by Phoebe Locke
She’s wondering now what she’d thought would happen. It’s not as if she hasn’t worked for Federica before; not as if she hasn’t been left in the lurch by other directors and producers in the past. It’s not as if she didn’t sign up with the hope that she’d be able to shape the film in some way, make her mark on it.
‘Hey.’ Tom flops down on the sand beside her. He has a greasy packet of fries in one hand which he holds out to her. She takes one, soggy and disintegrating and spattered with thin, vinegary ketchup.
‘Thanks. Where’s Luc?’
‘Walked up to the shops to see if he could find something for Elke.’
‘Oh, OK.’ She wonders, briefly, what it might be like to have someone to fly home to with souvenirs.
Tom slides the strap of his camera bag over his head and resettles himself on the sand. ‘That journalist wasn’t exactly loving life, was she?’
Greta laughs. ‘Well, imagine. One year you’re interviewing Madonna, the next some messed-up British kid who’s more interested in the available pancake toppings than answering your questions.’
‘Oh God, that poor woman.’
‘Well.’ She looks out at the sea, the hazy horizon. ‘I can’t help feeling sorry for Amber, to be honest. All of these interviews, the same questions over and over, all of those people watching. Us sticking cameras in her face everywhere she goes. Hardly fun, is it?’
Tom looks at her for a second, his face unreadable. ‘I’m not sure she needs your pity, Greta.’
‘Well, no.’ She looks away, feeling stung. She had meant to carry on the sentence but belatedly it abandons her. A volleyball game down the beach picks up the slack, the groan as a shot is missed drifting up to them.
‘Wish I’d brought my trunks,’ Tom says. ‘I’d love to jump in that sea right now.’
‘I’ve always been too much of a wimp to swim in the sea. Too scared of sharks or giant octopuses or whatever.’
‘Yeah, admittedly I prefer swimming in a place where I can see my feet touch the bottom. Don’t think there’s many giant octopi around here though.’
‘Famous last words. I’ll wait here with your clothes, if you like.’
‘Probably sensible.’ He smiles at her. ‘You didn’t fancy shopping, then?’
She laughs. ‘My bank is probably very glad I didn’t. I don’t think I’ve been shopping for fun since 2010.’
‘I don’t think I’ve been out of my overdraft since then.’
‘God, no. When people talk to me about buying a house I wonder which body parts they’ve decided to sell.’
‘Right?’ He eats another chip and is quiet for a minute. ‘Sucks, doesn’t it? Feels like it was only last week I was finishing uni and thinking I’d made it to adulthood. Now everyone’s getting married, having kids, owning property – and I’m doing well if I remember to pay my electric bill.’
She laughs but it sounds hollow in her own ears. He offers her the chips again and she takes a couple. He pushes his hair – pale, a pretender to gold like the sand – away from his face and tips back on his hands towards the sun. She notices the freckles coaxed out by the heat across the bridge of his nose, across his collarbone.
‘Suppose we better head back to meet Amber soon.’ She puts the chips into her mouth at once, the thought of Federica’s instructions for the day – Try and get her to talk about her life before, her hopes for the future, see if that cracks her a bit. Also can you buy as many Milky Way Midnights as possible, they’re Millie’s favourites and you can’t get them here – ruining her relaxed mood.
He nods but leans back further, eyes closing against the light. ‘I don’t like her,’ he says. ‘I guess you can tell that.’
‘Are we supposed to?’ she asks (still chewing).
‘It would help.’
She considers this, watching one of the gulls turn on another in a thunderclap of wings. A car drives slowly by, a bassline throbbing feebly from its open windows. ‘It’s a story that’s worth telling. It’s a terrible, terrible thing that happened, and it’s getting lost under all this trashy tabloid stuff.’ She surprises herself by adding, ‘Federica once told me that you don’t have to like your subjects to do them justice.’
He opens his eyes, rolls his head to look at her. They have been in Los Angeles for less than a week but already there is a strip of whiter skin beneath the neck of his T-shirt. ‘Yeah, and where’s Federica again?’
‘She’ll probably be here tomorrow,’ Greta says, though she doesn’t believe it.
‘No, she won’t. Since the verdict, she’s not interested. She thought Amber’d be found guilty and we’d be interviewing her in prison. This isn’t the original plan, Greta, you know that. Now she’s got us chasing ghosts. Literally. While she’s at home trying to fix her fucked-up relationship on the network’s dime.’
She takes her turn to tip her head back, enjoying the warmth on her face against the rising breeze, trying to ignore the chinks his words have made in her. ‘Yeah, but the network are totally onside. Amber’s hot property now. Didn’t you see the email from Morris? They’re bringing the pilot forward. We get something new out of her, this could be huge.’
‘Yeah, maybe.’ He picks up another flaccid chip, examines it, and skims it across the sand to the gulls. They fall on it, yellow beaks clacking like swords, medieval screeches piercing. The second fry passes the test; he tosses it into his mouth. ‘But I still don’t like her.’
She allows herself a nod. ‘She is . . . kinda unnerving, I guess.’
‘She’s fake.’ Another car passes, another burst of dulled synthetic sound beaten back by the gentle roar of the tide. ‘She’s not a good person.’
She stares at him. ‘She’s a kid. She’s been through something we can’t even imagine.’
Tom squashes down the paper of the fries with the flat of a hand. ‘I know,’ he says, picking up the scrunched bundle and looking around. ‘But there’s something . . . I don’t know. I’m looking at her through the camera all day, right? And there’s nothing there. There’s no feeling in her face, just this deadness in her eyes.’ He leans forward, about to stand, but thinks better of it, and looks back at her instead. ‘It’s like she’s got no soul.’
‘I think it’s that she’s guarded.’ Federica’s email echoes in her ears. Can’t say I blame her. ‘How could she not be? Who would you trust after all that, if you were in her place?’
Tom snorts. ‘Come on, Greta – don’t tell me you buy into all that stuff. She is not the victim. She’s a fucking murderer, whatever else happened, and now she’s making millions out of her sob story.’
Irritation rises in her, hot and sudden. ‘You can be guilty and a victim, you know. Not everything’s clear-cut. If it was, what would be the point of making a film about it?’
He smiles and shrugs, entirely unrattled. ‘I guess. Sometimes I think it’s easy to get lost trying to find the story in something. Sometimes people are just bad. Sometimes it is that clear-cut.’
‘You don’t believe any of it then?’
‘Do you?’
Greta looks out to sea and doesn’t answer. After a while, Tom stands and offers her a hand up. ‘Don’t get sucked in,’ he says. ‘You know what’s going to happen. You know Federica’s going to do something to pull the rug out from under her. She always stitches them up, you know that.’
Greta lets go of his hand. ‘It doesn’t have to be like that,’ she says. Her phone chimes with yet another email.
Tom shrugs again and they begin walking back towards the car. ‘Whatever else she is, Greta,’ he says, ducking out of the way of two rollerblading teenagers, ‘Amber’s not innocent.’
13
2016
Amber watched as Sadie’s taxi pulled away, her mother’s head lolling towards the window. She took a drag on her cigarette, leaning further out into the night air, and wondered what Miles would say when he saw her. It was pathetic, really, she thought, that lack of self-control. She didn’t understand it �
� she was only sixteen and she’d learned long ago how to discipline herself, how to let people only see her good side, to see her as strong and in control. She prided herself on it. Sadie couldn’t even manage an evening at someone’s house without embarrassing herself like a total weirdo. She had only been back six months and already Amber was bored of watching her fall through life, dragging the two of them along with her. Perhaps she should feel sorry for her. But then, wasn’t it Sadie who was meant to feel sorry? Wasn’t she supposed to have come back, wracked with guilt and endlessly apologising for abandoning her helpless baby daughter?
And yet Sadie had said nothing. She had shown up and been quiet and possibly silently sorry, but silently was not enough. She should have turned up begging Amber to forgive her, surely. And Amber would have. She would’ve forgiven her, and in doing so she would have proven that she was not that helpless child any more – that she had grown up to be brave and strong and in control, had looked after Miles as he had looked after her. But no. Sadie had shown up, and Miles had been overjoyed, and Amber had been expected to fit in and get on with it.
So yes, she was annoyed (not hurt. She wouldn’t admit to hurt) – annoyed that she had spent years blaming everything on her absent mother, who would surely have made life perfect, only to find her returned and no great shakes at all. A mess, when it came down to it.
(What were you expecting? a critical voice inside her asked. She ran away because she thought you were cursed. She was never going to be baking cakes and brushing your hair, was she?)
She grated the cigarette against the bricks beneath the window, sparks scattering, and then tossed the stub into the neighbour’s hedge and pulled herself back into the room. She wasn’t going to think about that. She had spent a long time thinking about that Sunday afternoon, her grandmother and her alone in the kitchen. Her dad and granddad sipping beers in silence on the patio as they usually did. Amber had been eleven. Her grandmother had been drunk, on her fifth gin and tonic. ‘Oh, darling,’ she’d said, hands damp from the washing up as they smoothed Amber’s hair away from her face. ‘How could she ever have thought you were cursed?’
She wasn’t going to think about that.
She stepped away from the window, the curtain drifting up on a breeze behind her. The film playing on the laptop sending its flickering light across the wall. She reached out to take a slice of the cold pizza left on the plate. Fine, it was tasty, but she’d rather have had a Domino’s.
She looked around Billie’s room. Kind of pretty, she supposed, but also kind of lame, with its matching fluffy rug and fluffy pillows and its silky throw thing draped over the end of the bed. Too try-hard, no personality – though that seemed kind of fitting. She stepped over a sleeping bag to the bed where Billie and Jenna were slumped, a bowl of popcorn between them. She collected the bottle of Malibu she’d persuaded Jenna to steal from the Co-op and sloshed more into both of their cups, flopping down on to the bed beside them.
Her phone buzzed on the bedside table and she glanced down at the lock screen: Mica. Sorry hon, can’t ☹. She reached out and clicked the lock button so that the screen went black again. It had taken Mica two hours and thirteen minutes to reply to her, she definitely wasn’t going to send her own response any sooner – though her head was swarming with questions: why couldn’t Mica come and meet her in town? What was she doing? Who was she doing it with?
It wasn’t as if there was much to do in town. Just the same old pub on the high street, a totally gross old man’s pub where they always got served (unlike the nicer wine bar, which had bouncers who couldn’t be charmed). Sometimes the boys from the sixth form were there, and the girls could usually sneak into a better place if they walked in with them, their skinny boy arms slung around their bare shoulders. And it was their place, anyway, that gross old man’s pub, hers and Mica’s; they were their fuzzy memories, their giggle-filled phone conversations conducted the next morning from their individual snarls of duvet.
She turned her attention to the laptop, the film reaching its final chase scene, some poor whimpering girl trying to escape the killer by running in all the wrong directions. ‘This isn’t even scary,’ she said, irritated, and stared at Jenna. ‘I thought you said it was?’
Jenna flushed. ‘I guess maybe the start was scarier?’
Amber liked the way a look from her could turn all of Jenna’s sentences into questions.
‘If this is your idea of scary, Jen, I’m seriously worried about you.’ She turned away, but not before adding a small smile. A Just kidding. ‘You choose something, Bill. I’m sure you can do better.’
Billie’s panic was childlike and pleasing, her eyes wide and locked on Amber’s as she tried desperately to produce an answer. ‘Oh . . . I . . . Um, Jake posted something on Snapchat about that zombie film?’ The mention of Jake made her cheeks flare red and Amber watched with interest. She knew Billie liked him. She had seen the way Billie had been looking at him on her birthday – the way her face had fallen when Amber offered him a lift home with her mum (and Amber hadn’t even mentioned the kiss that had happened once they’d got there).
‘You should text him and ask him if it’s good,’ she said, casually, and watched Billie’s blush deepen. ‘Here – I’ll write it for you, if you like.’
‘That’s OK,’ Billie said, her voice small, but she picked up her phone and began typing. So easy. A flicker went through Amber, a fluttering like butterflies in her belly.
Her own phone buzzed again, this time with a message from Leo: Hey baby. What u doin? The flutters sped up then, and she fought back a smile. She toyed with the options. She could text him straight back, get him to pick her up in his car. Get him to take her away from here.
But no. That would be too easy, and she had decided she didn’t want to make it easy for him. Playing the game was way more fun with Leo, because he was turning out to be easy to play with.
She locked her phone again. She’d reply later, much later, so that he wondered where she was and who she was with. She liked to figure out these little things about people, the things that made them jealous or sad or happy. It was useful, it helped you get people to do the things you wanted. It helped you understand someone – and understanding someone was the best way to ensure that they couldn’t surprise you. To stay in control.
And so she finished her drink and poured herself another one, and then she slid closer to Billie and smiled at her. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Tell me the scariest story you know.’
From the diary of Leanna Evans [Extract A]
I slept surprisingly well and didn’t wake until after eight, which is highly unusual for me. I stretched out, staring up at the yellowing ceiling. It needed painting, and I itched to begin, though I knew that it would have to join the endless list of things I needed to do in this house. In this town. The list seems to keep on growing but at least now I’m starting to feel as if I’m finally making progress. Settling in.
The curtains were open – I never sleep with them closed here, I like the light to wake me – and I sat up and looked out at the day. The whitewashed sky low and lazy, a haze over the street. It was still early; it would probably burn off later, but then it felt almost beautiful, a kind of filter on the harshness that existed out there. I looked out over the rows of houses and, beyond, the fluorescent yellow of the rape fields, the scrawny dark shadows of trees. It had upset me, previously, the starkness of this small town, but I am growing used to it.
I got up and showered, scrubbing at my skin until it was pink. I would have liked to have done some yoga had we not had a guest, but my time was not my own. And so once I was out and dressed, I went to the kitchen and flitted back and forth between the cupboards, wondering whether to cook pancakes or omelettes, a full English. I was like a teenager with a new boyfriend; trying to guess what someone might like. Trying to guess what Amber enjoyed for breakfast. That might sound strange, but I wanted it to be right.
I decided to wait until they were awake and to wh
ip up whatever they fancied, just like that, the perfect hostess. The decision was a relief, and so I made myself a coffee and then I slid open the patio door and went out on to the terrace. I took a seat there and looked out at the parched strip of lawn. Parched, even in May. It was parched when we bought the house, looked scorched even in winter. I don’t know much about gardens, about growing. I don’t know how to undo a scorching.
When I finished my coffee, I went inside to find my book. I could have cleaned, of course (I can always clean!), but I didn’t want to fluster myself before they came down. I wanted them to feel totally at ease, totally free. That is the true art of being a good hostess – an understanding of how your home and your demeanour make others feel and act. It’s always important to remember that.
The book was something I had picked up in the town library; a literary number that all of the Sunday papers had gotten excited about. It wasn’t perhaps the tempo I was looking for then, though I managed to lose myself in it for a while, until the ceiling creaking above me alerted me that the girls were awake. It was still early, by Billie’s standards anyway – a bit after ten. I smoothed down my hair and went to the kitchen, filling the kettle. I set out the butter in its china dish, and took out the teapot. Then I put the teapot back, because that was stuffy, old-fashioned – something a grandma would do. You must understand how nervous I was, how desperate I was to get this right. For Billie’s sake, if nothing else.
It was Billie who came down first, her hair all mussed up and eyes puffy with sleep. Her dressing gown is too short for her and worn in patches, but she loves it – she refuses to wear the one I bought for her two Christmases ago. And so instead it was Amber who came down in it, looking much younger with her glossy hair pulled up into a ponytail, her face pink and freshly washed.
I tried to keep my cool; to greet them as if it was normal for Billie to have a friend over to stay. I wished them a good morning; I offered them tea, coffee, juice. Amber asked for tea, pulling out a chair at the table as naturally as if it were her own. That was my first feeling of success, I think. My first feeling that she belonged here, that I had done the right thing by encouraging them to be friends. Billie declined a drink – she looked pale; I assumed that she hadn’t gotten much sleep, though she was the one who suggested she and Amber top-and-tailed in her bed instead of pulling the blow-up mattress down from the attic. I liked that suggestion, if I’m honest; it had the feeling of Enid Blyton boarding school stories to it, a special kind of female friendship that I’ve never been lucky enough to experience. I was glad too that Jenna chose to go home just after midnight in the end. That might sound unkind, but she’s not right for us.