I lean forward, peering into the focus in Tim’s black-and-white gaze, mulling over his claim to Imogen that he can’t recall who was behind the camera. For the first time, I wonder if it’s the truth.
He was the one who told Imogen that Iris and Robbie first met again in the control tower, and that it was Jacob who gave Robbie the message that Iris had been looking for him at their billet. I know that, because all of us on this production have been told which elements of the novel are rooted in Tim’s recollections. The screenplay doesn’t mess with any of them, and, contractually, we’re not allowed to, either. Any changes to those scenes, however minor, have to be run by Imogen first.
‘It’s one thing altering what’s come from me,’ Imogen said, when we spoke on the phone, ‘but I can’t have anyone rewriting Tim’s memories.’
No one bothered to call her about the new lines we tried last night, because none of them worked, but if they had, then Naomi would absolutely have had to request Imogen’s approval.
Impulsively, I reach for my phone, deciding to call her myself.
She picks up almost instantly, and the sound of pumpingLittle Mix and what might well be five thousand rampant children comes down the line.
‘Are you at a concert?’ I ask her.
‘A soft play,’ she replies, laughing. ‘I wish I was at a concert.’
‘Should I call back?’
‘No, no, I’m fine to talk. As long as you don’t mind the cacophony.’
‘Not at all,’ I say, which I don’t. It makes me smile, actually, that it’s all going on at barely 9 a.m. I have no issue with being reminded that other people have children. I just wish I could have known mine. ‘As long as I’m genuinely not interrupting anything.’
‘You’re genuinely not.’
‘And you don’t mind this banging here.’ The rigging crew have started up again, hammering away in the sets above me. ‘I can move … ’
‘Stay where you are,’ Imogen says, with another laugh. ‘I can’t hear a thing. How’s it all going there?’
I hear the eagerness in her voice. The excitement.
I can’t bring myself to puncture it.
‘Brilliantly,’ I lie. ‘I’m just doing some prep, actually, and was hoping to run something by you.’
‘Run away,’ she says.
So, I do, not mentioning last night’s disaster, just saying that Nick and I have been running our lines for Iris and Robbie’s reunion, and could use some more context, if she has any.
‘I feel like we might be missing something,’ I say, honest about that much. ‘I don’t know if it’s the script, or the way we’re portraying it, but I thought I’d pan for gold with you.’
She doesn’t immediately answer.
The pause is long enough that I start to panic I’ve offended her.
But then, ‘Oh my God,’ she says, with an agonised groan, ‘that scene. That bloody scene. I can’t tell you how it’storturedme.’
‘Really?’ I say, laughing, simply at the relief that it’snot just me.
‘Really,’ she says, ruefully. ‘I wrote it so many different ways. In the control tower, down by the plane, up at the house, by the attic stairs … Honestly, I had Iris and Robbie bumping into one anothereverywhere.’
‘You did?’ My laughter fades as I’m reminded of my dreams last night: myself and Nick re-enacting the scene,everywhere.Quickly, I dismiss the coincidence as just that – acoincidence– much more intrigued in any case by Imogen’s admission. ‘How come you did that?’ I ask. ‘I thought Tim told you they met in the control tower.’
‘He did,’ said Imogen. ‘At first.’
‘At first?’
‘He got confused sometimes.’
‘I keep looking at the cover photo,’ I say, returning my attention to Tim’s stare. ‘Are you sure he’s definitely forgotten who took it?’
