Imagine yourself back into that skin and feel the closeness of the fit. Persuade yourself.
But you are not watched by anything other than a fat, ginger housecat, which moments after you pass him forgets you for a rat-rustle in the bushes nearby.
Becky sits at her kitchen table, skull resting in her hands, the sweat of her running kit rapidly cooling. Suddenly she shakes her head from side to side, like she is trying to unblock water from her ear canals.
Her hands shake as she reaches for her cup of sugar-sweetened tea. There are only minutes left before her daughter rises, before she must pack it all away, every messy part of herself, and instead shower and emerge into the office day clean and effective and capable of more than she feels. And in twelve hours she touches down in Cannes and will need to find yet more energy from somewhere to be extraordinary. Impressive. So much better than her ordinary self.
Her phone dings. Siobhan from the office.
Becky has known her for three years now and they have their taller-than-average heights in common, along with a history of photocopying, office organizing, script reading, and attending to the needs and wants of Matthew. All the things Becky is now shedding.
Something’s going down. Advise turning up on time …
Ding
… early. Ideally? M is in a weird mood. Wants to talk to us.
Becky’s body tenses instinctively, her stomach drawing in as if she is about to be punched there.
Immediately, she thinks: I am to blame for seeing something that wasn’t my business. There would be no point in telling herself that blame is an irrational response – what she feels in that moment comes unbidden, from a place that is fossilized in her bones.
I am to blame for entering his space without permission.
All that time spent preparing for Cannes: choosing and rolling and folding and packing things to decorate herself with: the pretty clothes and the jewel-toned make-up and the bangles and necklaces and perfume. The shameful, wasteful vanity of it all. He’ll cancel the trip, and then sack her from her job. All those years she worked, wasted. All the studying and handbook-reading between toddler meals and screaming baby put-me-downs and pick-me-ups. The evening courses and coursework threaded between hastily arranged pieces of childcare. Not to mention the hours spent reading novels, watching television programmes and films, not for pleasure but to educate herself: studying story construction and characters. Feeling surprised and comforted when some characters sunk into her bones, enough to make her laugh and cry and scream with frustration and sometimes, if she was really lucky, to feel their presence for days and months after … What did people call it? Characters that stayed with you, like a good friend, a true friend who holds your hand at a time of need.
One night, after watching a film about a woman who had fought against the odds to find happiness, all this feeling brimmed out of her and onto the page in the form of a well-worded letter addressed to the Soho townhouse offices of the film’s producer, Matthew Kingsman.
I want to work for you more than anything. I too want to bring stories to people that make them feel what you make them feel: less alone.
It had all been so hard-fought. And soon it would all be gone because she had put herself in the wrong place at the wrong time.
She slaps her own wrist. Stupid girl.
‘Hey, Mum.’ Maisie is standing at the doorway to the kitchen in bare feet and white and blue tartan pyjamas – brushed cotton, a Christmas present from Becky – the ropes of her bathrobe hanging down, brushing the floor gently, vines in the wind. ‘Are you all right?’
Becky wipes at her cheeks with flat palms, like she is applying moisturizer. ‘Yes, absolutely fine.’ Reassuring people was something she learnt to do many years ago. One trick amongst many.
Another one: fill a silence with a question of your own.
‘How long did you stay up revising?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Maisie. ‘Late?’
‘It’s important to get some rest as well. You can’t think properly if you’re not getting enough sleep.’
‘You want me to add resting to my already massive timetable?’
Becky smiles. She likes Maisie’s sharp edges. They’ll keep her safe, she hopes. Not an easy walkover, a girl who’ll puncture your feet as you attempt it. ‘What are you working on?’
‘I was doing my physics revision. How long have you been up for?’
‘Do you study the atom bomb?’
‘You mean fission bombs?’
‘I have no idea! If I’d studied them I might be able to answer that …’
‘Anyway, no, we don’t. In our school that’s probably more of an ethics thing than a science thing.’
‘I just always thought it was interesting. A tennis-ball-sized thing flattening a whole city.’
‘Morning, Mum! Can I have some breakfast before we talk about the end of the world?’
Becky smiles and sets about sorting Maisie’s breakfast.
‘I don’t want you to stress about your exams.’
‘Yes you do! I know I need a scholarship to stay at sixth-form and those ten A grades at GCSE aren’t going to magically achieve themselves.’
‘Just don’t let it get on top of you.’
‘I actually slept really well. Did you go to bed? You look rubbish.’
‘Really building my confidence before Cannes.’
‘It’s not like you’re an actress. You don’t have to look sexy for anyone.’
‘True. Well, I’ll cling to that, shall I?’
‘Yep.’
Maisie levels her out. She always has done. There have been times, many of them, that without a child to hold onto she might have fallen off the edge of the world. And here, like a miracle, is a smart-mouthed funny young girl, living under the same roof, loving her more or less unconditionally. Even when she first pushed a pram around the park, round and around, when she thought she could actually feel the gazes land on her soul, heavy with judgement – a feckless teenager with a mewling newborn, a mistake that’ll no doubt be paid for by the state – even then just looking down at her soothed her, pushed her agony to the sides, made space in her for her heart to beat.
Now teenager-mother and baby have morphed to become mother and teenager. And often they are mistaken for sisters – they are almost the same height, have the same long mousy brown hair, the same strong thin nose. Maisie’s eyes are darker and a little larger. Her skin tans in the sun where Becky’s burns. But these are small differences. ‘Cut from the same cloth,’ Maisie’s grandfather is fond of saying. ‘Not much of you in there, Adam, and thank Christ for that!’ Adam, adored by his father all his life, affects outrage before claiming that Maisie has his hairy arms. Becky watches on fondly as they all collapse into more laughter. The joke varies. Sometimes Adam claims she’s going to have his size twelve feet, sometimes it’s his sticky-out ears, but the form is unchanging. Sometimes as the shtick begins Adam meets Becky’s eyes and there is a private understanding before the lines play on. Maisie loves it. Sometimes she prompts it, asking Grandpa T who she looks like, feigning innocence but already grinning in anticipation of which mutant body part Adam will claim for her inheritance.
‘Sorry to have to be away,’ says Becky.
‘No offence, but it’s non-stop pizza when you’re gone so there’s not going to be many tears shed.’
‘I’m