‘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 shedisappeared 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 goto 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.’ Weallknow 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. Icannothave that all over the press. Mum’s never signed up for that.’
‘We could make sure it’s handled sensitively—’
‘No, Blake.’
