Blurred Lines by Hannah Begbie
English | 2020 | Mystery/Thriller | ePUB | 1.6 MB
She spoke out. I stayed silent. What would you do?
When Becky accidentally sees her boss with a woman who isn’t his wife, she’s horrified but keeps her counsel – she owes Matthew so much for all he’s done for her career. But when the same woman accuses him of rape and asks for the witness to come forward, Becky doesn’t know what to do.
Was what she saw rape? Or is this a young actress looking to get ahead? And can Becky separate her own traumatic past from the present?
As Becky attempts to untangle these blurred lines, she must risk everything to find the truth…
Becky passes the wedding-cake white houses of Portobello, takes in the scent of freshly cut stems from an elegant pink-and-orange-painted boutique floristry and the steam-whistle of a barista’s coffee machine through lacquered café doors flung wide-open. The weather has finally turned a corner. Her skin actually feels warm for the first time in months and she cannot help but stop for a moment, right there on the street corner, and turn her face to the sun, smiling even as she hopes that no one catches her in the act.
It’s a small miracle, she thinks, how an idea can turn into a series of meetings, and then a screenwriter’s draft, and now – or at least soon – will become actors and cameras and lights, and conversations in the edit suite. Like watching a foetus growing across a series of ultrasound images.
Tomorrow her yellow brick road takes her to the Cannes Film Festival where she will meet the people who can really make it happen. Those who can write cheques, or accept them. Her small idea, gathering supporters, players, financiers.
‘We could be shooting this time next year,’ Matthew had said at that very first meeting, within a minute of her giving him her seedling of an idea. ‘Produce it. I’ll back you.’
‘But I don’t know how,’ she’d said, hating herself for confessing her weakness so quickly.
‘Nobody does, the first time.’
And with that statement, he’d made it real.
She steps over the cracks in the pavement. She doesn’t want to jinx it, not now. Not when everything is so close.
She can see Matthew’s terraced stucco villa in the distance, its pilasters and columns all whiter than white against the leafy green health of the pavement trees. The early evening sun reminds her so much of that party night, when she walked this road, on that occasion without wine but with a Jiffy bag of contracts from the office for him to sign, not expecting to leave with a plan for her future.
‘Stay,’ he’d said to her as he signed the last of the Post-it-marked pages. ‘Come and meet some people.’
She’d been the one to order the canapés and the watermelon martini ingredients for this party, and now she was invited to share in them. To accept them as easy gifts from the waiting staff who circulated in crisp white shirts and black trousers.