Becky turns away from her daughter, who is scraping the white seeds from the core of a pepper and straining to listen.
‘Amber has a bit of a track record of making false allegations,’ Becky says. ‘It’s really unfair that some people would condemn him without any proof. It’s like they used to drown witches – no evidence, just one person’s word and your life’s taken from you.’
How very unlike herself she sounds, Becky thinks, turning around as if she can feel the beam of Maisie’s gaze burn into her. She sounds too loud, too vehement. Becky wipes grime from her eyes. She is tired, stressed, she thinks. She is not herself. She must get more sleep.
Becky turns back, steps further away and comes to a standstill at the kitchen doorway, looking out into the hallway.
‘Of course I understand. I can tell you that he absolutely … no … no, he is appalled by the accusations. Absolutely appalled, of course he is. But the thing is, Amber hasn’t said anything. It’s actually some drunk, show-off friend of hers who was probably recycling a second-hand rumour about the wrong person. The bottom line for me is that I couldn’t work for a man who I believe might do anything like that.’
Becky leans against the doorframe and struggles to find something to hold onto, something more than the painted wood beneath her fingers that would not yield or break were she to thump and slam at it.
‘I’ll see you at the FilmFour meeting next week,’ she says. ‘Yes, it’s very exciting. If we can get them on side we could be shooting this side of Christmas.’ Her fists clench and her thoughts turn to Medea. The call ends.
She can feel Maisie’s eyes on the back of her head.
‘You sounded pretty worked up,’ her daughter says.
‘I am. It’s cruel, lobbing accusations at someone without proof.’
‘Yeah …’
‘What?’
‘Like … isn’t there no smoke without a fire?’
‘Such overused words. Why bother with the justice system then? What, we can just throw people into jail on the say-so of their pissed-off neighbours or vengeful exes? I know, what about if someone said, I saw Maisie kill someone. Or maybe someone who looked a bit like Maisie. She was tall anyway. Off you go then, Maisie. See you in twenty years. Is that enough smoke?’
Maisie looks a little shocked. Says quietly, ‘So why would the actress make something like that up?’
‘We have no idea what she thinks! She hasn’t said a word to anyone. It’s her moon-faced stupid twat friend who’s been ruining lives so he can get his fifteen seconds of fame.’
‘It’s fifteen minutes of fame.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Who were you talking to just now?’
‘Oh. The, um. The director.’ A flash of something catches her eye. ‘What are those on your feet?’
‘Nike Volt Utility Trainers?’ Maisie replies sheepishly.
‘I know that,’ she snaps. ‘Where did you get them from?’
‘Uh … Dad bought them for me?’
‘They were supposed to be a reward for working hard.’
‘He gave them to me as an early birthday present this morning because he said I was working hard already.’
‘He shouldn’t have done that.’ Becky shouts. She wanted to buy her daughter those trainers. She wanted her daughter to learn the value of hard work. She didn’t want to feel so undermined. And now all these questions Maisie has for her.
Becky looks up and sees the surprise, more a low level of fear, in her daughter’s eyes and pulls herself up. She shouldn’t be punishing Maisie for Adam’s actions, or for asking questions. None of it is her fault.
She promises herself she’ll bring up the trainers with Adam. At the right time, she will.
After a pause Maisie says, ‘Is she worried about it?’
‘Is who worried about what?’ Becky snaps again, unable to help herself.
‘The director,’ Maisie says quietly.
‘Everyone’s worried about it. If Sharon or Emilia walk off, we don’t have a film. And after that it’s a film that anyone with decency wouldn’t touch with a bargepole. And then you don’t ever have a film again. And it’s years of my life down the plughole. And I’ll probably get fired as well. So, yes, I’m a bit worried.’
Maisie nods slowly. ‘Amber is obviously a nutter.’
‘Who knows what she’s like? She should pick her friends a bit more carefully. I’ll say that about her.’
An hour later Becky’s phone pings.
Matthew has given an interview at the request of a journalist looking at the story for a major entertainment news outlet.
Becky sits and reads it carefully.
Matthew tells the journalist that nobody has formally approached him about these allegations. The police certainly haven’t been in touch. He knows as much as everyone else, which is to say very little indeed. But he’s heard from enough concerned friends now to decide that he has to speak out: before baseless rumours become baseless facts and real damage is done.
He mentions how he is hesitant about talking freely when several sensitive subjects are raised by the allegations and moreover when Amber herself hasn’t said anything about them.
The journalist asks him if he’d like to comment on Amber’s reputation for being difficult on the set of her last film, possibly due to mental health issues?
Matthew chides his interviewer. It’s not really fair to discuss someone’s private life, and besides, mental illness is heavily stigmatized already. It shouldn’t be raised to tar someone as a liar.
Anyway … When Matthew last saw Amber it was for a work thing. He felt she seemed a little altered and rather aggressive with him. He now wishes he’d done more to reach out and help but; as ever, work swamped me.
Becky pictures sedation needles and strait-jackets and a mask over Amber’s face with metal rods that look like teeth.
I could have done more to help. I regret that I didn’t act to help
