The footage appears to have been recorded on an iPhone. Perhaps shot by an opportunistic reporter. It is jerky, obviously hand-held as the questioner follows a man emerging from a bar and heading down a busy night-time street in central London. Becky recognizes him as a minor actor, but she can’t place him exactly. Was he the special advisor in that BBC drama about the disgraced MP? Or the school teacher in that ITV comedy?
Her brain glitches and jumps, her eyes only able to dart and identify key words, unable to follow the flow of a sentence:
Kingfisher Films. Matthew Kingsman. A relationship with the actress Amber Heath. Alleges that …
She plays the clip.
I’d hardly call rape a relationship.
The words come out loud and aggressive, her phone on top volume. Her first instinct is to glance up at the cab driver to see what he’s heard, then find the mute button to stop him from hearing more.
She plays it again and reads the words that ticker tape along the bottom: I’d hardly call rape a relationship.
The man in the clip has large, clean-cut features, is dressed in a long beige trench coat and dandyish loafers. An air of sozzled camp about him. The reporter seems to have chased him down the street to ask his questions, perhaps that’s why his answers are so blunt.
‘Are the rumours about your friend Amber true?’
‘Yes, she’s gorgeous, it’s true.’
‘Is she having a relationship with Matthew Kingsman?’
‘I’d hardly call a rape a relationship.’
‘What?’
‘No comment. Kingsman’s a nasty little bitch. That’s my last word on the subject of that tosser.’
‘Are they not together then?’
‘You’re being boring now. Go on, piss off.’
The man waves the reporter away, knocking the phone out of his hand.
The footage ends there.
Her mouth dry, Becky skims the blog post’s text. The man in the video is identified as one of Amber’s best friends, fellow actor and noted bon vivant Ollie Hennessy. An update on the article says that Hennessy has clarified that he spoke out of turn and that he apologizes for having a big, drunk mouth.
It’s far from being a retraction.
David Barraclough, Amber Heath’s agent at Total Agents, has been asked for a comment but hasn’t replied to the website’s overtures.
Becky looks behind her, out of the grey-dusted rear window, as if she’s being followed. The traffic is moving fast and she struggles to calculate how long she’ll need between alerting the driver, the cab making a safe stop, the wait for the door’s red light, opening the door and vomiting onto the pavement.
DB. Such a nice man. Such a nice lunch they had together. She looks at his client list online. Amber is a relatively small fish. Becky tries to remember: had DB pitched Amber before? Perhaps for a supporting part in something that fell apart days before shooting was due to begin? Perhaps Amber maybe even came in to meet for it? Becky tries to think back but the panic is making it hard to ground her thoughts. Was Matthew there? Did he offer an opinion?
She tries to search her phone for more information, each movement cumbersome, clumsy, misdirected and slow now that her hands seem not to be working properly.
Twitter has picked up on the story. Questions being thrown about.
She thinks about Amber’s blonde hair spread across Matthew’s floor. That same hair tamed and tied up in chignons on red carpets and plaited in the pages of celebrity magazines.
Becky closes her eyes and tries to remember precisely what she saw but all she can see is the blue-veined path on the map flashing its crooked line.
The cab swings left and a motorbike comes for them, swerves at the last minute to avoid the collision and skids away.
Regent Street gives way to a narrow maze of Soho streets with shoppers and workers idly walking the narrow pavements, blackened and sticky outside pubs where beer spilt from the night before traps ash and litter and diesel fumes.
‘Here,’ she says, when the black cab gets to Soho Square. She pays and waves away her change. Can’t think about that. Lands on the pavement, still bent from exiting the cab, no time to hold her hair back, her head tips forward and then, yes, she vomits. Her hair swings into the sick, like vines in the breeze.
It hits the pavement and someone passing by in new white trainers leaps away from the splat, squeaking dramatically at his friend, before they both laugh. ‘Drunk or pregnant or both?’ says one to the other, loudly, as they walk on.
It had looked like pleasure and pain, on Amber’s face. How could she know which was which? Held or pinned down? Rough sex or rape?
She uses the aeroplane napkin from her bag to wipe glossy spittle from around her mouth. Pours water from the aeroplane bottle onto her hair where vomit has caught it, until it runs clean. Her legs are rippling. Don’t cry again, she tells herself. Now is not the time.
Siobhan is waiting for her at the front door of their building.
‘There you are, thank bloody hell for that. Have you seen?’
‘About Amber Heath? Yes, I’ve just watched it. What’s going on?’
‘I don’t know. He’s holed himself away until you get here.’ So in they go.
Matthew opens his office door and leans out, hand still attached to the doorknob like he’s in a strong wind and needs something to anchor himself to. Becky’s heart hammers against her chest wall, piston-quick. Matthew is pale and drawn, his layer of tan wiped away in a matter of hours. And she feels sorry for him.
She and Siobhan step forward.
‘Just you,’ Matthew says to Becky. ‘Siobhan, mind the phones, please. Take messages, say I’m in meetings all day,’ he says. ‘Becky, in here, please.’
Becky steps into his office. He closes the door behind her. Becky just has time to
