“Okay, Ms Polyakov. You might want to put your phone away now, and we’ll begin.”
The woman grunted and lifted the phone a little higher. “Just do your job and get on with it.”
Sasha ground her teeth and took a deep breath. “Very well, I need you to spread your legs. Heels up to your bottom, and let your knees fall open.” She picked up a spatula and dipped it in the wax. Brace yourself…I’m going in!
“I saw her limping out the door,” Bobbi said as she wandered back into the treatment room. “You didn’t kick her, did you?”
“Didn’t have to.” Sasha gathered the towels that covered the treatment table and stuffed them into the laundry hamper, nodding to the countertop. “Thought you might get a little sense of justice if you saw that.”
Bobbi approached the work surface, then stared back at Sasha, agape. Sasha shook out a new set of towels and quickly made up the room again.
“I haven’t heard screaming like that since I was in training.”
“I’m not surprised.” Bobbi leant over the specimen.
Sasha sniggered. “I think someone might have told her it had to be half a meter long before it could be waxed.”
“I could use that under my coffee table, I need a new rug.”
“Well, that could be your trophy rug. Instead of a bearskin rug—”
“I could have a racist-skin rug.” Bobbi lifted a spatula out of a jar and prodded at it like it might be alive before shuffling it into the bin.
“Good riddance.”
“Yup.” Bobbi shivered. “Listen, thanks again for that and for wanting to stand up for me.”
“You don’t need to thank me for that. That’s what any decent human being should do.”
Bobbi shrugged and stared at her adoringly. “But they didn’t—you did.” She stepped up to Sasha and wrapped her arms around her. Sasha didn’t hesitate to return the hug Bobbi so obviously needed. She could see the tears shimmering in her eyes.
“She’s not worth it.” She ran her hands up and down Bobbi’s back, trying to soothe her, to offer all the support she could.
“I know,” Bobbi whispered.
Sasha gave her a little longer, then slowly pulled away. “Drinks tonight?”
Taking a deep breath, Bobbi shook her head. “Thanks, but no. I’m trying out a new Zumba class.”
“Zumba, hey?” Sasha asked, eyebrows raised.
“Yup.” Bobbi squared a little, put her arms out like she was grabbing something in front of her chest, and started to gyrate. “Gonna get my Zumba on.” She gyrated and wiggled as she left the room, looking like she was having some sort of fit.
“You want me to call an ambulance for you?”
Bobbi offered her a rather rude hand gesture and gyrated away.
“There might be a cream you could use?” She chuckled and finished setting up the room for the next client.
The 192 was as crowded as it ever was at rush hour. In other words, the bus was packed. Hard-working folk at the end of a long day were standing cheek by jowl in the aisle, shuffling and leaning over those in seats whenever someone wanted to get off—or another body tried to get on. Sasha was lucky enough, if you could call it that, to have got a seat for the duration. What wasn’t so lucky was the bloke hovering over her, obviously trying to look down her cleavage. I’m wearing a bloody uniform. I don’t have cleavage right now!
There were still a good few minutes until her stop, but it was the next one. Time to start her shuffle to the front. She pushed the bell and made to stand. Mr Hover didn’t make it easy for her to get to her feet, clearly hoping for a brush-by as she scooted around him and bumped into the woman in front. Sasha touched her shoulder and motioned to the seat she’d just vacated. The woman smiled gratefully, and Sasha started moving down the aisle.
The ringing phone grabbed Sasha’s attention. She pulled it out of her pocket. Unknown number. Again. She sighed and answered the call.
“Hello,” she said into the phone.
There was a pause before a voice said, “Hello, is this”—the woman on the other end cleared her throat—“I’m sorry, is this Sasha Adams?”
Sasha sighed. “Look, I’m sorry, I don’t have any outstanding PPI’s, I wasn’t in an accident that you can claim injuries for me, and I don’t need any solar panels on my roof, thanks. If I do, I’ll call you. Please, can you take me off your call list.”
There was a short, sharp laugh down the line.
“You’re funny. My name’s Jac Kensington, and I swear I have nothing to do with PPI’s, insurance, or solar panels. I tried to call you yesterday actually, but it went to voicemail, and I didn’t want to do this with a message.”
“Wait? Did you say Jac Kensington?”
“Yes.”
“Like the producer—” Sasha looked around at the faces now turned towards her. She lowered her voice and whispered, “Like the producer and director, Jac Kensington?”
“Yes,” Jac said, copying her lowered tone. “Why are we whispering?”
Sasha’s knees weakened. She grasped one of the overhead straps to steady herself and looked at the phone in her hand.
“Hello? Hello? Are you still there?”
Sasha shook her head and put the phone back to her ear. “Yes, sorry, just…caught me by surprise. And I’m whispering because I’m on the bus.”
“Oh, right. Sorry about that, but hopefully this is a good-news call. Would you rather I call back later?”
Only one reason Jac Kensington could be calling her number. “No, no, it’s fine. Is this about the screenplay?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Okay.” Sasha steeled herself and turned her back on a woman staring up at her, mouth hanging open to show several missing teeth. If I can’t see them, they can’t hear me. That’s a fact, right?
“I, well, I think… I’d like to meet with you at your earliest convenience to discuss the production of Nightingale.”
“Production?”
“Yes. You’ve won the competition, and my company, Kefran Media Limited, would like to discuss the rights to the screenplay with a view to making it into a film.”
“A film?”
Jac laughed. “Yes, that was the competition. I realise this must be a bit of a surprise. That’s why I was hoping to meet with you; then we don’t have to go through everything over the phone. You live in Manchester, is that right?”
“Yes.” The bus pulled to a stop and Sasha fought her way to the front and stepped off. Two other people bustled passed her, hurrying to wherever. Sasha couldn’t have cared less right then. She pointed herself towards home and let her feet take her while she continued to listen.
“What are the chances of getting you to come and meet with me?”
Sasha’s mind was racing. Spinning around in excited circles, like a puppy chasing its tail… Wait, that wasn’t a great analogy. “When? I have work, so I’d need to arrange things.”
“Of course. I can make myself available pretty much any day. One of the perks of being the boss. So why don’t you let me know when is good for you, and I’ll take care of the rest. How’s that?”
Sasha nodded, then remembered that Jac couldn’t see her. “That sounds great. My next day off is Wednesday. Would that be okay?” She heard rustling, like paper being shifted around.
“Looks fine to me. I’ll check the diary, and I can email you the details. I have an email address of…” There was a cough. “Bangablebabe75 at Hottermail dot com. Is that right?”
Bangable? Bobbi, what were you thinking? “Good God, no.” Her voice was too loud and caused a couple of the lads hanging around on the corner to turn towards her. The tough-looking one, Dante, tipped his head towards her as he hitched up his tracksuit bottoms so the crotch hung at mid-thigh instead of by his knees. The peak of his baseball cap sat over his left ear, an
d a thick rope of what was probably gold plate hung around his neck. She nodded back. No need to be rude to one of Mum’s friends. She was pretty sure it was Dante who made sure she never got hassled by any of the other lads on the corners.
“That’s the address the submission was sent from.”
“My friend submitted the screenplay as a surprise, would you believe?”
“Oh.”
“Exactly.”
“Well, that’s…unexpected.”
“I’m sorry, is it a problem?”
“Well, I guess not, if you’re on board with the terms and conditions of the competition.”
“Well, you see, I’ve literally only just found out. Yesterday afternoon, actually, while Bobbi and I were shopping in IKEA, of all places, and I’ve been at work all day today, so I haven’t even had a chance to look at those.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No need to be. By the sound of it, it’s not your fault.”
“No, but I don’t like to mess people around either.” She rubbed at her eyes with her free hand, trying to dispel her frustration. “Look, I understand if you want to go with a different option, but if you can email me over the rules, or whatever it is you need me to look at, I can do it this evening and get straight back to you. I promise I won’t keep you waiting.”
The line was quiet for a moment before Jac said, “Tell me one thing.”
“Sure.”
“Do you want to see your screenplay made into a film?”
Sasha paused for a moment. Did she? She wasn’t as naive as Bobbi was. She didn’t for a moment believe that this didn’t have the potential to change her life in ways she couldn’t even comprehend yet. The film might be a flop. A complete and utter failure. Or it could be a hit, and she’d manage to sell other scripts. Right now, she could live in her head as the biggest undiscovered talent the UK had never seen—sod it, the world. But the moment Bobbi had sent that script in…
Someone had seen her work now. Someone had read her work. Yeah, they’d liked it. So much so that they wanted to give it a shot. But that didn’t mean everyone would. Even good movies got withering reviews all the time. She was putting herself out there where the potential for ridicule, criticism, and failure were very real possibilities. And it was her name on that script.
But was this fear she felt reason enough not to try?
Maybe Bobbi was right. Maybe she did need to take more chances.
Sasha took a deep breath and made the decision she hoped she wouldn’t regret. “Of course.”
“Great. Then I’ll email you everything you need.”
“But—”
“Sasha. May I call you Sasha?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, Sasha, your screenplay is great. One of the best I’ve seen on my desk ever. I’m excited about this project, and I think it’ll make one hell of a film. Your characters are fully rounded, they have pathos and pain, offset by a little humour. The situation is real, one we’ve seen played out in the news over and over again, and I can feel the humanity behind it. We can work out the details if I know we both want to make this into a great film. So, do we?”
Sasha’s ego practically purred under Jac’s effusive compliments. Yes, her mum and Bobbi had liked her scripts, but this was Jac fricking Kensington telling her it was good. No, not good, great. She’d specifically used that word.
Well? What the hell can I say to that? “Yes. Yes I do.”
Chapter 5
The day was getting away from her, but there was still an endless pile of paper on Jac’s desk. She groaned and caught sight of the Post-it note on the corner of her computer screen.
“Fuck.” As promised, she sent all the information to the email address Sasha had given her last night. Then she clicked a few more buttons, tapped a few keys, and waited for the searches to come back. Sasha Adams, with her unexpected disclosure and her sultry voice had kept Jac up thinking way too late last night. God, that voice. Jac had found it hard to focus on the words Sasha had been saying as the hairs on the back of her neck had stood on end. Her insides had melted like chocolate.
She shivered and twitched in her seat. Focus, woman. You’ve got work to do.
But it wasn’t work that was waiting for her on her computer. It was her search results. And there wasn’t a lot there. There was, however, Sasha’s Facebook page.
“I shouldn’t do this,” Jac whispered to herself. “This is so not right.” Her hand hovered over the mouse. “I mean, I’d hate it if someone was checking up on me.” She grasped the mouse and moved it so the cursor hovered over the cross in the corner, ready to close the window and the results. “But it’s Facebook. That’s like putting something on a banner and waving it along the M1. It’s a public space. Everyone knows that. If you don’t want people to find it, you don’t put it on there. Or you only make it available to people you want to see it. If this stuff is accessible to anyone, she’s not hiding it.”
But then Jac slapped her hand to her forehead.
“I shouldn’t be doing this.” She tipped her head side to side, going over the debate like she was watching a tennis match. “Do we always check out new employees?” Jac asked herself. “Why, yes, Jac. Yes, we do.” She smiled and moved the cursor again. “But we usually do that by getting references and interviewing the person, not Facebook stalking.” After a long silence, she scoffed at herself aloud. “This is hardly stalking. I merely typed in her name to an Internet search engine. Looking for…information. Newspaper reports of criminal activity, that sort of thing.”
Jac dropped her forehead to her desk and banged it. Several times.
“Sod it. I’m not stalking, merely making myself as informed as possible. I mean, it’d be nice to know who I’m looking for when I go to meet her, right? That’s not creepy in the slightest. She could be doing the same thing with me, after all. And there are tons of pictures of me out there for her to find. I mean someone conscientious going for an interview would research the company and, if possible, the person they’re interviewing with, right?”
Jac nodded. “Yeah. And Sasha is probably the conscientious type. I mean, the amount of research that’s evident in her script shows that. So this is just levelling the playing field.”
Finally satisfied with her logic, Jac clicked and scooted through the pictures that popped up, trying to find one tagged as Sasha. There were lots of pictures of a rather grumpy-looking cat with big green eyes and an attitude, given the captions underneath them. Even more of an elderly lady in funky tie-dye skirts and Bohemian-style tops. In some photos, she was in a wheelchair, others on crutches, and others with a walking stick. Then, finally, triumphantly holding a prosthetic leg aloft and balancing on one leg.
Jac carried on scanning through the pictures, but there was nothing tagged as Sasha, and she closed the page with a disappointed grunt. She scowled at the screen before dropping her head onto the desk.
“What are you doing?” she berated herself. “So the woman had a nice voice. Big deal. You’ll meet her in two days. Why—”
“Why are you talking to yourself?”
Jac straightened in her chair and stared up at Mags’s head peering at her around the edge of her door. A frown marred the seemingly disembodied head, and she squinted at Jac through the thick glasses perched on her nose.
“’Cos I don’t answer myself back.”
“Sure sign of craziness right there.”
“Yeah, yeah. What do you want?” Jac sighed wearily. “My crazy arse is knackered, so if you’re planning to dump any more shit from the paper fairy on my desk you can just go and shovel it somewhere else.”
“No, Julie ordered me to invite you for dinner tonight. For some reason, she likes you and wants to make sure you don’t die of scurvy.”
“Scurvy?”
“I may have ment
ioned your dinner plans of crisps, pork scratchings, and vodka from the other night.”
“Thanks, pal.”
Mags smiled, pushed open the door, and walked into the room. She leaned on the back of the chair across Jac’s desk. “So, dinner?”
“Why the hell not?”
“A ringing endorsement. I’ll lie and tell Julie you were much more enthusiastic, so play along later.”
Jac offered a mock salute and turned back to her computer screen.
“What were you talking to yourself about before?”
“Nothing,” Jac said with a shake of her head.
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll get Julie to ask later.”
“That’s just cruel.”
Mags grinned unrepentantly. “I know. The woman is merciless in the hunt for information.”
“It’s called gossip, Mags. Gossip. Need me to spell it for you?”
“Nope, I’m good with that, thanks. So…?” She spread her hands out and beckoned with her fingers.
“Nothing, I was just looking for a little background info on the writer I’m meeting with on Wednesday.”
“The competition winner?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And nothing. I can’t really find anything.”
Mags came around the back of her desk and hovered behind her chair. “Where’ve you looked?”
“Just Google. That brought up a Facebook page.”
She gave a scan of the results. As their resident tech whizz, Mags was always their go-to girl when it came to things like this. “Okay, I’ll do a search for you and send you the results in an hour or so. Anything specific you want me to look for?”
Jac shook her head.
“Why’re we looking?”
“Just because I’m meeting her on Wednesday.”
“Hm. Not buying. You usually have me do searches and references and such after your initial meeting.”
Jac coughed and pretended to study her desk as Mags crossed the room again and turned to grin at her when she reached the door.
Lost for Words Page 5