Chapter 23
Beatrice
Iam underdressed. I don’t mean trainers in a nightclub underdressed. I mean sheep-shit-covered shoes in the Savoy. Literally.
Perhaps I should have thought about the fact that this is more than just a chat in the pub with some mates and there are professional standards to be upheld before I dropped everything to hop in the stupid car.
Arthur’s pressed suit and tie should have given it away.
But in my defence, he always dresses like he’s just come from a business lunch in the financial district, even when he’s collecting hen eggs, so how was I to know?
Looking at myself in the bathroom mirror of the London Savoy, I realise just how much of my old self I have lost. These sorts of meetings were my bread and butter, selling myself, my work, to brilliant people in brilliant rooms, full of confidence.
I dressed like someone who cared about who saw her; I walked with my shoulders back, my head high, and in heels that would give me vertigo to even look at now.
Now I have taken on the stereotype of country bumpkin and I didn’t even realise it.
Leaving that part of my life behind was intended.
I suppose I thought it would ease the grief if I just pretended like none of that existed.
But it hurts now, to see how much of my old self I have lost. Perhaps that wasn’t really me either – the pant suits, the fast pace – but somehow, I’ve swung so far back the other way that I have no idea who I am, or who I’m supposed to be.
I remember feeling out of place back then, surrounded by wealth I never knew existed, and entirely out of my depth.
But at least I looked as though I belonged.
I can’t fake being a city girl when I look fresh off the farm.
The only thing I’m missing is the hay between my teeth and the straw hat and that would truly top the look off.
When a firm knock at the door startles me enough to restart my heart, I finally work up the courage make a decision.
‘You need to do it without me.’ Arthur has been waiting outside of the toilets for me for fifteen minutes and he frowns at my panicked words.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Look at the state of me, Art,’ I rush. ‘No one is going to take me seriously, not a chance in hell.’
‘Art?’ He raises an eyebrow.
‘What?’
‘You called me Art? You never do.’ What is it about this man that he sees a woman flustered and has absolutely zero sense of urgency?
‘You’re getting off topic.’ I fold my arms together to stop my hands from shaking. ‘I can’t go in there looking like this. You need to do this alone, just like we planned back home.’
‘Beatrice, you look b … fine.’ He coughs. ‘It’s just an initial meeting, nothing formal, nothing set in stone. Plus, it’s more authentic. These guys see suits and shaved faces every single day. Who knows, seeing a farmer girl in tight jeans might just push them in the right direction.’
‘Are you suggesting I have a beard?’ I choose to ignore his last comment. It’s either that or I slap him and I’ve already caused enough of a scene.
‘I’m not doing this without you,’ he says, his eyes swimming with feeling, brimming with such passion and honesty that a little of the tension releases on my chest. Only a little. He’s just as afraid as I am.
‘I don’t want to be the one to fuck all of this up.’ I rub my hands over my face and I snag a little powdery patch of toothpaste on my chin. ‘It will be easier on us both if I just have you to blame.’
‘Would it now?’ He licks his thumb and swipes it down the length of my chin where I had been mercilessly trying to scrub off my sloppy morning routine.
‘Gross,’ I mumble under my breath, too flustered about being stood in London, in the fucking Savoy, to actively fight against it.
‘Come on, being late is worse than being underdressed.’ He pulls me by my hand before I can protest and we slip into a grand dining room of white tablecloths and polite chatter.
Though I keep my head down and stare at the immaculate carpet as Arthur guides me along, I can’t help but feel like people are looking, watching me, judging me.
I’m just about to snatch my hand away to flee when I hear a nearby voice whisper rather loudly, ‘That’s that guy. You know the one. His mum and dad are famous.’
And their companion replies, ‘Oh, I know the one. The druggy? What’s his name? Something Cavendish?’
‘He’s not as hot in real life.’
‘Probably all the drugs.’
I raise my gaze to Arthur, whose grip tightens ever so slightly on my hand.
He’s heard them, I can tell, but he doesn’t make his discomfort known.
It’s not hard to spot the culprits: a pair of young women, who look like they’ve dumped their kids with the nanny for the afternoon to eat expensive cakes and bitch so loudly that the whole room can hear their vocal fry.
I make sure to stare them out, but before I can unleash any of my twenty-odd years of pent-up rage on them, Arthur pulls me away.
‘Ignore them,’ he grumbles under his breath, sensing the tension in my body and my predator glower.
‘They can’t just—’ I begin to insist but he cuts me off.
‘Ignore them.’ His face is rigid. He’s trying to hold it together and that only makes me want to flip even more.
But, I see how he’s his father’s son in the way he transforms his entire mien, even down to the curve of his shoulders as we approach the table of a man and a woman, armed with iPads and glasses of wine.
‘Natalie, Rhys.’ Arthur leans forward to shake their hands before introducing me.
‘This is the talent behind the project: Beatrice Norton.’
I wipe my hand on my jeans before outstretching it, and the two professionals eye me with a smile. ‘Nervous?’ Natalie asks before wisely skipping the handshake to take her seat.
‘A little,’ I confess, pulling out the chair opposite her.
‘Don’t be. Just imagine we’re friends brainstorming in a bar.’ Shifting to take another look at my surroundings, I’m not sure what sort of bars she frequents but I guarantee it’s not one in Lincolnshire where most of the patrons are miserable farmers.
‘What would you like to drink?’ Arthur leans over to ask, the menu open in his hands.
They aren’t going to have Tracy prices in here. That woman pretty much makes a loss on her booze just so people in the village can still afford a drink and I reckon I’ll need a mortgage for a pint in this place. ‘I’ll just have a water please.’
The first ten minutes are filled with small talk. From what I gather, Arthur met Rhys and Natalie on various sets he’s been on with his dad. They chat away about an arrary of names, some I recognise, a lot I don’t, and I sit sipping my water trying not to get in the way of their catch-up.
‘So, Beatrice,’ Natalie finally addresses me, ‘tell us about yourself, you don’t normally do this sort of thing, do you?’
‘Funnily enough, I didn’t even think I’d be here today. I had dressed for my usual job on the farm.’ Natalie laughs politely.
‘Beatrice was a writer for a time in London. Weren’t you, Bea?’ Arthur prompts, and I nod. I seem to have forgotten how to sell myself. It’s far harder when your appearance marks you out as different from the get-go.
‘So, having a little sabbatical in the country? Good place for inspiration?’ Rhys asks this time and I take extra pains to make sure my smile doesn’t drop. These people don’t need the truth; they just need to believe in the story.
‘That’s what has inspired this story actually.’ I try and refocus the topic of conversation. I don’t want to talk about myself; I have too many tender bruises that I don’t fancy pressing right here, and I don’t think either Natalie or Rhys would appreciate it either.
‘Have you written anything we’d know, Beatrice?’ Natalie looks up from her iPad, stylus in hand, ready to make notes.
‘Certainly nothing of your calibre.’ I laugh, hoping the humility will soften them. ‘A few indie films.’
‘More of a hobbyist then would you say?’ My eye twitches against all of my attempts to keep my face impenetrable.
‘Not at all.’ Arthur speaks for me. ‘She’s just being modest. Beatrice Norton is a professional in every way.
You’ll see that in the quality of her script.
You guys know how many I’ve read over the years in my household, so I’m sure you’ll trust I know what I’m talking about.
Beatrice has a talent I haven’t seen before.
’ My face flushes and I have to take a swig of water to stop myself from trembling at his words.
Has this man been googling me? I certainly haven’t told him any details about my scripts?
Or is he just playing it up for the audience?
Arthur is a showman, his words are emboldened for effect, but they still make my heart race even though I tell myself they’re a wild exaggeration.
‘This is such an interesting collaboration.’ Rhys addresses Arthur. ‘How come you’ve gone down the writing/producing route now?’
‘I think we can all agree that acting was never for me.’ Arthur makes the table titter in knowing amusement. He’s very good. ‘I think before I just never had a story worth telling.’
‘You do now?’ Natalie presses.
‘I certainly think so.’
‘I have to admit I was rather excited to receive your email, Arthur.’ Rhys grins and for the first time all day, confidence seeps into me.
That’s the face of an interested man if ever I’ve seen one.
Can we really do this? ‘Yours is a name I’ve been after for a while.
And I must say, this new path intrigues me.
And I reckon it could excite an audience even more. ’
‘Absolutely.’ Natalie nods in agreement. ‘The studios are crying out for something we can push to your sort of audience, Arthur. It is a romance, isn’t it?’
Did she even read his pitch? ‘It’s not a romance,’ I say firmly.
‘My audience?’ Arthur looks how I feel, his eyebrows slanted in confusion.