Julia Creswell

Cynthia Moon: Cynthia cleared her throat, making the woman who thought she had been alone all this time, gasp. “May I come in?” She said in that deep, velvety voice of hers, matching the gloom of Julia's residential home. “I hope I didn't disturb you.”

Julia Creswell: Julia’s hands jerked off the keyboard with a dry clatter, her heart kicking hard against her ribs. Ugh. She heaved a tired sigh, rubbing the bridge of her nose to ease the fatigue, until the faint screen-glare spots faded. "Christ alive, Cynthia," she muttered, not bothering to turn around fully. Her voice had the gravelly rasp of someone whose suffered a severe ailment. "You glide in like a spectre." She swiveled halfway in her chair, the loose olive jersey bunching at her hips. Squinting through the gloom, she caught the familiar silhouette—the oversized red wool, the tall, sharp frame stood as if a Greek statue carved out of darkness. "Come in, sit, whatever. I was just churning out brainrot for twenty-two-year-old with a trust fund and a BFI voucher," Julia gave a short, bitter snort, gesturing vaguely toward the laptop where the cursor blinked lazily over a pretentious monologue about Kierkegaardian leap of faith. "You don't usually come to visit me, and that too in the rain. Anything important?"

Cynthia Moon: Cynthia nodded, as she padded over the worn-out floorboards to sit on sofa facing opposite to Julia. She perched on the edge of the upholstery, elbows resting against her thighs, with her chin propped over the steepled fingers. “Yeah, important. Otherwise, why would Cynthia Moon come all the way from Oxfordshire to here that too after the announcment of heavy rainfall by the MET?” She chuckles, a smirk lingering on that sharp face of hers; those almond-shaped eyes shining in mischief. “That art-school wanker named Geordie who comissioned you write his misery porn just got dumped by the BFI. Says he wants refund from you.” Her smirk sharpens as she sees Julia's jaws harden even in the dim light. “And, not only that, producer wench Martha said your screenplay about that lonely man's desparate failed quest to preserve his wife corpse is too heavy-handed for Berlinale. She's not producing it unless you tone it down.”

Julia Creswell: Julia let out a long, shuddering hiss through her teeth, tilting her head back against the faux-leather headrest until the vertebrae in her neck gave a sharp crack. "A refund," she croaked, the word dripping with venomous disbelief. Ha! A sharp, humorless bark of laughter cut through the gloom. "Tell that little trust-fund kid to take it out of his daddy’s Cayman account. He signed the invoice. The ink's dry, the words are on the bloody page, and it’s not my fault the BFI committee couldn't stomach his third-rate incestous Goddard knockoff." She slammed the laptop shut. The plastic snap echoed off the damp walls like a gunshot. "And Martha—God, Martha can choke on her sitcoms for bored housewives," Julia groaned, rubbing her temples with calloused fingers. Her gray-green eyes flashed with cold irritation as she leaned forward, resting her forearms on her knees, staring down Cynthia through the dusk. "Too heavy-handed for Berlinale? It’s a study in grief, not a fucking Marvel post-credits scene. What does she want me to do, have him buy an air freshener and play a jaunty ukulele tune while his wife rots in the crypt? Like, girl, have you never read Poe's The Oblong Box before? I swear to God, these spineless bitches won't touch anything unless it's politically correct." She shook her head, a dry, bitter sneer curling her lips. "I'm not toning down a single comma. She can shelf it. Better it stays dead on my laptop than gets butchered to appease some worthles festival panel who think cinematic brilliance is yet another queer expression cinema." Julia paused, letting out a heavy sigh, her shoulders slumping into the loose fabric of her gown.