by Phoebe Locke
There was no sign of James or anyone he recognised, though Miles wasn’t especially disappointed. After the awkward and uncomfortable morning at his parents’, the feeling of being alone with Sadie – of being a team of two against it all – was warm and protective, a bubble he wanted to stay in for the rest of the day.
‘I’ll get us some drinks,’ he said. ‘Want to come?’
‘I’ll wait here.’ Sadie looked around her. It was a good spot, right at the edge of the crowd with a clear view of the stage. There was a stretch of grass beside them, cables running down towards a generator, and then a copse of trees bordered the field. ‘I’ll keep an eye out for the others too,’ she added.
Miles made his way to the closest refreshments stall and bought himself a pint and Sadie a Coke. He wandered back towards her, briefly considering a hot dog, and then saw a glimpse of a familiar T-shirt ahead. Neon green, the sleeves slightly too short – he looked at the back of the person’s head, saw dark curly hair, and knew that it was James in his favourite (and ancient) Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles T-shirt. Miles slipped into the crowd towards him, trying to keep both drinks from spilling as he shouldered his way through. The next band were starting, people edging forwards, and Miles lost sight of James once and then twice, finally surfacing into a gap a row or two behind him.
But then the person in the green T-shirt turned and it wasn’t James at all – a man twenty years his senior, grey peppering his beard and the shirt itself plain apart from a small Adidas logo on the breast. Embarrassed, Miles turned away.
Scanning the crowd, he was surprised at the distance he had put between himself and Sadie; it took him a moment or two to locate her. She was still on the edge of the field but she had moved into the line of trees. He could see her head tilting the way it did when she was listening to someone – a friend, he assumed, presumably whoever it was that had recommended the festival to her in the first place. He took a step or two closer but couldn’t see who was there in front of her, the shadows swallowing them and the crowd jostling Miles back towards the stage.
Sadie was saying something to whoever it was but, with a sudden pang of dread, he saw fear on her face. Saw her backing away from that patch of shadow, a hand clamped protectively over her stomach. Her face had drained of colour, her eyes wide like a child’s.
Miles pushed through the crowd, his pint sloshing furiously in its plastic glass. The sun dazzled him as it came out from behind a wisp of cloud and someone’s elbow caught him in the ribs as he shoved his way past, the band’s opening chords shrieking through the speakers. He saw a flash of Sadie again, that slack-jawed fear still on her face as she stumbled back, and then the singer stepped up to the microphone and the audience surged forward and she was lost to him.
He pushed past a group of girls, tripping over a bag, and then, finally, he was out of the crush, the edge of the field ahead. He turned to his left and saw Sadie there, her back still to him, her attention on the trees in front of her. As he closed the short distance between them, he registered that she was alone again. He reached out, his hand clasping her shoulder, and she turned sharply, her face softening when she registered that it was him – though the fear (it was terror, a voice in his head corrected him; ugly, uncontrolled terror) in her eyes remained, her hand still pressed tightly to the place where their child was growing.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked. ‘What just happened?’
She turned away, though not, he noticed, before casting another look behind her into the shadowy recesses of the trees. ‘Oh, nothing. Drunk guy, you know what it’s like. Come on. Let’s go in a bit closer.’ He opened his mouth to say something else but she was already moving, the now half-empty Coke taken from his hand.
It was not as if this hadn’t happened before. Sadie was beautiful, Miles reminded himself as he followed her back towards the safety of the stage; men often stopped her in crowds and bars. So why, he wondered, was his heart still pounding in his chest? He looked back at the trees again, now dappled warm and gold by the sunlight. He could see through them into the fields beyond. No one.
He glanced at Sadie. Her eyes were locked on the band, her head nodding slightly to the beat. She took a sip of her drink, her other arm still folded across her middle.
It was the way she had looked, he realised. She had been afraid, he had seen the terror pass across her face. The nakedness of it was perhaps what had frightened him so deeply, and yet it was more than that; it was something else that he had seen there too. It came to him as the band began their second song and he saw Sadie glance again at the trees: recognition. Familiarity. Sadie had been terrified, yes, but it was not as new to her as it was to Miles.
2
2018
The crew meets Amber Banner for the first time in her hotel room in West LA. She’s dressed in a plush robe, her hair (mostly her hair) piled up in a knot on top of her head. The covers lie tangled at the end of the bed, the sheet exposed, one pillow drooping slowly towards the dusky carpet. A room service tray sits in the middle, a stack of pancakes sponging up their sugar dusting as a plate of melon weeps pinkly. In the corner, two abandoned plates – the syrup on them hardened, the cutlery akimbo – give off a fetid, warm smell.
She sinks on to the edge of the mattress and sighs. She watches them file in, edging round the puddles of dropped dresses, the obscene crotch-up curls of tangled tights and pants. The small table is heaped with gift bags and baskets and flowers, cards scattered on the carpet below, the fruit browning. She smiles.
The smile makes Greta feel like she is a child at the zoo, approaching the tiger’s enclosure.
‘Amber, I’m Greta. We spoke on the phone all those times.’
Amber considers her, head cocked slightly to one side. Her fingers fiddle with the cord of her dressing gown.
‘You’re young,’ she says, finally. Her eyes caffeine-twitch back and forth across the two guys, the fluffy mic and the flopped-out reflectors. She waves a hand and Greta pulls up the marshmallow pink stool from the desk and sits down awkwardly, a sheaf of papers pulled out from under her arm and smoothed across her thigh.
‘We were hoping to film you getting ready,’ Greta says. ‘I know you have a busy morning.’ The car is probably waiting outside, the driver checking his phone while the studios Amber will soon be visiting start to whirr into life; lights angled towards stages, armchairs pushed into place, an eager audience cattled into a line outside as the sunlight spreads across the pavement. Breakfast TV: Greta’s worst nightmare. She interned on a daily magazine show in London, back in the day, and managed to earn herself a paid running job after a month. She remembers calling her parents, at home in Michigan, to tell them – twenty-two, six months out of uni and a step closer to the career she’d said she’d have when she left them. She knew they’d never taken it personally that she’d swapped Dearborn for England at the first opportunity, but how good it had felt to tell them: yes, it was worth it. It’s all going to plan. And if she skipped a few details about what the job actually entailed (an endless cycle of moving furniture, moving guests, getting yelled at, getting it wrong) then that was OK too. Because it had all gone to plan, eventually – and here she is, nine years and many jobs later, with Amber Banner staring back at her to prove it.
Her phone buzzes in her bag and she fumbles for it among the loose memory sticks, parking stubs, balled-up napkins and sticky suncream tubes. Amber watches her the whole time with a catlike disinterest.
Greta checks the message: Federica. How is she? Apologise for me. Can’t catch a fucking flight.
It’s 2 p.m. in London; Greta can picture Federica pouring two more coffees, her hand tangling in the hair at the base of her girlfriend’s neck as she puts a cup down beside her laptop. Federica trailing out on to the balcony, anxious about the first week of the shoot – though not anxious enough to actually attempt to catch any of the many flights leaving London’s airports over the next couple of days. Instead there will be these excuses, and it will be Greta
who has to make sure things start smoothly, build all of the rapport. Greta who will have to try and chip away at the ‘ice princess’ façade that Amber Banner has adopted in the British media – the chilly calmness that has horrified so many – and find some hidden depth, some unknown truth on which to build their film.
Amber sits serenely as Tom leans in to check the light levels, his freckled hand hovering beside her cheek. Her eyes are clotted with last night’s mascara but her skin is clean and smooth, barring some faint scarring on her left cheek. In the early morning hotel room light, her face angled away, she looks editorial-perfect. Greta remembers the photo of Amber that’s tacked up over Federica’s desk back in London. Printed out from a newspaper on to A3 paper, the image that has been shown on channel after channel, front page after front page over the last couple of months – Amber on the steps of the courthouse, her hair swept back into a demure ponytail, a crisp, collarless white shirt buttoned up below her elegant neck. The pop of flashes blurring the edges of the frame, hands thrusting microphones towards her. And that tight-lipped smile curling her mouth, her gaze at the camera defiant and unwavering. The ending of a story that has been splashed across the tabloids’ pages – and the beginning of another.
‘I have to be at the NBC studios in half an hour,’ Amber says, yawning so widely that Greta can see the syrup-fur on the back of her tongue, the fleshy red sides of her throat. ‘Yeah, it’s OK if you film. I don’t care about that stuff – you can film me whenever.’
Greta can feel Luca and Tom setting up behind her, Julia, their new production assistant, notable in her absence. Julia was another promise made and abandoned by Federica – another call she forgot to make, and by the time Greta got round to doing it herself, Julia had accepted another job and their flights to LA were booked for the following day. She, Tom and Luca will have to muddle through as a team of three; will have to spend the next five days permanently damp with sweat as they lug their equipment from location to location and try to keep up with Federica’s endlessly morphing vision for the film.
She tries to get out of the way as Luca attempts to find a position for the boom which won’t cast a shadow into shot. ‘So, Amber,’ she says, trying to free the edge of her flip-flop from the loop of bra-strap it’s managed to catch on as she picks her way across the carpet. ‘Are you still OK with the schedule we spoke about? OK to cover all those areas with us? I know it’s not easy to talk about everything that happened.’
She can’t help asking this, though Federica would be annoyed. Amber is legally an adult – just – and has signed her contract. All of this has been covered, by Greta, by Federica, by the network. But Greta can’t help herself. She can’t stop wanting to offer Amber an out, even when it’s apparent that Amber is not interested in one.
‘Are you still thinking ten episodes?’ Amber leans over and touches a slice of melon, as if she might take it. Her fingers linger there, her eyes watching Greta.
‘It depends how much material we have,’ Greta says. ‘Hopefully, yes.’
Amber pulls her fingers back. She wipes pink on to the dressing gown. ‘Is my dad still saying he won’t talk to you?’
Greta’s phone rings, a welcome excuse for her to ignore the question of Miles. She slips out into the hallway and answers Federica’s call just before her voicemail kicks in.
‘How’s it going? Is she OK?’
‘We literally just got here. She seems fine. Happy.’
‘Are you filming her getting ready, like I wanted?’
‘Yes.’
‘Great. Perfect. I love that – the idea of watching her put that public face on. I bet she looks a lot younger without the make-up, right?’
‘Yes, kind of.’ Greta’s not sure she does. She’s become so used to looking at images of Amber Banner, of reading transcripts and reports and opinion pieces on the things that she’s done, that it’s often easy to forget that she is an eighteen-year-old girl. An eighteen-year-old girl who was filmed laughing with her lawyer as she waited outside the courtroom. An eighteen-year-old girl who had reportedly signed with a talent agent less than forty-eight hours after being released from police custody. A girl first seen by the world in a blurry photo taken on a phone, her pale top sodden with blood, a smear of it drying near her mouth.
‘Look,’ Federica says. ‘I know we’ve set out the schedule with her – and all that stuff’s fine – but it would be good if you, you know, tried to get deeper. Throw her a couple of curveballs with your questions, try and catch her off-guard. Oh, also – when you have a minute alone with him, remind Tom that it’d be a good idea to leave a camera rolling now and again. When you guys are just hanging out with her and stuff.’
Greta chews her lip. ‘You mean film her without her knowing?’
‘I mean, when you put it like that, it sounds bad. Don’t, like, hide cameras in her room or anything. But you know how it is. Usually the best stuff comes out of their mouth just as you cut. So . . . maybe sometimes let her think you’re done a little sooner.’
Greta is silent, the phone hot against her ear. The hallway, with its embossed wallpaper and striped carpet, seems to stretch on forever.
‘Look, the thing is, Greta . . . There’s more talk in the tabloids here about her book deal. Rumours of seven figures, although I’m not sure that’s true. It’s definitely happening though. And that’s fine – a book’s not a film. The book is going to be Amber’s version, Amber’s side – her edited truth. We’ve got to get something more. There’s more to it than her version, I’m completely sure of it. And we’ve got to get it out of her if this is going to work.’
‘OK . . . I’ll try.’
‘I’m sorry I’m not there yet. I know it’s a shitty time to pull the “personal stuff” card, but this couldn’t wait. I’ll explain when I see you. And I trust you. I know you’ve got this. This is gonna be your big break, believe me.’
‘It’s OK. I hope everything’s OK.’ She flushes, embarrassed. The sound of Amber’s laugh drifts under the door. ‘I should probably get back in there.’
When she returns to the room, Amber is seated in front of the mirror, applying make-up while Tom films her. Luca has found a suitable position beside the nightstand, where American papers from the last couple of days are stacked along with British tabloids brought from home. Amber’s arrival in the States has meant a fresh wave of press, the whole story recounted over and over. While the British media haven’t always been kind to her – Greta remembers vividly a column in the Mail about the ways in which Amber Banner represents everything which is wrong with ‘young people today’ – the Americans, late to Amber-fever, seem to have taken to her and her terrible story, her tragic start in life. The magazine at the top of the pile has a photo of her arriving at LAX, head down, movie-star sunglasses on. Amber Banner arrives in Hollywood! Luca glances up at Greta, rolls his eyes.
She lets the ghost of a smile tug at her mouth and then moves away from him. ‘So, Amber, are you looking forward to today?’
Amber shrugs, grinding a brush into an eyeshadow palette. She puts it to her eye without blowing away the excess and grey powder dusts itself across her cheek. ‘Not exactly. But it’s nice to be able to talk about things. Now the trial’s done.’
‘To set the record straight?’ Greta hates the way she’s changing her own voice, conscious that it might be used in the film. It sounds like she’s reading lines even though she’s feeling her way through this, trying to guess what Federica wants when Federica isn’t even on the same continent.
Amber smiles at her in the mirror. Greta can tell how much Tom, behind her, likes that shot. He leans closer, lingers, and Amber seems to humour him because she pauses a moment too. And then: ‘Exactly,’ she says.
3
2000
Miles woke with a sense of dread, as he always did now. Funny, he thought, half-asleep, to be able to think ‘always’ about something that had only been happening for less than a week. But it really had only been that long;
he could count the days in his head. Ten days since Amber had been born. Three since Sadie had told him that their daughter was cursed.
It felt often as though his life were on fast-forward; as though he had only blinked since that moment when Sadie had told him she was pregnant and yet now their baby was here. Now they were out of halls and into a tiny family housing flat a short walk from campus. And it had all been fine, it had all been exciting – those months with Sadie’s belly swelling, one and then both scan photos stuck to the fridge with magnets; a picture of the two of them at the registry office in pride of place on top of the TV. Cushions bought from a charity shop to brighten up the plain brown sofa, their dingy bedroom filled with stacks of tiny white clothes. He was doing well at his course, too, found himself waking up early each day to read, his favourite mug filled with coffee on the windowsill beside him, Sadie sleeping curled around his imprint in the bed.
And then Amber had been born, and everything had changed.
The first couple of days after the birth, he’d felt raw and jittery. There had been a moment right after Amber had been handed to him, Sadie’s face waxy and pale, her blood pooling on the floor, when he had been convinced that he would lose her. An emergency transfusion after her emergency caesarean, Miles pushed out of the way with their baby in his arms. The violence of it all had shocked him, he’d felt its reverberations for days. The drained, haunted look on his own face surprising him each morning in the hospital bathroom’s mirror. But Amber fed well, slept well, a thatch of fair hair covering her soft skull. Slowly, the anxious feeling of edging towards a sheer drop began to leave him.