‘However you cut it, he’s done north of twenty films and I can name one with a female director, which was Hellensgard.’
‘He got brought that with Lotta already attached.’
‘See, that’s even more depressing.’
‘He’s not a sexist. He hires women. He’s got me producing.’
‘Still. Back to the one out of twenty directors statistic …’
‘There aren’t that many women directors who can get a film made. I mean, even if you want to back women, if you can’t raise money because France or China or whoever hasn’t heard of them, then you can’t make the film. Believe me, I’ve gone through the lists hundreds of times. You’re rare. You make good films that also make money.’
‘Not sure Matthew agrees with you. I went for that Austen film you guys did. Didn’t get it.’
‘That’s a shame. You’d have been great.’
‘Might have dodged a bullet. It was all a bit bonnets and blushing in the end. So what’s your idea then? Your thing that got shat on?’
Becky has to recalibrate for a moment. Then she plunges in. ‘It’s based on the ancient Greek myth Medea. It’s a contemporary retelling. It’s about a woman who takes back her power in a messy and destructive way. It’s about that moment when men realize that women can be every bit as dangerous and imaginative and vindictive and proud as the men they know.’
‘And what’s the story?’
‘Men take everything from her. Promise her things and betray her. She kills her own children to destroy their father.’
‘It’s usually men who do that to their ex-wives.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And you’ve got a script?’
‘Yes. It needs a bit of work, but it’s basically there.’
‘Can I read it?’
‘That’d be great. I’ll send it to you when I’m back in—’
‘Send it to me now. I’m on Gmail. It’s: Sharon 105 mm.’
‘Like the Nikon lens?’
‘Exactly.’
Becky has to tap the email address into her phone twice, her hands are shaking so much. She cannot believe she is sending Medea to a director as amazing as Sharon. She feels a true fizz of excitement until she catches herself, wondering if it’s all a big joke that is being caught on hidden camera, as she attaches the PDF from her Dropbox. Then with one tap it’s sent.
‘That’s my bedtime reading then.’ Sharon hugs Becky. ‘I’ve got to go back and be nice to my North American distributers now. Good luck. And chin up.’
‘Nice meeting you.’
‘Top tip? Don’t bother to look like you haven’t been crying. Just say you found someone’s film really, really moving. Even better if it’s their film. They’ll buy you drinks all night.’
In the morning when she wakes, in her pretty hotel room facing away from the ocean, there is an email from Sharon waiting for her.
FUCK YEAH I’M IN*
(* terms and conditions apply)
Chapter 9
The location for their pitch meeting is the hotel restaurant area, timed for just after the breakfast rush, after the plates and cutlery are gone but when plenty of people are still milling around and chatting over coffee. The restaurant is unremarkable but for its glass walls on all sides that allow patrons to both watch (people, the sea) and be watched. When Becky arrives, Matthew is already there with Emilia, seated at a circular table that makes them particularly noticeable. Becky cannot help but inwardly applaud Matthew’s genius: nothing like a very visible meeting with a high-profile actress to get people wondering what that was about. What a way to kick off the buzz, thinks Becky.
Matthew is leaning forward over the starched tablecloth and Emilia is leaning backward slightly, tilting her head, either laughing or making space; it’s hard to tell from across the room. Becky watches them for a second. It looks like an old dance: alpha man stretching out his arms to command space and pretty girl, like silk, supine, promising she’ll be hard to catch. Have they done this before? Have they been lovers once already? She imagines them on Matthew’s kitchen floor together, locked into each other, but dismisses it quickly as an unhelpful thought.
Then she finds herself idly wondering whether Matthew has ever thought of her in that way before; as someone attractive or alluring or beguiling enough to want to sleep with. She knows that she can look pretty enough, sometimes, with the right make-up and clothes in the right light. It’s not as if she finds him physically attractive, she’s never wanted to sleep with him as such, and yet she still finds herself feeling a little disappointed when she reminds herself that Matthew is a man surrounded by exceptional beauty and talent and charisma and that she has none of those things in any great measure. She finds herself wanting, simply, to have the choice about whether she is thought of in that way, or not.
When Becky joins them, there is a heavy pause, almost indiscernible, as if she might have interrupted something. But then Sam, Emilia’s agent, also arrives and suddenly everyone is on their feet kissing and bear-hugging and trading congratulations on the reception of her new film.
They take their seats and order coffee. Becky sits opposite Emilia. She is smaller than Becky had imagined, even though she is used to actors being bird-like or doll-like in the flesh. She feels taller than ever, tempted to slouch, to throw away her height like it’s unwanted. Her gaze toggles between the actress’s bare, milk-white arms and the oversized, widely spaced eyes that take up so much of her face. She is beautiful. And she is dressed down, wearing a black tank top with her punky hair tied up in a loose and messy knot darting out at all angles – pale pink, yellow blonde, platinum – like a tasteful firework. Elegant without trying. Where did she learn how to do that? And she is already bored, her eyes flat, arms resting across her waist. With Matthew alone she looked alive. Now this is work. Becky feels like she has gate-crashed. But perhaps it’s only in her
