‘It’s a shoo-in now, surely. It’s got to be,’ Johnny said, sprawled in his chair and puffing on his vape. ‘Everyone knows the BAFTAs presage the Oscar wins.’
‘Did you really just say “presage”?’ Matty quipped, checking her caramel-tinted hair for split ends.
‘Hey! Being a cameraman doesn’t mean I’m illiterate, you know.’
‘Well, why should anyone assume you’re not, when you insist upon dressing like a vagrant?’ Matty shrugged, eyeing the grubby wash of his torn jeans with particular disdain. Admittedly they didn’t look like they’d been washed since . . . well, ever. ‘If you want to be taken seriously—’
‘Children,’ Clover warned, sitting on the worktop beside the kettle. ‘Play nice.’
Condensation was dripping down the inside of the windows of her first-floor mansion flat, misting the view onto the mirroring red-brick block opposite. The mornings were still chilly and they relied on the oil-fired heater to send out a rosy heat. It ticked quietly on the floor, the closest thing they had to an office pet. In the minutes of their last meeting, a motion had been put to save up for a fish tank.
‘All I’m saying is, everyone knows that what wins in London goes on to win in LA.’ Johnny shrugged.
‘Not necessarily,’ Matty argued. ‘Best actors, yes. But best picture, no. And as for Best Documentary Feature—’
‘But both academies share five hundred voting members.’ He shrugged again, as though that clinched the argument.
‘Guys!’ Clover said, raising her voice to bring their attention off each other and onto her. She looked at Matty warming her hands around her mug of tea, Johnny dragging on his vape; neither of them looked particularly like they made up two-thirds of an international award-winning documentary filmmaking team. ‘It’s pointless you bickering over this. It’ll be what it is.’ The truth was, she could hardly bear to think about it. Her stomach was pickled with nerves, yes, but after her conversation with Mia last night . . . ‘Far more pressing is what comes next. How exactly do we follow up on all this?’
She spread her arms wide to indicate the flowers that were on every surface. Florists had been knocking at her door all morning, bringing extravagant displays of white roses, striped buckets of yellow roses, sprays of lilies and freesia, monumental orchids – not to mention a basket of muffins sent over by way of congratulations from Louis Theroux. A clutch of giant, helium-inflated balloons bobbed in one corner of the ceiling, looking like it had escaped a child’s hand, or a thank-you card, or the set of Up. Johnny had ‘taken responsibility’ for the case of Bollinger Liam had sent over, and was using it as a footstool.
The trophies they had been winning all year were now lined along the middle of the table among the condiments. The new BAFTA mask took pride of place, positioned between the salt and pepper and a bottle of ketchup. (Old-school glass bottle because Matty was a stickler for ‘standards’.)
‘What’s the rush?’ Johnny said. ‘Can’t we just enjoy this for a bit?’
‘You’d think.’ Clover sighed. ‘But sadly not. Liam sprang it on me last night that he wants to debut the next project at Cannes.’
‘What?’ Matty looked horrified. As their researcher-slash-PR and marketing person, it was her job to know the international film festival schedules by rote. She dealt with the paperwork, admin and T&C for each one and as such, she immediately knew this meant an eleven-month turnaround. That was possible for bigger production teams, but for Honest Box, with just the three of them . . . they overlapped on duties to such an extent that their job titles were often more honorary than anything. They each made coffee, ran the post office trips, picked up a camera or sat at the edit decks when required.
Which was just how they liked it. Liam had suggested Clover use some of her budget to grow the team, but she was convinced it was the intimacy of their unit that gave their projects such a distinctive, raw voice. The three of them had all been at Leeds Film School together, although they hadn’t become friends until the final year when they were put together to collaborate on their graduation project. It had been an inauspicious grouping. They were all so different: Johnny, a grungy tech-head who’d been kicked out of boarding school not for the usual drugs or fighting offences, but ‘consistently sleeping in’; Matty, a willowy locksmith’s daughter whose ambition had been sharpened to a point after she’d had to fund her degree working behind the bar, while Clover and her trust-fund friends caroused on the other side of it . . . And yet, these two people she wouldn’t have chosen as friends had quickly become her closest confidants. Now, they too were almost family.
The girls lived ten minutes apart from each other in Battersea, with Johnny ten minutes away by motorbike in Shepherd’s Bush (or ‘Shay Boo’, as Matty liked to call it). There wasn’t much distinction between a work meeting – such as this – and hanging out. It invariably involved lounging around in Clover’s kitchen, sitting on worktops and drawing smiley faces on the misted windowpanes.
‘My response exactly,’ Clover groaned. ‘But he’s adamant. No knuckle-dragging. He wants a pitch by the end of the month, or—’ She shrugged. It didn’t need to be said: no money. They all had a love-hate relationship with their generous but wildly unrealistic executive producer. Had he forgotten it had taken months just to set up the filming agreements with Mia? That Cory wouldn’t see anyone at all at that point, could barely even look at his own wife? Not to mention the months then spent living with the Allbrights, the post-production edits?
‘Well, if he’s going to be a git about it, then we need to simplify the process,’ Matty said, rallying. ‘Cory was a reluctant subject and that made things so much slower.’
‘Yes, but also heartfelt,’ Clover interjected, one hand over her own heart.
‘Yes. But also slower,’ Matty reiterated; she was nothing if not practical. ‘And if warp speed is the brief, then we need to find someone who’s actually on board with being filmed.’ She shrugged. ‘Who wants us to tell their story?’
Clover frowned. She had a feeling this question already had an answer. ‘Are you thinking of anyone specifically?’
‘I say we go Angelina,’ Matty said without missing a beat. She had been lobbying for this ever since the call had come in from Jolie’s LA publicist whilst she was midway through a trying-on session of her latest ASOS order and eating a packet of Percy Pigs. It had taken her several days to recover from the shock and she now spoke of Nancy – the publicist – as though they were old muckers. ‘UNICEF, war crimes against women. Being a single mother to thirty kids . . . It’s really got it all.’
Clover’s eyes narrowed. ‘You just want to know what really went down with Brad.’ Clover also knew her friend wanted to see inside Angelina’s house. According to Matty, it wasn’t a person’s eyes that were the window to the soul, but their downstairs loo.
‘Clo, the whole fricking world wants to know that! That’s what makes it compelling.’
‘She’ll never go there,’ Johnny said with a shake of his head. ‘She’ll just say it’s part of the custody agreement or whatever.’
‘Then we make it a condition. No Brad, no war crimes!’ Matty said, as if she was telling toddlers they couldn’t have chips without eating their peas. ‘Nancy called us, remember? Angie needs a platform people will engage with. Her image needs to be softened. She knows we can do that for her.’
‘I’m just not sure anyone cares about her and Brad that much anymore, do they? Haven’t we all moved on?’ Clover asked, drumming her socked feet against the plate cupboard. ‘Besides, it’s just gossip and famous people. We need something with meat. Human interest. A living, breathing tragedy.’
‘Michael Jackson’s kids?’ Johnny suggested after a moment. ‘The truth about life with him as a dad, growing up under a blanket, being swung from hotel windows?’
‘Ha!’ Matty laughed before she could stop herself.
‘Liam’s pretty keen on doing something on Lewis Hamilton,’ Clover said, putting the idea out there. ‘We’re having lunch with his agent next week.’
‘Ooh, get you,’ Johnny teased.
‘I’m not sure, though.’ She wrinkled her nose.
‘Why not?’ Matty queried, looking immediately thoughtful. ‘He’s won more world titles than anyone else, he’s got that dog he takes everywhere that’s Insta-famous. He’s a knight of the realm, but it’s BLM he bends the knee for . . .’ She shrugged. ‘And that’s just off the top of my pretty head.’
‘Hmm. Yeah.’
‘What? What’s wrong with it?’ Johnny asked, knowing she was distinctly unenthused.
‘Well, I know he’s interesting . . . I’ve just sort of got that feeling – was it Groucho Marx who said “I don’t want to belong to any club that would have me as a member”?’
There was a puzzled pause.
‘. . . Is that your way of saying you don’t want to do a documentary on anyone who wants you to do a documentary on them?’ Johnny asked. ‘Because I’m pretty sure Matty’s just been explaining that speed-of-light production is only possible with a willing subject.’
Clover wrinkled her nose again. ‘I just don’t think we can compromise on the integrity of the subject. People coming to us with an agenda . . .’ She shook her head. ‘The stories most worth telling are sometimes also the best hidden. We’ve got to really dig.’
Johnny sat forward, his elbows on his thighs. ‘Oh. So to be clear, you’re now saying the brief is actually a hidden story, on someone who doesn’t want to be filmed.’
She grinned. ‘Basically.’
He looked across at Matty. ‘Piece of piss. What are you waiting for?’
Matty slumped back in her chair. ‘This is hardly fair.’
‘But Mats, you’re our chief researcher,’ he jibed.
She hitched up an eyebrow. ‘I’m the only researcher.’
‘You must have a list of Don’t Bothers, surely?’ Johnny pressed. ‘People we wouldn’t feature in a million years?’
‘Oh yeah! I’ve definitely got one of those!’
‘Well, let’s hear it then. Clearly, that’s our gold mine.’ Johnny shot Clover a thoroughly amused look. She threw him back a silent ‘ha-ha’ – but didn’t argue.
‘Ugh.’ Matty put down her mug and leaned across the table for her iPad. They watched as she swiped the screen a few times. ‘I’m warning you now. It’s mainly pariahs, despots and Tom Hanks.’
‘What’s wrong with Tom Hanks?’ Johnny protested.
‘He’s too damned nice! Why bother? There’s more edge on jelly than can be found on that man.’
Clover chuckled as Johnny sat back, appeased, in the chair. ‘Okay, so Tom Hanks and despots are no good to us, but pariahs . . .? Even villains love their mums.’
‘Hmm, right. So we’ve got . . . Roman Polanski. No.’ Matty pulled a face.
‘Why not?’ Johnny countered.
Matty looked back at him as though it was perfectly obvious. ‘He’s a rapist.’
Johnny sat up. ‘And as such, a pariah. But just playing devil’s advocate for a second, his wife and unborn child were brutally murdered. He’s a villain, yes, but also a victim.’
‘Villain and victim is interesting,’ Clover agreed.
‘But his story has been covered on every true crime episode ever,’ Matty countered. ‘He’s overexposed.’
‘That’s true too.’
Matty looked back at her list. ‘Geldof.’
‘Saint Bob?’ Clover queried.
‘Not taking anything away from Live Aid, clearly,’ Matty said quickly. ‘But it’s recognized now that well over half a million people were forcibly resettled in the south-west of Ethiopia; the spotlight on the famine enabled a military campaign to masquerade as a humanitarian effort. And it was paid for with western aid money.’
‘I never knew that,’ Johnny frowned.
‘His personal life too of course – the deaths of Paula and Michael Hutchence, his daughter Peaches . . . It’s really sad.’
Clover agreed. It was a life threaded with tragedies. ‘Will he talk, though? In the timeframe we’ve got? It might have to be a slow-burn. Make contact and proceed slowly.’
‘Okay. I’ll mark it as a possible going forwards.’ Matty checked her list and gave a small, startled laugh.
‘What?’
‘Ha! Right. Well, don’t laugh,’ she warned. ‘But . . . Kit Foley.’ She took in their flummoxed expressions. ‘Hey! This is the Don’t Bother list!’ she said defensively. ‘You asked me to read it to you, and clearly we wouldn’t bother with him.’
Clover rolled her eyes. If she never heard Kit Foley’s name again, it would still be too soon.
‘Well, he’s what we would call a very hostile witness,’ Johnny murmured. ‘I seem to recall that when you wrote asking to interview him for Pipe Dreams he got his big-shot lawyers to reply, threatening to sue for defamation?’
‘He did. And as I told them, it’s only defamation if it ain’t true.’ Clover smiled gratefully as Matty proudly clapped her; but for all the brave talk now, they’d been shaken at the time by the prospect of being sued by someone with pockets as deep as Kit Foley’s.
Matty gave a deep sigh. ‘Well, anyway, that was the last we heard from him until an email dropped into my inbox a couple of months ago, asking if we’d like to cover his – and I quote – “return to the international sporting landscape, following the fallout and tragic consequences of Cory Allbright’s accident”.’ She looked at them with a wry expression.
There was a stunned silence.
‘. . . I’m sorry, what?’ Clover asked. ‘He wants us to cover his comeback?’
Matty nodded.
‘Us?’
Matty nodded again.
‘Are you actually telling me he hasn’t seen the bloody film? Has it somehow passed him by that there are ninety-eight minutes of film footage, winning trophies around the globe, spelling out the devastating consequences of his dangerous and reckless actions?’ Clover picked up the BAFTA and shook it. ‘The world hates him! In what universe would we ever feature Kit Foley – except to assassinate his reputation further?’
‘Quite.’ Matty looked across at Johnny, bemused by Clover’s strong reaction. ‘Which is why I didn’t mention it to you. There was no point.’
Clover looked at Johnny too, as if he could explain the absurdity of Foley’s team getting in touch. Johnny just gave one of his famously lackadaisical shrugs.
‘I can’t believe he’s coming out of retirement,’ she mumbled, not quite able to let it go. Kit Foley had been Cory Allbright’s nemesis and that meant, at some point during the past couple of years, he had become hers too. ‘Well, that lasted long!’ she scoffed.
‘Well—’ Matty began.
‘What’s it been?’ Clover interrupted, looking at Johnny. He was their resident sport nut. ‘Three years?’
‘About that.’
They all knew Foley had retired the year after Cory’s accident, although the jury was out on whether he jumped or was pushed. All his sponsors had dropped him, crowds booed him from the beach and, although he’d gone on to win the world title again, his brand had remained toxic. He was persona non grata everywhere he went, and had dropped off the elite sporting radar altogether.
‘I’m amazed anyone’s taking him on again,’ Johnny shrugged.
‘Well, that’s the thing,’ Matty said in a pointed tone, waiting for them both to look at her again. ‘In surfing, they’re not. But he’s not a surfer anymore. He’s moving into snowboarding now.’
‘What?’ It was Johnny’s turn to look stunned.
‘Kit Foley – nine-time world surfing champ – is now a snowboarder?’ Clover echoed.
‘Yep. Specializing in Halfpipe. I guess maybe there’s . . . transferable skills from one to the other? According to this email, he’s going pro next season.’
‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this.’ Clover was confounded. ‘He’s going to just . . . switch sport?’
‘It’s all right here. From his new sponsor. A . . . Julian Orsini-Rosenberg, whoever he is. He thinks Kit’s going to go all the way. He’s invited him to design his own range of clothing and boards . . . Looks like a big-money deal. He’ll debut it next winter.’
Clover stared at Johnny as though he had all the answers. ‘Does that man’s ego know no bounds?’
‘I think we already know the answer to that question,’ he muttered.
Matty looked troubled. ‘Do you think Cory knows?’
Clover fell still. Oh god, did he? Could this be another reason behind his new dip? Or the reason? She pressed her fingers to her mouth in concentration. ‘I’ll have to tell Mia,’ she said flatly. But how? How could she tell her friend that the man wholly responsible for her husband’s accident was not just moving on with his life but moving forward, switching it up?
There was a silence as they digested the revelation.
‘Anyway, I think we can all agree that’s a firm no for Foley,’ Matty murmured, going back to her list. Her eyes narrowed again. ‘Hmm. Edward Snowden. Traitor? Or whistle-blower for exposing unconstitutional spying? Living in Russia now. Obvious difficulties with filming there, not to mention bloody freezing . . .’
Clover looked away distractedly, not listening. She was too rattled by what she’d just learned. She tapped ‘Kit Foley snowboarding’ into her phone and scanned the few entries, all recent, nothing more than a year old. There were no big articles on his switch in careers, just a few lines showing his name in some competition line-ups in Europe – Europe? It was just local, small-scale stuff. Hardly a big splashy launch into a new venture. Perhaps people hadn’t connected the dots – they didn’t realize he was that Kit Foley?
So perhaps Cory didn’t know after all? Not yet, anyway.
She put her phone away and stared at the line of trophies running down the centre of the table, feeling some sense of calm return. A little perspective. In two weeks, she would walk the Oscars red carpet and the world’s press would do the rest for them, taking Cory’s story farther and wider than ever. After more than three years in the wilderness, this was his moment. Everyone loved him and they were rooting for him. They were on his side. Kit Foley, meanwhile, was an international pariah. His name – when it did appear in the press now – was forever attached to what he’d done in the water that day. He would never be forgiven. The surfing community was fiercely tribal and they’d picked their camp. Perhaps Cory wasn’t the only one left with an unhappy ending?
Clover looked on blankly as Matty and Johnny began bickering again. For Mia and Cory’s sake, she could but hope.