Matthew said: She kissed me and I said something like: Hold on, I’ve already said no to all this. But we got carried away. We’d had a lot to drink. We kissed on the steps all the way up to my bedroom, nearly didn’t make it. And then we were in the bedroom having sex on my bed. I’d never have sex on a floor, let alone a kitchen floor.
Amber said: He got me onto the kitchen floor. He raped me.
Matthew said: Of course there is no ‘witness’. It never happened. And there would have been nothing to see. Two people drinking too much wine. That’s all.
And Becky?
Becky, shivering with both cold and nerves, had given her evidence: a red and black shoe. A thigh pinned down. A look on Amber’s face. What look? Distress. There was a time she thought it could have been ecstasy but no, she thinks now distress. Had Becky ever been asked by Matthew not to say anything? No. Do you vouch for the character of Matthew Kingsman? Not any more. Can she be sure that what she saw was rape? No. All she can say is that she was there. In the kitchen.
And now she was here.
Becky sits down next to Amber.
Amber Heath, publicly torn down, disbelieved, called a slut and slag and liar.
‘Hello again,’ she says.
Outside the courtroom, the photographers had surged at Becky like baying, drunk football hooligans. Up in her face with their questions and microphones. Camera flashes dazzling her.
Matthew had the best barristers that money could buy. He was acquitted. Of course he was. He and Amber had met before, slept together before. She went there, knowing that his wife was away. They drank wine. And if he denied having sex on the floor, it was because it was a humiliation too far. To be thought of that way.
Amber puts her arms around Becky and hugs her for a long time.
Afterwards, they sit next to each other on the bench, Amber holding Becky’s hand.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t come forward when you asked,’ says Becky. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t say anything sooner.’
‘But you did say something.’ Amber turns to face her.
‘But he was acquitted. It might have been different.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘They wouldn’t have called you a liar,’ says Becky.
‘Some of them still would have.’
‘Stop being nice. You tried to kill yourself. You thought you were going mad, and I let that happen.’
‘You didn’t know me. And you didn’t owe me anything.’ And then, ‘Why did you do it? In the end?’ asks Amber.
‘I thought I owed you an answer. You needed an answer and I had it. I could at least give you that.’
‘I don’t think I’d have come forward. I’d have kept quiet.’
‘You don’t know that,’ says Becky. ‘Are you not angry with me, Amber?’
‘You burned down your whole life for me, when you didn’t have to. I’m not angry with you. You’re my hero.’
The two look at each other then. Amber squeezes Becky’s hand.
‘It really helped. Please believe me.’
‘I do,’ says Becky. ‘I believe you.’
Acknowledgements
As an ex-agent myself, I’ll start with my old peer-group. Thank you to Veronique Baxter for her ongoing support, ideas, gift for perspective and downright brilliance. Many thanks also to her tireless colleagues Sara Langham, Alice Howe and everyone in the foreign rights department at David Higham Associates. My gratitude to the always erudite and fabulous St John Donald at United Agents for his work on the film and TV side.
Thanks to everyone at HarperCollins for their enthusiasm for this book – Abbie Salter, Jen Harlow, Liz Dawson, Holly Macdonald, Fionnuala Barrett – in particular my editor Martha Ashby, whose notes I always look forward to. Outrage, determination, amusement, analysis, joy, tears: her talent and humanity are present in every conversation and track-change. It makes working with her an absolute joy and privilege.
My friends continue to be an essential source of support, love and knowledge. Thank you to the women who have shared their stories of workplace and home. During my research a number of friends offered their particular expertise across various technical matters: Rupert Russell on court procedure, Melissa Case on criminal and family justice policy and imposter syndrome, Marianna Turner on medical general practice, Heather Brearey on the workings of both the police force and the teenage mind. Thanks also to Negeen Yazdi and Damien Jones for sharing their insights into the film industry, from international film financing to the colour of the beach umbrellas at Cannes. Any mistakes are entirely my own.
Many others supported me during the writing of this book. Zofia Sagan and Emily Pedder both deserve a particularly extended virtual-hug of thanks.
Family, always. The unerring belief and enthusiasm and love of the Begbie family: Mum, Dad, Louise – thank you. And all the Edges for their support and love. My best friend, Melissa, for always talking things through, around and over.
I gratefully acknowledge the works of several authors whose books I read in preparation for writing: Rebecca Solnit, Laura Bates, Jessica Valenti, Rose McGowan, Deborah Frances-White and Brené Brown. And last but not least, a big thanks to Euripides, dead for a long time but still bitingly relevant.
A huge, warm thank you to my two sons Jack and Griffin who, when I emerge from writing, exhausted and sometimes disturbed, manage to ground me with their hugs and talk of martial arts and Minecraft. And finally, kisses to my husband – my buddy, my sounding-board and story-breaker, lifetime co-pilot, supporter-in-chief, partner in everything, Tom.
If you enjoyed
Blurred Lines
, keep reading for a taste of Hannah Begbie’s first novel
Mother
.
PROLOGUE
We were a normal family for exactly twenty-five days.
On the second day we brought her home from the hospital in a car seat. We put it down on the black-and-white weave of the living room rug and Dave said, ‘I feel like I can breathe again.’ Because for most of the pregnancy it was like we had held our
