by Jane Fallon
‘Well, I’d never say no to the idea of you coming home but Dee’s offered to sit in on the interviews with me. You know what she’s like. She’ll assume they’re all serial killers, which is probably a good thing on this occasion.’
‘Good, because you’d end up picking someone because they complimented your decor or what you were wearing.’
‘I’m glad you have such faith in me. Since when was I such a pushover?’
She pretends to think. ‘Well, let me see. There was that time when I was six and I wanted to get out of going to Brownies so I told you you were the world’s best cook just before I asked you, or when I wanted a rescue kitten for my seventh birthday but I knew you’d say we couldn’t have one, so I told Charlie’s mum you were the kindest person to animals ever, in front of you …’
‘… and then we got Smokey. Oh my God, you’ve been playing me my whole life.’
‘Of course,’ she says, grinning. ‘It’s my job.’
She asks me how work is since I got promoted and I tell her the edited version. The version where everything is going smoothly and the people who work for me all respect me and support me. I don’t want her to worry.
‘See,’ she says, beaming. ‘I knew you’d be brilliant.’
After we’ve eaten we change into our PJs. Ashley emerges with her hair in a high ponytail, face scrubbed of make-up, looking about fourteen again. Well, fourteen and pregnant. We snuggle up on the sofa, me with a glass of wine and her with a fizzy fruit drink, the cat between us, and watch While You Were Sleeping, her favourite film. It’s about as perfect an evening as I can imagine.
In the morning I take her in a cup of tea before I leave for work. She’ll be gone by the time I get home. She’s curled up on her side with Smokey tucked into the bend of her knees. I’m tempted to leave them to it, even though I promised her I’d wake her. I tap her shoulder half-heartedly and she unfurls like she’s the sleepy cat.
‘What time is it?’
‘Quarter past eight,’ I say. ‘I’m just leaving. Drive carefully.’
‘Mmmm,’ she says, and I have no doubt she’s going to go straight back to sleep when I go. I’m glad. ‘Love you.’
‘You too.’ I pull her into a hug. ‘Text me when you get back home.’
‘So …’ Glen says. We’re sitting in his office. I still have my coat on. He nabbed me as I walked past on my way in. My first thought was that he was going to ask me about another email I’d sent him. Maybe this time asking him where he gets his eyebrows shaped (I’m sure he does), so I’m struggling to look at him. Thankfully he has other things on his mind.
‘We should start thinking about whether Lorraine is up to the job once your probation is up.’
I try to ignore the fact that he says ‘once’ and not ‘if’. I know he’s probably just being diplomatic. ‘To being made editor?’ I say, which is a stupid question because what else would he mean?
He nods. ‘We’ll need to replace you and the whole idea of the trainee scheme is to give them a break if they’re up to it.’
All of my instincts are screaming no. I have no idea really at this point whether Lorraine would make a competent editor or not, but from what I’ve seen of her lately the idea of promoting her fills me with horror.
‘Wouldn’t we have to advertise?’
‘Not if we’re just removing trainee from her job description I don’t think.’
I make a mental note to check with HR if this is the case. ‘Right …’ I say slowly.
Glen leans forward in his chair, picks up his flat white from the table. Takes a long sip. ‘You have doubts?’
I have to consider carefully before I reply. The last thing I would ever want him to think is that this is personal. ‘No. Not doubts. I just don’t know what I think yet. I haven’t crossed over with her much. It’s Roz she’s been shadowing.’
‘OK, well, there’s no mad rush. Keep an eye on her over the next couple of weeks and let me know your thoughts. Your call.’
I smile and stand up. I need to get out of there and process this. ‘Great. Will do.’
Lorraine has moved her things to my old desk opposite Roz, and the two of them are sitting there cackling away about something when I walk in. Joe is bent over a script, reading; Emma is typing furiously. Juliet, I assume, is in the studio. We’ve been doing a good job of avoiding one another since my apology. Or, at least, I’ve been avoiding her. I can’t face her condescending tone, her look of righteous indignation.
I feel a ridiculous need to let them all know I’m not just swanning in late, so as I hang up my coat and scarf I turn to Emma with an exaggerated eye roll and say, ‘Glen nobbled me.’
‘I saw you in there,’ she says sympathetically. ‘Do you want a coffee?’
‘Definitely. Thanks.’
‘Ooh, me too,’ Roz says loudly.
‘And me, if you’re making,’ Lorraine echoes. I have to stop myself from saying that I don’t think the trainee should be asking the department assistant to make their coffee.
‘Sure,’ Emma says. ‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Yes, and two,’ Lorraine says. Not even a please or thank you. I shut the door to my glass cube so I don’t have to listen to her and Roz chatter.
I need to show Glen that he can rely on my judgement. That I’m not a flake who sends him weird, inappropriate email messages out of nowhere. I stick my head out into the main office. Wait for a break in Roz and Lorraine’s incessant gossiping.
‘Roz, have you got a sec?’
She looks round. ‘Sure.’
She pulls down her purple jumper as she stands. She’s carefully mismatched it with a bright green skirt, purple tights and green ankle boots. Garish green plastic earrings dangle from her lobes. She pushes a hand through the pink-tipped spikes of her hair.
We’ve barely spoken since I found out she’d applied for my job. I don’t know how to be around her at the moment so I’ve avoided her as much as I can, claiming busyness in the run-up to the conference. She flops into the chair opposite my desk.
‘You OK?’
‘Good,’ I say. I want to try, as much as possible, to keep the conversation to work. ‘I just wanted to have a chat about Lorraine. See how you thought she was doing –’
She interrupts before I can even finish. ‘Oh, she’s great. Really picking it up fast, I think.’
Well, I knew she wasn’t about to say anything critical. ‘Has she done any eps on her own yet?’
‘Are you thinking she might get your old job? Because I think she’d be fab—’
Now it’s my turn to interrupt. I don’t want Roz rushing straight to Glen to sing Lorraine’s praises. ‘We haven’t even thought about that yet. I just wanted to get myself up to speed.’
‘Right. Well, I was going to let her take the lead on the batch that are just about to come in. I’ll keep an eye on her, obviously.’
I feel as if I’ll never get a true picture of Lorraine’s abilities if I just take Roz’s word for it. She has a hidden agenda, a vested interest in making sure her acolyte comes across well. ‘Actually I was thinking I’d get her to give notes on my latest lot of first drafts.’ My intention is to give her the scripts one morning and ask her to give me her thoughts that afternoon. That way Roz won’t be able to help her out so easily. It’ll be all her own work. And I truly want to be fair. If it looks as if Lorraine has the makings of being a great editor then I don’t want my personal feelings to render me blind to that.
Roz looks a bit put out. ‘Oh. We’re in a bit of a rhythm.’
‘She can still stay shadowing you. I just wanted to let you know I’m going to be asking her to do something extra, that’s all.’
Roz shrugs. ‘Fine by me.’
‘Great. Thanks.’
It must be obvious that the conversation is over but she stays put, legs flopped over the arm of the chair, green boots swinging.
‘Thank fuck it’s nearly the weekend. Do you have any plans?’ Roz and I used to whi
le away hours like this, idly chit-chatting. I don’t really feel like it now if I’m being honest, but I’m not sure how to get rid of her without looking like I’m being offish. More than anything I find it hard to deal with her pretending everything is still fine between us. That we’re still friends. That she’s not trying to trip me up.
‘Painting my kitchen and bedroom,’ I say. ‘That’s the last big thing I need to do before someone can move in.’
‘Fab. So did you decide on what to put in the ad in the end?’
I find the website on my phone and read it out to her. ‘Do you think that hints at “quiet female with no desire to socialize with me” enough?’
She laughs. ‘No. But that’s what the interviews are for. What’s it on? Gumtree?’
‘SpareRoom initially. I’ll widen it out if I don’t find anyone.’
She yawns loudly, lifting her arms above her head. ‘God, I’m bored. Don’t you think Emma looks like Velma from Scooby-Doo today?’
I look across. She’s spot on. Emma has a shapeless brown fringed bob and is wearing an equally shapeless mustard-coloured roll-neck jumper today. She just needs the glasses. I’m not in the mood for encouraging Roz’s snipey comments though, however accurate or funny. So I just ignore it. ‘What are you up to at the weekend?’
‘Not much. Dinner tomorrow night at Scott’s.’ She gives me a big smile. ‘Otherwise I have to pin Hugh down to plan our trip. Ooh, that reminds me I must book some time off. We’re thinking of going to Italy. Portofino maybe, or Taormina in Sicily. Hugh knows a great hotel there with a suite that has its own pool on the roof. Oh, am I supposed to check with you now?’
‘I suppose so. Any time’s fine. Just not in the run-up to the story conference.’
‘Well, that’s, like, two weeks away so I don’t think that’ll be a problem. Even I can’t organize the holiday of a lifetime that quick. I’ll check with him and let you know.’
‘Sure. I should probably …’ I indicate a pile of scripts on my desk. Hope she takes the hint. Thankfully she does. She flicks her legs off the arm of the chair. Stands.
‘Later.’
I’m eating my sandwich lunch at my desk. Emma is hovering in my doorway, looking anxious.
‘Shall I tell him to go away?’
‘No. Just … I don’t understand why it wasn’t in my diary …’
She colours red as she always does when she’s put on the spot. ‘Me neither. I remember putting it in …’
Apparently there’s a man waiting in reception who has an appointment to see me. His name – Mark Walters – rings a bell. I’m pretty sure he’s a would-be writer who sent me a sample script. About a month ago, before I got my promotion even, I gave Emma a list of five or six potentially interesting new people and asked her to set up meetings with them, spread out over the next couple of months. We all do it periodically. The show eats up writers and there’s always kudos to be had if you discover a new talent.
‘I know. It was definitely in there at one point.’
‘Well, I didn’t delete it,’ she says defensively. Emma isn’t usually defensive so she must feel as if I’m accusing her.
‘I didn’t say you did. Neither did I.’ Someone did though. My diary can be accessed either via Emma’s or my computer, and we all know who has the password to mine. I remind myself I need to change it.
‘I’ll ring down and get them to tell him you’re running another fifteen minutes late. And then I’ll dig out his stuff and you can have a quick look.’
Luckily at this point Mark needs me more than I need him, so he’s unlikely to kick up a fuss or stomp out saying he has another appointment elsewhere, and even if he did it would be his loss, not mine. That’s hardly the point though.
‘Thanks.’
She goes off and a few minutes later there’s a ping as an email comes in from her. ‘He’s fine. Here’s his CV and script report.’
I start reading through. We get so many scripts submitted that it’s impossible to remember who wrote what without detailed notes. I take deep slow breaths, trying to calm myself down.
‘Can I speak to you for a minute?’ Lorraine is at my door. She didn’t even knock.
‘Not now. In about an hour.’
‘It won’t take a second.’ She doesn’t move, just hovers there.
‘I said not now. I have to read this through,’ I snap.
‘Fine,’ she says sulkily. ‘I only asked.’
‘Come back after my meeting,’ I say, trying to moderate my irritation. ‘And shut the door please.’
In the end, of course, Mark is none the wiser. I avoid talking specifics about his script and he’s just happy to be there, to have got a foot in the door. He’s knowledgeable about the show and insightful about the characters and he seems as if he would be easy to work with. According to my notes I had a reservation about some of his dialogue being a bit wooden but I decide to add his name to the list of possibles for our yearly mentor scheme anyway. He’ll be able to prove himself or not.
As soon as he’s left I ring through to Emma asking her to pop in. She clearly thinks I’m going to tell her off, because she looks even paler than usual (Emma is one of those people who always looks as if she’s just been found after living under a rock her whole life, as if she’s never even seen the sun).
‘How did it go?’ she says with a quiver in her voice.
‘What? Oh. Yes. Fine. I need you to help me change the password on my computer.’
‘Oh. Of course.’ She comes round to my side of the desk. ‘You just need to do this, look.’ She fiddles about a bit and I don’t really concentrate. ‘What do you want to change it to?’
I need to come up with something Roz won’t guess but not so random that I’ll never remember it myself. I decide on Margaret – Ashley’s middle name, after my mum – and twenty-four, the number of the house I grew up in. Let’s see her work that out.
‘You mustn’t give this to anyone. I mean it – anyone.’
‘As if I would,’ she says. ‘Do you think someone’s been accessing your diary? Is that what this is about?’
‘I don’t know. A few odd things have happened.’ I don’t want to tell her my suspicions. Not that I don’t trust her, but it feels a bit unprofessional to involve her in whatever is going on. And she doesn’t ask, which I’m grateful for. I’m sure if I were in her shoes I’d want to know the gossip.
‘I’ll check through all your emails and make sure there’s nothing else that’s gone astray.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Do you want a coffee first?’
‘Please,’ I say gratefully.
She’s no sooner out of the door than Lorraine is in. I stifle my irritation. Fake a smile.
‘Is now a better time?’
She sits down opposite me before I can say yes or no.
‘Apparently,’ I say. I can’t help myself.
‘I just wanted to say I’m interested in the position. If you’re going to replace your old job.’
‘Right.’ Of course Roz has mentioned it to her. ‘Well, we haven’t decided what to do yet –’
She interrupts. ‘You’ll need another editor though, won’t you?’
‘Probably,’ I say. ‘But we’re talking about restructuring the whole department so who knows at this stage?’ We’re not, but she’s not to know that.
She looks a bit taken aback. ‘Oh. I don’t see how we could manage with only three editors.’
‘Like I said. Nothing’s been decided yet.’ I get a tiny stab of satisfaction from the fact I’ve taken the wind out of her sails. Even if it’s only temporarily. ‘But it’s good that you’ve registered your interest. Thanks.’
I look down at my desk as if I’m getting back to work, effectively saying ‘Chat’s over’. Thankfully she takes the hint.
‘OK. See you later.’
‘Yep,’ I say, not looking up.
I get a text from Ashley at lunchtime: Not left yet, don’t panic and one at hal
f five saying Just got home xxx. When I get back to the flat I find that she has painted my bedroom walls. It’s a bit patchy and her edges leave a lot to be desired, and she’s used the pale yellow that was meant for the kitchen instead of the relaxing sagey green I’d chosen, but the gesture absolutely floors me. I burst into tears standing there in my coat and scarf.
12
Later in the evening I finally get up the courage to click on SpareRoom to see what the responses to my advert are. I log into the site and see that there are two. Actually, there are five but three of them have messaged already to say they’ve found somewhere else. The first of the hopefuls is a man, well, a boy, of twenty-two. He looks perfectly nice but I just can’t imagine sharing my space with a lad whose mum probably still makes his packed lunch. I know it’s unfair, and a massive assumption, but I can’t help thinking I’ll end up cleaning up after him. I decide there’s no point meeting him for now.
The second is much more hopeful. A thirty-four-year-old divorcee called Susanna looking for a new start. She works in a radio station as the receptionist so, who knows, we could even have things in common. I stare at her photo – smiling, pleasant, relaxed against a backdrop of what looks like a pub garden – and try to imagine if we might get on. It’s worth a try. I send her a message asking if she would like to come and view the property one evening next week. That way I have a couple more days to see who else pops up.
I spend a while browsing through the profiles of people who are looking for rooms to rent but it just seems too odd to contact a stranger out of the blue and ask them if they want to come and live with me, so I close the page down.
I’m meeting an old school-gate mum friend, Clare, later at the Vue in Finchley Road, but not until eight because the film – some dystopian future nightmare Oscar contender – doesn’t start till twenty past.
I have a quick shower and put on a happy face. I’m really fond of Clare; I’ve known her for seventeen years and we regularly have a drink or an evening at the cinema or theatre – she’s another single mum, and we bonded on our first day of dropping our little ones off at primary school. Ashley and Clare’s son Charlie have been friends on and off ever since (the off being after they decided to take their relationship to a whole other level when they were fifteen. Clare and I were already choosing hats when it all went wrong because Ashley decided she liked another boy better. They didn’t speak for a year after that) but we don’t confide. It’s not that sort of friendship. It’s light and easy and she’s probably exactly who I need to see this evening.