Читать книгу Blurred Lines - Hannah Begbie - Страница 7

She feels the sales assistant looking her over, appraising her against the wine that she has delivered to the counter. It is a Burgundy, priced at sixty-five pounds, its provenance declared in elegant loops on a simple label. She couldn’t pronounce this château, and she suspects this man knows that perfectly well. Look at this woman, with her dull, errant hair and the catalogue-bought black trousers that reach for but never quite achieve a tailored fit: at how her slouch and the crease to her brow clash against the pin-straight, darkly varnished floorboards of this wine shop.

He wraps the bottle in crisp crepe paper, one finger cocked like he is taking an elegant tea, as if to tell her: this is how it is done. Granted, her wardrobe, her hairstyle, her whole life cannot be salvaged by a moment of his time, but perhaps the act of witnessing his precision and professionalism and his good taste might, in some small way, chip away at her roughness.

She has pulled this bottle from the shelf because a hand-written card describes it as ‘a classic example of the type’. Now she wishes that she had been bolder. That she had chosen something without a ready-made approval, to state firmly that she knows better than this man, than any man, how her desires are best met by grapes, and terroir, and time in the bottle. Imagine asking if they had the same wine but from another year. A better year, or worse. Knowing what the sun or the humidity or the rain had done to that corner of France in that year.

Why should she know? Who is asking her to know these things?

‘Any tips for drinking it?’ she asks, her demeanour easy and friendly, like she’s only really filling a spare minute while he wraps the thing. Like she has no need of his opinion, but chooses to seek it anyway. A generous gesture that allows for him to know more about this bottle than simply how to wrap it.

‘Are you drinking it straight away?’

She shrugs. She won’t be drinking it at all, unless she’s asked to share it. And even then, she’d only take a few sips.

‘Well don’t let it get too warm,’ he says. ‘Won’t hurt to decant it, but it won’t struggle straight out of the bottle either. Cash or card?’

Becky hands over her debit card. It is the same colour as when she was at school. The first-savings-account hue of somebody who agonizes over whether sixty-five pounds, which she really cannot afford, is enough to spend on wine for a man who might consider it midweek drinking, a bottle to open mindlessly before rushing off to a weekend away, leaving it to idle and spoil on the kitchen island. Is it enough, a bottle like this, for a man like Matthew?

Matthew pays her pretty well. She can’t complain. She knows there are others who make less and are worth far more.

Stop it, she tells herself. You are good at your job. You are.

‘Enjoy it!’ says the man behind the counter as he hands her the bag. Did he see the dismay in her eyes as the card receipt chattered through? Surely he knows that this is a gift, one meant to impress; a wine that she does not understand, intended for someone whose world she only fleetingly visits.

And yet, his smile seems sincere. Perhaps he is honestly grateful for her custom, even if the wine is wasted on her. The money is real enough.

Matthew taught her that, like so much else about their business: everything is only talk, only a possibility, until somebody writes you a cheque, or cashes one you’ve written them.

As she exits the shop she holds her head high. Today is a good day. She has come to West London to deliver a gift and the gift has been well-chosen. It will suffice.

Becky passes the wedding-cake white houses of Portobello, takes in the scent of freshly cut stems from an elegant pink-and-orange-painted boutique floristry and the steam-whistle of a barista’s coffee machine through lacquered café doors flung wide-open. The weather has finally turned a corner. Her skin actually feels warm for the first time in months and she cannot help but stop for a moment, right there on the street corner, and turn her face to the sun, smiling even as she hopes that no one catches her in the act.

It’s a small miracle, she thinks, how an idea can turn into a series of meetings, and then a screenwriter’s draft, and now – or at least soon – will become actors and cameras and lights, and conversations in the edit suite. Like watching a foetus growing across a series of ultrasound images.

Tomorrow her yellow brick road takes her to the Cannes Film Festival where she will meet the people who can really make it happen. Those who can write cheques, or accept them. Her small idea, gathering supporters, players, financiers.

‘We could be shooting this time next year,’ Matthew had said at that very first meeting, within a minute of her giving him her seedling of an idea. ‘Produce it. I’ll back you.’

‘But I don’t know how,’ she’d said, hating herself for confessing her weakness so quickly.

‘Nobody does, the first time.’

And with that statement, he’d made it real.

She steps over the cracks in the pavement. She doesn’t want to jinx it, not now. Not when everything is so close.

She can see Matthew’s terraced stucco villa in the distance, its pilasters and columns all whiter than white against the leafy green health of the pavement trees. The early evening sun reminds her so much of that party night, when she walked this road, on that occasion without wine but with a Jiffy bag of contracts from the office for him to sign, not expecting to leave with a plan for her future.

‘Stay,’ he’d said to her as he signed the last of the Post-it-marked pages. ‘Come and meet some people.’

She’d been the one to order the canapés and the watermelon martini ingredients for this party, and now she was invited to share in them. To accept them as easy gifts from the waiting staff who circulated in crisp white shirts and black trousers.

Of course she should network. Wasn’t that how the world worked? A pretty assistant, charming her way around a beautiful garden, making a name for herself, evading both men’s hands and the scrutiny of their wives’ tracking gazes.

And yet, despite the fact of her canary-yellow dress candy-striped with orange, and the fact that she’d washed her hair that morning with a shampoo that promised gloss and hold, her head itched and she felt out of step and out of place. Here, the rich looked rich, and the nonconformists wore their asymmetric fringes with confidence. In one corner, a famous actor in shredded jeans and Debbie Harry T-shirt made conversation with an elderly critic turned out in linen suit and white Panama hat and both seemed entirely at ease. Where were the people stuck in between? Uncomfortably halfway to somewhere? Unfinished, barely done with being utter imposters?

She had been relieved when Matthew had interrupted a conversation between her and a grey-haired, mildly known actor – not so much a conversation, really, as a lecture – by asking her to step away with him, into his study. She had felt eyes on them as they vanished back into the house together. There was always that question, for some people, concerning what a man and a woman stepping away together might mean, especially when she was his, an employee, and just about still young, and unquestionably ambitious. Despite Matthew’s wife and children being there. Despite the way he kissed his wife readily and easily. Of course somebody would make a sly comment, win a cruel quick laugh. Why else go to a party like this?

The walls of Matthew’s study were tessellated with black-and-white photographs of his beautiful family playing cricket on a beach in Cornwall. Smooth custom-made oak shelves held his BAFTAs and BIFAs and Oscars and a galaxy of other awards in glass, bronze, Perspex, silver and wood.

‘I’ve got the Universal contracts here as well,’ he said. ‘Won’t be a minute.’ He glanced up from the paperwork and caught her looking at his statuettes.

‘Pick one up, if you like? The Academy one’s pretty heavy,’ he said. ‘You don’t want that kind of thing to take you by surprise on the night.’ And then he laughed and she really wasn’t sure whether he was mocking her or if he was expressing some kind of belief in her and so she chose, for once, to try to believe the latter. And as a small, rare bubble of confidence grew in her, no doubt lubricated by three glasses of good champagne, she had told him, ‘I’m ready, I want to make a film. And I have an idea.’

Approaching his house a year later she still marvels at that moment. How did she do it? It had been like pitching to God, but at least prayers go unanswered. No voice from above outright tells you, No. You’re at least allowed to keep your hope. Her heart was in her mouth, she feels sick just remembering it, thrumming its beats through her, telling her to be ready for anything – so afraid was she that Matthew would declare how bad her idea, how shameless her decision to pitch now: at a party, of all times! Becky had fought every natural instinct in her body to flee, and pressed on, talking to her boss, this movie producer whose life was stuffed to the gills with box office smashes and blockbuster hits. He had listened to her talk about the Greek tragedy ‘Medea’ and how it might be remade to speak to modern women, and he had said yes, and then told her to make it for £4 to 5 million, give or take a million for their lead actress who would do it for the prizes, not the payday.

‘It’s about revenge,’ she had told him excitedly, not realizing that you can stop once somebody has said yes. ‘Medea sacrifices everything to help Jason achieve his goals. Then, when he’s taken all she has to offer, he gets bored and leaves her for another woman. And so Medea gets angry.’

As she spoke, something scalding had coursed through her, with the rush of a furiously filling lock. It didn’t take much to connect with this feeling, not really, it was close to the surface wherever she was. ‘He believes a woman’s anger isn’t ever something to worry about,’ she said, ‘but he underestimates her. Medea takes her revenge.’

It didn’t matter that Matthew would never know what had lit that touchpaper inside her. She could see from his half-smile that he was interested in her, and proud of her, and she was already addicted to that feeling.

Becky steps into the road to cross it and a car swerves to avoid her, blaring its horn. Its headlights catch her shins. She steps back, a stomach-twisting jolt of adrenaline waking her up.

On the opposite side of the road an old woman takes pleasure in shaking her head at Becky’s near-fatal mistake as a new story sweeps away red carpets and lofted award statuettes: Becky, mother of one, a development assistant with no produced credits, dead in the road. A head full of dreams, but not enough blood left in her veins to keep them there.

It is an old feeling for Becky, the idea that her waking life might be parted from her body. That her body is sometimes simply a place where things happen, sometimes with her, sometimes without.

These are not helpful thoughts.

She feels small and foolish now. She is a woman without real power. A woman who can barely cross a road. She has the favour of a powerful man, and that is all. For all the cocktails and glamorous lunches, it hasn’t happened yet, the film hasn’t taken off, hasn’t been made. It’s all just words and expressions of interest. Who on earth does she think she is?

She crosses, safely now, passing the old woman who wants desperately to catch Becky’s eye.

Smaller and weaker, she arrives at the side entrance to Matthew’s house, electing to take a route she has taken a dozen times before, stepping down a flight of double-height steps to a wooden door, barbed wire all curled at the top like a helix of DNA. The air smells of fresh creosote and good maintenance and charred meat and through a small side window she can see that lights are on deeper inside the house.

She pushes at the door and it opens easily. Why doesn’t he worry about crime? All that barbed wire and the door still unlocked; a contradiction, a statement, a dare. People seem to come and go here, drifting into Matthew’s home like it’s an exclusive private members’ club. If you turn up and they’re having a family meal, a place is set for you straight away – no trouble, no problem. Becky has eaten like that on half a dozen occasions, smiling along with every family joke until her jaw ached with tension.

She pads over a paved area and pushes at another door into the house, stepping through the dark utility room, rehearsing her lines. No, she can’t stay. It’s a small thank you for Cannes, a token really. If she stays for a drink, will she be so bold as to propose a toast to their forthcoming trip? Is that hopelessly gauche, wishing aloud for success that Matthew has no need of? Siobhan’s laser-guided words hit her again: this is a very expensive kind of work experience. Said to her face, to Siobhan’s credit, as Siobhan booked two hotel rooms and two sets of flights. Chosen and not chosen. Emboldened by Becky’s example, Siobhan is developing her own idea to pitch to Matthew, while also printing up the Cannes travel itineraries.

There is music playing in the kitchen. The lights are on in the hallway, but not in here, where the downlighters are set to low. Becky pauses on the threshold of the room. What if he is home alone? What if he has fallen asleep and now she’ll wake him? She regrets not ringing the front doorbell but Matthew is always at pains to say it’s only ever the builders and delivery men who do that, and she’s more than that to him. Isn’t she?

But this is an imposition. What if she walks in on him getting undressed or even, God help her, masturbating? In the kitchen? she asks herself. Surely not.

She steps over the threshold into a room that is kitchen and dining room and living room all in one, and each area is generously apportioned. The overall footprint is larger than her entire flat.

The retractable glass wall is closed to the garden but its formal raised beds are tastefully under-lit. The kitchen features navy walls and a distressed copper breakfast bar with matching taps. Soap in big blue apothecary bottles and stripped, white-painted floorboards. There are half-full wine glasses on the marble worktop.

Becky sets her own wine down on the kitchen island and looks around for paper with which to leave a note. ‘Popped in?’ ‘Sorry I missed you?’ Or is she right that it’s an imposition, this stealing into a person’s home, even if it’s allowed, encouraged even?

As the music changes track, in the silence between beats, she thinks she hears something – a breath, or a moan, something like pain perhaps. She can’t put a name to it, but her mouth dries and her skin prickles, the fine hairs on her forearms rising.

She wants to flee, but what if it’s him, dying? An olive caught in the throat. An allergy he hasn’t told her about (not that, she’d know). And in the end, she has to check. Of course she does.

She pads quietly around the wood-burning fireplace that part divides the room. Another noise – this time male and urgent. And, horrified, Becky realizes that she is in proximity to sex.

There is movement. On the floor, on the rug that softens the sofa grouping, their bodies mostly hidden by the furniture. Becky cranes her neck a little. She sees a woman’s head, and Matthew on top of her, and the woman is not his wife, cannot be unless Antonia has gone blonde. She notices a tall-heeled foot, black shoe with a red sole, sliding off the rug, onto the flagstone, like a calf’s leg slipping outward as it takes a first step.

The woman says something to the man. Her arm goes up – pushing him or reaching for him? He catches her by the wrist and moves that arm back onto the rug – and his breathing, his grunting, deepens. The woman’s face contorts. Perhaps close to orgasm. Perhaps uncomfortable.

The woman turns her head and looks straight at Becky. And opens her mouth, as if about to speak – or call out – or warn him – or—