The publicist is looming by the door, but there’s still time for one more question. She knows the one she wants to ask.
‘You’ve been a lot of things,’ the journalist says. ‘An artist, especially in your early days. An animator, an illustrator. A puppeteer.’ This elicits a smile. ‘You’ve been a screenwriter, you’ve been a director, now you’re a producer. Of course, you’re a mother.’
‘When you put it like that, it sounds exhausting.’
‘Well, I think people would like to know,’ the journalist says. ‘Who is the real Clara Cowan?’
Cowan thinks about this for a moment. With one hand, she tucks a few strands of hair behind her ear. She smiles a weary smile.
‘It changes,’ she says. ‘My forties have been a learning curve so far. I never expected to be a working mother. In my thirties,I think I lost myself a bit. More than I realised.’ She’s deep in her own thoughts. ‘My twenties. That was me. I had such a hunger. I was having so much fun. Back when it was just me and a camera and—’ She trails off again. She averts her eyes, plucks at the cuff of her shirt. ‘When I was a student, I didn’t think I’d amount to much. I told everyone I would, because I thought I might manifest it. But I didn’t really believe in myself yet.’
‘What changed?’ the journalist asks.
‘I realised who I am,’ Cowan says. ‘Who I always was. Not a job title, or a role in a family, or a reaction against something or a desire to be someone else.’ She looks up. ‘A person. A flawed, fearful, fucking insecure person. But a person who could make herself proud, too.’
The room is quiet.
‘How did you find that person?’ the journalist asks.
Clara’s eyes are bright. ‘I guess someone else had to see her first.’
a drummer
The lights lower on the stage, and the drummer knows that sound check is about to begin. Playing at the Black Dog is a privilege. And though they’re at the bottom of the bill tonight, though they’ll probably be playing before most of the crowd has even arrived, it doesn’t matter. It’s their first gig, and they’ve got a whole lifetime after it.
In front of the stage, in front of the band, stands Smudge. He’s a bit of a legend, the newly christened co-owner of this place, the guy who books all the right acts and puts them in front of all the right people. The drummer goes about his duties, chatting diligently to the tech guy, testing the lead singer’s mic, getting the guitarists to play separately, then as one. He only stops when the front door swings open, and in steps someone else about Smudge’s age. Tall, tattooed, deeply tanned. This must be the guy he’s heard so many stories about, during the countless gigs he’s attended in the time that Smudge’s business partner has been away.
‘Here he is,’ Smudge bellows.
Behind the bar, Bea rolls her eyes. She runs her workstation like a pirate ship, orders barked over endless shots of rum. Thedrummer is scared of her, of what she’d think if she knew how he felt. He’s scared about tonight. About no one coming. About embarrassing himself in front of everyone. In front of Bea.
‘Hey,’ says the co-owner to the drummer. ‘I’m Seb.’
The drummer looks around, as if he can’t believe he’s being spoken to. But Seb is indeed speaking to him. He must have climbed up on the stage while the drummer’s mind was drifting.
‘I used to be in your seat,’ Seb says. ‘I was fucking terrible at my first gig.’ He laughs. ‘Don’t think about them,’ he says, pointing towards the space where the crowd will be. To the bar beyond, and Bea. ‘Just you and the music.’
Now it’s the drummer’s turn to test his sound, so he thanks Seb, and Seb nods and slaps him on the shoulder, then jumps back down and takes his place beside Smudge. The drummer looks at the pair of them, their arms crossed, a sureness behind Seb’s crinkled eyes. He hopes that one day he’ll have that.
The drummer presses his foot on the bass pedal, lets out the firstthump thump thumpof a rhythm that will build into a roar once the crowd arrives. Seb nods along, taps his fingers against his forearm. He looks like he’s home, like he’s in his rightful place. Which is why the drummer is surprised when Seb turns to Smudge, when he points towards the door.
‘You’ve got this,’ Seb says. ‘There’s somewhere I need to be.’
the audience
What do you want to see?
It’s not an easy question to answer. But it runs through your mind, as the auditorium doors open and the ushers usher you in. Something spectacular. Something which won’t disappoint. A hush descends over the audience when the director appears, but she doesn’t have much to say. Only this: she hopes you see what she sees. Then she leaves the shallow stage, and the lights dim, and a title appears over a black screen.Golden Square.
It is a love story, from two points of view. One lover, the man, tells the story in linear fashion. The other, the woman, tells it in reverse. Their versions of events differ. Sometimes, you see the same thing twice, through totally different eyes. Because of the nature of the story, you know from the beginning that they are doomed. You know, also, that they will fall in love, and that this love will burn brightly for a while. It all begins with a break-up, as seen through her eyes. Through his, it begins when a woman puts pen to paper in Golden Square.
‘I wish I’d never met you,’ the man says, in the future.
In the past, the woman begins to draw.
Which version of events is correct? She is the artist,constantly sketching and resketching things, painting people and then painting over them to try to find something closer to the truth. He is more literal, so perhaps you should trust him. Trust neither. Trust both. There aren’t only two sides to every story. There are sides, and there are sides, and there are sides.
Ask the director, watching from her seat in the front row. Ask her daughter, sitting beside her. The assembled cast and crew are watching, too, as is her producer and her agent and her editor, the make-up artist and the casting director and the grip. And more, her brother, her sister, her brother-in-law, a therapist and an old friend, a nurse and an estate agent, a barista and a passenger who you may once have sat next to on a bus. They are all here. They have all been watching. And right in the middle, right next to you, he is here, too.
