Sophie Hannah - A Game for All the Family

Carine Hartwell was informed that there was insufficient evidence for a prosecution of Freddii. This news was greeted with an outpouring of sympathy for her and an even bigger one of hatred for Freddii, who was seen as having gotten away with it, and loathed even more fiercely than she would have been if she’d been found guilty of something—though she would have been heartily loathed in either eventuality. There was so much venom sloshing around that Freddii, being only one person, couldn’t soak it all up. It started to drench all those who made comments in chatrooms and on social media along the lines of “But we don’t know for sure that Freddii did anything wrong,” though the tide receded if the sinners repented with a follow-up like, “Though I personally suspect that she did and want her to die.” The most enlightened folk of all expressed a wish to garrote Freddii with piano wire while making sure to chastise those calling her “him,” because to do that was insensitive and reeking of cis privilege. (“Cis” is a relatively new word and it means “not trans.” You, gentle reader, are probably cis.)

One day, Ben Lourenco could bear it no longer. He tweeted a tweet, which read as follows: “Please stop RT-ing * that* infographic, people. I get it. There are only two little red men. What if Freddii’s one of them?”

The floodgates opened, and vitriol poured forth in the form of abusive tweets and savage blog posts. Ben Lourenco replaced Freddii Bausor as Chief Devil Incarnate. This was quite rational: Freddii had only maybe done terrible deeds, whereas Ben Lourenco had unequivocally done two horrendous things: 1) he had tacitly given succor to the violent patriarchy by failing to condemn a possible wife-beater, and 2) he had misgendered Freddii, and, in doing so, shown himself to be a hateful transphobe.

Ben explained that he hadn’t meant to imply that Freddii was a man. He was merely using the metaphor of “little red man” to mean “rare and exceptional innocent person,” and if his use of little-men symbolism was offensive, then surely all the people RT-ing the infographic were guilty of the very same offense.

The unmollifiable hordes remained unmollified.

A few days into this controversy, Donna Lodge told Justine Merrison that she no longer felt Ben Lourenco was right for the hero’s role in their fledgling TV show. Justine was aghast. “He’s clearly a misogynist,” said Donna. “Why else would he choose to defend Freddii when Freddii might be . . . dubious?”

“But Freddii’s a woman,” Justine pointed out.

“Well, yes, but . . . not as much as Carine Hartwell is, let’s face it,” said Donna transmisogynistically. “Don’t worry.” She smiled. “I’m not going to change my mind again about the central concept. You were right about that.”

“You were right to suggest Ben Lourenco,” Justine countered. “And you’d be very wrong to boot him out when he’s done nothing at all to deserve it.”

“Hmm.” Donna pretended to consider this. “I just . . . look, we want to get this show commissioned, don’t we? Do you think having Ben Lourenco as our leading man is going to improve our chances or stymie them?”

“Do you think Ben has done anything wrong?” Justine asked.

“I know that an awful lot of other people do, and I’m worried about how it’d play with Joe Public,” said Donna. “Jo anne Public.” She tittered at her own joke. “We have to be pragmatic. We don’t want to work with someone that half of our industry has taken against, Justine. Really, we don’t.”

“Actually, I do.”

“Tough. Ben’s gone. He’s off the table.”

“Then please may I be excused as well?”

“Pardon?” said Donna.

“From the table.” Justine stood up. In her mind, she had already gone. She no longer worked with Donna. From now on, she worked with Ben Lourenco, though the two of them would probably never meet again. She did not work with Ben on any kind of TV project, but on something far more important: remaining rational in the face of frothing-at-the-mouth numbskullery. Be warned, all: this is frustrating work, and it pays badly.

After posting a sequence of tweets sticking up for Ben Lourenco and encouraging his detractors to do rude things to themselves, Justine Merrison walked out of her office and never went back.

Donna Lodge soon replaced her. She replaced Ben Lourenco with another leading man whose tweets were mostly accompanied by the hashtag #istandwithcarine, and she replaced the high concept of the putative drama series with nothing because you don’t need a gimmicky concept if you’ve got multilayered characters you care about, according to Donna.

The show has been “greenlit,” and will air sometime next year.

11

Mum, this is the yummiest breakfast ever,” says Ellen, shoveling another forkful of scrambled eggs into her mouth. Alex eyes her suspiciously, wondering about the identity of this charming visiting diplomat who resembles his daughter.

Light streams in through the window, creating a golden patch effect on the kitchen table.

I haven’t told Alex about Ellen and George’s agreement—I can’t bring myself to call it an engagement. Fourteen-year-olds can’t be meaningfully engaged.

“Seriously, Mum, you’re the Queen of Egg Scrambling. Utterly delish!”

Is this how Ellen will be from now on? Mimicking superpolite George? My heart aches at the thought. I want her to be a typical teenager. Surely we’ll get a few years of “You’re so unfair / You’re such an embarrassing idiot”? I don’t think I can bear the prospect of a charming Ellen-and-George unit jollying me into playing Monopoly in the drawing room for the rest of my life.

Maybe I should provoke a row by demanding to read every word of Ellen’s story about the Ingreys. Until I saw her this morning, I intended to raise it with her first thing, but, coward that I am, I’m loath to do or say anything that might dim her radiant smile.

Having read George’s frighteningly accurate account of why I gave up my career in television and escaped to Devon, I have a theory. I believe that he and Ellen agreed to swap. Each gave the other a true story to tell. George wrote the one that belonged to me, and Ellen wrote about his mother’s childhood. It must have felt like a way of getting to know each other better—strengthening the bond.

Lisette Ingrey—mother of Urban, mother-in-law of Ellen—is Anne Donbavand. When the private detective gets in touch to tell me what he’s found out, I’ll be amazed if it isn’t that. The names might be different—I still don’t believe in three sisters called Lisette, Allisande and Perrine—but the substance is true. Anne Donbavand had a younger sister who murdered a boy and then was murdered herself.

But if only the names have been changed . . .

I remember my conversation with Ellen, after I read those first three pages. I asked her why she’d used our house as a setting, and she said, “Are you thinking Perrine Ingrey’s going to get murdered in my bedroom? She isn’t. Don’t worry. She doesn’t get killed in the house or the grounds.”

Malachy Dodd does. He falls from a great height and smashes his head open on the terrace by the fountain.

What if that really happened—here, at Speedwell House? No family called Ingrey has ever lived here, but others have. One of them could have been Anne Donbavand’s family. Must have been. Why else would Ellen make this house the setting for her macabre story?

If Malachy Dodd fell to his death from Ellen’s window, might that explain the strange feeling I had in her room? Can tragic events leave an imprint on a place that’s still perceptible years later? What does that say about the much stronger strange feeling I had when I first saw Olwen Brawn’s house? Olwen who is coming to visit later today . . .