Final Cut(5)

He laughs, but there’s an undercurrent of disappointment. I remember Jess telling me about him. Lovely guy, she said; asks lots of questions, though.

I think back to how the project started. I’d met Dan at the festival in Amsterdam, and he’d told me he loved Black Winter but thought my second film – Adam, Alive – was ‘worthy, but not what you should be doing’. I admired him for that; he was probably the only person who’d been honest. He asked me if I had anything in the pipeline.

‘A few things,’ I told him, although this wasn’t true. He gave me his card and a few months later I invited myself to his office. It was all white furniture and glass partitions, ergonomic chairs and chai lattes. His awards glowered down at me from the wall behind his chair and my mind went to the night I won mine. I’d bought myself a new outfit – a trouser suit with a white jacket – and felt good. Even so, by the time they came to the Audience Award the last thing I was expecting was my name to be called out. The announcement came as if through a fog and I felt like everyone’s eyes were boring into me. I stood up, feeling suddenly drunk and regretting the heels I’d bought on a whim. I stepped carefully to the front of the room and at the podium made a dry-mouthed speech before threading my way back through the smiles and claps. As I did, I thought of all the girls I’d filmed and put into my documentary. They were just a few miles away, those who’d survived. Shivering on the same streets, their world and mine now so far apart the distance was incalculable. I felt the champagne begin to rise and strode past my table, only just making it outside before vomiting on to the pavement. No one saw, but that didn’t make me feel any better, and as I crouched, staring at my own disgust, I thought that at the very least I had the decency to feel guilty. I vowed to go back, to find the girls I’d filmed, to give them the money I’d just won.

‘Alex?’

I looked up. Dan was waiting for me to begin. ‘Well, what I thought is … let’s do a film about ordinary life. About community. Mortality. Change. I mean, nowadays, what does “community” even mean? People are more likely to find it online than they are next door, or that’s the popular myth anyway. But is that really true, once you get out of the city? I thought we could look at life in a small village in Britain. One with a dwindling population, or whatever. See what life’s really like.’

He nodded. He was about to speak, but then his eyes went to my arm. My sleeve had ridden up; my scar was visible. I froze, holding his gaze, resisting the urge to tell him the story, and folded my hands neatly under the table. He shifted in his seat.

‘It’s very different from Black Winter. And I can’t see what would make it unique.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘it could be mostly observational, self-shot by its subjects on their phones, digital cameras, iPads, or whatever. That way we’ll get people’s own perspective – everyone can contribute.’

‘So, sort of Three Salons meets Life in a Day, then?’

‘Exactly.’

He smiled, and I wondered whether he’d been testing me. Though a classic, Three Salons at the Seaside came out in ninety-four, or something like that. Long before my time, and – with its focus on northern women getting their shampoo and set – is, on the surface, the last thing anyone would think I’d be interested in.

Unless they knew me. And he did. He knew I’d done my GCSEs late, had gone on to do a diploma in Film-making and Photography. He knew I’d come to this with the passion of someone who has finally found their direction after a long time drifting, someone who found the guts to pitch her first film – uninvited, and despite her northern accent and shitty clothes – to one of the guest lecturers.

‘The important thing,’ I continued, ‘would be that the film finds its own stories. Then all I’d need to do is amplify them. I thought I’d set up a website, people could upload their contributions, anonymously—’

‘You’ll get dick pics.’

I stared at him. If only he knew the things I’ve seen. If only he had the barest idea of just how many tiny, shrivelled pricks I’ve witnessed in my life, of how little a few more will bother me. ‘You think I’m worried about that? Anyway,’ I went on, ‘I’d have administrator access. That way I can go through the submissions and delete any that are clearly no good. And any that I’m not sure about but might want to use I can mark Private, keep them out of the general pool. The rest would be public. People would need to sign up, but once that’s done they could watch what other people are uploading.’

‘Could be interesting. Have you thought about consent?’

‘Yes. There are a few options. We could bury it in the Ts and Cs, for a start. When people log on for the first time, you know?’

‘When they’ll click on anything …’

‘Exactly.’

He shrugged in agreement. These were all details we could work out, along with the ease with which people could upload their contributions. I knew it’d have to be as simple as clicking a button.

‘How about a location?’

‘Not sure yet. I could do some research … scout around.’

That was my mistake. I should’ve done my research first, found a location, presented it to him on a silk cushion tied up with a bow. Then I wouldn’t have ended up in Blackwood Bay.