Becky hides a smile at the fleeting image she has of herself as someone who is invited to summer cocktails on the rooftop of a London private members’ club and then, a few months later, to drink whisky sours and cinnamon-spiced mulled wines for the Christmas party season.

Once Matthew rejoins her, even more people stop by – sometimes staying for coffee – greeting them with kisses and sitting close to Becky, as if they know her well. She is his golden girl, the clever one who is making that timely film about women and revenge. Becky sees herself reflected back in other people’s faces as they tell her Medea sounds fabulous. What an exciting package. What a wonderful team. Send me a script. I’ll read tonight. I’ll read it today.

She begins to glow from the inside. Can they see her excitement? Is that off-putting? Or does it read as passion for the material, the actress, her director?

Sharon is ‘her’ director now.

Somebody notes that Becky is kind of what Sharon needs to move up the ladder: like she, Becky, has done Sharon an almighty favour anointing her as the one chosen for her Emilia pic!

The snot-blowing, insecure half-girl in the toilet stall is fading fast:

Becky was only ever there to adjust her eye make-up.

Sharon approached her.

They’d met before.

It was a meeting of minds.

Her eyes were clear and she hadn’t been crying.

Let me tell you a story, she’d said, across the marble hand basin, and Sharon, rapt, had listened to her, Becky Shawcross, protégé and producer.

A woman who gets things done.

Champagne, orders Matthew, and Becky allows him to fill her glass so that the liquid tips giddily over the rim. She drinks the whole thing down in three or four gulps, with everyone around her doing the same, toasting their, her success. She allows herself to let go and feel it all; her insides warm with the alcohol, her skin warm with the sunshine, her whole self cocooned and belonging with these interesting people. She is enjoying herself. She is safe. Snooker ball carpets and steak knives have no place in this Cannes, her Cannes. More champagne, orders Matthew. And Becky knows that now it has begun, it will never stop.

Chapter 10

Later that night, Becky and Matthew continue their work at a party on the beach – confirming the rumours of Sharon’s attachment, speaking positively about Emilia, keeping the energy high with talk of casting and shooting dates – leaning against the bar under swags of rainbow fairy lights and a straw roof, set up like something out of Cocktail. Many of the people they have spoken to that afternoon are there, plucking from trays of cocktails and canapés, all courtesy of one of the UK’s major film financiers.