No one around the table would push it. Nico accepted that casting a smaller name was sometimes a smart decision. Agathe conceded that a hint of behind-the-scenes romance wouldn’t hurt the film’s publicity.
Clara’s script follows two estranged half-brothers who travel to their father’s empty house in the aftermath of his death. The dad was on a commercial flight shot down by a surface-to-air missile; the real world, away from this dusty country house, is sliding towards Armageddon. And yet, the film stays on the brothers, on their reconciliation or lack thereof in the face of total oblivion. Everything hinges on the casting of the leads. Seb will play the quiet, sensible older brother. The younger brother, the drug-addled wild child on a quest to destroy himself before the world gets the chance, is the question mark. It’s a gift of a role. Awards bait, in the right hands. With Seb already attached, the key will be to land a name big enough to play those hands.
‘Does Seb know?’ Nico had asked.
‘Know what?’
‘That he’s going to be in it.’
Clara hadn’t blinked. ‘Of course he does.’
Here in the edit suite, Britt and Clara keep their focus, making hard cuts and smash cuts and leaving dialogue on the cutting-room floor. Then Clara rubs her eyes, scrolls up and down absent-mindedly on her laptop screen, which displays the final shooting script ofAn Enormous Mind, open to guide their way.
‘Let’s take a breather,’ she says, standing up and stretching as she tends to do when her eyes are starting to vibrate and her brain is beginning to overflow. ‘I need fresh air. And coffee.’
‘You know my order,’ Britt says. She’s already taking hold of Clara’s laptop. ‘Do you mind if I check my emails?’
‘Knock yourself out.’
The door closes. Britt minimises the screenplay, navigates her way to another tab. There’s a joke, in Clara’s new script, about the comedy of getting to an age where you call your boyfriend your ‘partner’, where you stop corresponding by text and start sending each other emails. Now Britt sits in front of one such unsent draft, one that Clara has left open. Her eyes dart to the door. She can hear Clara’s footsteps heading towards the kitchenette at the end of the corridor. Britt wasn’t planning to pry, but the email is right there.
Seb,
I’m sorry for the radio silence. I wanted to say this in person, but we’re so rarely in the same room right now. I know I should call, but I can’t trust myself to get the words out. So, I’m emailing, coward that I am.
I’m not happy. That’s probably not a surprise. And as much as you put on a brave face – who’d have thought you’d be the cup-half-full one? – you’re not, either. When we first started trying, I thought I could be. That I could make your happiness my happiness. But that was nearly two years ago. The longest two years of my life.
Where did we lose each other? Somewhere in one of those waiting rooms? At first, when it didn’t happen, part of me was relieved. The other part of me was sad and guilty, but only because I could see what it was doing to you. That became something to focus on, something to help me forget.
I know you were surprised that I changed my mind in the first place. I think it’s because I never did. Change my mind, that is. I just hoped that if I went along with it, it would happen quickly. Either I’d come to accept it, or it would be too late to turn back. Because if I’m telling the truth, Seb, I never wanted it. I know that now. And I think you deserve to know that, too.
What I’m getting at, what I’ve been avoiding saying, because once I do, I can’t take it back, is this: I want to stop now. I don’t want to try anything else, to keep putting our lives on hold for something that clearly isn’t meant to be. I don’t want to feel like we’ve failed, because I don’t feel that way. But I do want to focus onother things. I want to remember what we had, what we’ve always had. What we always will.
You might not be able to accept that. If you can’t, if this really is the end of everything, then I’ll respect your decision. I hope it isn’t. And if it isn’t, then how about this…
You know I’ve been writing this film. That I’ve been hoarding it, escaping into it. Well, I’ve written it for you. For us. And I want you to be in it. I want to make something else together. Maybe if we do, we can find each other again.
Please don’t say no. At least not until you’ve read the script. At least not until we’ve talked, actually talked, because I know that we need to, because I know that what I’m writing here will hurt you. Something I never wanted to do.
I’ll stop now. If I can’t give you more time, then I can at least give you some space. Until you’re ready: I’m sorry. I love you. And I hope I’ll see you next week.
C x
her friend’s student
‘How did he take it?’ Maisie asks.
Her companion shakes her head. ‘I didn’t send it.’
The student at the next table knows Maisie, but she’s been studiously avoiding her eye for the past half hour. Maisie is doing a PhD, and the student is taking one of her poetry classes. And even though Maisie is relatively young and relatively cool, at the shallow end of her thirties with vividly dyed red hair, the student would still rather avoid the mortifying prospect of lunchtime conversation with one of her lecturers. They’re in the refectory, cascading plants tumbling down from the tall windowsills, slats of light filtering on to low tables cluttered with half-finished toasties and old coffee cups. Maisie is deep in conversation with a woman, short and beautiful and vaguely familiar, with a drastic-looking undercut.
‘Clara,’ Maisie says. ‘You have to talk to him.’
‘How? When?’ this Clara replies. ‘I can’t face it.’
The student pivots slightly, unable to resist the drama. Clara is still talking, saying that she can’t spend her life watching him suffer, can’t put up with his sadness swallowing everything else.They can’t wallow together for eternity as if there’s nothing more on this Earth than one, admittedly shit, thing.
‘So you’re happy?’ Maisie says. ‘With the film?’
