Victoria evidently cut her off at some considerable length, after which Narissa said hotly, “I know what I need. You’re not helping. Are you my sponsor or my mother?”
And then she listened. But she didn’t seem to like what she heard because she said, “I can’t get there. It will take too long. I won’t make it, and—”
More from Victoria and then, “All right. Yes. All right.”
She ended the call. She saw Deborah and said, “What? Why’re you lurking round? Aren’t you on your way home? Go away!” Without waiting for Deborah to cooperate, Narissa strode onto the bone-dry and dying lawn that extended the length of the two rows of cottages. But she stopped in the middle and then swung round. Deborah hadn’t moved, so Narissa shouted, “Do you ever listen to anyone? What’s wrong with you?”
Deborah descended the steps and walked to her. She said, “Is there anything . . . ? You seem . . . I’m just . . . Can I help at all?”
“Do I look like someone who needs your help?”
“To be honest? Well . . . yes.”
“So what are you? Some supercilious Madonna of the . . . Christ. I can’t even think what you’re the bloody Madonna of.”
Deborah chuckled. Then she said, “Oh, sorry.” And then she clapped her hand over her mouth.
Narissa rolled her eyes. “Does anyone ever slap you and your privileged white arse into another time zone?”
Deborah thought about this. There were certainly possibilities. She replied seriously with, “I’m sure there are those who want to, but so far all of them have restrained themselves.”
Narissa began to walk towards the boundary wall and the street beyond. Deborah accompanied her. Narissa shot her a look. “What?”
“The filming seems to be . . . well . . . not going as well as you hoped.”
“Sherlock has arrived,” Narissa said to the sky.
“So if I can say it? You’re having something of a time of it.”
“I’m having a meltdown is what the fuck I’m having.”
“Definitely another way of putting it,” Deborah noted.
“Do you ever curse?” Narissa demanded. “Are you always so nicey-nicey? Forget it. Don’t answer. I need a bloody meeting is what I need. That or a drink. Or a pill. Or something.”
“Conversation?” Deborah offered. “I mean, I know I’m not what you need. And of course I don’t know and can’t pretend to know what it’s like. I mean, your meetings and everything? But I can talk. I mean, I can listen. And you can talk. And I can respond if you want a response.”
Narissa shot her another look. Deborah knew she was being evaluated. There was nothing for it but to wait for the other woman to decide. Finally, Narissa brusquely said, “Oh fuck it. I’m getting everything but the outrage. I keep asking myself why do they show no outrage? We’ve heard about the betrayal, the lies, the loss of innocence, the degradation of and subjugation of women, but why are they not outraged about it? I am. I’m bloody, sodding, bleeding outraged. And that, just there—the outrage—is completely missing when I look at each day’s work. And yet, when the girls talk to you, I can see it then. And why they talk to you like they do . . . I mean, you’re white, you’re lucky, you’re charmed, you’re whatever the hell you are. So what am I doing wrong?”
They continued their walk towards the wall that bordered the pavement. When they reached the end of it, Deborah paused in the shade of one of the mop-headed acacias. She said, “You seem—I don’t know—rather hard on yourself?”
Narissa laughed harshly, without humour. “I’ll recover from that soon enough. Believe me. It’s my stock-in-trade.”
“Joke if you want, but if I can ask: How many documentaries have you made?”
“I’ve worked with my dad and he’s been filming documentaries for something like forty years. So I know what I’m doing if that’s where you were heading. I know the routine. I’ve heard it from the cradle.”
“What?”
Like a long-ago memorised recitation, Narissa said, “That the smoothest route to success lies within the filmmaker’s ability to remain objective, that everything comes down to the filmmaker’s being a disinterested but nonetheless sympathetic witness when shooting.”
“But still, this is your first documentary?”
“That doesn’t matter. I should be able to—”