Page 150 of Take Me Away

The Ship Inn smells like spilled beer, salt air, and fresh chips. It’s packed – no barstools left, just bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, everyone turned to the mounted television like flowers to the sun.

Dot’s brought out her binoculars, even though the telly’s less than ten feet away. ‘These are for detecting emotional nuance,’ she insists to anyone who’ll listen. Frankie and Bill have abandoned their usual dartboard corner to secure prime viewing spots at the bar. Even Dad’s here, nursing a whisky instead of his usual ale, expression unreadable beneath his weathered brow.

Jude’s parked beside me with two pints and a smug grin that I’ve been trying to ignore. Maisie sits between us on a borrowed stool, her jellyfish-patterned dress smoothed carefully over her knees, hands folded like she’s at a royal gala.

‘Is she nervous?’ Maisie asks, eyes already fixed on the blank screen. ‘Isla, I mean. About talking to this lady?’

‘Probably,’ I say, finding her small hand and giving it a squeeze. ‘Brave people usually are.’

‘But she’s used to being on TV,’ Maisie counters, brow furrowed. ‘She’s famous. Lily’s mum said she was the best thing in that Netflix monstos … monstos…’

‘Monstrosity,’ Jude fills in. ‘And yes, she was, Mais, but this is different. In interviews, actors are supposed to be themselves.’ His gaze flicks to mine and my stomach lurches. ‘This time Isla is really being herself.’

Maisie considers this, then nods solemnly. ‘That’s much scarier. Did she have to be herself when the police came to visit and all those people who wanted to talk to her about that bad man?’

It’s official. My stomach is so knotted, I’m going to puke.

I ruffle her curls, which pulls a pouty scowl from Maisie as she smooths them back down again. She’s growing up so fast, even forgetting her rain hat some days. In the mornings she stands in the bathroom and follows Isla’s routine, although Isla has bought her all her own kiddie-safe products, because apparently retinol, whatever the fuck that is, isn’t good for perfect kiddie skin.

‘Yep, but Isla is as brave as a lion.’ I scooch Maisie closer so Nina has space as she turns up with a basket of chips that nobody ordered but everyone will eat.

‘Two minutes,’ Ayo calls from behind the bar, remote in hand. ‘Everyone shut it!’

The pub quietens so quickly you could hear a pin drop, conversations tapering into expectant silence. My heart hammers against my ribs as Fiona Bruce appears, crisply framed and composed, and the volume seems to rise without anyone touching the remote.

‘Tonight, we’re joined by Isla Quinn,’ Fiona begins, ‘one of Britain’s most celebrated actresses, whose recent allegations against director and former manager Marcus Vale sent shockwaves through the film industry…’

My chest goes tight. Maisie’s hand finds mine, small fingers squeezing with surprising strength.

The camera cuts to Isla.

She’s not hiding behind glossy makeup or studio polish. She looks like herself – hair loose at the nape, a green jumper that softens the sharp line of her collarbone. Her fingers twist the edge of a tissue on her lap, the only visible sign of her nerves. But I know her tells – the slight lift of her chin, the careful way she’s controlling her breathing.

‘Dad,’ Maisie whispers excitedly, ‘she’s wearing the jumper we got her!’

The one we found in that little shop in Falmouth, moss-green with wooden buttons. The one Maisie insisted was perfect because ‘it matches Isla’s eyes when it’s about to rain’.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

‘Why now, Isla?’ Fiona asks, direct but not unkind. ‘After five years working with Marcus Vale, and after so many years had passed, why did you choose this moment to come forward?’

Isla’s hands still on her lap, and I can see her drawing strength from somewhere deep. ‘It wasn’t a choice, really. Not in the way people think.’ Her voice is steady, clear. ‘I walked in on Marcus with a young actress – she was barely twenty – and the look on her face…’ She pauses, swallows visibly. ‘I recognised it immediately. It was the same look I had at her age. That mixture of fear, shame, resignation. In that moment, it was like seeing myself from a decade ago, and I couldn’t walk away. I couldn’t pretend.’

Dot mutters something that sounds like ‘good girl’, dabbing her eyes with a napkin. Beside me, Jude shifts in his seat, jaw clenched tight.

‘You’ve mentioned that Marcus Vale “systematically isolated” you early in your career,’ Fiona continues. ‘Can you explain what you mean by that?’

Isla nods, gathering herself. ‘When Marcus first approached me, I was an eighteen-year-old drama student, desperately ambitious, and completely naive about the industry.’ Her gaze drops briefly, then rises again with renewed determination. ‘He presented himself as a mentor, someone who saw my potential when no one else did. But I realise now he was grooming me to only accept his word, his way.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Frankie huffs from the bar, loud enough to carry.

Several people nod in agreement, murmurs rippling around the room.

Maisie frowns up at me.

I wrap an arm around her shoulders, drawing her closer.

Fiona Bruce shifts in her seat. ‘Everyone has seen the photos Marcus Vale released of you last year. Are you able to tell us more about that?’