Free The Ghost

British realism and, with tender diplomacy, shepherded him back to the light-bulb mirror. He was re-powdered and re-deposited at the sofa area, where a second guest – Dan Machin from
Movie
magazine – had taken his spot, forcing him to sit further along and concede a subtle relegation of status.
    â€œI think I actually prefer it to go out live,” Machin was telling Jonathan Trotman, the
Talking Pictures
presenter. “You can lose confidence in what you’re saying if you have to repeat it too many times.”
    â€œOh! Is this live?” said Cook, sounding a little more concerned than he’d intended.
    â€œYeah,” smiled Machin.
    Trotman, a wily power-ligger who had once been Cook’s section deputy, stepped in. “It’ll be pretty straightforward, Dorian. Just five minutes of general chat with hopefully a bit of debate.”
    â€œDon’t worry,” added Machin – to Trotman, “we’ll try not to agree on too much”.
    Cook swallowed reflexively. He was confident he knew the topic, but always felt cornered under the gaze of live television. Recording offered a fuzzy buffer of abstraction – he could do the job, walk away and get busy denying the sharp realities of the broadcast, shunting it into the fog of the future. But in a live setting, he was shoved into centre-stage to perform for a chorus of rolling eyeballs and curling lips. He felt like a fraud.
    â€œCan I use the bathroom?” Cook asked Trotman.
    â€œYou’ll have to be quick. We’re on in five minutes.”
    The runner guided Cook to a shabby rest-room around the back of the sound-stage and he slipped into a cubicle, locking the door. Without sitting down, he pulled out his phone, tapped through to the email inbox and skimmed a self-sent message of Wikipedia notes on the director of the film under discussion. He was about to pocket the phone and hurry back to the studio when the ping of his New Mail alert triggered a flutter of anxiety.
    Two messages had arrived simultaneously. Cook’s trembling index finger opened the first by accident.
    From: Sample enlarge
    Subject: So hard you could break an egg!
    Message: Forget the old memories where your pals laughed at you in the locker room, grow larger today.
    He dismissed it with a sideways jab of the screen and opened the second new message – a notification from
PastLives.com
. He logged in and accessed the inbox.
    Dor! I’ve managed to get a message to Dave and I think he’s up for a meet. We’ve got to talk mate. I’m freaking out. I think it’s…
    There was an urgent knock at the cubicle door which made Cook jump and close the message.
    â€œDorian? Are you okay? We need you back in the studio! Live in two mins!”
    â€œYeah, coming now!” Cook shouted, failing to conceal a wobble at the base of his throat. He flushed the toilet and walked out – practically into the runner’s arms. She scampered off ahead and he struggled to keep pace, disrupted and queasy.
    *
    â€œHow does this compare to Whiteley’s previous film,
Low Blow
?”
    The studio heat was on. Cook and Machin sat stiffly, side by side, while Trotman – animated, informed – gently interrogated.
    â€œI don’t think anything could have prepared us for the progression,” offered Cook. “It’s the difference between, say,
Reservoir Dogs
and
Jackie Brown
.
Low Blow
is the work of a promising talent, but it’s solipsistic – there’s too much of Whiteley’s own prejudice in there.
Shifting Sand
is a much more mature work. It’s hard to believe that both films are from the same director.”
    â€œI’m not sure I agree with that,” said Machin. “It’s clear that Whiteley is an enormously exciting filmmaker, but he seems to have fallen into the trap of believing his own press a bit too much.”
    â€œEarly reviews gone to his