Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
ISLA
I’ve woken up hungover in a lot of places.
A five-star suite in Tokyo with a view that screams expensive and then charges you for looking at it.
A chateau in the south of France where I couldn’t remember which of the fourteen identical doors led to the bathroom.
Reid Usher’s Malibu beach house, where the hangover cure involved wheatgrass shots that tasted like lawn clippings and regret.
But this – waking up at Salt Cottage after one lousy pint of local cider – isn’t a hangover. It’s something heavier. Like my bones have been replaced with lead and my skin with sandpaper.
I stare at the bedroom ceiling, at a water stain that looks vaguely like Australia if you squint, and try to remember the last time I felt this … empty. Not even sad. Just vacant. A house with all the furniture removed.
Yesterday at the pub feels like a lifetime ago. Or maybe a nightmare I haven’t woken up from yet.
The most human interaction I had was with an eight-year-old girl who wears rain hats like fashion statements and thinks I’m cool because I once pretended to sword fight with Gary Oldman.
And her father – my ex, my first love, first heartbreak – could barely look at me. Barely spoke. Just ‘Welcome back,’ with all the warmth of a winter sea.
And yes, I’m thinking about Kit again. It’s the place, the crash of the sea, the squawk of the gulls – it’s all Kit Bloody Harding – the mountain of heartbreak and regret that he is.
The way he looked at me last night – or didn’t look at me.
That stiff welcome that felt more like ‘Why are you here?’ The way he steered Maisie away like I was contagious.
Welcome to rock bottom, with complimentary sea views.
I roll over, feeling that dull heaviness settle deeper.
The cottage creaks around me, an old lady groaning with arthritis.
I should get up. Make tea. Eat something that isn’t stale crackers or chocolate digestives.
But my limbs refuse to cooperate, weighed down by something more persistent than gravity.
My phone sits on the nightstand, innocent-looking but deadly. I press the power button and wait to dive into the digital void.
The screen glows to life, the logo appearing with a mocking blink. Then after a blip of nothingness comes the tsunami.
Ping. Ping-ping-ping-ping-pingpingpingpingping.
Notifications cascade like a digital waterfall. Missed calls. Voicemails. Texts. Emails. Social media alerts. News alerts.
Social media is rabid at the best of times, but this? I’m drowning at the bottom of a cesspit.
I tap an app with a finger that isn’t quite steady. The first thing I see is a trending hashtag: #IslaTheAccuser.
My stomach drops.
The next video is someone talking at the screen while a headline from The Hollywood Reporter flashes neon pink: ‘VALE STUDIOS FILES $20M DEFAMATION SUIT AGAINST ISLA QUINN.’
I think I’m going to throw up.
I don’t have 20 million dollars.
Another, from Variety: ‘QUINN’S CAREER IN FREEFALL: “LIGHTHOUSE 2” RECASTING UNDERWAY.’
My breath is coming faster. Another tap.
Deadline Hollywood: ‘INDUSTRY INSIDERS: “ISLA QUINN IS UNINSURABLE”’
And the worst, from the trade magazine I’ve subscribed to since drama school: ‘WINTER brOTHERS DROP QUINN FROM “HAYES BIOPIC” AFTER PRESSURE FROM VALE.’
The Hayes biopic. Fuck. I’ve spent six months preparing for that role before even signing contracts because I want it so bad. That role has Oscar written all over it, but that’s not the only reason.
I want a challenge. Something clever, no green screen and battling thin air. No heavy monologues with predictable scores.
But just like that, it’s gone.
I just sit, staring at the old blanket on the bed. I can’t move. Can’t think.
This is it. It’s all over.
When you start out in the industry, you know it might not last. Every role is a stepping stone, either to the next one or to nothing.
My career could have ended after the first movie.
Your relevance is a currency you can’t control.
Inflation is high and the cost is eye-watering.
You keep going, though, one stepping stone to another.
Maybe it’s an addiction to the high of success. Maybe it’s because you care.
When I was starting out, just riding the wave of my first movie and starting rehearsals for the second, when Vale was prevalent and moulding me into his perfect star, an older actress I was in rehearsal with turned to me over a crappy instant coffee.
We were in a cavernous rehearsal space, the air cold, the tips of our noses pink.
I remember looking at her, this icon, this person who had been photographed and immortalised in glossy paper and framed to last, but right then she had a droplet of water rolling from the end of her cold nose.
She said, ‘Babe, you are only as big as your currency that day. One day you could wake up and the bank’s closed its doors. ’
I took that to heart. Woke up every day expecting it to be over.
I never knew it would end because of the actions of a man. Because of what he did. Nothing to do with me, my ability, my ‘talent’, but rather because I spoke out about a man whose behaviour hurt others. Hurt me.
I blink fast, eyes stinging.
And then because I’m a loser, I tap my screen again, and read some more.
More hashtags pop up: #TeamMarcus. #QuinnCancelCulture. #WhyNowIsla.
Why now? Because I finally found the courage.
Because I finally reached my breaking point when I saw his clammy age-spotted hand on the back of that young woman’s head.
Because ten years of swallowing my truth had begun to poison me from the inside out.
Because I realised that every single stepping stone I had balanced on had been marred by the man who had ‘made me’.
But none of that makes for a snappy hashtag, does it?
I tap on an Instagram post from Reid. Reid, whose toothbrush still sits in my London bathroom, whose sweaters are folded in my drawer, who whispered ‘forever’ against my skin just six weeks ago when our schedules last aligned.
It’s a picture of him with Marcus Vale. In the caption underneath he has written, ‘While I respect everyone’s truth, I’ve always known Marcus as a professional and mentor. There are always two sides. I ask for privacy during this difficult time.’
His difficult time.
I gag. It comes out of nowhere, but before I can move off the bed, I’m clamping a hand across my mouth.
His difficult time.
I stare at the picture of him with Vale. Reid and I had orbited each other for a couple of years. Now I think it was an orbit that Marcus Vale created.
Were Reid and I created?
He hasn’t called.
No personal message of support.
No I believe you, Isla.
Maybe he doesn’t because I never told him the truth. He was there on the third and final Vale movie and I never mentioned a word.
A tear slips down my face. This ache inside of me so strong, I don’t want to exist anymore if it means feeling it.
One hundred and eighty-six thousand likes.
I tap again. A comment: ‘Notice how Reid disappeared the MINUTE she needed support? Hollywood relationships are such a joke.’
Another: ‘They were just a PR couple anyway. Contract probably ended right on time lol.’
I check our text thread.
‘Miss you babe. Can’t wait for Cannes! ’
My attempted call six weeks ago: No answer.
His final text, three weeks ago: ‘My team thinks we should cool things off publicly for a bit. Call me when you’re ready to discuss next steps. This will blow over.’
I keep scrolling, masochism apparently my new hobby.
A rising actress I met at last year’s Golden Globes: ‘Grateful for the opportunities Marcus Vale gave me when no one else would. #NotMyExperience #TeamMarcus’
An A-list director I once worked with: ‘In this business, we need to be careful about accusations that can destroy careers. The timing feels convenient.’
Convenient. As if there’s ever a convenient time to blow up your life.
Comments pile on: ‘Waited ten years to speak up? Convenient now that her career was already fading.’
‘Another actress trying to stay relevant. Yawn.’
‘If it was so bad, why did she keep working with him? #FakeVictim’
‘Notice how she only spoke up after that younger actress? Riding coattails of a real victim.’
This one hurts because it’s not the truth. I went to her. I found her and asked, Are you okay? and in asking her, I realised, that I, in fact, was very much not okay.
‘She enabled him for a decade. She’s part of the problem.’
Each word slices deeper than the last.
I scroll faster, desperate now for someone – anyone – who might be on my side.
There. A small indie director I worked with on a passion project three years ago: ‘Worked with Isla. One of the most professional, kind people in the industry. This took courage.’
A women’s advocacy group: ‘The timing of speaking truth doesn’t invalidate the truth itself. #BelieveWomen #SupportIsla’
A former production assistant: ‘I witnessed Vale’s behaviour. Isla is telling the truth. #IStandWithIsla’
But these supportive voices are drowned in the flood of criticism, doubt, and outright hate.
The problem is, and it’s sitting like a boulder in my chest, that I haven’t spoken the whole truth. I’ve corroborated a truth. I’ve spoken out about elements of what happened.
But my own truth is locked so far and so deep inside of me and there’s a chance that if I let it out, I won’t survive it.
A new message flashes up. My agent, Richard: Call me ASAP. The Winter Brothers are willing to reconsider if you issue a clarification statement. We can fix this.
Fix this. As if speaking the truth is something broken.
A former co-star: Hey babe, this will blow over. But maybe stay low for a bit? Need to distance myself publicly, hope you understand xo
My publicist Simone: You need to get in front of this narrative NOW. Love you, babe, you can beat this…
The phone slips from my fingers, landing on the duvet with a dull thud. I stare at the ceiling again, but now Australia has morphed into something that looks more like an abyss.