placing it on the shelf behind her. It’s open-plan here too, just like home.
‘Went well,’ she says and settles into her chair. This is a place where she is in control, where she can manage things, start them, stop them even, if she wants.
‘Isn’t it hideous?’ Catherine says, looking at her award.
‘Useful blunt instrument though. We’ll be glad of it when Simon comes in,’ Kim quips.
‘Yes, and so easy to clean off the blood with one of these handy wipes …’ Catherine whips out a screen cloth and cleans the dust from her computer, surprised at how easy it has been to join in with Kim’s murderous banter.
‘Coffee?’ ask Kim.
‘Please.’ Catherine smiles.
Others start arriving: producers, researchers, production people. There are hellos, congratulations, general goodwill towards her and her towards them. Even Simon, who breezes in bursting with entitlement, is almost tolerable. Simon is her contemporary – another documentary director – who came from the newsroom so sees himself as a serious heavyweight, but this morning Catherine doesn’t care. It’s the contrast between how she has been feeling and how she feels now. Almost normal.
‘Well done, by the way.’ Simon winks, giving Catherine’s award the once-over.
She ignores him and opens a new notebook.
‘So what next?’ he says. Oh, chirpy, chirpy, irritating man.
‘Someone’s interested in turning my documentary into a feature film,’ she lies, and enjoys seeing him struggle to keep the smile on his face.
‘That’s great,’ he says.
‘Isn’t it,’ she replies, her eyes locking on his.
‘Well, if you want to talk about it, let me know – I’ve had a bit of experience with some of those film guys,’ he smirks.
‘Oh, I will, Simon.’ She gives him a wink then turns her back and picks up a pen, drumming it on her notebook. A list, that’s what she needs to do. A list is always a useful starting point.
The book: The Perfect Stranger.
The author: Friend of … Relative of … Witness of …?
Catherine stabs at her list with the pen and remembers when she met Nancy Brigstocke. It was 1998. It had been just the two of them and they’d met only once. Nancy had got in touch with Catherine. She remembers the stab of guilt she’d felt when she received her letter, knowing that Nancy may have been waiting for Catherine to initiate a meeting. It would have been easy for her to track Nancy down, but it couldn’t have been that hard for Nancy to find her. Who would have the heart to refuse passing on her details? The letter was written in fountain pen, blue-black ink. She can still see the slant of the script, the loop of the capital letters at the beginning of each sentence. The note had left its mark. Catherine had felt compelled to meet her.
It had been a Friday afternoon in October. The sky was white, the air was muggy. Muggy in October? It couldn’t have been muggy in October, but that was how it had felt to Catherine. Suffocating. She remembers taking her hat off and stuffing it into her pocket. She’d put it on when she’d left work, thinking it would be cold; instead she’d felt hot. The heat had built up in her head until it felt as if her brain was being slowly cooked, turning her thoughts into a mushy stew. She’d pulled off her hat and undone her coat. Nancy Brigstocke had kept her coat buttoned up. It swamped her. She was a tiny woman. She wore gloves; no hat. Catherine remembers looking down and seeing the pink of her scalp through her thin white hair. She had guessed that she would be about her own mother’s age, but she looked older. She had cancer. That’s what she had written in her note, and she had looked like a woman losing a battle. She’d told Catherine that she had lost her husband recently – another reason Catherine had agreed to meet her. What if Nancy Brigstocke hadn’t died? Could she still be alive? Living with cancer? She adds her name to the list.
Their meeting had been strained.
‘Went well,’ she says and settles into her chair. This is a place where she is in control, where she can manage things, start them, stop them even, if she wants.
‘Isn’t it hideous?’ Catherine says, looking at her award.
‘Useful blunt instrument though. We’ll be glad of it when Simon comes in,’ Kim quips.
‘Yes, and so easy to clean off the blood with one of these handy wipes …’ Catherine whips out a screen cloth and cleans the dust from her computer, surprised at how easy it has been to join in with Kim’s murderous banter.
‘Coffee?’ ask Kim.
‘Please.’ Catherine smiles.
Others start arriving: producers, researchers, production people. There are hellos, congratulations, general goodwill towards her and her towards them. Even Simon, who breezes in bursting with entitlement, is almost tolerable. Simon is her contemporary – another documentary director – who came from the newsroom so sees himself as a serious heavyweight, but this morning Catherine doesn’t care. It’s the contrast between how she has been feeling and how she feels now. Almost normal.
‘Well done, by the way.’ Simon winks, giving Catherine’s award the once-over.
She ignores him and opens a new notebook.
‘So what next?’ he says. Oh, chirpy, chirpy, irritating man.
‘Someone’s interested in turning my documentary into a feature film,’ she lies, and enjoys seeing him struggle to keep the smile on his face.
‘That’s great,’ he says.
‘Isn’t it,’ she replies, her eyes locking on his.
‘Well, if you want to talk about it, let me know – I’ve had a bit of experience with some of those film guys,’ he smirks.
‘Oh, I will, Simon.’ She gives him a wink then turns her back and picks up a pen, drumming it on her notebook. A list, that’s what she needs to do. A list is always a useful starting point.
The book: The Perfect Stranger.
The author: Friend of … Relative of … Witness of …?
Catherine stabs at her list with the pen and remembers when she met Nancy Brigstocke. It was 1998. It had been just the two of them and they’d met only once. Nancy had got in touch with Catherine. She remembers the stab of guilt she’d felt when she received her letter, knowing that Nancy may have been waiting for Catherine to initiate a meeting. It would have been easy for her to track Nancy down, but it couldn’t have been that hard for Nancy to find her. Who would have the heart to refuse passing on her details? The letter was written in fountain pen, blue-black ink. She can still see the slant of the script, the loop of the capital letters at the beginning of each sentence. The note had left its mark. Catherine had felt compelled to meet her.
It had been a Friday afternoon in October. The sky was white, the air was muggy. Muggy in October? It couldn’t have been muggy in October, but that was how it had felt to Catherine. Suffocating. She remembers taking her hat off and stuffing it into her pocket. She’d put it on when she’d left work, thinking it would be cold; instead she’d felt hot. The heat had built up in her head until it felt as if her brain was being slowly cooked, turning her thoughts into a mushy stew. She’d pulled off her hat and undone her coat. Nancy Brigstocke had kept her coat buttoned up. It swamped her. She was a tiny woman. She wore gloves; no hat. Catherine remembers looking down and seeing the pink of her scalp through her thin white hair. She had guessed that she would be about her own mother’s age, but she looked older. She had cancer. That’s what she had written in her note, and she had looked like a woman losing a battle. She’d told Catherine that she had lost her husband recently – another reason Catherine had agreed to meet her. What if Nancy Brigstocke hadn’t died? Could she still be alive? Living with cancer? She adds her name to the list.
Their meeting had been strained.
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