Becky sits at her kitchen table, skull resting in her hands, the sweat of her running kit rapidly cooling. Suddenly she shakes her head from side to side, like she is trying to unblock water from her ear canals.

Her hands shake as she reaches for her cup of sugar-sweetened tea. There are only minutes left before her daughter rises, before she must pack it all away, every messy part of herself, and instead shower and emerge into the office day clean and effective and capable of more than she feels. And in twelve hours she touches down in Cannes and will need to find yet more energy from somewhere to be extraordinary. Impressive. So much better than her ordinary self.

Her phone dings. Siobhan from the office.

Becky has known her for three years now and they have their taller-than-average heights in common, along with a history of photocopying, office organizing, script reading, and attending to the needs and wants of Matthew. All the things Becky is now shedding.

Something’s going down. Advise turning up on time …

Ding

… early. Ideally? M is in a weird mood. Wants to talk to us.

Becky’s body tenses instinctively, her stomach drawing in as if she is about to be punched there.

Immediately, she thinks: I am to blame for seeing something that wasn’t my business. There would be no point in telling herself that blame is an irrational response – what she feels in that moment comes unbidden, from a place that is fossilized in her bones.

I am to blame for entering his space without permission.

All that time spent preparing for Cannes: choosing and rolling and folding and packing things to decorate herself with: the pretty clothes and the jewel-toned make-up and the bangles and necklaces and perfume. The shameful, wasteful vanity of it all. He’ll cancel the trip, and then sack her from her job. All those years she worked, wasted. All the studying and handbook-reading between toddler meals and screaming baby put-me-downs and pick-me-ups. The evening courses and coursework threaded between hastily arranged pieces of childcare. Not to mention the hours spent reading novels, watching television programmes and films, not for pleasure but to educate herself: studying story construction and characters. Feeling surprised and comforted when some characters sunk into her bones, enough to make her laugh and cry and scream with frustration and sometimes, if she was really lucky, to feel their presence for days and months after … What did people call it? Characters that stayed with you, like a good friend, a true friend who holds your hand at a time of need.

One night, after watching a film about a woman who had fought against the odds to find happiness, all this feeling brimmed out of her and onto the page in the form of a well-worded letter addressed to the Soho townhouse offices of the film’s producer, Matthew Kingsman.