‘The allegations made by Amber Heath against Matthew Kingsman.’

She thinks the fire engine-red T-shirt he is wearing is too bright and that his wax jacket has too many pockets. He looks like the pixelated screen of a computer game and why won’t her thoughts stop skirting, tripping, glitching?

‘I don’t think any allegations have been made, have they?’

‘Yeah, all right, she didn’t outright name him, but everyone knows she’s talking about Matthew Kingsman.’

‘So what’s your question?’ she says impatiently.

‘Amber Heath seems to be alleging,’ he is speaking slowly, as if to a very young child, ‘that she was raped by Matthew Kingsman. Do you have any comment about that?’

‘She seems to be alleging?’

‘Do you have a comment about it?’

‘I’m not going to comment on rumours and gossip. Nobody should.’

The doorframe in her grip feels like a monumental shield.

‘What about your film?’

‘What about it?’

‘I heard it’s fallen apart over this.’

‘That’s not true. And look, I know this is your job, so I’m not being an arsehole about it, but I can’t spend all day going through everything that’s not true in the world. So we should probably leave it there. Thanks.’

She closes the door on him.

Is it true? Has her film died?

She rests her forehead against the cool, painted wood but it does nothing to stop the waters from rising around her. Adam is leaving them, heading for Kate’s bed. Her film is shrivelling into dust. She has no map, no boundary, no place to go, no beacon, no co-ordinates with which to navigate her past, present and future, and there is no end in sight for her anger and sadness. She has a void. She has toxic grime. She fears these will swell, now that their bounds are fraying, like an aggressive cancer, an unwanted, metastasizing thing piling on weight and kicking against her from her own insides.

How to hold onto her film, save Matthew, save the company and save herself? Her mind tingles and crackles with only small, weak possibilities. She doesn’t have anything good. Isn’t it her job to solve this?

‘When’s dinner?’ calls Maisie, but Becky doesn’t know what to say in response. She can’t think about food, routine, basic needs like hunger or thirst or exhaustion. She runs quickly and quietly up the stairs and closes the door so as not to make a sound. Through the bedroom window she can see the journalist leaning against a car bonnet, tapping something into his mobile phone.

She needs guidance. Needs not to feel so alone in her fear.

She dials Matthew’s mobile number.

‘Matthew, I …’ She wants to ask him is it true, is her film really dead? ‘There’s a journalist at my door wanting a quote about you. About Amber.’