But it is the thought of Maisie that stops her from turning back: Becky is wearing one of her tops, a ruffled grass-green favourite of hers. Its smell, of incense and old perfume and Maisie’s shampoo, makes her feel like her daughter is close, laughing at her doubts and willing her on as she walks through the hotel’s marbled lobby and into an outside bar area: umbrellas down with the sun, now setting on a burnt-orange tinfoil sea all punctured with the rudders and sails of yachts.
The area is crowded: coffee meetings that have turned into pre-dinner Aperol spritz meetings and chats about family, people, politics – non-film subjects and yet still business. It all deepens relationships, generates trust, creates the foundations for a good deal in the future. Becky knows that business is done on every corner and in every bar in Cannes. She knows there are makeshift offices in apartment blocks rented for the week, that the benches, sofas and bars all become workplaces and playgrounds. No one observes times of day, the standard boundaries for phone calls. She knows because she’s been on the receiving end of those calls in previous years: at the office and in the early hours as she sleeps at home. Now she’s here, for real, amidst the people who have a good time. The people who have something to sell.
She can see Matthew and another man sitting at the best table – unimpeded view of the sea – arms outstretched across lines of throw pillows, both swiping at their phones as they talk to each other. Could she do that? Break off a conversation to fire off an email? Is it expected of her here?
‘Becky!’ says Matthew, standing up and then drawing her in for a hug. She cannot remember a time when he has greeted her this way in London. The rules are different here; she must learn them, and fast. ‘This is Rebecca Shawcross,’ he says to the man he is with. ‘Becky works with me,’ he adds, while making space for Becky to sit at the end of their padded bench. ‘And how are you enjoying sunny Cannes so far?’
‘It’s so beautiful,’ she smiles. She scrabbles for something to say to illustrate her point and finds herself mentally scrolling through Scott’s old Instagram feed. ‘So many art galleries here,’ she says, regretting it immediately. She’s not on her holidays. The last thing she wants is for these people to think she’ll be visiting galleries or even considering casual tourism in precious working hours.
‘She’s about to make her first feature, actually,’ Matthew says, and the other man nods. ‘We’re meeting Emilia Cosvelinos for it tomorrow.’
His voice is warm milk and whisky. He has described her as someone who works with and not for him and he has used her full name. Pathetic, she thinks, so pathetic, that she feels important to him when he speaks it, as if the name she was given is worth more coming from his mouth. And yet, her legs feel a little stronger and she sits a little taller now.
‘Alex is a film critic. Alex Simms?’ says Matthew.
‘Ah yes,’ she says, recognizing him from his byline. ‘I love your reviews. Always unsparing, always very funny.’
His shoulders flex a little wider. Becky can tell he’s pleased.
‘I hope I’ve spared anyone you know,’ he says.
‘I think you called Tommy Sheridan’s last effort “well-intentioned”. He was in the office last week for a meeting. Said he cried for a week, but didn’t deny you’d nailed it.’
Alex laughs. Delighted. ‘He’s a good director but he’s got a terrible sweet tooth,’ he says.
‘I think he’ll end up doing musicals and making an absolute fortune,’ says Becky.
‘You’re a hundred per cent right.’
Matthew smiles. And Becky has the odd sensation that she is standing outside her own life, watching a woman in her skin do a half-decent job of this thing which is flirting and flattery and bonding and, she supposes, networking.
Alex is a good deal shorter than her. His eyes are pale and filled with a darting energy that makes him look like a young deer until he smiles, when the fine skin around his eyes concertinas to betray his age. He looks at the ruffle lining her décolletage first, and then meets her eyes second. Becky remembers to give them warmth but without the insinuation of an invitation. Her price isn’t ever her own body, but she knows that’s by no means the case for those around her.
‘So you’re meeting with Emilia? I just came out of the screening for her new film actually,’ he says.
‘How was it?’
‘Reviews are embargoed till midnight, but it’s five stars. It’s going to win everything.’
‘What’s she like in it?’ asks Matthew.
‘Yeah, well, what to say … she’s great. But she’s not the lead. She’ll get a supporting nod. She’ll want the main course next.’
‘That’s brilliant,’ says Becky. ‘I think she’s incredible.’
‘You’ll struggle to get her now, my friend.’
She feels Matthew’s eyes on her. It’s not like it’s a test; this is just the back and forth of a conversation, but still. How to say the perfect thing. How to be confident and not frightened, not cocky but still impregnable. Is that what this place wants?
‘Well,’ says Becky finally, ‘I’ve got something in common with Emilia. We’d both like to see her win Best Actress.’
The journalist grins. ‘Good luck with it. See you at the Oscars!’
Matthew waggles his phone. ‘Just going to confirm our breakfast with Sam. Back in a jot.’ He turns away to make his call and Becky is flooded with discomfort at this reminder of how uncertain their meeting, her only meeting in Cannes, truly is. Not even Matthew can command it take place. Even he might have to flatter and persuade.
A thick and awkward pause lies between her and Alex, now that she is unwatched and they have sole charge of the conversation. All her life any lapse in conversation or round-edged awkwardness has been her doing, she is sure of it. Does she give off something? Some signal she can’t herself see or read that tells others that, for all her apparent efforts, she would prefer to be many miles away, probably alone. She must have something more to say to this man. Some clever thing. Some pithy thing to let him say, in a year’s time, when Medea’s trailer launches, that he knows the producer and she’s smart. Going places. Now that he has met her, he can be asked for his opinion of her. What will he say? What can she offer him?
‘So you’re an art lover?’ he says.
‘Oh no, not especially.’ She squirms, afraid of being caught out, asked about artists and paintings she knows nothing about. Again her thoughts return to Scott’s Instagram feed. ‘A friend recommended the Bonnard Museum here. Once. A long time ago. I know nothing really.’
He smiles. Amused by something in her. ‘Has Matthew shown you the store cupboard yet?’
It is Alex’s casual tone that makes Becky unsure about whether she has heard correctly. Is this an industry term she hasn’t come across yet? But there is an edge to it. A hint of acid, a subtle probing.
‘Our office is tiny. Everything’s on shelves.’ Lightly evasive, without confessing her confusion.
‘Has he shown you the top shelf then?’
‘I know the market’s bad, but we’re not making that kind of movie. Not yet.’
It is like she is swimming ahead of something and calling it a game but fearing that if it catches her, the teeth will prove real. He laughs, like he knows that she knows, but is only in the mood to play, and only for so long.
‘What’s your film going to be about then?’
‘It’s a new take on Medea, the Greek play?’ She hates that she made this a question.
‘The one about the woman who kills her kids?’
‘Spoiler alert,’ she says wryly.
‘Get Richard Curtis to take a pass.’
‘The feel-good, lighter side of infanticide. Honey, I’ve Killed the Kids.’
‘Quite. Yeah, but seriously, that sounds fucking dark.’
‘It is.’
‘Woman commits murder,’ he says thoughtfully. ‘Get it right and it’s Oscar-bait though, isn’t it?’
‘I think there’s more
to it.’
‘Think what you like, it’s still going to be the murderous mum movie. Punters think in single sentences, believe me.’
Becky is beginning to find him a little patronizing. She wants to say, Don’t tell me how the punters think. She wants to say that she actually works in the industry: unlike him who simply skirts around its edges, writing about it. But she knows better than to get him off-side, he might review Medea one day, and so instead she says: ‘James Cameron’s single sentence: Romeo and Juliet on a sinking boat.’
‘A billion dollars later …’ He laughs.
‘Time-travelling robot tries to kill someone.’ She’s good at this game.
He smiles, impressed. ‘So what’s your Medea sentence if it isn’t Mum murders her kids?’
‘Woman struggles with toxic controlling masculinity and discovers that her power lies in being overlooked and underestimated. But the journey breaks her.’
‘Maybe don’t put that on the poster.’
She laughs.
‘You’ve got Matthew behind it,’ continues Alex. ‘That’s definitely something to put on the poster: From the guy who’s made a bunch of things you liked. Goes a long way.’
‘He’s only exec’ing this one.’
Such vanity! Alex spots it in an instant. She sees it in the smirk he can’t quite hide in time.
‘He’s obviously fond of you.’
He passes her a drink from a tray that is going round and she notices the tan skin covered in a soft down of sun-bleached hair, the curve his forearm makes. She’s seen that curve before, the unmistakable shape of a man who works out, a man who likes to possess strength. She thinks of Scott and his trips to the gym and wonders how many more men with bleached hair and vanity running through their honed muscles she can really take.
She puts her lips to the rim of a heavy-bottomed glass and takes a sip, would consider taking a sip or two more – how nice to drink a whole drink right now, just the one, just enough bitter gin and tonic to take the edge off her sweltering thoughts – but the liquid is sweet and bubbly and she hates it. Sweet and fizzy and alcoholic, a curious cocktail of childhood and adulthood, neither one nor the other, a confusion of the two. She hates it like she hates the alcohol tang of aftershave.
Anyway, she must remain alert and in control and alcohol won’t help that. She glances over at Matthew, willing him to end his call and return to her and get this transaction back on track.
‘How long have you known Matthew?’ she asks Alex, trying to re-anchor herself. He doesn’t bite.
‘Don’t you think killing your children is quite an extreme form of revenge? I’m just interested in how you’ll make an audience not hate her.’
‘They might not love her, they might not agree with her actions, but I think they’ll understand her. They’ll understand her despair at how badly she was treated by her husband. At how she gave Jason stature, children, her love. Then he took it all. Left her with nothing. Just, discarded her. What happens doesn’t come out of nowhere. She’s not a psycho who does the most messed-up thing she can think of. She’s utterly wronged.’
‘Wronged?’
‘Yes?’
‘Your mate Tommy probably felt wronged after the reviews he got for In Golden Square. Didn’t go out and butcher his family though, did he? Let me know if I’ve got that wrong. I’d have to write him an apology.’
Becky feels her foundations shift. She hasn’t got anything solid after all. She has a whole script and yet suddenly it’s all blown into nothing substantial, and so easily. She sees the reviews forming. ‘Implausible.’ ‘Unlikeable.’
‘Haneke gets away with it every time,’ she smiles. ‘People butchered in their homes. Cutting their throats for effect. He doesn’t worry about making people likeable. He says: this is who we might be, if we strip the rest away.’
‘I fucking hate Haneke films.’
‘No you don’t. I read your review of Caché. You gave it four stars.’
His mouth curls into a half-smile. ‘It’s a four- or five-star film. I still hated it.’
‘So maybe you’ll hate my Medea but still give it an OK review.’
‘It certainly sounds well-intentioned.’
‘I’ll join forces with Tommy and pay to have you killed.’
He laughs. Clinks her glass with his own. ‘Biggest compliment you can pay a critic, threatening to dismember them. It’s only then that we know you actually give a shit about what we say.’
She sees it then, beyond his confidence, the part of him that is both vain and anxious. He is courted here only because his reviews are read. But he wants more than that. She understands that. When he teases her, her discomfort flatters him. The moment his opinion can’t touch her, he’ll hate her instead, albeit from a new distance. Is it only women who have to work this hard? she wonders. Or is it just that the exchange between men is more straightforward? Is it the possibility of sex that makes it so much more difficult? Medea comes to her again; resolute, cutting away the trappings of her gender, ready to be unloved, loathed even, for all time. Is that bravery, or has she simply lost too much to bother saving anything?
She wonders what she might say to Alex, were the boot on the other foot. But she cannot discount the fact he might review her work in the future and thus she cannot offer him anything, really, beyond a passing entertainment and the threat that, maybe, if her stars align, one day she might matter like Matthew does.
Matthew rejoins them. ‘All good,’ he says to Becky. Then, to Alex, ‘Coming to the party on Freebird?’
‘What’s Freebird?’ asks Becky.
‘Petrovskaya’s yacht,’ replies Alex. ‘Apparently it’s been fitted with anti-missile technology.’
‘Won’t save anyone from a bad review,’ quips Becky, and Alex grins.
‘She’s funny,’ says Alex to Matthew. A two-word review, but a good one.
‘Did she tell you about Medea?’
‘Yeah. I’m sure she’ll make it work.’
‘If the stars align with the right people,’ says Matthew. And suddenly Becky feels naked: with these words, she senses the conditionality of Matthew’s help. Will he still support the project if the script doesn’t attract a glitzy and powerful enough cast? Or if its main financier ends up a little lukewarm on the whole thing and doesn’t make it a priority?
If it fails, it will be her failure. That is clear to her.
Isn’t that what she wanted? Something she could take absolute ownership of?
But she finds herself remembering how Alex had reduced her idea to something that people might snipe at or look down on and how he’d hooked his fingers into his jeans and bent his arms to make himself look bigger and wider, as he did it. And she remembers Matthew’s words again, allowing herself to feel the full force of what failure might bring. The exposure. The isolation. The fear, and the shame.
Becky excuses herself. She locks herself in a nearby toilet cubicle. Sits down on the seat, legs bent, leaning over with her head in her hands, as if she is about to be sick. She is so angry when tears come despite her efforts. They will leave her eyes red. For the rest of the evening she will look like a woman who has been crying. Soon she has cried enough to have blown her nose three times.
When she walks out of the cubicle thankfully the room is quiet. But at the far end of a row of pink-marbled sinks one other woman stands bent like a flower toward the mirror, fixing her lipstick. Her hair is cropped, her eyes fine and free of make-up. Becks recognizes her immediately. She is Sharon McManus, a director known for her big attitude and her low budgets. Becky has met her once before, briefly, at a festival gala. She doubts she is remembered. Sharon’s film Relics from the Near Future has screened today and been deemed a success. Becky recalls the photos on Deadline; like everyone, Becky toggles between being at the festival and reading about it, so that she’ll know where she is. On stage, taking questions afterwards, Sharon had raised both her arms and kicked out a leg, dressed half in flowers and half in sha
rp-suited lines: half like a woman and half like a man. The way Sharon kissed her lead actress? She looked so content, like the puzzle of her life is completed in such moments.
Becky walks to the sink and runs the tap, pressing cool damp tissues to her puffy eyes. Perhaps they can be saved. She can hear the conversation outside getting louder, bolshier – nearing the pitch of the summertime pavement crowds outside a pub at closing.
‘Boy trouble?’ says Sharon.
‘That’d be nice.’
‘I heard you blowing your nose. Very unladylike. I was impressed.’
‘Oh God. Sorry.’
‘No, fuck that. Trumpet it out. Don’t go dabbing it away now.’
Becky could, perhaps, paper the cracks with jokes, and then run to her room. But she feels the place inside that her crying has hollowed out and is suddenly too tired to cover up, weave round, edit and hide.
‘I just fucked up,’ she says.
‘How badly?’
‘Nobody died but … I got asked about something I’m working on and I felt like I couldn’t land it. I just allowed myself to be … It’s my job, my only job, to defend this thing and I let this guy …’
‘Shit on it?’
‘It wasn’t even that bad. I just did a rubbish job defending it. And now I feel like I’ve let someone down.’ Medea. ‘Even though … Even though it doesn’t matter to anyone except me.’
‘Been there a few times myself.’
Becky feels Sharon assess her. She feels sure she is looking at the running mascara, the tangled mess of hair and lopsided clothes, but that she is doing it with kind eyes while formulating something.
‘Never mind,’ Becky says. ‘I’ll just … I don’t know. Try and learn from it.’
‘What are you selling here anyway?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Come on, I’m asking. I’m not going to shit on it. You’ve made me curious.’
‘Yeah, but now it’d be pitching to a director.’
‘What, so you’ve been crying in there waiting till I need a piss so you can get five minutes at the mirror with me? I mean, if that’s your game-plan you’re the best fucking producer on the planet. Seriously wily. You’ve got Tamara Lenkiewa back there too. She’ll be needing a shit soon, you could have a crack at her as well.’
Blurred Lines: The most timely and gripping psychological thriller of 2020 Page 7