Page 14 of Take Me Away

I gag, my stomach squeezes, and I run to Maggie’s kitchen where I lean over the sink, sweat prickling cold across my forehead. When I place a trembling hand on the back of my neck, strands of my hair are stuck to clammy skin.

Am I upset for her? The woman, the actress?

Or am I upset for me? For the nasty secrets it didn’t just unbury – that would be too quaint a verb. That moment, me standing in the doorway, my mouth an open O of shock – it took a JCB digger to things I’d left long buried. Things that for my entire adult life I told myself were okay, but that moment, that scene re-painted the past for me in new colours that turned my stomach. I thought I’d moved on. I thought that by separating myself from Marcus Vale, one of Hollywood’s most powerful producers, I’d left it all behind.

I hadn’t. I’d just been running with my shoes tied together, and you can’t outrun the past like that.

So no. I don’t know how to control the narrative.

I pick up the phone, hovering my thumb over the screen before dropping it back onto the kitchen table with a clatter.

The cottage feels smaller today, as if the walls are gradually inching closer. I’ve cleaned the kitchen, organised Maggie’s spice rack by colour (who needs that many different types of paprika?), and read half of a water-damaged Agatha Christie I found behind the sofa, which is easier said than done when every time you blink you see an image burned into your retina that you’d happily use bleach to erase.

I should start packing up Maggie’s stuff, after all, that was my excuse for venturing into this place I haven’t been too in so long, and I need something to focus on besides my imploding career and the constant urge to check if my name is trending on social media.

I have people who could have packed up for me. Piper was on it. Babes, don’t waste your time. But I sat on it, this nagging unfinished question mark I didn’t have the bandwidth to unpick until a jet landed me at Newquay and the taxi that smelled of onions brought me to the peeling front door of a place that once was more than a summertime home.

The therapy app I downloaded encourages journalling. Three pages, first thing in the morning. It clears the mind, puts things in perspective … apparently.

But I can’t write a line.

Outside, rain patters against the windows, a gentle percussion that would be soothing if it weren’t for the leaky spot above the back door that’s been dripping into a saucepan with metronomic persistence. Plink. Plink. Plink.

The sound drives me to the back door. Maybe I could fix it? How hard could basic home maintenance be? I’ve played characters who’ve built entire houses from scratch.

Twenty minutes later, I’m balanced precariously on a chair, holding a tea towel against the ceiling and realising that acting like you know what you’re doing and actually knowing what you’re doing are two very different skillsets.

Water seeps through the cloth and onto my upstretched arm, running cold fingers down to my elbow and dripping onto my face. Perfect. Just perfect.

My phone rings again, this time with Richard’s special ringtone – the Imperial March from Star Wars. My agent isn’t known for his subtlety.

I let it ring out, watching water slowly soak through Maggie’s ancient tea towel.

When the voicemail notification pings, curiosity gets the better of me. I climb down, dry my hands, and press play, putting it on speaker so I can continue my futile battle against the leak.

‘Isla. Richard.’ So not Darth Vader then. Oh good, I wasn’t sure. ‘This disappearing act has gone on long enough. The trades are speculating. Your absence is being noticed. You made your point when you paused talks on the Winter Brothers project, but going dark like this is career suicide. You do want a career, don’t you? Money. Attention. All those things I know you love so much.’

I wince at his choice of words. They’re punches to the gut – well-aimed and deliberate.

Richard only came on board after the scandal broke – one of those crisis agents Simone, my publicist, found, all big smiles and bigger promises. But I don’t think he cares how broken I am, just how fast he can repackage me.

‘Marcus’s people are on damage control. The press are starting to dig, and if you won’t give them anything, they will start to make it up. And you know how they like to paint successful women as the evil witch. You need to be seen, Isla. Preferably looking unbothered and professionally engaged. I’ve arranged lunch with Vanessa Morton next Thursday to discuss the Hayes biopic. She specifically asked for you. Don’t throw this away over personal grievances. Call me.’

Personal grievances. That’s what we’re calling sexual harassment and predatory behaviour now? Such a splendid male narrative for female pain.

He said he could protect me.

He said he would make me a star.

He said he would be a father figure.

I swipe at my face, my fingers coming away damp and it having nothing to do with the leak from the roof, and then delete the message and throw my phone onto the sofa harder than necessary. It bounces and lands screen-down on the floor. I don’t check if it’s cracked. Part of me hopes it is.

I think about the postcard I found from Maggie about Kit’s wife being ill. Not known at this address. How many other connections had Marcus severed?

How many times had he ‘protected’ me by cutting away the threads that might have led me back here? It wasn’t just control of my career – it was control of my entire life, wrapped in the guise of management.

The house is suddenly airless, claustrophobic, like all the oxygen has been sucked out. I need to move. To breathe something that doesn’t smell of damp and memories.