doorway of his office.
‘Where were we?’ he says. ‘Siobhan. Yes. Your film outline. The idea doesn’t hold together. It’s muddled. But that casting idea you had. Emilia Cosvelinos?’
‘Yes?’ Siobhan’s eyes brighten with hope.
‘She’s a great idea for Becky’s film. She’ll be in Cannes promoting her Scorsese movie, we should get a breakfast booked in with her. I’m mates with the agent. I’ll put the call in. He’ll go out to bat for us if Emilia bites – but she won’t bite unless it’s fucking irresistible and if the Scorsese film’s as good as everyone’s saying it is, then she’ll want an Oscar for whatever she does next. It’s worth a shot.’
Becky squirms with discomfort. ‘Mightn’t it be better if you pitched it to her, Matthew?’ she says, trying to put some space between her and what is happening. ‘As your idea. I mean, you’ve won Oscars for actresses—’
‘No. I like the project. But you love it. It’s your baby. That goes a long way with actors. Pitch her like you pitched me and you’ll do fine. Right, that’s it. Siobhan, can you get our man from IcePR on the line.’ It’s not a request. ‘I need to speak with him as soon as possible. Tell him it’s urgent.’
Matthew used to be in PR. Telling a story, spinning a story, knowing when to take the heat off one character and put it on another: such a transferrable skillset for the film industry.
‘I’ll call him right away,’ Siobhan says quietly.
Becky’s house is on the way to City Airport so she plans a quick trip home to collect her things. She arrives to the sweet, steamy scent of pancakes on the skillet. It is the food that Maisie and Adam make together every time he comes to stay, their most enduring ritual. They mix it up in terms of the recipe – made extra fluffy with egg whites, coconut and banana added, criss-crossed with candied bacon – but always they have pancakes.
Adam’s chocolate-coloured leather weekend bag has been dumped at the top of the stairs next to a pair of unlaced Campers, worn in and bashed up to the perfect fit and level of comfort. She can hear Maisie and Adam talking in the kitchen, giggling their way through the rambling conversations they specialize in. Adam and Maisie are masters of mimicry together: if Adam is Kermit, Maisie will reach for her best Miss Piggy. Neither of them would ever say it, but clearly they don’t like it if Becky tries to join in. So that’s become the tacit rule when they’re all together. Becky speaks with just the one voice; Adam and Maisie are multitudes.
She doesn’t have long to get her things and catch her flight, but she still takes a moment to enjoy the sound they make together, then peeks in to see that Maisie is back in her pyjamas, school done with. Right now she is moving photographs around the surface of their fridge, like pieces of a jigsaw. Every few weeks she takes new photos, prints and sticks them here, leaving only a loyal few old-timers by the handle. A faded colour one of her being bathed as a baby in the kitchen sink at the Hounslow house, just before the two of them moved with Becky’s mum. Another favoured photo is of the three of them together, Becky and Adam standing at either end of a low mossy log while ten-year-old Maisie steps along using a stick for balance, her great high-wire act.
Adam tips batter from a metal bowl into the frying pan.
‘Is there one for me?’
Adam’s face lights up when he sees Becky, and that’s a lovely thing. Not for the first time the thought rushes in: how might it be to be smiled at that way every night? To come home, kick off your shoes, and for there already to be conversation in the kitchen and somebody else taking care of dinner?
‘These are genuine buttermilk pancakes,’ he says. ‘How many d’you want?’
‘They’re an eight,’ adds Maisie. They started ranking pancakes five years ago. To begin with they had a log book, but while that’s long since been abandoned, the need to allocate marks has endured.
‘Just the one, please.’
Adam may have aged – of course he must have – but to Becky his face is the same now as it was at school. Kind, curious and easy to read despite his efforts. His buttoned-up skinny-fit shirts give the impression of him being a well-turned-out kind of guy, but she knows the cupboards and drawers of his Shoreditch apartment are total chaos. His jeans, like his face, are unchanging, always bought from the same website in the same size, same shade of indigo, a replacement sought once the old pair has faded and thinned at the knees. He’s as loyal to his jeans as his friends.
‘Adam dumped Brooke,’ chirps Maisie. ‘She offered to get the cover of his favourite magazine, Men’s Health, tattooed onto her back to try to make him love her.’
Adam erupts into laughter. ‘Men’s Health isn’t my favourite magazine!’
‘She got as far as inking the title across her shoulder blades.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ Becky says.
‘About what? Brooke’s shoulders?’ Maisie loves being in the middle of any conversation when they are all together. She’s grown up that way, thinks Becky. It might have done her good to have a sibling. And then she thinks, it’s not too late for her to have a sibling, is it? Becky’s only thirty-two after all so there’s still plenty of time, a decade perhaps … And then she has to remind herself to put those thoughts down and concentrate on what’s in front of her. A pancake bubbling over heat. A plane to catch.
‘How did you do it?’ demands Maisie. ‘Gory details. Come on.’
‘I don’t find break-ups easy …’ Adam blushes.
‘No one does but come on, she was planning your interiors. You had to pull the trigger.’
‘I didn’t really read that as a sign she might want to stay,’ he says. ‘I thought it was handy because, you know, she had good taste. I thought she enjoyed picking out blinds.’
Maisie slaps her forehead in delighted disbelief.
‘Was she American, with a name like Brooke?’ asks Becky.
‘Tell her the surname!’ crows Maisie. ‘What was her surname, Dad?’
‘Waters,’ says Adam, sheepish, as if he’d named her himself.
‘Brooke Waters!’ howls Maisie. ‘Damn, girl! Headline for the week: Adam’s Waters broke.’
‘Hey, Maisie,’ says Adam. ‘Can you go into my bag and grab the blueberries I bought?’
‘Yep, I’ll be a minute OK? Got to get sorted for tonight first.’ She takes a few steps toward Becky and pecks her on the cheek. ‘You’re amazing, my hero, I totally love you.’ Then she wanders out, answering her phone on the way.
‘Thanks for keeping an eye on her tonight. I appreciate it.’ Becky stifles a yawn and looks round the kitchen trying to remember where she put her travel-sized sun cream. ‘What stuff is she getting sorted? Are you guys doing something fun tonight? Bowling …’
‘Well no,’ Adam looks up, perplexed. ‘The sleepover?’
‘At Jules’ house? I told her she couldn’t go to that until we’d discussed it.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you’d … the way it …’
Becky’s chest tightens. ‘I said no to her.’ Her whole body is tense now. ‘She’s playing us off against each other, Adam, she—’
‘Hold on a minute,’ he says. ‘When she said there was a sleepover I asked her questions like who’s there, what time are you going. I suppose I assumed she was already going … we were talking about other things at the same time: hash-browns and climbing walls.’ The two of them do go off on tangents. ‘I can’t quite remember how the conversation went but it’s possible she thought we’d already spoken.’
Becky is a combination of anxious and irritated. ‘Why did you assume anything? Didn’t you think I