Tell Me a Secret

by Jane Fallon

  I stuff my phone into my pocket and head for the door, tugging my gloves on just as I see the two of them walk out together without acknowledging me. Roz laughs an exaggerated laugh and I think I see her give the tiniest glance back in my direction to check I’ve clocked it. I turn left and head for the toilets. Shut myself in a cubicle and sit on the lid.

  I still have scripts of my own to manage, at least until my probation period is up, so when I head back to the office I ask Emma to pick me up a sandwich when she goes out, so that I can get on with making notes on a pair that have come in. She looks at me a bit strangely, as if she’s wondering why I’ve put my coat on just to take it off again but, being Emma, she doesn’t say anything.

  ‘It’s cold,’ I say stupidly, indicating my layers, and then I sit back down at my desk, coat still on, until she leaves.

  I’m finding it hard to concentrate. Usually I love getting a first draft. That feeling that you might be about to read something amazing (often evaporated by page seven, when you realize nothing makes any sense and you don’t believe a word that comes out of anyone’s mouth), but not today. My mind keeps wandering.

  Maybe Roz didn’t get my email. Maybe she thought I was busy and she didn’t want to disturb me. I get up, walk over to her desk and click on her desktop mouse. Her inbox is up on the screen. The message from me no longer in bold, because it’s been read.

  I take a deep breath to steady myself. I suddenly feel like the unpopular girl at school. The one everyone decided to pick on that term. I remind myself that this comes with the territory. But Roz was the last person I expected it from.

  Here’s the thing about Roz. She can be quite mean. But she gets away with it because she’s always funny. I often laugh first and then think perhaps I shouldn’t have. To be honest I’m in awe of the way she doesn’t give a fuck what people think of her. It’s so unlike me. But I’ve always believed she has a good heart underneath. That – barbs in the name of humour aside – she would never really want to hurt anyone.

  I force myself to concentrate on one of the first drafts, scrawling notes in the margins as I go. It’s not just criticism. For every comment that something isn’t working in the script I need to come up with a suggestion of how to put it right. It’s a lot of work, but it’s the bit of my job I really love. The bit I’ll really miss, I realize, once my promotion is made permanent. If it is. Which it will be. I can’t even let myself think it might not be.

  By two o’clock, when Roz and Lorraine come bouncing back into the office, I’ve finished the first one and am on to the second and I’m feeling much better just by being in control of work.

  Five minutes later Roz appears in the doorway. ‘I only just saw your email,’ she says, pulling a sad face. ‘Sorry. You looked as if you were working hard, so I didn’t want to bother you.’

  ‘No problem,’ I say with a smile, knowing what she’s saying is a lie. ‘I was.’

  10

  ‘West Hampstead near Tube/Overground/Thameslink. Lovely furnished room available for single quiet professional. Share kitchen/bathroom with owner. £700 pcm.’

  Dee stops me from adding ‘no one under 30’ or ‘no psychos’, telling me I can use those filters but only secretly after I’ve met them and judged for myself. It’s the blandest possible ad but I tell myself bland is good. I want my tenant to be bland. I want her to be a little mouse who is too scared to ever come out of her room and who goes to bed at ten. I want my space. I want my privacy. As Dee points out, I want to have my cake and eat it too.

  The room is ready. Painted a calming but neutral sandy shade. Furnished with Ashley’s old divan bed, bedside table, chest of drawers and a small table with two chairs that I hope will encourage them to eat in their room. The curtains have been washed and pressed. The window is on the street side, with a not-so-lovely view of the basement well, the stairs and the bins. But I’m going to sweep out there (first time in … well, the first time) and maybe put some geraniums in pots along the sill. God knows how long they’ll last because the sun never reaches that spot, but I’ll tell whoever takes the room that they’re their responsibility so they won’t blame me when they die.

  Dee and I are halfway through painting the hallway. I’ve already finished the bathroom and cleared some space in the mirrored cupboard. The flat is starting to look like a different, much lighter space and I’ve begun to wonder why I didn’t do this years ago. Not the lodger bit. The painting and decluttering. I don’t think I’ve redecorated anywhere since we moved in three years ago. After this I’m going to tackle the kitchen and the living room and then I’m thinking I might as well do my own room because I imagine I’m going to be spending a lot more time in there soon. Ashley’s boxes are still piled up waiting for her to come and collect them. And then, once that’s done, I’ll take a photo of the space looking as big as I can make it look, and the ad will go on SpareRoom.

  Dee looks up from where she is cutting in round a doorway, brush in hand. ‘Have you still got Roz’s application? Let me just see how close it really is to your story.’

  ‘No, Dee. It’s bad enough that I’ve looked at it …’

  She flicks at her fringe. ‘No, it’s so bad that you’ve looked at it that it wouldn’t even register if I did too. Besides, she’ll never know.’

  Reluctantly I head into the kitchen and find the form under a pile of junk mail, where I’d hidden it to make myself feel better. I hand it over. Dee wipes a paint smear from her hand on to the old T-shirt she’s wearing before she takes it.

  ‘Blah blah,’ she says as she reads down the first page. ‘ “Age forty”, lives in Holland Park … nice.’

  ‘Hugh is some kind of mega-successful PR.’

  She carries on scanning through. Looks up at me.

  ‘Didn’t you say she’s from Whitehawk?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  She waves the form at me. ‘It’s just that it says here she went to Brighton College. That’s like a super-posh private school. Maybe she got a scholarship.’

  I snatch it back. ‘No, she went to the local comprehensive. She’s always banging on about how much she hates private schools.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean she didn’t go to one.’

  ‘We’ve actually talked about it though. How similar our schools were … Are you sure Brighton College isn’t, like, some crappy tech where she might have done her A Levels or something?’ I know I’m clutching at straws.

  Dee takes the form back, points at the dates. ‘Nineteen eighty-nine to ninety-six. That’s a long time to be taking her A Levels. And she started them at, what, eleven? I know people who went there. It’s posh with a capital P. And a capital O, S and H.’

  ‘Why would she lie about that?’

  Dee shrugs. ‘Chip on her shoulder?’

  I sit down on the floor, lean against the radiator. ‘I mean, wouldn’t you just say “I got a scholarship” or even just avoid talking about school altogether? Not make up a whole load of stuff about going to a comprehensive? She’s always made it sound like a really rough one too. She brings it up all the time in story conferences. Do you remember that story we did about the sisters who kept sneaking back into the school at night to sleep there, because their mum was a prostitute and she used to bring her clients home? She said that happened to a girl in her class.’

  ‘Maybe she thinks it gives her more credibility with the writers?’ At the centre of Churchill Road is the failing school that most of our characters either attend or work at. And it’s true that when we’re arguing about storylines there’s always an element of ‘I know that world better than you do, so I’m right’ from some of the writers. Even though most of them now live in multi-million-pound houses and their kids are privately educated.

  ‘God knows.’

  Dee picks up her brush and carries on painting. ‘It’s sad,’ she says. ‘I wonder what else she’s lied about.’

  ‘Do you think she hid those scripts I couldn’t find?’ I say a few moments later. ‘And
sent the flowers … the note from Patricia?’ The more I think about it the more it makes sense. ‘Oh God, I basically accused Juliet outright.’

  ‘Stranger things have happened,’ Dee says. ‘I mean, if she wants your job it’s in her interest that you don’t look too impressive during your probation period.’

  It’s too awful to contemplate. Roz is my friend, my ally. ‘Shit. It’s her, isn’t it?’

  Dee pulls a sympathetic face. ‘It’s looking very likely.’

  Roz is holding court at the weekly department meeting. She’s dyed the tips of her white-blonde hair pink over the weekend and spiked it up with what looks like a whole tube of hairspray. She’s telling a story about a restaurant opening she and Hugh went to last night in Mayfair. It sounds fabulous; I just don’t know why she’s chosen this moment to tell everyone about it. I find myself listening to her intently, trying to spot any trace of a more rarefied accent under her street-cred tones, but it’s impossible to tell. And then I remember that I’m supposed to be running this meeting.

  ‘OK,’ I say as loudly as I can bring myself to. Once again Glen is watching me.

  Roz carries on. ‘And while we were having dessert Tom himself came over to see if we’d enjoyed the meal,’ she says, name-dropping the celebrity chef whose new venture this is.

  Lorraine gasps. ‘Oh my God! What was he –?’

  ‘Lorraine!’ I bark and she stops dead mid-sentence. ‘That’s enough chatting. Let’s get on with it.’

  I catch, out of the corner of my vision, her rolling her eyes in Roz’s direction. I choose to ignore it.

  On the way out afterwards I hang back when I see Juliet is the last to leave.

  ‘I owe you an apology,’ I say, looking at the floor. ‘I thought … well, it doesn’t matter but the point is I jumped to a wrong conclusion. And I should never have spoken to you like I did, even if I’d been right. Which I wasn’t. I don’t think.’

  She waits for me to finish. I half expect her to give me a hard time, but instead she just says: ‘OK. Is that all?’

  And walks out before I can say yes.

  I’m staring at my computer. At my email to be precise. A couple of minutes ago a message from Glen popped up. ‘Sorry, is this a serious question?’ I haven’t emailed Glen today. I haven’t had any dealings with him except for the department meeting. Except that apparently I have. Because scrolling up from his sparse six words I find that they’re a response to something sent by me. By my email account, at least. Timed at seven minutes past one – when I was on my way to the café to get a sandwich.

  ‘Just had to say how hot you’re looking today. New beard oil? X’.

  I break out in a cold sweat. Check through my sent emails to make sure this is the only one. Then I compose a response to Glen: ‘Sorry, that email was meant for someone else!’ I consider adding ‘LOL’ or even ‘Ha!’ but I worry that’ll make me sound even more vacuous than I must already do. Then I wonder if I should say something like ‘It was a joke, obviously’ so that he doesn’t think I send emails like that to people seriously, but that might make the whole thing feel like a bigger deal, as if I’m protesting too much. In the end I keep it short and to the point. Press send before I can overthink it any more. I make a note to ask Emma to show me how to change my password. It’s on my list of ‘things a woman my age really ought to know how to do, but has never bothered to get around to’.

  I look out into the general office. Everyone bar Joe is there, ostensibly getting on with work. The harsh fluorescent lights that Juliet always insists we have on to enable her to read without straining her eyes give everyone a ghostly pallor. Whenever she goes out one of the others always turns them off, leaving just the individual desk lamps casting moody pools. Roz is typing, the picture of innocence. I think about stomping over there and accusing her but she’d just deny it and make a scene that Glen would probably hear from his office down the hall. She’d find a way to make me look worse than I already do. I stare at my screen for a while, seething, waiting for a response from Glen but there’s nothing.

  I spend the rest of the afternoon furiously collating everything that I have so far for the twice-yearly story conference that is fast approaching. An email went out last week inviting all the current writers, and asking them to submit story ideas in advance. I’ve already prepared a document highlighting any looming gaps we have coming up, and identifying any characters that are light on material. The story conferences often end up being the place where we identify the ones who are falling off the radar, and – obviously with Glen having the last word – earmark them for possible death or a sudden decision to move away.

  I’m halfway through updating the list of all the cast contract dates, along with the details of those actors who have already asked for time off in December to do panto, even though it’s only March. Panto pays far better than we do. They all want to do it, but it means writing a character out for nearly three months, so we only allow one actor per year the opportunity. Ever wondered why a character randomly announced a trip to see a long-lost relative in Australia, out of nowhere, in January? That’ll be because we’d had to release the actor to be Widow Twanky from the end of the previous November. In all honesty it’s a massive pain, and it always causes rows. I think about suggesting to Glen that we just say no to all requests, but I know there would be a mutiny.

  A few stories have started to trickle in – on first look nothing very interesting, but we’re duty bound to discuss them all so as not to bruise any writer’s ego. I write an email to all the editors reminding them that the date is looming, that any ideas they want to contribute will be welcome.

  And then I write up a version of my Morgan breakdown story and file it with the others. I want to make the point that it’s mine.

  Roz, Lorraine and Joe are sitting outside the local café that we all patronize because it’s the only one with decent food within walking distance. There’s either that, the pub or the greasy spoon and you need to be a serious gambler to risk the odds of food poisoning by eating in there too often. Even though the snow has melted it’s still freezing and they’re huddled in their coats and scarves while Roz vapes. On second glance I notice that Lorraine is vaping too. This is new. I’ve never even seen her smoke. She’s also wearing big garish turquoise earrings. Roz’s own mini-me. I’m tempted to walk straight past but I’m hungry, and it’s cold and I don’t see why I should have to go somewhere else just because I feel uncomfortable.

  ‘Hey,’ Roz says, waving at me. ‘Come and join us.’ I notice Lorraine shoot her a look.

  ‘Bit cold,’ I say, forcing a smile and heading inside. I pay for my sandwich, and when I go back outside the conversation suddenly halts, which clearly means they’ve been talking about me. I feel the traitorous prick of tears behind my eyes, tell myself this comes with the territory: I knew when I applied for the job that things would change if I got it. Maybe not this much but still … I hold my head up high, keep walking.

  ‘See you later,’ I say as I pass.

  ‘Bye,’ they chorus and then, when I’m a few steps down the road, I hear Lorraine say ‘Whoops’ and then laughter.

  11

  Ashley has a couple of days off work so she drives up from Bristol, and on Thursday, when I get home from work, there she is unpacking all the boxes Dee and I packed up for her and spreading the contents over the floor of her room. As always when I see my daughter I’m filled with a rush of love so strong it almost knocks me over.

  ‘What time did you get here?’ I say, grabbing her into a big hug. Her tiny rounded stomach is just about showing on her still slim body if you know what you’re looking for.

  She plants a kiss on my cheek. ‘About an hour ago.’

  ‘More to the point, what are you doing? Dee and I spent ages sorting all that stuff out.’

  ‘Mum, I don’t want half this crap, honestly. You’ve put my school report cards in here. And that medal I won for gymnastics when I was eight.’

  I pick t
he offending items up from the floor. ‘Well, we can’t throw them away. One day you’ll wish you had them.’

  She looks round at the mess. ‘Maybe I should get one of those storage-unit things.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. I don’t want you to have that expense. Just take what you can and I’ll worry about the rest.’

  She picks up one of the now empty boxes and throws a few things in. ‘That’s about it. Honestly, anything else you can chuck unless you think it’s a family heirloom. It looks amazing in here, by the way.’

  ‘Well, it did,’ I say, laughing. I’ve been painting the rest of the flat like a demon in the evenings and early mornings in an effort not to have time to dwell on how things are going at work. Consequently I’ve finished everything bar the kitchen and my own bedroom. ‘Come on, let me feed you up.’ She looks tired and a bit run-down, but I’m her mother, I would think that.

  ‘I was hoping you’d say that. I’m starving.’

  I am pathetically grateful to have someone to cook for other than myself so I fuss around with salmon fillets while Ashley makes a salad.

  ‘How’s Ryan?’ I’m very fond of Ashley’s boyfriend, even if I sometimes wish he had loftier aspirations than working his way up the ranks of a supermarket management scheme. Who am I to judge? He’s a nice boy. He’s definitely one of the good guys.

  ‘He’s OK,’ she says. Like all parents, above everything I want my child to be happy. I tick that worry off my mental checklist.

  ‘Do you want me to come back up when you’re interviewing possible tenants?’ she says later when we’re eating. Smokey – who is not allowed on the kitchen table – is on the kitchen table. I don’t have the heart to push him off. He’s Ashley’s cat really. She chose him from the Mayhew when he was the tiniest runt in a litter of tiny runts that had been found in a box in a car park. They used to sleep together every night until she left home, and I’m pretty sure I know where he’ll bed down tonight.