Chapter 6 #2
‘Thank you.’ I take a sip, the familiar taste hitting me with a wave of nostalgia so strong it’s almost dizzying. ‘And I’d love to see your drawing, Maisie, but I don’t want to interrupt your family time.’
‘It’s not interrupting,’ she insists, tugging at my sleeve. ‘It’s just Dad and Uncle Jude and Grandad. And they’re just talking about boring stuff like boat engines and football.’
Jude, who’s been watching our exchange with undisguised amusement, raises his glass in my direction. ‘Been a while, Quinn.’
‘Jude.’ I nod back, a smile tugging at my lips despite not wanting to look too keen and desperate.
Jude is still, well, Jude, like time hasn’t touched him here.
Wild sandy hair, startling blue eyes and the cheekiest smile to ever grace the earth.
He’s wearing the standard coastal uniform of hoodie and well-washed jeans.
The wooden bar blocks his feet, but I’d stake a year’s earnings on flip-flops despite it being October.
‘Still causing trouble?’ I ask, while in my head a faded cine reel flashes jellyfish, bonfires, surf and guitars.
‘It’s my defining characteristic.’ He grins, and it’s friendly, and I breathe out.
Maybe this isn’t too bad, but then I glance towards Kit’s father who’s glowering next to him and my stomach lurches all over again.
Reuben gives me a curt nod, his expression stony and closed.
There’s no warmth in his pale blue eyes – only judgement as he takes a long sip of his drink.
He’s aged so much. White hair, weathered everything.
And I can practically hear his thoughts: Here she is, showing up now, after all this time.
After missing Maggie’s funeral. After everything Kit’s been through.
‘Isla,’ he says, voice gruff. The way he says my name – not ‘girl’ like he used to, or ‘love’ – speaks volumes.
I want to shout back, I know. I know I missed it all, but it wasn’t my fault, but instead I simply reply, ‘Reuben,’ trying to smile naturally, but it’s like my face has forgotten how to utilise its muscles.
If I was on set, I’d have a director screeching down a loudspeaker, saying, ‘Isla, do you intend to look constipated or do we need a ten-minute personal break?’ ‘It’s been a while,’ I add, hoping for an opening, but he simply grunts in response and turns back to his drink, dismissing me as effectively as if he’d turned his back.
The message is clear. I might be welcome in this pub, but I’ve got a long way to go before I’m welcome back in their family circle. If ever. Preferably not.
There’s an awkward silence, all of us suspended in this strange moment, surrounded by our shared history but separated by the years that have passed.
I peek a glance at Kit, whose face is stoically blank. It feels like more than ten years have separated us. It’s centuries. Light years.
Then a woman with dark curly hair, and freckles like punctuation marks, appears beside me.
‘I’m Nina,’ she says, extending her hand, and her smile is so warm and cheek-splittingly wide it’s impossible not to smile back.
‘I own the café in the village. The one that used to be the old bookshop, not sure if you remember it?’
‘Oh, right, I saw that on my way in the other day, it looks lovely.’ I shake her hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’
‘I just wanted to say,’ she continues, lowering her voice slightly, which is cute of her considering I doubt there is a single person in this pub that hasn’t seen the headline The Sun printed six days ago that said, ‘VALE OF SHAME: Quinn Exposes Producer’s Casting Couch’.
And let’s not think about the Daily Mail’s female-bashing editorial.
‘I think what you did was really brave. Speaking out like that.’
My chest tightens, palms prickle. I force air into my lungs. ‘Thank you,’ I manage. ‘Still figuring out if it was brave or stupid.’
‘Definitely brave,’ she says firmly. ‘I mean, you hear rumours, don’t you?
People being inappropriate, a scandal that no one knows is truth or lies.
Sometimes the truth gets out and we see what a patriarchal web of misogyny still exists around us, but we’ve got to wonder how long women have to put up with this and when men are going to understand that things aren’t equal.
’ She pushes her hand through her curls, pinpricks of pink staining the fading tan on her cheeks.
‘Equal pay – I mean, that’s a crock of shit, isn’t it?
And equal pay doesn’t mean equal experience.
’ She huffs out a breath, and then twists her lips into a small smile. ‘Sorry. I know. I can’t help myself.’
Wow. I like this Nina.
Let’s burn bras and stage a protest outside a phallic-shaped skyscraper that’s run by men.
Although I don’t know how to respond because I’m not used to this – barefaced honesty and opinion.
In LA, there’s always an angle, an agenda.
Compliments come with the unspoken expectation of reciprocity.
A party invite is sent because it means something; everything is calculated and political.
But not the politics that run a country – rather an industry fuelled by leverage.
‘No, you’re fine, thank you for being so…’ I can’t think of the right word.
Jude helps by cutting in with ‘angry’, under a cough. Nina glares daggers at him, but there’s humour in the shape of her mouth, love, respect. Small-town camaraderie. For a moment I get this deep twist in the pit of my stomach. If I’d stayed here, these people would have protected me.
Kit still hasn’t said a word. But he’s watching – the odd flash of vibrant blue flutters my way.
‘So,’ Maisie says, apparently oblivious to the tension crackling around us. ‘Can you come sit with us? Please?’
I hesitate, glancing at Kit. ‘I don’t think—’
‘Actually,’ a familiar voice cuts in from behind me, ‘Miss Quinn promised to have a drink with me and Bill first. Didn’t you, love?’
Frankie Tiller appears at my elbow, winking conspiratorially, all AmDram Queen. ‘Old times’ sake and all that.’
‘Right,’ I say. Thank fuck. ‘I did promise, didn’t I.’
Disappointment colours Maisie’s expression and I can’t bear it. I’m so weak when it comes to letting people down, especially cute kids, it seems. ‘Maybe after?’ she asks hopefully.
‘Maybe,’ I agree, though I’m not sure if I’ll chickenshit it out of here by then. ‘I definitely want to see that dragon-mermaid.’
With a last glance at Kit, who’s embroiled in a stare-down with his pint, I allow Frankie to lead me over to their corner table.
Kit clearly hates me. I mean, I know we haven’t spoken properly in years, but to actively avoid talking to me? What is that?
‘Thought you could use a rescue,’ Frankie mutters as loud as a foghorn as we weave through the crowd.
‘That obvious, huh?’
‘Like the lighthouse, when it was working, on a clear night.’ He pulls out a chair for me at their small table, where Bill is already clearing away empty glasses.
‘Got yourself caught in a Harding triangle,’ Bill observes as I sit down. ‘Those are tricky waters to navigate.’
‘I wasn’t expecting them all to be here,’ I admit.
‘It’s their Friday tradition,’ Frankie explains. ‘Ever since Jessica died. Kit brings Maisie for sausage and chips, then they play darts or cards until eight, then home for her bedtime.’
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.
It’s one thing to hear about Kit’s wife dying, but seeing the reality of it – Kit and Maisie’s altered life, their new routines built around their loss – makes it hit differently.
I think of the postcard I found. Kit’s wife is very ill.
He could use a friend. How different might things have been if I’d got that message.
For a brief but burning bright moment, I hate Marcus Vale more than ever before.
For more than what he physically and mentally did to me. For what else he stole.
All of this.
‘He’s different now,’ Frankie adds, voice softer. ‘Kit. Since losing her. More like his dad. Closed off, you know? Except with Maisie.’
I nod, stealing another glance across the pub. Kit is saying something to Maisie, who’s looking disappointed. Probably telling her to leave me alone.
‘Anyway,’ Bill says, clearly sensing my discomfort, ‘tell us about this Hollywood business. Is it true what they’re saying about this manager of yours?’
‘Producer,’ I correct automatically. ‘He was the producer of my first three movies. The money, the brains, the “blue sky vision”.’ I quote that last bit with my fingers.
That was one of Marcus’s favourite expressions.
Trust me, Isla. All I see is Blue Sky and your name written across it.
It’s warm in the pub, but I shiver anyway before lifting my gaze back to the downturned grimace on Bill’s face.
‘And yes, most of it’s true.’ I take a sip of my cider but I’m swallowing down acid.
‘Bastard,’ Frankie spits, but his skin is pale and he’s trying to read my face. ‘I’m sorry, Isla. He should be locked up.’ There’s a heavy pause. ‘But he didn’t actually do to you what he did to that other actress, did he? You just corroborated as a witness, right?’
My pulse thuds in my throat. ‘I just expressed what I saw. But it’s complicated.
He has huge studios attached to his name.
And there are some who don’t think he’s done anything wrong.
I was given a golden handshake deal for three movies, and I should be grateful. ’ Another mouthful of acid slips down.
‘Don’t seem complicated to me,’ Bill shrugs. ‘Right’s right and wrong’s wrong.’
If only it were that simple. But I don’t argue.
I duck my head, tuck my hair behind my ear and really hope that the glowering fisherman the other side of the bar can’t hear.
It’s one thing for Frankie and Bill to see the damage of corruption that I wear like jewellery.
For Kit to see it… It would be like running naked down to the sea.