of a jigsaw. Every few weeks she takes new photos, prints and sticks them here, leaving only a loyal few old-timers by the handle. A faded colour one of her being bathed as a baby in the kitchen sink at the Hounslow house, just before the two of them moved with Becky’s mum. Another favoured photo is of the three of them together, Becky and Adam standing at either end of a low mossy log while ten-year-old Maisie steps along using a stick for balance, her great high-wire act.
Adam tips batter from a metal bowl into the frying pan.
‘Is there one for me?’
Adam’s face lights up when he sees Becky, and that’s
