Chapter 29
Beatrice
Being back in London doesn’t feel so crushing the second time around.
I’m unsure if it’s because I actually look the part this time, or because Arthur hasn’t let go of my hand since we left New York, but I am so full up with hope and excitement that even if the anxiety began to seep in, I don’t think I’d notice.
I suppose it helps that whatever the outcome of tonight, I will be happy. If we get a professional team on board or not, the film will be made, New York will be proud of us, and Arthur Cavendish will be by my side long after the clock strikes midnight.
‘I think I’m going to boke.’ I clutch Arthur by the forearm as he leans forward into a darkened patch of the alleyway. I don’t think he got the same message. We hide in the shadows beside the BFI, as I try and give him a pep talk to hopefully ignite some of his Cavendish charm.
‘Please try not to get it on either of our outfits – your gran is terrifying enough when she’s in a good mood.’ He visibly swallows back his bile and presses his fist to his teeth to suppress the urge to leave his dinner on the pavement.
‘We could just go home, say we got the wrong date, or we changed our minds,’ he rambles, looking at me pleadingly.
‘This isn’t for us, remember?’ I sweep a strand of hair back and the growing length of it reminds me of that night, tidying up the Butcher’s mess and throwing myself at him in the beer garden. The memory only bolsters my confidence. ‘It’s for Jimmy, for Lizzie, for Tommy …’
Tommy. I haven’t stopped thinking about him. I’ve spent so long trying not to think about him at all, pretending like he never existed, and this hurt I feel is all in my head. But now the floodgate is open and he follows me into every room, and every conversation.
It’s a messed-up tale of two halves. On one hand, I am still here, I get to achieve things he never did, I get to live a life he would have been proud of.
It makes me grateful every single day that I get the privilege of age, of time.
I owe it to him to make the most of the life I have and I appreciate it all in such a way that I never did before.
On the other, the guilt eats me alive. It should be him here, not me.
He should be living, breathing, dancing, sharing his wealth of ideas with the world.
But he never got that chance; he never got the time that I have now.
Why should I get to do all of this when he can’t?
‘This whole thing is about doing something for people who can’t be here to do it for themselves.
It’s for the people we love,’ I remind him, and myself.
As though sensing my thoughts, Arthur pulls me against him and I relax a little into his touch, and he strokes his thumb across the back of my hand in a rhythmic motion that could lull me to sleep if I let it.
‘And even if we fail tonight, Art, we lose nothing.’ I place a soft kiss to his hand and he sighs into it.
‘I spoke to Lizzie on the phone before we left …’
‘How is she?’ I look into his eyes and they swim just like my own.
‘She remembered my voice, and that’s enough for me.
’ Still, his thumb sweeps back and forth, not hesitating for even a second in soothing me despite the fact it is him who needs the affection.
‘I tried to tell her about all of this but she just wanted to know where I was and why I wasn’t home with her. ’
‘Once we’ve done this, we will take the good news with us and visit her. Together?’ It’s bold for me, to invite myself to visit the one person Art loves most in the world, but just as I begin to backtrack, he speaks again.
‘You’d want that?’ He seems genuinely surprised and his sorrow is interrupted by a little shot of hope for a moment.
‘I’d be honoured to.’
Arthur takes me by the cheeks and presses an impassioned kiss to my lips before pulling away with a breathless grin.
‘Come on. Let’s give London a little taste of our New York.’ He takes my hand in his and pulls me back out into the streetlights.
‘Our New York?’ I pause for a moment to savour his words. I am in love with him. I’m almost sure of it. There’s no way I’m giving him the satisfaction of letting him know though.
‘Our New York,’ is his reply along with another warm kiss to my hairline.
The gala is already bustling when we finally arrive. Arthur takes the tickets from his pocket but the attendant waves him on without so much as glancing at them.
‘Welcome, Mr Cavendish. What a pleasure it is to have your presence at the gala once again. You should find refreshments around the room, but if there is anything special you require, you need only ask.’ She smiles brightly with her posture as straight as a board and uniform so crisp it must have been pressed at least thrice before she put it on.
Arthur thanks her before stepping into the crowd. I go to follow, but a perfectly ironed shirt sleeve stops me. ‘Tickets?’ The attendant’s smile has vanished in an instant and she scowls at me as though I’m some sort of wild animal been let loose in her posh party.
‘Oh, I’m sorry …’ I bumble, trying not to echo her own rudeness back to her, ‘We’re …’ I point back and forth between myself and Arthur who is already deep in conversation with another unfamiliar face ‘… together,’ I finish and the attendant laughs.
‘Yeah, nice try.’ Her politeness has vanished as she now rolls her eyes and folds her arms over her chest.
‘I am, he has my ticket.’ She places her body directly in front of me so I have to lean around her to try to get Arthur’s attention.
He doesn’t see me, or notice me missing.
It seems he’s already being pulled in every other direction as his name is called by so many voices around the room.
‘Arthur.’ I try to raise my voice above the rest but it only melts into the cacophony. ‘Arthur!’
‘Shush!’ the attendant is so aggressive with her command, her spit flicks onto my face and I look back at her in disgust.
‘Who are you shushing?’ I direct my attention to her now, with a brow so highly arched I’m sure I can feel it in my hairline.
‘You’re disturbing the guests.’ Her face grows hot with irritation and the Lincolnshire lass in me is one more “shush” away from tackling her like one of my sheep.
Finally, Arthur turns back and sees me sweating profusely in the doorway. ‘Are you okay?’ He shuffles away from the conversation he was engrossed in and returns to me.
‘Sorry, sir. She’s saying she’s with you.’ The attendant all of a sudden has the posture of a royal guard and a smile that must have taken every one of her muscles to produce.
‘She is with me.’ Arthur takes me by the hand and pulls me forward into the crowd without a second thought, or a second glance at the woman. I, however, revel in looking back, to see her fallen face, and I take the opportunity to fire her cheek-cramping smile right back at her.
‘Jesus, I thought I’d fallen at the first hurdle then.’ I laugh breathily, though my heart is pounding so loudly in my ears that I can hardly hear Arthur asking again if I’m okay.
‘Stay close to me.’ I hear him say that loud and clear as he weaves our fingers together and pulls me into his side so we move as one.
‘Artie Cavendish!’ a voice calls out as soon as his face is back in the crowd.
‘Mr Perón,’ Arthur replies with a smile. ‘How are you?’
‘Very well, very well. Are you not here with your mother and father tonight?’ Mr Perón asks with a thick French accent.
‘Not tonight, sir. I’m here with Miss Beatrice Norton.’ Arthur points to me with pride. ‘We have actually written a film together. It’s an exploration of youth, of the weight of decisions, and grief before death.’
‘Very interesting.’ Mr Perón taps his chin. ‘Your father is producing, yes?’
‘No, sir.’ Arthur tenses under my touch. ‘It is something that Beatrice and myself have worked on independently, and we are looking for someone like your good self to help us get it out into the world.’
The Frenchman bumbles some sort of faux interest and then excuses himself for something urgent, leaving Arthur and I, still hand in hand, a little disappointed though not yet entirely deflated.
‘It’s okay,’ he reassures me. ‘There are at least fifty others here I have my eye on. We will find one who will listen; I’m sure of it.’ His smile is desperate, as though he’s trying to convince himself, and though I nod, I can’t help but feel completely useless.
These conversations have only begun because of the prospect of a connection with Arthur’s famous parents.
We are only here on the back of their reputations.
Once everyone knows that they have no involvement, their interest is quickly spent.
It isn’t lost on me, the knowledge that if I wanted to do this alone, or if Tommy had been the one by my side like we had always intended it to be, we would never have even got a foot in the door, let alone thirty seconds of listening.
This whole thing is all about connections, and without Arthur I am no one.
I am a gatecrasher turned away at the door.
I am not a writer, or a talent in this room; I am a networking black hole, and no one is willing to take the risk of getting close to me.
The evening doesn’t stray from this pre-determined path.
With every failed conversation, Arthur’s smile grows more strained, his arms grow more tense, and his eyes lose their light as fast as the sun on a winter’s evening.
But still, he squeezes my fingers, encourages me at every failure, and tries his best to not let me see just how hard he’s taking it.
‘You wait here, let me go and get us some drinks.’ I finally pluck up some courage after seeing him look so exhausted and manoeuvre him to a little armchair in a quiet corner to rest for a moment.
‘Let’s sack off all of the professional shit and just make the most of a free bar, eh?
’ Arthur sits down with a sigh and I take that as my cue to head to the bar.
For what feels like hours I try and get the barman’s attention but he seems to work around me as though I don’t exist at all.
Back home, I never have trouble speaking up, making myself heard, but here I feel utterly drowned out.
Just as I am about to give up, a long arm stretches out in front of me and a deep voice calls for attention that is given almost instantly. My blood boils.
Pull yourself together, Bea.
This isn’t me, not one bit. When have I ever stepped aside and allowed the world to walk all over me? And if there is one thing I really hate, it’s bastards jumping the queue.
The barman scuttles over. ‘What can I get you, sir?’
‘I believe this lady has been waiting for far too long.’
With the blood rushing too quickly to my head, I speak before I process what he says. ‘Actually, I was here first,’ I snap, then my brain catches up and bathes me in a blush. ‘Oh … sorry … yes.’
‘What would you like?’ The gentleman turns to me, eyebrows raised, and a teasing smirk.
‘Just two pints, please,’ I mumble, still embarrassed by my hot-headed blunder.
‘Two pints for the lady, and one for me, please.’ The barman shoots off to the taps and the stranger leans onto the bar beside me, lowering himself to my eye level in a casually suave lollop.
‘Sorry about that,’ I say, rubbing my hands over my face and wishing I was back at home, in my own pub, pulling my own pints.
‘These things are bloody awful, aren’t they?’ he says, his poshness oozing from every syllable. ‘Just a bunch of arseholes trying to show off.’
‘Yeah, you could say that,’ I reply with a laugh and the stranger extends his hand for me to shake.
‘Charles River.’
I take his hand and shake it lightly, though too aware of its dampness for any of this interaction to feel comfortable. ‘Beatrice,’ I reply, not bothering to give him my full name; it’s not like it holds any importance here.
‘Nice to meet you, Beatrice. I’ve not seen you at one of these things before. It’s unusual to see new faces. Particularly ones so pretty.’ I’m grateful that the barman delivers the goods so I can grimace into the froth of my pint.
‘I’m here with a … friend. I guess you could say that I’m his plus-one.
’ Realising I’ve been gone now for quite a while, I look back across the room in the direction that I left Arthur but notice the armchair empty, and him nowhere to be seen.
‘Well, I was. It seems that he’s gone without me.
I should go and find him … thanks for the drinks. ’
‘Oh, who’s your friend?’ Charles doesn’t get the hint as I keep looking around the room for Arthur.
‘Arthur Cavendish.’ I speak quickly. ‘Thanks again.’
‘HA!’ Charles’s voice is so loud that several people around us cease their conversations to watch us and I resist the urge to tell them all that I’m definitely not with him. ‘Cavendish? Wow, so you’re his new thing, are you?’
‘Excuse me?’ My eye twitches as I swing around to face him, the reminder of who exactly I am coming back to hit me with full force. ‘A woman is not a thing for starters. And if I were, it would be none of your business, Mr Pond.’
‘River,’ he murmurs just loud enough for me to hear over the hum of the room. ‘You know he does this a lot: finds some obscure girl, dazzles her with the magic of the movies, then leaves her once he’s bored.’
Don’t hit him. Don’t hit him. Don’t hit him.
‘I’m sorry—’ (I’m not) ‘—but who are you?’
Charles River scoffs, as though I should know his name and his life story and be instantly wooed by his strong bone structure and luscious hair.
‘I suppose you could say I was once a friend, until I had served my purpose and the Cavendishes didn’t need me anymore.
’ He leans even deeper against the bar until he’s pretty much stood in a straddled position.
‘Tiny Artie’s got plenty of skeletons in his closest. And a madwoman in his attic.
’ He hides the last part behind a cough and a grin and I grasp my pint so tightly, the liquid inside trembles.
Don’t hit him. Don’t hit him. Don’t hit him.
Instead, I do exactly what arrogant men hate the most, laugh in his face.
‘All right, calm your tits, Charlotte Bronte.’ Charles River closes his mouth so quickly I hear his porcelain teeth crunch together with the motion.
Leaning in close enough for him to feel my breath on his cheek, I speak in a low voice, just loud enough for him to hear.
‘I don’t know who you think you are. And I don’t know who you think I am, but if you ever say anything along those lines again – to me, or to anyone else – I have access to enough sheep shit to fill a nice car and whatever shitty London flat you live in. That is a promise.’
‘You’re fucking insane.’ He draws his face away with a shiver.
I pat him on the shoulder and give a condescending wink. ‘Thanks again for the drinks, duck.’