Chapter 10: Thoughts, Not Notes

Rupert had photocopied the binder overnight, and the copies were laid out across his caravan floor in neat rows with a croissant on each corner.

"Love it," he said, as Kit climbed in.

"Love it, love it, love it. Shut the door."

Kit shut the door.

The caravan smelled of toner and butter, and Rupert's chair squeaked as he stood from it, which was rare.

"Eighty reviews," said Rupert.

"Eighty pages of the most vicious things anyone has ever said about a leading man. And you wrote them."

"Dorian showed you," said Kit.

"Dorian left it on the table. Same thing. You're Seventh Row."

"I was," said Kit.

"I've stopped."

"Love that. Here's my thought."

Rupert held up one finger.

Kit knew from the finger what was coming, because it was the finger that had cut forty per cent off the confession.

"We don't say it's you," said Rupert.

"Not in the credits, not in the press. It's more interesting if nobody knows."

"That's my name you're removing," said Kit.

"It's your anonymity. I'm protecting it," said Rupert.

"I didn't ask you to."

"Love the gratitude," said Rupert.

"Second thought."

He pointed to the pages on the floor.

"We use them. At the launch party, in the ballroom of the hotel in Hereford, in front of the press."

"Forty-eight banners, eight feet tall, one cruel line each."

"You said eighty reviews," said Kit.

"Forty-eight banners. The budget does what it does."

"Which forty-eight?" said Kit.

"The best. The ones with the gold stickers."

Kit stopped.

He bent down and picked up the nearest sheet.

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