‘Becky!’ says Matthew, standing up and then drawing her in for a hug. She cannot remember a time when he has greeted her this way in London. The rules are different here; she must learn them, and fast. ‘This is Rebecca Shawcross,’ he says to the man he is with. ‘Becky works with me,’ he adds, while making space for Becky to sit at the end of their padded bench. ‘And how are you enjoying sunny Cannes so far?’
‘It’s so beautiful,’ she smiles. She scrabbles for something to say to illustrate her point and finds herself mentally scrolling through Scott’s old Instagram feed. ‘So many art galleries here,’ she says, regretting it immediately. She’s not on her holidays. The last thing she wants is for these people to think she’ll be visiting galleries or even considering casual tourism in precious working hours.
‘She’s about to make her first feature, actually,’ Matthew says, and the other man nods. ‘We’re meeting Emilia Cosvelinos for it tomorrow.’
His voice is warm milk and whisky. He has described her as someone who works with and not for him and he has used her full name. Pathetic, she thinks, so pathetic, that she feels important to him when he speaks it, as if the name she was given is worth more coming from his mouth. And yet, her legs feel a little stronger and she sits a little taller now.
‘Alex is a film critic. Alex Simms?’ says Matthew.
‘Ah yes,’ she says, recognizing him from his byline. ‘I love your reviews. Always unsparing, always very funny.’
His shoulders flex a little wider. Becky can tell he’s pleased.
‘I hope I’ve spared anyone you know,’ he says.
‘I think you called Tommy Sheridan’s last effort “well-intentioned”. He was in the office last week for a meeting. Said he cried for a week, but didn’t deny you’d nailed it.’
Alex laughs. Delighted. ‘He’s a good director but he’s got a terrible sweet tooth,’ he says.
‘I think he’ll end up doing musicals and making an absolute fortune,’ says Becky.
‘You’re a hundred per cent right.’
Matthew smiles. And Becky has the odd sensation that she is standing outside her own life, watching a woman in her skin do a half-decent job of this thing which is flirting and flattery and bonding and, she supposes, networking.
Alex is a good deal shorter than her. His eyes are pale and filled with a darting energy that makes him look like a young deer until he smiles, when the fine skin around his eyes concertinas to betray his age. He looks at the ruffle lining her décolletage first, and then meets her eyes second. Becky remembers to give them warmth but without the insinuation of an invitation. Her price isn’t ever her own body, but she knows that’s by no means the case for those around her.
‘So you’re meeting with Emilia? I just came out of the screening for her new film actually,’ he says.
‘How was it?’
‘Reviews are embargoed till midnight, but it’s five stars. It’s going to win everything.’
‘What’s she like in it?’ asks Matthew.
‘Yeah, well, what to say … she’s great. But she’s not the lead. She’ll get a supporting nod. She’ll want the main course next.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ says Becky. ‘I think she’s incredible.’
‘You’ll struggle to get her now, my friend.’
She feels Matthew’s eyes on her. It’s not like it’s a test; this is just the back and forth of a conversation, but still. How to say the perfect thing. How to be confident and not frightened, not cocky but still impregnable. Is that what this place wants?
‘Well,’ says Becky finally, ‘I’ve got something in common with Emilia. We’d both like to see her win Best Actress.’
The journalist grins. ‘Good luck with it. See you at the Oscars!’
Matthew waggles his phone. ‘Just going to confirm our breakfast with Sam. Back in a jot.’ He turns away to make his call and Becky is flooded with discomfort at this reminder of how uncertain their meeting, her only meeting in Cannes, truly is. Not even Matthew can command it take place. Even he might have to flatter and persuade.
A thick and awkward pause lies between her and Alex, now that she is unwatched and they have sole charge of the conversation. All her life any lapse in conversation or round-edged awkwardness has been her doing, she is sure of it. Does she give off something? Some signal she can’t herself see or read that tells others that, for all her apparent efforts, she would prefer to be many miles away, probably alone. She must have something more to say to this man. Some clever thing. Some pithy thing to let him say, in a year’s time, when Medea’s trailer launches, that he knows the producer and she’s smart. Going places. Now that he has met her, he can be asked for his opinion of her. What will he say? What can she offer him?
‘So you’re an art lover?’ he says.
‘Oh no, not especially.’ She squirms, afraid of being caught out, asked about artists and paintings she knows nothing about. Again her thoughts return to Scott’s Instagram feed. ‘A friend recommended the Bonnard Museum here. Once. A long time ago. I know nothing really.’
He smiles. Amused by something in her. ‘Has Matthew shown you the store cupboard yet?’
It is Alex’s casual tone that makes Becky unsure about whether she has heard correctly. Is this an industry term she hasn’t come across yet? But there is an edge to it. A hint of acid, a subtle probing.
‘Our office is tiny. Everything’s on shelves.’ Lightly evasive, without confessing her confusion.
‘Has he shown you the top shelf then?’
‘I know the market’s bad, but we’re not making that kind of movie. Not yet.’
It is like she is swimming ahead of something
