Chapter 23 #2
‘You know, teens who can’t get enough of you, and your persona. The social media, TikTok audience. We need that bubble-gum, easy-watching film that the name Arthur Cavendish screams.’
Arthur’s knee bounces, causing the table to tremble. Placing my hand on his thigh to steady him, he relaxes at my touch.
‘I think we might have gotten a few wires crossed in my email.’ He laughs breathily, and he hides his discomfort well.
When Rhys orders his third glass of wine, we finally start to talk about the film.
Well, at least Arthur does. I sip on my water, trying to keep breathing as he turns into someone entirely different than the person that I’ve spent weeks on a farm with.
He puts on a show. He’s confident, controlled, charismatic.
He’s in his element it seems, surrounded by all of this glitz and talking about an industry he was born into.
But there’s a little more to it. When he talks about Jimmy, about New York, it’s almost as if he gets carried away. He paints such a vivid picture of the place, of the characters in the Big Apple, that I see the producers growing confused as his pitch turns into a tangent.
‘So, it’s set in New York?’ Rhys interrupts with a swig of his wine. ‘I thought we were dealing with a domestic British film here. You’d be hard pushed to find anyone willing to give you the budget for any New York location. Even if we slap the Cavendish name on the package.’
‘No, no.’ Arthur laughs breathily. ‘I made the same assumption when my father first told me about it. It’s actually New York, Lincolnshire. It’s right here in England and I never even realised.’ Natalie furrows her brows. ‘Funnily enough, it’s just down the road from Boston too.’
Almost all of the conversations I’ve had in the last five years have begun in the same way.
‘Where are you from?’ the man in the pub/the girl in my seminar/the customer at work would ask when their received pronunciation would flag up the twang in my voice.
‘A little hamlet called New York,’ I’d reply, trying to hold on to my fake smile, knowing what would soon follow.
It’s usually a variation of: ‘Wow’, ‘That’s cool’ or ‘You don’t sound American.’
That is where I’d have to awkwardly laugh and declare, ‘Not that one.’ All whilst acting like I haven’t had this conversation a thousand times over already.
After a short, confused silence, I’d expand, ‘It’s a tiny village, barely a street, just over from Boston.’ A confused look from my interlocutor. ‘Not that one,’ I’d add again, if only to humour myself.
Realising that I don’t have great tales of their version of the Big Apple, my father isn’t a famous film producer, and I can do nothing for their careers in Wall Street, the conversation fizzles to nothing.
In the last five years, I have managed to disappoint just about everyone I have spoken to. And now, Arthur seems to be understanding my pain as he looks to me for help.
‘I think instead of getting hung up on the name of the village, wouldn’t it be better at this stage to understand the story?
We are telling a true story of adversity, coming of age in a small town, and following two men who take entirely different paths in life.
It’s a success story that turns into tragedy. ’ I can’t help but grow defensive.
‘Arthur, you mentioned that your father is involved. You already have an agreement in place for him to star?’ Rhys seems to ignore me, and I know I wear my frustration on my face.
‘The story relates to my father and his old friend but he won’t be acting in the project.’ I can tell that he too is irritated, but he controls it well.
‘So, he’s taken on more of a producer slash director role then?’ Natalie interjects and a sick feeling fills me. They were never going to want our story, they just wanted first dibs on what they thought would be the next Edward Cavendish movie.
‘My father has no part in the film whatsoever. It is a passion project created by myself and Beatrice.’ Arthur tries his best to hold it together but I notice his mask slip a little.
‘We have some story boards drawn here if you’d like to take a look.
’ He pulls the drawings Cerys did for us from his file and places them on the table before them. They don’t bother to look.
‘What about your mother? Is she involved?’ Natalie presses, twirling her finger around the rim of her empty glass.
‘No,’ Arthur says, collecting up all of the sheets of paper he had excitedly brought to offer and he puts them back into his bag under the table.
‘It would be too much of a financial risk for any of the studios. Without any stars or big names on board, it just isn’t worth it for them.’ Rhys finally stops beating around the bush to tell us the truth and my heart sinks.
‘I see.’ Arthur’s whole persona has changed, as if the rejection has sucked every last whisp of confidence out of him and he’s lost at sea and out of his depth.
‘We shall keep it in mind for future projects,’ Natalie says out of politeness and tries to take with her a copy of the first few pages of the script, but I seize them from her before they reach her handbag. Arthur doesn’t move, nor say a word. It’s up to me now to be the boss.
‘Thank you very much for your time,’ I say, standing up and pulling an absent Arthur with me. His expression is blank as he repeats my thanks and gathers his things.
It’s my turn to take Arthur by the hand and drag him back the way we came, his body submitting to me, and his legs moving of their own volition.
I haven’t forgotten the couple from the start who sneered at him, and the bitterness towards all of the people in this room has only escalated.
Their eyes track us back through the room and as we pass their table, Arthur doesn’t have the energy to stop me from ‘accidentally’ knocking over their bottle of red wine in the middle of the table, which soaks their dinner as well as their trousers.
‘Oops. Ever so sorry.’ I show them my best fake smile and grip Arthur’s hand tighter before running from the scene of the crime.
I only stop once we reach the courtyard and stand panting in the street amongst London’s taxis.
Thrilled from the chase, I turn to Arthur with a grin but something isn’t right.
The colour has drained from his face and he stands stiffly like a corpse in the throngs of rigor mortis.
Only his chest rises and falls in a shallow rhythm and his eyes are wide and swimming in panic in a way I know only too well.
‘Arthur?’ I call his name softly, taking him by the hand and the elbow. He doesn’t reply, his breathing just quickens and his palm pools with sweat against my own.
London bustles around us – horns, lights, voices, sirens – it encompasses everything and right here in the heart of the Strand, it feels inescapable.
He can’t hold my gaze for more than a moment before his eyes dart around in the night trying to, no doubt, keep up with the thoughts bouncing around in his mind.
All I know is that I need to get him out of here.
Tugging on his hand once again, I pull him through the crowds, not minding who I bowl over in the process.
Arthur stumbles through beside me and I steal nervous glances at his face every chance I get, but it only grows pastier and void of the man I’ve come to know well.
Intensifying my urgency, I guide us down the closest alleyway and don’t stop until we’re far enough down that the lights of the theatres can’t reach us and the stack of bin bags help to muffle the cacophony.
Placing him against the cool brick of the wall, I grasp his stubbled cheeks in my hands and force him to hold my eyes.
‘I’ve failed,’ he says weakly, the pace of his breathing quickening.
Pressing my palms to his beating chest as firmly as I can, I can feel the strain of his heart at my fingertips as it throbs erratically. ‘Arthur, you’re having a panic attack.’ I keep my voice level, calm, hoping that somehow I can pass some of it on to him through osmosis.
Still his chest rises and falls rapidly.
‘I haven’t taken any drugs, Bea, I promise.
’ My stomach drops. This has happened to him before.
This is what the press jumped on. This is what started all of those rumours.
And all along, it was a scared little boy having a panic attack and no one stopped to help him.
The great Edward Cavendish, who prides himself on immersing himself in his roles, going method to really draw out the nuance of his characters, didn’t once stop to question how his son might be feeling.
Helena Cavendish, the idol of working mothers across the globe, the glamourous figure who devotes herself to her art and her philanthropy, allowed the world to run the story that has damaged her boy to a point that he now stands before me, a shell of the person I know.
His parents, the people I have idolised for as long as I can remember, abandoned him. How alone he must have felt.
I won’t let him feel like that again.
‘I know.’ I speak softly. ‘It’s okay. I just want you to breathe with me, okay?’ I place his hands on the top of my chest and inhale deeply; he tries his best to copy but he gets halfway and shakes his head.
‘I’m so sorry.’ His eyes search all across my face and they swell with tears. ‘It’s all my fault. I failed. And what about Jimmy and Lizzie? What about you?’ The tear finally escapes with the climax of his sentence and I sweep it away before it encourages any more.
‘Hey, hey.’ I press his hands harder to my chest and maintain my grip on his fingers so he has no choice but to feel its rhythm.
‘You haven’t failed Jimmy, Lizzie, or me.
Artie, we’re all fine. It’s one rejection.
Just one. I’m still here. You’re still here.
And I’m so proud of us. Two weeks ago, this was just a single conversation, and now look at us: in London with a brilliant story.
We don’t need them, okay?’ He nods but the tears still come.
‘I’m still here. And I’m staying. I’m okay, you’re okay. I’m proud of you.’
We stand in silence, just the murmuring city surrounding us as he watches me, holds me, and finally finds the strength to breathe.
He watches me and I watch him. He is my only object, and I am his, until he can unravel the knots of his mind and straighten them out again.
When the tension lifts from his body, he pulls his hands from mine and wraps his arms around me, burying his face in the crease of my neck and pulling me as close as he can, and he relaxes into my arms. I just hold him, as he holds me, until London disappears from around us and we are two kids who know everything is going to be okay.
My fingers plough through his hair gently as I speak quietly against him, though I hardly know what I’m saying anymore.
When he finds the courage, Arthur lifts his head once more to face me, his bloodshot eyes heavy with fatigue. ‘Can we go home?’