Chapter Three
I return to the attic within a few hours.
I don’t plan to.
I plan to try and get some rest. Even though Nick and Felix are now going to be shooting first thing, I still need to be in make-up at nine.
With Emma out of action, Naomi’s frontloading some montage shots of the rest of us around the base.
It’ll be straightforward, but dull, and the last thing I need is to be as knackered as I’ve been today.
Nick was still in wardrobe when I let myself into our room earlier, so I unpacked and sank into the roll-top bath.
There, I flicked through my worn copy of The Bomber Boys, then stared, like I’ve stared so often before, at the photograph of the original Mabel’s Fury crew on the cover.
It was taken the afternoon before they left on their final mission.
Tim and Robbie are in the middle of the group, both of them stirringly handsome – Tim, like a young Robert Redford; Robbie, in a class of his own – and Robbie’s focus is direct into the camera.
He has one foot forward, like he’s about to set off towards the person behind the lens.
Iris?
I’ve wondered about that for a long time.
I asked Imogen if she knew, but she said that Tim can’t remember who took the photo.
I think it probably was Iris, though, and it breaks my heart, looking at the smile on Robbie’s face.
It kills me, looking at all of them. I hate how young they are, how alive.
Dropping the book face down, I dressed, then, texting Emma to check she was awake, went to see her. Her room wasn’t hard to find. It was the only one with a ‘No Entry’ sign fixed to the door.
‘How are you feeling?’ I asked her, once she’d let me in.
‘So bad,’ she croaked in her southern drawl, shuffling back to bed.
She’d been crying, I could tell from her blotchy face. I felt awful for her, locked away in quarantine, all miserable and alone. She reminded me so much of Lisa, burying herself beneath her duvet, that I very nearly went and gave her a hug.
I didn’t though. We only met at rehearsals, and although we spent plenty of time together then, the days were packed, I was all over the place, and I guess we’re still finding our way as friends. But I do like her. Honestly, she’s pretty much the only person I haven’t been dreading seeing here.
‘Is it something you ate?’ I asked, perching on her bed.
‘I dunno,’ she said. ‘I can’t think about food.’
‘Can I get you anything?’
‘No, but thanks for coming, Claude. No one else has.’
‘Naomi’s banned it.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ She gave me a weak smile. ‘But you’re still here.’
I stayed with her a while, reluctant to leave now I’d seen the state she was in.
I coaxed her into drinking some water, helped her to the bathroom when she had to throw most of it back up, then sat with her until she drifted off to sleep: watching the blackness outside with half my mind, still thinking about the attic upstairs with the other.
When I did finally leave, I had to race down to the dining room, a quarter hour late for Ana’s welcome dinner.
‘You won’t stay her favourite if you keep this up,’ whispered Nick, as I slipped into the seat beside him, midway through Ana’s speech.
‘I’m not her favourite,’ I whispered back.
At which Felix, opposite, opened his mouth, as though to chime in, then promptly shut it again: remembering, all too clearly, that the way he’s decided to convince Nick of how innocent everything between us in Sicily was, is to ignore me entirely.
I understood him taking that line during rehearsals.
He and Nick are old friends too – they flat-shared when they were both starting out – and those photos were still everywhere, back then.
But it’s November now, the press has mostly moved on, and I’ve been really hoping we could, too.
Counting on it, actually. We’ve grown up in this industry together.
I can hardly remember what it was like being in it without him, and ever since The Go-Between I’ve taken it for granted that we’d always be in each other’s corner.
In Sicily, before those photos broke, Felix was in my corner: the best of co-stars on set, and the very best of friends off, never leaving me to my thoughts, but dragging me out for swims, and carafes of chilled wine, and bowls of pasta and gelati. It meant everything.
Which only makes the way he’s behaving now hurt more.
It’s hideous being treated like you don’t matter, by someone who matters so much to you.
‘You’re being rude,’ I was upset and tired enough to tell him, when I cornered him as we left the dining room.
‘You possibly don’t care, you’ve made it pretty clear which friendship you’ve decided to prioritise, but can I remind you that you don’t actually need to cut me out. We never did anything wrong.’
He stared at me: blankly for a second.
Then, his swoon-worthy face moved in a frown.
I have no idea if he was planning on finally saying something.
If he was, I didn’t stick around to hear it.
Losing patience, I walked away, catching up with Nick, who’d gone on ahead and was looking back at us.
‘Everything all right?’ he asked, as I joined him.
For once, I couldn’t bring myself to pretend.
‘Not really,’ I said, and it was only when my voice shook that I realised how close I was to tears. ‘How is it for you?’
To which he replied with a deep sigh, and an arm around my shoulders, which might have been for my benefit, but could just as easily have been for Felix’s.
We undressed for bed silently once we got back to our room. I expected we’d get into bed that way, too. But, as I was coming out of the bathroom, Nick, in an armchair with his phone, reached out, pulling me to him.
‘Claude … ’ he said, and this time, it was his voice that cracked.
His face, turned up to me, was wretched.
‘What is it?’ I asked, alarmed.
For a hideous moment, I genuinely feared he was about to admit that he hasn’t, in fact, been as true as he’s claimed.
I watched him draw breath, searching for the words.
Or maybe it was courage he was looking for, to say them.
Either way, he shook his head, and forced a smile. ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’
I knew there was more to it.
I could have pushed it.
But I was too afraid to, so I let it go.
And now here I am, my coat thrown over my pyjamas, my phone torch held out before me, once again letting myself into Iris’s room.
I didn’t come here on an impulse. I considered it for a long time before I finally slipped out of bed.
The prospect of heading up to this haunting silence was hardly comforting, and actually quite terrifying, but in the end I couldn’t resist. And I’m glad now that I didn’t.
It’s better being here, doing something, than tying myself in knots downstairs.
There’s a glow coming through the window.
I assume it must be security lights, but when I get to the cobwebbed glass, I see that a series of flares has been lit, apart from the set, outlining three runways, just as they would have during the war: to guide the planes off, and beckon them home.
The black air around their flames shimmers with heat.
There must be crew down there, I realise, preparing for the night shoots we have scheduled after the weekend.
I can’t see anyone though. All I see, beside the flares, are the slumbering shapes of the planes, huts, and control tower, silhouetted against the distant woods.
Eerie, isn’t it?
It really is.
And, as I stare at it all, the oddest thing happens.
It’s fleeting, gone in a second. But the second stretches, my throat constricts, my gritty eyes swim, and the shimmering around the flares spreads, until everything is wavering.
It’s like the night itself has become a veil; it shivers, the flares spark, suddenly brighter, and, for a beat, the blanketing silence fractures, and I hear the static planes roar.
Then, the flares disappear, the set’s security lights flash on, illuminating everything in a flood of white, and all is solid again; all is quiet.
I swallow.
What the hell was that?
I have no idea.
Exhaustion?
I should go back downstairs, I tell myself; take an Ambien, knock myself out.
But I’m too shaky to move.
So, I sit on what I seem to have decided was Iris’s bed, and, at its creaking softness, am overcome by the same urge I had earlier to lie down. This time, I give into it, lowering myself sideways, resting my head on the thin pillow.
Just for a minute.
But I sleep for a lot longer than a minute.
For the first time since rehearsals, I sleep deeply, without interruption.
When I wake, it’s to watery sunlight, and the sight of Ana standing over me, looking amused.
‘You gone off central heating?’ she says.
I blink, groggily, and touch my icy fingers to my icier face. ‘What time is it?’
‘Almost eight. Nick’s been trying to call you.’
‘Really?’ I grapple for my silenced phone. It has seventeen missed calls. ‘Oh. God … ’
‘Yeah. He was about ready to mobilise the search parties. I told him to give me five. What have you been doing up here? Other than snoring … ’
I sit up, rolling my neck. ‘I was looking at the flares.’
‘What flares?’
‘The runway flares. Effects had them on … ’
‘What?’ Her face moves in bemusement. ‘No, they didn’t.’
‘They did … ’
‘No. You must have dreamt it.’
I run my hands through my hair, dislodging a dusty feather, and don’t argue.
I’m too disorientated. And cold.
But I didn’t dream those flares.
They were real.
Weren’t they?
Because what about the planes?
The noise from them felt real too …
I close my eyes, replaying it.
‘I gotta run,’ Ana says. Distantly, I’m aware of her voice. ‘Everyone’s waiting in the library. You need to move, too. Make sure you have some breakfast before make-up, yes?’
She doesn’t wait for an answer.
And I don’t give her one.
I don’t watch her go, either.
I’m too busy staring at the window, my entire body shaking, wondering if it’s possible that Mum’s right after all, and I’m on the cusp of some kind of breakdown.