Chapter 30
Arthur
Iam not the same man I was when I was here last. Back then I still had no confidence, but at least I was better at hiding it.
Coming here as me, as opposed to the son of my parents, it’s exposing.
Walking in here without them is as much of an embarrassment as walking in without my trousers. I feel vulnerable; I feel weak.
But I can’t let Beatrice down. My insides burn as though I am Prometheus and each conversation is a vulture, tearing at my flesh to reach my liver, but I can’t let the pain of it all show.
I must fight on, against my own body, against my own mind as each rejection strikes me down even more, just to make sure that I give Beatrice the night that she deserves.
She assures me that the outcome is inconsequential, that whatever happens, she will still make that film.
But I’ve let her down too many times already.
She deserves a huge production, with a vast budget, and a stupid chair with “writer” on the back, and I need to be the one to give it to her.
I have less than three weeks until I have to return to my old life.
Three weeks to make this film, three weeks to savour every last moment of New York, of Beatrice, three weeks to prove to my parents that I have achieved something.
My father will hear all about my successes and failures tonight.
Every conversation, every moment will be reported back to him.
I can’t let him be right about me. I can’t let him know that I am just as useless as he thinks I am.
Tonight is about proving myself, to him, to Beatrice, to the press, and to every single person in this room who has underestimated me.
‘It’s okay. There are at least fifty others here I have my eye on. We will find one who will listen; I’m sure of it.’ I’m trying to convince myself and I’m sure she can see it in me too, but I have to be strong.
The more I talk about this film to so many blank, uninterested faces, the more I realise that none of it feels right.
I’d give up right now and run back to New York and shoot this thing on my phone, but when I look over at Beatrice, who usually seems so bold, so bright, she just looks depleted, like a bee that’s lost its sting and knows it has no more fight left.
So, I fight for her. I talk and talk and talk until my throat is dry and my eyes are heavy. The burning in my gut hasn’t subsided, it’s spread all through my body and I know that if I don’t internally combust, I’ll just explode.
‘You wait here, let me go and get us some drinks.’ Noticing my exhaustion, Beatrice leads me to a seat and a little more of the woman I know begins to show again. ‘Let’s sack off all of the professional shit and just make the most of a free bar, eh?’
I could kiss her. I want to kiss her. But I’m scared enough already that her face is going to be plastered in the papers beside me whilst some sweaty prick in a suit that’s too small for him picks apart everything she is, and I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from going ballistic.
I know I have to keep my distance. Here, in this world, though her talent belongs, Beatrice doesn’t.
She is too good, and too real, too unapologetically herself, and I know people will take it upon themselves to crush all of that character out of her, make her doubt herself, make her small.
Beatrice finds me, clutching the cool metal of the banister at the bottom of the stairs. Sweat pools in my suit as I try my best to get some sort of control over my breathing. I can’t do this again, not here, not now.
‘Arthur?’ she says, placing a delicate hand on my shoulder.
‘I’m fine,’ I snap, although fending off this panic attack feels like I’m riddled with food poisoning and trying my hardest not to be sick, knowing full well that when it does come, it will be a fucking explosion.
‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’ She remains level, calm, though her eyes reveal her concern. ‘We don’t need any of these people. We have all we need back home.’
‘I can’t give up now. My dad isn’t going to give a shit about some home movie. If I can’t secure studio funding, Bea, he will be right; I’ll be a failure.’
‘That’s what all of this is about?’ Her body language shifts as she scoffs, ‘Is that what it’s always been about, you proving yourself to Daddy?’
‘You don’t understand, Beatrice. I have three weeks until I leave New York, and I need something tangible to take home, something to show everyone back here that I’m not just some fucking nepo baby.’
‘You’re leaving?’ Her defensive snarl wavers and she falters. ‘When were you going to tell me?’
‘You couldn’t have thought I was staying for good?’ Her lip quivers with each of my words. ‘There’s nothing for me in New York, Bea. Surely you can see that?’
‘I’m nothing?’ she says, defeated.
‘No.’ I reach for her but she pulls away. ‘No, Bea, I didn’t mean that. You know I didn’t.’
‘Do I? And even if I was just your only option to entertain yourself whilst you were away from the buzz of the city, I’m not the only one you’ve made fall for you, you know.
What about all those people back in the Big Apple who care about you?
What about Jimmy? This was for them, wasn’t it?
You’re their family now; you can’t just leave them.
’ I picture them all, lined up along the side of the road to wave us off this morning.
‘They hardly know me. Fuck it, I hardly know me.’
‘I know you. Whoever you are in New York, that’s the real you.’
‘That person isn’t good enough, Bea.’
‘He’s good enough for me.’ A lone tear streaks through her makeup but I’m too far from her to sweep it away. ‘You can stay, sell our film, sell your soul, I don’t care. I’m going home.’
The chiffon of my grandmother’s dress floats behind her as she leaves like a phantom.
All I can do is watch until she is out of sight and then stay transfixed on the path she took, hoping that she’ll come back to me, even if it’s just to slap me.
Anything, as long as I know she’s not really gone for good.
‘Oof, that’s gotta hurt.’ Charles River, the smarmy little prick, leans over the railing and looks down the staircase at me, a crumpled man, at the bottom.
Seeing him with her back at the bar, seeing the high and the low of my life together in such proximity was all I needed to set me off into this spiral.
Charles River, the BAFTAs, these fucking parties, are as low as low can get for me.
The emptiness, the anxiety, the fear it all brings, it’s too much.
And I’ve just watched the high, the one true beacon of hope, walk out of this door and I did nothing to stop her leave.
‘Oh, fuck off, Charles.’ He is all the reality I need to realise just how much of an idiot I’ve been, but by the time I get outside, Beatrice has vanished into the busy London night.
Wandering the streets alone for a while, I finally manage to pull myself together before I start turning into one of the pathetic men in a Richard Curtis film, and drag myself back to where I parked the car.
There’s only one place I can think to go.
On the edge of London, just where the skyscrapers and tower blocks meet the trees and fields, there’s a place that always used to fill me with such dread.
Seeing her there, it always felt so wrong.
She’s too young, too healthy – I never wanted her to belong there.
But now, as I walk through the reception of Lizzie’s assisted living building, all I know is that I need my big sister, no matter whether she remembers me today, or she is just a fraction of the woman I know, just being close to her is enough.
A nurse takes me to her little apartment across the courtyard, and the sound of her voice flows through the door at the knock.
‘Your brother has come to visit you, Miss Cavendish.’ The nurse addresses her first and I linger behind her in the doorway.
‘Artie?’ The turmoil in my stomach plateaus, hearing my name from her lips.
‘Lizzie?’ I say, stepping into the room. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m good, thank you, my baby brother is coming to visit me.
’ She smiles at me politely, as one would a stranger.
Though it stings, the sight of her – her mousy hair slicked perfectly around her ears, her dark eyes framed by her glasses, and her bright pink pyjamas – brings me enough solace not to linger on it.
‘Is he?’ I reply.
‘Are you all right? You’re crying,’ she says bluntly, though still kindly.
‘No, I don’t think I am, Lizzie.’ Getting up out of her armchair, she walks over to me, laces an arm around me and pats me on the back until I break down into her shoulder.
‘Come on, silly billy. Come and have a cup of tea.’ She guides me carefully to her own armchair and disappears into her little kitchenette before coming back a few moments later with a glass of orange juice.
Though she doesn’t know me in this moment, I talk to her, unreservedly, for what feels like hours. I tell her everything: about New York, about the film, about Beatrice. And she listens.
When I finally finish and am suitably exhausted, she finally speaks again. ‘Then what on earth are you doing sat here? Sounds to me like you’ve got a film to make.’
‘I’ve fucked up too many chances already, Lizzie. I’m not sure I have any left.’
‘Ah, you’re not sure. You don’t know for definite. And you won’t know at all if you just keep moping around.’ She shakes her head as if it’s obvious. ‘You’re a fool, but you’ve a good heart. You know what’s right. You know what you need to do.’
I just sit with her words for a moment, and I watch her, just there, existing with glimmers of her old self making every difficult day worthwhile. ‘Thank you, Lizzie.’
‘I’m tired now,’ she says, giving me my rather explicit cue to leave and I do. When I reach the door and look back one final time to savour her image, she speaks again. ‘Love you, Artie.’
‘I love you too, Lizzie.’