𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐫. ⁽⁽⁽ᵐᵃᵗᵗʸ ʰᵉᵃˡʸ⁾⁾⁾

subtext.

Thirteen.

Matty.

I know who you are... What the fuck is this? ... This will never see the light of day.

None of the lines Matty cycles through are satisfying, nor would they have been appropriate to the eerie quiet of the hallway at the party, especially with those unsettling, pallid grey eyes on him, and especially when he couldn't be anonymous as he made his threat or cast venomous judgement. He misses when people would ask his name earnestly, and wonders if Joel clocked that Matty never asked him. That's not to say he really gives a shit what Joel thought. But the hypothetical confrontation plays out in his mind in the shower, on every cigarette break, over lunch and dinner for three days, and never reaches a satisfying conclusion. In a way, this is good; it probably means it would never have gone well if he had.

Matty contemplates the possibility of fixing things without Alma ever finding out - whatever 'fixing things' would look like. Not that it's even my responsibility, a bitter little voice whispers in his mind's ear. But no, he can't do nothing with this knowledge either. Obligation or not, he cares too much to let someone else cause Alma pain, and the wrenching anger he feels towards Joel is too clearly rooted in his own lingering feelings for her. He can get a lawyer, if they'd be of any use, and has the means to see a legal challenge through. But what if they need information or documents from her? And even if they don't, if she found out about any of this in retrospect... Matty cringes at the thought. He can't let her discover this through a bland letter on headed paper. Not the publication of the photos, nor Matty's involvement in their suppression. Imagining her reaction to any of this jolts him back into reality. It would, of course, be presumptuous of him to get involved behind her back, even weird. He'll have to merely tell her, to ask to help, and to accept her answer, whatever it might be.

Merely. If only it were that easy. Matty drafts an email, deletes it, drafts a text, deletes it. It's all too impersonal, and he'd hate for her to interpret his message in any other tone than goodwill. The very act of typing hi Alma is enough to set him several months back in emotional progress. It's difficult enough to address her at all without having to agonise over the nuance of every phrase. The only way he can ensure she knows, and that it comes from the right place, is by telling her personally.

It's not hard to get hold of Sarah. Someone passes Matty her number, and he calls her office on a Friday morning. When she picks up, he receives a fleeting memory of another phone conversation: Alma in an effervescent mood, calling from some gallery in Soho, and he at home, hearing about the first meeting with this wonderful new agent. He wonders uncomfortably whether Sarah is already biased against him.

'Hello?'

'Hi, I wonder if you can help me. I'm an old friend of Alma's,' - he concentrates very hard to avoid hesitating on this phrase - 'and I need to get hold of her.'

'I see.' The voice on the other end is clipped, guarded. Matty is quite sure that Sarah does her job well, but that isn't about to make his job any easier. 'And who am I speaking to?'

'Matty.' Pause. 'Healy. I need to speak to her myself, please.' He's not sure if he's managing to maintain the balance between assertive and achingly polite.

'Matty, I don't normally send people over to her unless she's already working with them.' Sarah sounds hesitant, if a little warmer. 'I'll give you the studio address if you promise I won't regret it. I don't want Alma thinking anyone can get to her through me, but...' she tails off. Matty isn't just anyone, he hopes she's thinking. He hopes she's heard at least some good things. 'What's it about?'