‘It’s not forever. It’s just while he’s feeling bad that he nearly fucked up my film.’
‘I thought the whole thing was a totally baseless rumour?’
‘It was. But nobody was accusing me of being their rapist. I’m having to fend off reporters while keeping my work going, I’m—’
‘Wow, I’m going to get one of my mates to bang him just so I can tell the papers it never happened and then get a private jet off him.’
Becky doesn’t laugh like she’s meant to.
Siobhan shrugs defensively. ‘If that’s what it takes, right? Until then, how’s about a big old-fashioned “Thank you” for agreeing to do all your work while you sun yourself on Kingsman-recommended sun-loungers?’
Yes, there is a definite edge to her.
‘Thank you, Siobhan. I’ll let Maisie know I only managed to get away because you’re a lovely, kind person.’
‘And sexy and talented.’
‘And because you always smell amazing.’
‘Fingernails?’
‘Very witchy.’
‘I want you to credit my fingernails for your whole mini-break.’
‘Will do.’
And with that, Becky hurries out of the office, towards the chauffeur-driven car waiting outside the building, that Matthew has laid on to drive her and her family out of the city in style and comfort.
Chapter 21
Becky leans against reception waiting for their paperwork to be completed and their key cards to be issued, fingers pinched round the bottom of a champagne glass, absorbing the low light and neutrals, the peaceful string music, the interior water feature of tiny rocks and bonsai. She breathes it all in like clean mountain air, allowing herself to feel hope that a break, a change in place and pace, could really, genuinely, be what she needs. Her own childhood family holidays in Rye and Camber Sands weren’t exactly sunshine, Snakes and Ladders and sea-salted skin – there were arguments and feuds and a lot of being alone. She can do better, can’t she? Surely she can.
She’s already made a start by building a dam against the fretful toxic sludge that seeps through Twitter, Instagram, the Daily Mail, the Guardian, YouTube and the blogs. She’s closed down every unhelpful window and app on her phone, determining that she will leave the speculation about Amber well alone and that she will leave Scott well alone to get on with his preening and preparation, while she spends proper time with her family.
And yet, she has already spent the journey to Camber Sands fretting over Maisie. Her classmates have been making digs about the fact that Becky was in the papers. Maisie tells Becky that she batted them away ‘like annoying flies’, but what remains at the end of the conversation and stays with Becky for some time after is a sense of her daughter collecting battle scars. She saw her daughter’s sad eyes in the rear view mirror and Becky blamed herself for it.
But now Maisie and Adam seem to be happily fussing over a luggage label, discussing when they should set their alarms for pancakes and eggs the next morning, and maybe there is hope after all. Let it be simple. Let it be fun. Let nobody ask her about Amber ever again.
The receptionist, dressed like a health spa specialist, in a cream tabard, looks up and smiles at Becky. ‘Breakfast will be served from eight and I’ll need your credit card for any incidentals.’
Becky hands it over. ‘Can you put the rooms on this one too?’
‘Everything’s paid for. By Matthew Kingsman.’
Becky hesitates then glances around her, as if someone’s watching her. When she’s sure no one is, she says, ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘You just need to pay for any incidentals.’
She pulls her sleeves over her fists. ‘Honestly? I’d rather pay for the whole thing if that’s all right.’
‘It’s all done, all gone through. Is there a …’ She checks a sheet of paper by her keyboard. ‘Is there a Maisie Shawcross with you?’
‘Yes? Why? Do you need her?’
‘Please.’
Becky turns to Maisie. Thinks twice. ‘Hold on, can I ask what it’s about?’
‘Of course.’ The receptionist hands the sheet of paper to Becky. It reads:
Dear Maisie, Please enjoy a trip away in this hotel, all expenses paid. If you’d like to try horse riding on the beach tomorrow, just ask and they’ll arrange it. Have a great birthday. If you grow up anything like your mum then you’ll be an amazing human being. Best birthday wishes, Matthew Kingsman.’
Becky folds the paper in four and drops it into her handbag. She is shivering. The air-con is up too high.
All presents are reciprocal. Aren’t they?
Her mind is shivering now, darting all over the place like it can’t find a place to settle, or hide. She takes the paper out of her bag and throws it in the bin like it’s contaminated. She doesn’t immediately untangle the details of why: all she knows is she doesn’t want Matthew’s promises within an inch of her daughter.
Maisie runs over, Adam in her wake. ‘This place is amazing, Mum! They have an omelette bar at breakfast.’
‘Traitor,’ growls Adam behind her. ‘We are pancake people. Don’t go chasing after other round foods at breakfast. No bagels. No omelettes. Definitely no pizzas.’
‘Omelettes get folded in half.’
‘That’s because they’re sneaky!’ shouts Adam, collapsing Maisie into giggles.
‘Mais,’ says Becky, ‘can you go to the bar and order us three nice cocktails?’ She hands her a credit card. ‘Make sure you pay for them on this. Oh, and non-alcoholic.’
‘Coming right up.’
‘What’s up?’ Adam says as they watch Maisie skip to the bar with its low-lit oceanic lighting. ‘You’re tense.’
‘Matthew’s paid for the whole thing,’ she says quietly.
‘Wow, that’s generous,’ he says. ‘And that’s a … problem?’
She wants to tell him everything: for it to pour out of her like news headlines racing across the bottom of the screen. But instead she is silent.
‘I’m disappointed not to be allowed
