Maisie, home for a planned revision day, returns from the corner shop with milk and a copy of The Sun.
‘They’ve laid out ten suspects for “the woman in the kitchen”,’ she says, hair fallen either side of a paler than usual face. ‘Lily just messaged me the article. Told me she’d seen the actual paper. Said I should get one for the archives. To show my grandchildren.’ She looks up from beneath her hair. ‘One of the suspects is you.’
Becky swallows and smiles. She can do this for her daughter. She can be calm and reassuring.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘But it’s fine. Obviously it’s not me. And look, everyone they’ve got has denied it. Only Matthew’s wife hasn’t, but she hasn’t said anything to anyone. And come on!’ She tries a laugh. ‘They’ve even put Julia Roberts in as a potential suspect! That’s hilarious.’
‘She was in London and she’s a friend of his,’ Maisie says quietly.
‘Wouldn’t you recognize the world-famous star of Pretty Woman and Notting Hill and a million other things if she was standing over you, watching you? This is completely stupid.’
‘How many of these people do you know?’
‘I don’t know why this is still a story,’ says Becky, affecting growing irritation.
‘It’s a weird thing to make up though, isn’t it? Why would you make up something like that?’ Maisie crosses her arms across her chest.
‘I don’t know. Maybe she wants to sound credible, claiming there was a witness, even if there wasn’t. That way people think they’re waiting for proof that they’ll end up getting, instead of it being what it is, which is ultimately her word against his.’
‘That’s, like, most rapes, isn’t it? He said, she said?’
Becky has had versions of this conversation before. She spent six months working with a psychotherapist building up to being able to talk about sex, consent and personal safety without breaking down. She practised, like she was training for a marathon. She wants sex for her daughter to be loving or playful or fun, and safe. She doesn’t want her to feel used or discarded or belittled. She doesn’t want her daughter to feel the fear that has sat heavy on her own shoulders all these years.
But now Becky struggles to remember those lessons as she affects to study the newspaper carefully. There is her picture – at the beginning of the second row: an old black-and-white shot, taken from an online graduation brochure for an evening class in film-making at the local university. It’s woefully out of date but up until now there’s been no reason for her picture to be on the internet at all. In this picture, her hair is shorter, her eyes less lined, her choice of clothes still resolutely teenage. The woman she is now hides behind long hair and slightly better clothes, instead of baggy clothes and walls.
‘God. I’ve aged badly,’ Becky says, trying for a laugh. ‘I can’t believe you’ve spent money buying this paper. You’re funding trash. This is a paper that used to publish photos of women with their tits out to help men get through the day without looking at soft porn. I’m not sure anyone should be taking lectures from this lot on women’s issues.’
But Maisie doesn’t pick up on the thread that might otherwise direct the conversation down another path and instead she says quietly, almost childishly, ‘Mum?’
‘Yes?’
‘I really hate that you’re in the papers for a story about someone getting raped.’
‘Nobody was raped.’
‘I know that. But it’s still a story about that.’
‘I don’t like it either. It’ll blow over.’
‘OK. I fucking hate Amber Heath.’
‘Language.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I’m sorry if this is hard on you at school. Just remember that … this isn’t me. It’s a story about someone I work with.’
‘OK.’
‘Focus on your revision.’
‘I will. Are we going to be all right if the company goes under?’
‘Why would it go under?’
‘If nobody wants to work with Matthew any more.’
‘That wouldn’t be very fair, would it?’
‘The world’s not fair. You’ve said that, like, a million times.’
‘I know, I’m sorry, I’m really trying to be less cynical. Here, look at my new smile.’ She grins but Maisie is unconvinced. ‘Look, please don’t worry. I can always get another job.’
‘Are you going to?’
‘No. I want to make my film. I’ve put a lot into that. I can’t walk away from that. And besides, I completely love my job. Shouldn’t that count for something? Why should I have to lose all that over a story that has nothing to do with me?’
‘Can I meet Emilia?’
‘You can come to set and hang out, absolutely.’
‘Can I bring Jules?’
Becky’s phone rings. It’s Sam, Emilia’s agent, again. She diverts the call. ‘I have to get going,’ she says quickly. ‘Maybe work on your chemistry or Spanish today?’
‘Sì.’
‘Oh, very good. Chemistry it is then.’ Becky kisses her quickly, puts the paper under her arm, and heads for the shower.
Becky is on her way to Matthew’s house in an Uber when she returns Sam’s call.
‘Hey there, rock star,’ he says. ‘How’ve you been?’
It must be the middle of the night but agents in LA seem to be as on call as doctors, and despite the hour Sam sounds like he’s been playing tennis, drinking green juice and generally having a great time. Like this call is just one more thing he’s super looking forward to, even when the next thing he has to say is going to be bad news.
‘I’m great!’ she says. ‘And what about you?’
‘You know, I never bitch to my British friends because I know you guys have to tolerate a lot of bad weather on top of whatever’s going on in your lives, so I’m going to say all good.’ Sam laughs. And then he’s down to business. ‘OK, so we need to talk about these rumours. And let me first say that Emilia loves you, loves Sharon, loves the project, OK?
