by Jane Fallon
Roz and I used to speculate for hours about Glen’s wife, having never seen her. I thought she was probably cool and arty with a severe black bob. Roz has always had her down as wet and adoring.
‘It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘How’s the lodger hunt going?’ She swings her legs over the arm.
At least she wants to keep the conversation on fairly neutral ground. ‘I found someone.’
‘Already? That’s crazy. Tell me everything.’
So I tell her about Hattie, realizing as I do how much I seem to have lucked out with my quiet, unassuming tenant.
‘Result,’ she says. ‘Maybe she’ll do your cleaning while you’re out.’
‘She’s very tidy.’ It’s true that the bathroom is still spotless and, apart from a couple of times finding it occupied when I want to use it, I wouldn’t even know I was now sharing it if it weren’t for the small collection of unfamiliar toiletries and the hot pink wash-bag on the side of the bath. Last night, knowing we were both going to be getting ready for work this morning we had a quick conversation about timings. Hattie doesn’t need to leave till a full hour after me – I like to be at work for nine, when the filming day starts, in case of any script issues – so she doesn’t need to even start getting ready until after I’ve left. Knowing I wasn’t going to have to stress about getting up extra early to claim my spot had made me feel much better about the whole thing.
‘Cool.’ She sits there, legs swinging. ‘Oh, I forgot to ask you – how did Lorraine get on with the script notes?’
I had finally given Lorraine the scripts to read a few days after my conversation with Roz. I’d waited until it was Roz’s turn to cover the studio, when I figured I could keep an eye on Lorraine to check she didn’t get help and, to be fair, she’d stayed at her desk all day and read them through. When she came back to share her thoughts with me – barely able to look me in the eye because I had obviously been declared the enemy – her notes had been surprisingly comprehensive. And she’d suggested some quite radical, but effective, changes. But I struggle to imagine her dealing with the writers, her manner is so blunt. It’s not something I particularly want to discuss with Roz, though.
‘Oh. Yeah. Pretty good, I suppose.’
‘So, are you going to give her the job?’
‘I haven’t talked to Glen about it yet.’
Roz huffs. ‘Surely it’s your decision now. You’re the head of department.’
‘Not officially, yet. It’s a grey area.’ I’m not sure if this is true. I’m pretty certain that if I went to Glen and said ‘I want to hire Lorraine as the new editor’ he’d say ‘Fine’, but it’s as good a way as any to shut Roz up.
‘When’s your probation up anyway?’ she asks casually.
‘Not for ages. What’s it been? Four weeks?’
She gazes out of the window into the main office. Joe and Emma sit at their desks, heads down. I assume Juliet and Lorraine have both gone out to get lunch. Separately, obviously.
Roz yawns expansively. It’s so obviously one of those attention-seeking gestures that demands you ask what’s causing it that I stay quiet. I’m in no mood to hear about her latest glamorous escapades.
‘I’m knackered,’ she says after a moment, clearly frustrated by my lack of interest. ‘We went to the Fat Duck last night. Heston invited Hugh personally.’
She waits for a reaction and I feel obliged to give one. ‘Wow. How was it?’
She stretches her arms high above her head. ‘Incredible. You know you have to wait weeks for a table usually.’
‘Right. So, does Hugh represent him then?’
‘He handles the PR for the restaurant.’
‘Nice,’ I say. ‘I should get back to the studio.’
It’s my week to monitor filming, while they shoot a batch of episodes that I have nurtured since the first draft. What that essentially means is that I have to sit in a small room off to one side of the studio with a monitor and a two-way communication system to the gallery from where the director watches a bank of screens that show the feed from the different cameras. Most of the time you can get on with your work, but every now and then a line is missed or changed in some subtle way that will have a knock-on effect later or even delivered in a way that misses the meaning altogether, and then you’re expected to contact the gallery over the intercom. The thing about soaps is that they’re cheap. There’s no money for editing time beyond a day to cut in any exterior footage and to sling the whole thing together. So what you see in the studio is pretty much what ends up going on TV. It’s important to get it right.
I stand up to make my point. It’s making me nervous leaving my office all day after everything that’s been going on, but Emma is standing guard on my instructions (she’s taking it very seriously. When I came up this lunchtime she practically knocked me over, running for the door muttering ‘Thank God, I’ve been bursting for the loo’) and I’ve locked any important documents in my desk drawers.
Paranoid? Who said that?
I’m flicking through some notes between scenes when there’s a tap on the door. I always leave it open because there are no windows, just a sofa, a low table, the monitor and the intercom. It can feel a bit like sitting in a vault. I look up, and standing in the doorway is Robbie, one of our teenage cast members, eyebrows raised as if to ask if it’s OK to disturb me.
‘Hi! Come on in.’
He slouches in and I shuffle some papers off the other end of the sofa to make room for him.
Most of the more experienced actors will come and seek one of us out if they have a problem with a line, or there’s something they don’t understand. The younger ones tend to wing it and change the words to whatever they think they should be on the day, only to get into a strop when they’re told to change them back. Robbie is one of the worst, so I’m heartened that he’s decided to come and discuss whatever issue he has first this time.
‘Is everything OK? Have a seat.’
He stays where he is. ‘I’ll only be a second,’ he mutters, face crimson. I’m reminded of how young he is to be dealing with this weird overnight flash of fame. He wasn’t even an actor before. He worked in a garage on the weekends and one of the casting directors asked him to try out after he cleaned her car and she thought he’d be perfect for the teenage tearaway role we were currently casting. He’s not a natural. He’s basically playing himself. He’s been in the show for six months. I can’t imagine what he’ll do after this is all over.
He doesn’t say anything, just turns redder. I try to draw on my experience of dealing with an adolescent Ashley. Basically ask the most obvious question you can think of. ‘Did you need to ask me about something?’
It all comes out in a rush. ‘Someone said you have your story thing next week and I just want to know if you’re going to write me out because I’ll have to start looking for another job.’
It’s obviously completely forbidden to discuss our future plans with the cast until anything is set in stone. Imagine the panic it would cause. Still, as far as I know we’re all on the same page that Robbie’s character, Jono, is a success. The audience have warmed to him. I can’t 100 per cent put him out of his misery, though, just in case.
‘You’ve still got six months on your contract, haven’t you?’
‘Does that mean you can’t get rid of me?’
I can’t help it. I laugh. And then I feel bad. He’s considerably younger than my daughter and he’s having to handle being thrust into the spotlight with no safety net.
‘Sorry. No. I mean, it has happened occasionally but … you know I’m not allowed to talk about any of this stuff, and we don’t make any firm decisions about anything until after the conference anyway, but – between you and me – I can say that it’s never even been discussed …’
‘So, no?’
‘I can’t say. Not because I’m being a jobsworth but because, like I said, nothing is actually decided yet. I will say this – I can’t imagine it h
appening. Jono’s really popular at the moment.’
His whole face lights up. ‘Is he? OK. Cool. I know I can’t hold you to it, but thanks.’
I remember someone mentioning to me that he was supporting his single mum and three younger sisters. ‘Try and enjoy it while it’s happening.’
‘I am. I will.’
As soon as he’s gone I open my laptop. Check the document that contains all the stories up for discussion. There are a couple that centre around Jono but they’re not very inspiring. I decide to try and add one or two of my own.
Dee and I are sitting in my kitchen sharing a bottle of wine. She’s telling me her theory that her next-door neighbour is a people trafficker, which seems to be based solely on the fact that he has to go to Eastern Europe for work occasionally.
‘Didn’t you tell me he had a business importing stationery?’
She looks at me over the top of her glass. ‘Well, they all have to have a cover story. And there’s a young woman living in his house now. But she only ever goes out with him. Never on her own. I reckon he keeps her locked in.’
‘Right.’ I suppress a laugh, try to retain a serious face. One of my favourite things to do is to allow Dee to dig herself in deeper and deeper when she tries to defend her crazy theories. ‘And what about the rest of them?’
She shrugs. ‘He’s probably sold them on. Or he has them holed up somewhere working for him for free.’
‘Boxing up stationery?’
‘The stationery is a smokescreen,’ she says indignantly. ‘Obviously.’
‘You really should report him to the police if you’re so sure.’
She huffs. ‘I’m not sure, am I? Not yet. Stop taking the piss. How’s Whatsherface?’
I’m assuming Hattie is out. There has been no noise from her room – although there never is, to be fair, apart from the occasional ping of the microwave or the low rumble of voices when she watches something on her computer. But I’ve been caught out several times already, thinking I’m alone in the flat when it turns out I’m not. Although now she’s seen me dancing round the kitchen, holding Smokey high in the air and singing ‘Circle of Life’ to him, it probably couldn’t get much worse.
‘Sssh. She might be in there,’ I say in a hoarse whisper.
‘No way,’ Dee says. ‘I’ve been here for an hour. She’d have coughed or something.’
‘She’s very quiet. It’s like living with a ghost.’
Dee lifts her fringe off her forehead, flattens it down again. ‘That’s good. That’s exactly what you wanted.’
I pour more wine into both our glasses. ‘I know. I like her actually. And not just because I hardly ever see her, although that definitely helps.’
Right at that moment there’s a loud noise as someone puts the key in the lock and both Dee and I jump then dissolve into giggles. Hattie goes straight to her room but a couple of minutes later she appears in the doorway, minus her coat but brandishing her kettle.
‘Hi. Do you mind if I just …’ She indicates the tap. Then she recognizes Dee. ‘Oh, hello. How are you?’
‘Of course,’ I say. I feel bad that it must be a bit intimidating to have to face the pair of us, laughing like a couple of hyenas, when all she wants is some water.
‘How are you settling in?’ Dee says.
Hattie gives her a big smile. ‘Great. I really like it.’
‘Do you want a glass of wine?’ I say, feeling suddenly as if I should make more of an effort. ‘Come and join us.’
‘Oh. Well, I’d love to, but I don’t want to intrude …’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Dee says.
Hattie puts the kettle down decisively. ‘OK, I will.’
‘The glasses are in there,’ I say, waving at one of the top cupboards. She helps herself and then comes to sit down. It’s the first time I’ve really had the chance to get a good look at her since she moved in. She has delicate features that remind me of a bird and big dark brown eyes that make her look like a Manga cartoon. Apart from the eyes everything about her is tiny. She makes me feel like a giant.
She pours herself a small glass of red, sits down at the table.
‘Been anywhere nice?’ I ask. It feels a bit awkward now.
‘Just a quick after-work drink. It was one of my colleagues’ birthdays.’
‘Ah, the dreaded work celebration,’ Dee says. ‘At least you managed to escape fairly early.’
Hattie laughs. ‘I’m a lightweight. I’m always the first to leave.’
They bond a bit about working in healthcare, although their work environments couldn’t sound more different – Hattie’s rarefied private practice and Dee’s overstretched, underfunded hospital. I’m just happy that they’re getting on. Relieved, like I used to be when Ashley had a successful playdate with a classmate. One less thing to worry about.
Hattie asks about my work and I find myself telling her way too much detail about everything that’s been going on. It’s the wine talking, but it feels good to get it off my chest to a virtual stranger, if only to get a sense of how implausible it all sounds said out loud. To give her credit she doesn’t look bemused, or tell me it’s probably all a figment of my overactive imagination. She opens her big eyes wide and says, ‘God, how awful. That must be a nightmare for you. Can you talk to your boss about it?’
I shake my head, feeling tears prick my eyes – again, courtesy of the wine. ‘Not without any definite proof of anything. He’ll just think I’m not capable of running a department. Which maybe I’m not.’
Dee looks at me sharply. ‘Don’t be stupid. No one deserves that job more than you.’
That only makes me cry for real. And then thinking about how much I’m embarrassing myself by blubbing in front of my new tenant makes it impossible to stop. ‘Shit. Sorry.’
Dee hands me a tissue and I blow my nose noisily. ‘Honestly,’ Dee is saying to Hattie. ‘I could kill that fucking bitch.’
‘You know who it is, then?’ Hattie says.
‘I think so,’ I say. ‘Yes. Someone in my department.’
Hattie screws up her face sympathetically. ‘You just need to get through your probation period, and then they’ll stop. Because, what’ll be the point …?’
‘Exactly,’ Dee says, answering for me. ‘My guess is once you’re confirmed in the job she’ll hand in her notice. And good riddance.’
I wipe my eyes, give my nose another sharp blow. I need to pull myself together. ‘You’re right. I just have to get through these next two months unscathed.’
15
Everyone is staring at me.
This is my worst nightmare. And I don’t just mean I’m uncomfortable with the focus all coming my way. Although there is that too. But this is an actual nightmare that I have regularly: I’m fucking up and everyone is watching. Except that this time I’m awake and it’s really happening.
I am fucking up and everyone is watching.
I have no idea what went wrong. I had everything planned right down to the last second. It was my first real chance to make a big impression in my new position. My first opportunity to prove to Glen that he was right to promote me. To prove to myself that I’m up to the task.
Except that it seems I’m not.
All my old insecurities come flooding back. I’m not good enough, skilled enough, confident enough. But this time I know this isn’t down to me. I know I did everything right.
And I also know exactly who must have undone it all.
I look around at the sea of expectant faces. I have literally no idea what to say.
The morning started out well. The hotel had laid out coffee and Danish pastries on the long conference table, as I’d requested. I’d got there an hour early. Needlessly. I just wanted to make sure everything was as it should be. I’d already spoken to Emma who told me she’d been at the office since seven thirty in case of any unforeseen problems with the printer, but that all was going to plan and she had a taxi waiting to bring her and all the documents to me
et me. She would be on her way any minute.
I’d emailed the final version to her last night, having waited until the last minute in case I thought of any more changes I wanted to make. In the end I hadn’t looked at it at all, all weekend, beyond checking the page counts as I lined them up to send. I was satisfied that I’d done as good a job as I could. I even put a note on the email to Emma – ‘No need to check again, I haven’t changed anything.’ That may have been my undoing.
The first two writers – Sue and Pete – arrived together just before ten to ten, having found themselves on the same train. Two minutes later Emma burst in and started to distribute the documents round the table before she even took her coat off.
‘Oh. Congratulations, by the way,’ Sue said, giving me a hug. ‘I knew you’d get the job.’
‘Thanks. I’m thrilled.’
Pete chimed in with his good wishes too, and I felt the warm glow that comes from being valued. I’d always got on well with the writers and I was happy they seemed to have confidence in me.
The rest of the writing team – eight more – arrived in quick succession along with Glen, Roz, Juliet, Joe and Lorraine and, after the usual hellos and brief catch-ups, we all took our seats. Emma left to go back to the office with instructions to call Lorraine if there was an urgent message for any of us, particularly Juliet, whose episodes were currently shooting. I reminded everyone else to turn their phones off until lunchtime.
Glen leaned back in his chair. ‘You all know Holly is the new Marcus, so she’s going to steer the ship today.’
I was greeted with a few ‘Yays’ and one round of applause. I cleared my throat. Reminded myself that I could do this standing on my head.
‘OK, let’s go,’ I said. ‘I’m just going to run through the “State of Play” document so we all know where we are.’
I opened it to the first page. ‘Right. The Challenors,’ I said, naming our central family, around whose four generations everything else revolves. I didn’t need to consult the notes; I knew everything that was happening or about to happen to all our characters. ‘So, Mary and Ronnie are about to celebrate their thirtieth wedding anniversary and that’s where she’s going to find out he has a twenty-six-year-old daughter, Catriona, who has tracked him down …’