Chapter Twelve #3
‘Added to that,’ Blake continues, regardless, ‘everyone’s just waiting for the news to break that the three of you,’ he raises his hand, gesturing at first Nick, then Felix, then me, ‘have come to blows and walked away. And as for you,’ he turns to Emma, ‘you need to convince everyone that you’re up to this.
Ana might have talked the studio around for now, but we all know these things can turn on a dime. ’
‘But I am up to this,’ Emma says, with unveiled irritation, for which I really don’t blame her.
‘Blake,’ I say, ‘she has, quite literally, been up to this.’
‘People need to see that though.’
‘The Screen published that photo of us … ’
‘We need to show them more.’
‘What?’ asks Emma.
‘Lunch,’ he says. ‘I’ve booked you all in today at The Heaton Arms. Robbie’s old house.’
‘I don’t want to do that,’ I say, for a hundred reasons, not least that I still haven’t actually been to Heaton.
Loath as I was to do that for the first time in costume, about to shoot, I’m even more reluctant to do it now for some forced show of camaraderie, knowing that everyone there will most likely be thinking about how I had an epidural at 4cm dilated, and that my son never grew heavier than 318g.
‘It will be all right,’ says Blake.
‘You’re only saying that because you don’t have to do it,’ says Felix, and again, I’m grateful to him.
Grateful to Nick, who, turning to go, instructs Blake to think of some other way to control this damage.
‘No,’ says Blake, stopping Nick short.
‘No?’ says Nick, raising his brow.
‘No?’ says Felix.
‘Wow,’ says Emma.
‘This has to happen,’ says Blake, and, in another set of circumstances, I might almost admire his nerve, holding his ground against our collective front.
‘You need to be at The Heaton Arms for twelve. They’re excited.
There’ll be a bunch of photographers there to catch you going in and out.
Ones we can trust. A few others will probably turn up, too. ’
‘A few?’ says Nick. ‘Come on, Blake. We all know it’ll be a circus.’
‘It won’t,’ Blake insists. ‘I’m managing it.’
‘How?’ says Nick.
‘I’m not going,’ I say. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘You need to, Claudia,’ says Blake. ‘I don’t want to play this card … ’
‘Then don’t.’
‘But contractually … ’
‘Seriously, Blake?’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ says Nick. ‘You don’t think she’s been through enough?’
‘Of course I do,’ says Blake. ‘But contractually, you all have to do publicity that’s deemed in the best interests of the movie.
And I very much consider the world holding faith that the four of you aren’t about to keel over or combust as being in the best interests of this movie.
The Screen called me this morning asking for a comment on whether there’s anything behind the rumours that the studio are about to call it all off.
I told them no, obviously, but those rumours are coming from somewhere. Where there’s smoke … ’
‘I still don’t see why I have to have lunch,’ says Emma. ‘I could just go for a walk, take Rusty again. Do anything, actually, that doesn’t involve eating.’
‘No, you need to be there,’ says Blake. ‘It will look too staged if it’s only Nick, Felix and Claudia.’
‘That’s not what’s going to make it look staged,’ says Nick.
‘And,’ says Blake, ignoring him, ‘we want everyone to see you enjoying your lunch, Emma.’
‘Well, that’s not going to happen,’ she says.
‘You can pull it off,’ Blake says. ‘How many Oscars do you have?’
‘Just the one.’
‘Wouldn’t you like to make it two?’
‘Frankly, I’m more interested in spending today horizontal.’
‘You can spend this afternoon horizontal,’ Blake says. ‘Just have lunch first. Maybe a quick chat with the locals. Don’t worry, I’m sure there won’t be a horde. A handful probably, out and about.’
I sit up straighter at this mention of Heaton’s locals.
It’s not the first time I’ve worried about them.
I’ve been anxious for a while that someone might be waiting to come forward and put it out that I was born nearby.
Mum’s been concerned about it, too. Neither of us want my grandparents’ deaths splashed over the newspapers.
So far, it’s remained quiet. If anyone in Heaton has remembered that John and Belinda Cuthbert, killed in 1989, had a granddaughter called Claudia – who took the surname Baxter when, in 1999, her mum married her new stepfather, Phil, and he enquired whether she might consider letting him adopt her – they’ve either been too discreet, or too disinterested, to say anything about it.
Up until now, I’ve been hoping that that will remain the case.
But this past couple of days has been a rude reminder of just how deeply, and unscrupulously, some people are willing to dig for the sake of a prime position on the news cycle.
Ana’s the only person on the movie, besides Nick, who knows about my roots here.
Before all of this mess started, both she and Nick advised me to confide everything in Blake too, so that if there were any warning signs of it all coming out, he’d know enough to spot them and get ahead of the story. Bury it, if possible.
I’ve kept brushing them off, insisting there was no need for me to tell Blake anything.
‘It’s fine,’ I’ve said, because I’ve wanted it to be.
But it’s not fine.
Nothing is.
And I really don’t want it to all get worse.
So, ‘Blake,’ I say, ‘there’s something I should mention,’ and, before I can think better of it, I fill him in, as sparingly as possible, on the fact that I was born in the self-same postcode as Iris Winterton, in 1985, sixty-seven years after Iris herself was born in 1918, and forty-two years after she disappeared in 1943.
Not only that, but my grandmother – originally from Heaton herself, and very much alive in the war – might, quite feasibly, have met Iris. And Robbie. And Tim.
For several seconds, Blake says nothing. Just gives me this blank stare.
Emma and Felix both stare too, similarly shocked.
Nick, meanwhile, doesn’t so much stare at me, as look, see, with his eyes that, free of make-up’s interventions, once again belong purely to him.
I try to read his expression, but can’t settle on whether it’s one of sadness, or sympathy, or even, maybe – perhaps – that love I really do wish I could believe he not only still feels, but feels in a way that’s enough, given it’s all I can give him.
‘Are you kidding me, Claudia?’ says Blake, rediscovering his voice. ‘You really didn’t think it might have been useful to mention this before? It’s incredible. You and Iris probably went to the same school.’
‘I didn’t go to school here,’ I say, pulling my gaze from Nick’s.
‘I was too young. Even if I had, it wouldn’t have been to Iris’s.
You know that.’ We all know Iris’s school was closed years ago, and the building turned into a bank.
It’s one of the reasons the movie will have to shift locations in the new year, when the little people playing Iris, Robbie and Tim as children will run in and out of an old schoolhouse in Derbyshire, where there’s no ATM at the front. It irks me that Blake’s forgotten that.
Clearly, he’s got himself way too excited.
‘I don’t want this getting out,’ I insist to him.
‘But … ’
‘No,’ I say. ‘My grandparents were killed before they were sixty. My mum can hardly bring herself to speak about them, to this day. I cannot have that all over the press. Mum’s never signed up for that.’
‘We could make sure it’s handled sensitively—’
‘No, Blake.’
‘You could even write a piece—’
‘No.’
‘Or we could arrange an interview, with someone great—’
‘No.’ The word cracks. But I’ve had enough.
I am done with my personal life being treated like a commodity.
‘All right,’ says Blake, with a put-upon sigh. ‘If you’re not comfortable with it, then of course we’ll keep it under wraps. But you still should have told me.’
‘I thought you’d try to use it.’
‘You’ve asked me not to.’
‘I still thought you’d do it.’
‘God –’ he gives me, then the others, an appalled frown – ‘what kind of monster do you all think I am?’
Monstrously, he insists we walk the nearly three miles to the pub, even Emma. It will look more spontaneous, he says, than us turfing up in a car. He does, however, agree to send a driver to fetch us after our lunch.
‘No later than half one,’ I tell him.
‘Why the hard stop?’ he asks. ‘Have you got something on?’
‘Nothing you need to know about,’ I say, which it isn’t.
I’ve given my word to Roger Westin, the head of Tim Hobbs’s nursing home, that I won’t risk anyone from the press getting wind of my appointment to visit Tim this afternoon.
But Tim has agreed to it.
Apparently, he wants to meet me.
‘He’s a huge fan,’ said Roger, when we spoke on the phone, back on Monday.
It was Imogen who gave me his number. I could easily have found it online, but I didn’t want to approach him behind her back.
She’s been so open with me, it would have felt wrong, keeping this from her.
And, to my relief, when I told her how desperate I’ve become to get to the bottom of what really happened the night Mabel’s Fury disappeared, she wasn’t remotely put out.
‘I wish you better luck than me,’ she said. ‘Just don’t expect too much of Tim. It’s been a while since I last saw him, but like I’ve said, even then, his memories had grown very confused.’
‘He does have a favour to ask,’ Roger told me, on the phone. ‘He’d like you to bring Felix and Nick with you, if you can. He’s intrigued to shake the hands of the men who’ll be immortalizing him and Robbie.’
‘Of course,’ I said, since how could I have turned down a request like that?
They were both pretty pumped, when I invited them along. And, actually, I’m glad that they’re coming. I’m glad Nick is. I don’t want this to be another secret between us. I’ve been letting far too many of those build up.
Plus, with everything else going on, I couldn’t bear to leave him alone again. Not like I did yesterday.
I don’t want to be alone.
But I am getting fairly keyed up myself about seeing Tim.
Don’t expect too much, Imogen told me.
I’m not expecting anything.
Yes, as I set off with Nick, Emma, and Felix for Heaton – the four of us wrapped up against the frozen weather in coats, scarves and hats – I think about Tim, waiting in his home, and feel a surge of anticipation.
Because he knew Robbie and Iris. He was a child with them. He fought with them. He lived with them. He talked and laughed and, almost certainly, loved with them. He used to look them in the eye, every single day, and now I’m going to look into his, and perhaps, maybe, discover something new.
But first, I’ve got to get through this damn lunch.