For a fleeting, absurd moment, Becky wonders if she might not have been the only person to walk in on that scene. Plenty of their friends wander in and out. What if another woman, a friend of Antonia’s, walked in and out just as she had done? And called Antonia the next morning, to relate what she had seen? Then Becky would not have had to exist in this story. Erased from the scene, scrubbed out in post-production like an anachronism removed from the frames of a period drama. Gone, and so much lighter for her absence.
As Antonia moves between kettle and coffee and milk, she shows no sign of letting up on the diligence and care with which she talks about her husband. There is no reference to any indiscretion or other such thing. Instead, this is a crisis inflicted on them from beyond their gates.
‘Matthew is attached to his phone. He’s really suffering with spondylitis now, with his neck bent at that angle the whole time. I’m sure he’ll be out in a moment but it’s wall-to-wall calls. But you know that. Of course you do.’
Antonia turns, leans back against the butler’s sink with both palms bolstering her. ‘He’s not sleeping, I’m not sleeping. We were both shuffling around the kitchen in our dressing gowns last night before dawn. Like the living dead.’
Antonia’s eyes change, like storm clouds passing and in that moment Becky sees that Antonia has thought of something that cannot be voiced, cannot be shared. Becky is, after all, an employee.
‘It makes it all the more important to have good people around you, times like these,’ says Antonia instead. ‘Makes all the difference. So thank you, Rebecca.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘No, it means a lot to him. And to me.’
‘He’s been so supportive through my whole career. I mean, he is my career. I’d never let him down.’ Becky’s eyes travel to the sofa grouping. The rug.
Antonia passes her the mug of coffee. ‘I do wish I had something else to offer you.’
‘This is perfect. Thank you.’
Close up, the tension in Antonia’s body is manifest. Her face is drawn and pale. She holds herself as if she has a glass globe on her shoulders instead of a head. But above all else she holds herself like she still has her dignity. Despite these accusations of her husband’s infidelity, possibly his violent infidelity, she is calm. There will be no plates thrown by Antonia. Not in front of the children, not in front of the staff. Becky knows a little about that herself, the battle to look poised when inside it is all waves threatening to engulf you, filling the lungs and mouth.
Becky wonders whether Antonia has seen the words written by trolls on Twitter and in the blog posts. The comments under clips of Amber’s films on YouTube.
Becky remembers pushing Maisie in her pram, past a group of schoolkids two years below her. Hearing the word ‘slut’ mock-whispered and then their laughter. Knowing that she wouldn’t turn, wouldn’t shout, wouldn’t protest it. She had tried to walk taller. She had forced herself not to speed up. Don’t let them see that they’ve hurt you. Don’t give them anything. Not so much as a flinch. And with her back to them, while her pace went unchanged, unhurried, her face was free to twist into an agony of shame and anger and sadness. Antonia knows all this, thinks Becky. She knows which parts of her Becky can see and she has decided which other parts she’ll show her. The rest can only be guessed at.
How are Antonia and Matthew, truly, walking in their kitchen at dawn? Stepping around that rug?
She watches Antonia try to open a packet of Fox’s chocolate biscuits wrapped in matt-navy foil. Her fingers are long and thin and she is wearing one particularly striking ring, an almond-shaped sapphire circled with tiny diamonds. To Becky, it looks like the Death Star surrounded by angels. Becky wonders how Antonia would seem, clad in Medea’s robes. How would she wear her face, if allowed to be all rage, all revenge, all agony?
‘Here, let me,’ Becky says, taking the packet from Antonia. ‘These are Maisie’s favourites. There’s a bit of a knack to it.’
‘I’ll look and learn.’
Maybe it’s this small kindness that prompts Antonia to unlock another layer of her private hell to Becky.
‘Bart is having a horrible time, having to side-step the press every time he leaves the house. He’s very sensible, he’s a good boy, he’s got used to saying, No comment. I think it’s just awful how these people feel that they can do that to somebody. I feel sorry for them. They can’t have much else in their lives.’
Becky knows that Antonia won’t ever say anything to her about Matthew and Amber’s historic or recent indiscretions. Perhaps she has tried to wipe it from her mind entirely, knowing that their marriage, the business, the family, everything that they have built together, must now be protected. Fought for. And if there are casualties, well, so be it.
‘Have you ever met this girl?’ asks Antonia.
‘Who?’
‘Amber Heath.’
‘No,’ says Becky, fixating on the sheen of the fridge. ‘I think that what it is, I think that maybe … everyone’s looking for their moment in the sun? It’s an industry mostly made up of people who haven’t made it, or are realizing that they won’t make it. I think Amber was probably starting to feel like she was old news and wasn’t going to be someone who gets big parts. And now she’s in the papers. In a twisted way she’s probably got what she wanted, on some level. If that makes sense.’
‘You can see why I hired her, can’t you?’ says Matthew, entering the room from deeper in the house. He is wearing
