“Believe me, this is easier. They produce all these big shows there, so they’re pretty strict on security there nowadays. If they saw you hanging around waiting for me, well, they might not have let you in.”
“You two get in here. I’ve made coffee,” Fleur shouted from the front door.
“That’s my mother.” Sasha put a hand on Jac’s arm. “Whatever you do, if you want to be safe to drive away from here today, don’t eat the cakes.”
“What?” Jac asked in confusion. “Is she a bad cook?”
“Come on, it’s getting cold,” Fleur shouted again.
“Just trust me. I’ll explain later. I think there’s some beetroot or parsnip crisps about, if you want to nibble on something.”
The idea of nibbling on something scattered Jac’s thoughts in a decidedly different direction from cakes, especially when Sasha brushed her hair over her shoulders. Jac stared at the long neck and nibbleable earlobes that were now visible, and tripped on the step into the house.
Sasha caught her elbow to help steady her. “You okay?”
Jac nodded and murmured, “Sorry.”
“If you’re that dizzy now, you really must stay away from the cakes.”
Jac shrugged at the earnest expression in Sasha’s dark brown eyes. “You’re the boss.”
Sasha snorted. “Yeah, I wish.”
“Is the coffee safe? I could do with a cup of that.”
“Hopefully.” Sasha led her into the house.
Jac sat on the sofa where Sasha pointed, her nostrils twitching at the scent in the air. Surely that wasn’t the scent she thought it was. She glanced at Sasha. Was it?
“Is that…?”
Sasha blushed but didn’t say anything. Well, well, well. Fleur bustled into the room, pushing a small hostess trolley with mugs, coffee, and fixings, and a huge plate of what looked like chocolate brownies on it. She transferred everything to the coffee table in the middle of the room and dropped heavily into a comfortable-looking armchair. The blanket that had been draped over the back of the chair dropped on top of Fleur’s head. She shoved it back impatiently as Sasha sat forwards and poured the steaming brew into the crockery. She passed one to Jac and another to her mother before she sat back with her own.
“Have a cake, Jac,” Fleur offered.
“She’s driving, Mum.”
“Pish.” She reached forwards and held a purple-coloured crystal hanging on a long chain over the plate of brownies, a low droning hum passing her lips. A cat jumped up onto the coffee table and started to swipe at the dangling crystal. Sat on its back legs, front paws spread wide as it tried to catch…either Fleur’s hand or the chain—Jac wasn’t sure which— its huge green eyes looked crazed. She wasn’t 100 percent sure, but one pupil may have been a little bigger than the other. The cat’s dancing almost knocked over a bowl of shrivelled, twisted, purply-pink-and-beige…somethings. The beetroot and parsnip crisps?
“Oh God,” Sasha murmured and squeezed her eyes shut.
“Nip, get out of it.” Fleur pushed the black cat off the table and began her process again.
Jac watched in rapt fascination as Fleur let the stone swing over the plate with her eyes closed, her lips moving quickly in some sort of prayer or affirmation. Then she smiled and grabbed one of the squares that was half-hidden under the pile. Jac looked at Sasha for some sort of clue as to what it was all about, but she had her eyes squeezed shut, a knuckle between her teeth. Jac made a mental note to ask her about it later. It would surely make for an interesting conversation.
Sasha sighed and mumbled, “Back in a minute.”
“So, Jac,” Fleur began around a mouthful of brownie. “Help yourself to something to eat.” She waved her hand at the table.
Jac eyed the brownies. They looked good, but Sasha’s warning rang in her ears. She eyed the shrivelled bowl of dubious-looking crisps. Well, she liked beetroot. She liked parsnips. How bad could crisps made of root vegetables be? Why do all these newfangled creations have to look like wood shavings and sawdust? She decided not to think about it and picked one of the twisted beige slivers and lifted it to her mouth, bit down, and wondered at the odd taste.
It didn’t taste anything like parsnip. There was a woody texture to it, certainly, but it almost smelled in her mouth rather than tasted. It smelled of lavender, not even remotely like a parsnip. Was this one of those Heston Blumenthal wild-and-wacky ideas? Like eating an egg that tasted like chocolate…mess-with-your-mind kind of food? And, oh my God, was it dry! Jac took a long drink of the scalding coffee in the hopes of ridding her mouth of both the lavender taste-slash-smell and all the bits that felt like wood chips on her tongue.
She plastered on a smile that was probably as shrivelled as the crisp she’d just eaten. “This is great, thanks.” She sipped some more coffee. “Really great.”
Fleur stared at her. Her hand frozen halfway to her mouth, brownie crumbling between her fingers. Sasha entered the room with a bowl in her hands.
“I thought I’d get you some of those crisps I mentioned, Jac.” She looked between Jac and her mother. “What?”
Fleur waved her cake-wielding hand in Jac’s direction. “Needn’t have bothered, love. Your friend seems quite happy with my potpourri.” She doubled over, laughing uncontrollably as she pointed and crumbled her treat on the floor. Sasha stared in horror at what Jac now realised was a bowl of scented wood shavings, then stared at the bowl of crisps in her hand. Then set about scooping up crumbs as the cat swooped in, trying to steal as much as she could.
It was almost eleven by the time they bid Fleur farewell and buckled up their seat belts.
“Are you ready for this?” Jac asked while Sasha waved at her mum.
“If you are.”
Jac sniggered. “I was born ready.” She pulled out of the driveway and edged onto the road. “Which way?”
Sasha smiled. “Second star on the right—”
“And straight on till morning.”
“I hope for your sake we’re there before then.”
“Me too.”
“I’m so sorry about my mother.”
“It’s fine.”
“And the potpourri.”
“Not quite so fine, but it’s okay.”
“Easy mistake, I suppose.”
“Really?” Jac asked, still terribly embarrassed by the whole incident.
Sasha snorted and bit the inside of her lip for a good ten seconds before she managed to say quietly, “No, not really, but it seemed like the right thing to say.”
“Thanks. Appreciate it,” Jac deadpanned as she navigated the narrow streets until she got to the junction for the A6. “So, on that note, tell me about the baking and the crystals?”
When they arrived at the studio, it took almost ten minutes, the production of Sasha’s passport, and several annoyed glances from Jac at the security guard before Sasha held a credit-card–sized square of plastic with her face emblazoned on it.
Peering over Sasha’s shoulder, Jac read, “Sasha Adams. Writer, Kefran Media.” She grinned. “How does that feel?”
“Surreal.” Sasha’s voice was lower and huskier than normal.
Jac grinned and took her elbow, gently leading her towards the lift. “Come on, let me show you around.” She cleared her throat and affected a slightly high and nasal accent. “Welcome to the MediaCityUK tour, ladies and gentlemen, my name’s Jac, and I do hope you’ll enjoy yourselves today.”
Sasha giggled and followed her into the lift.
“Where would you like to see first?” Jac whispered.
“Whatever you’d like to show me.”
Jac resisted the immediate impulse to raise her eyebrows at Sasha, and closed her eyes instead. Get a grip, Kensington. “Okay.” She opened her eyes and pushed the button to close the doors behind them. “Very well.” She cleared her th
roat and began her tour spiel. “MediaCityUK is the most technically advanced HD production site in Europe. It truly is an amazing facility, and one we take advantage of whenever we can.”
“How?”
“Well, Dock 10 is a company that operates and manages the facility. They can rent out whatever is needed for each production. So sometimes it’s just the studio space. Other times they do post-production and content too. Depends on the project, who they’re working with, and what each client is willing to pay for.”
“And we’re making my film here?”
Jac grinned. “We most definitely are.”
The lift doors opened, and Jac led her through another set of doors. Sasha’s jaw sagged.
“Dock 10 has seven HD studios, two audio studios—including one for the BBC Philharmonic—and all the facilities required to manage end-to-end digital workflows.”
“Meaning?”
“Oh, right. CGI special effects and the like.”
“Ah, I see.” She looked around at the darkened studio, lit only in the middle of the space where there was a set. “Are those the chairs the judges use in The Voice?”
“Yup. They aren’t filming on this stage at the moment, but it’s set up for later this afternoon. One of the judges doesn’t like to do early mornings.”
“Oh my God. Seriously? I love that show. Will.I.Am is so…unique.”
Jac grinned. “Seriously. Wanna go and sit in one?”
She hadn’t even finished asking the question before Sasha hurried across the dark space and tossed herself into the end chair. “Oh, these are really comfy.” She slouched back, and Jac caught the mischievous look in her eye under the set lights. She tossed her hair over her shoulders and hiked her feet onto the podium in front of her. She leant one elbow on the armrest and twirled the other hand in the air. “Sing for me, Jac. Let me see if you get the button push or get left hanging,” Sasha said, affecting the attitude of one of the famous judges of the show.
Jac laughed. “I can’t sing. Trust me.”
“Aw, go on. Just a little bit.” Jac shook her head and Sasha pouted. “You’re no fun.”
“Hey, I might make you a model if we get to the Blue Peter set in time.”
Sasha relented and climbed off the throne-like chair. “Fair enough.”
Jac glanced at her watch and caught Sasha’s eye. “Come on, we’d best get a move on.”
With one final glance around, Sasha stood and followed Jac out of the studio and down a series of twisting corridors. “How the hell did you manage to get space here for my little project?”
“Well, aside from renting the space we’re going to use, I still have a lot of contacts from the days when I worked at the Beeb. I’ve helped them out more times over the years than they can count, so they let me know when last-minute slots are available; those tend to be a little cheaper, which makes budgeting easier. And that is always the biggest issue we have with small projects. That and the talent.”
“When we just came into the office to talk about the script that time, I didn’t realise we’d be filming here too. I honestly thought we’d be putting together bits of studding in an old warehouse or something. I wasn’t expecting something so…”
“Slick?”
“Maybe.” Sasha laughed, sounding a little embarrassed. “Not that you ever came across as anything less than professional. It’s just I didn’t expect—well, I didn’t think I’d ever…”
“You didn’t think your script, your work, would be good enough for something like this. Right?”
Sasha nodded.
“Well, believe me, it is. And so much more.” Jac grinned and held out her hand. “Let me show you the rest, then we can go and take a look in the warehouse space where they’re putting together the drafts of our sets.”
The rest took three hours to look over. MediaCity was a sprawling complex of glass walls, office spaces, vast studios, famous sets, and more than a few famous faces. And Jac was enthralled by Sasha’s reaction to each and every one. She could have spent the rest of the day showing her new things in the otherworldly place that was MediaCity, but there was still the jewel of their own sets to see. And Jac couldn’t wait to see Sasha’s reaction to her own imagination brought to life from the words she had printed on a page.
Jac was pretty happy. It had been a long day but a satisfactory one.
“Do you need to get home, or would you like to get something to eat?” she asked as they finally left the warehouse.
Sasha looked at her watch. “It’s only seven, we could—”
A tune blared from Sasha’s bag. It sounded like panpipes and… “Is that ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’?”
“Seemed appropriate.” Sasha held up her phone in front of her, inspecting it. “It’s my mum. Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
“Hey, Mum.”
She leant against the wall a little way off and tried not to listen in too much. But it was hard. It wasn’t like there was a lot going on to distract her from Sasha’s dulcet tones.
“No, we’re still in Salford. It’s been incredible. There’s so much to see, and we just—”
Staring down at her fingernails, she noted she’d torn one at some point in the day.
“Jac and I were just discussing going to get something to eat, and then I was going to head home. Why?”
Jac tore off the rest of the nail with her teeth and grinned when she heard that Sasha was happy to join her for dinner. Now, where to take her? Somewhere close by. Don’t want to have to go too far, and I still need to take her home afterwards. Maybe Nando’s? Jac shook her head. Nah, I can do better than that.
“No, I don’t know where you put the Vaseline. I didn’t know you had Vaseline. The doctors said not to use that on the blisters from your prosthetic.”
Jac scratched her head. Maybe that Chinese place just down the road. They do a great crispy duck dish.
“Okay, then you ask Mr Hunt if he’s got any. But don’t use it on those—”
She glanced over at Sasha, amused to see the blush colouring her cheeks.
“That’s way more information than I needed, Mum, but I’m very glad to know you aren’t lonely or anything while I’m out working.”
Frowning, Jac held her hands up in question. Sasha shook her head and closed her eyes.
“No, I wasn’t being sarcastic. I—” She lifted a hand like she was trying to stop Fleur from speaking. “Yes, I know you’re my moth—” She leant forwards and banged her head against the wall. “You don’t want me to come home tonight?” She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it like it was an alien. She shook her head and put it back to her ear, then listened for a few seconds before she said, “I know you don’t have to answer to me. I wasn’t saying—”
Jac bit her lip to stop herself from laughing.
“Yes, I realise that, Mother. I’m not totally stupid.” She ran her fingers across her eyes, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I truly have no idea if that would be better with or without your teeth in, and that really was more information than I ever needed to know.” Sasha’s head dropped forwards and she rested her chin in her hand. “Right, you go and answer the door, then. I’ll call you in the morning.”
Sasha swallowed heavily, her throat working as Jac continued to stare at her.
“Of course, not too early.” She held the handset away from her ear. “Good chat, thanks for that, bye-bye, now.” She shut it down and dropped it back into her bag. “Wish I’d never answered that call.”
“What did she want the Vaseline for?”
“Mr Hunt.”
“Yeah, I know she was going to ask him if he had any but… Oh!” Jac rolled her hands in front of her as Sasha grimaced. “For Mr Hunt.” She winked suggestively. Sasha sighed and slunk back against the wall. “I didn’t realise your mum had a boy
friend…or a man friend.”
Sasha cleared her throat. “She didn’t before I left the house this morning.”
They looked at each other and burst out laughing, tears slipping down their cheeks. “You should really tell her water-based lubes are much better. They don’t damage the condoms.”
“I don’t think she has to worry about condoms. It’s not like she’ll get pregnant.” Sasha’s shudder was unintentionally comical.
“STDs are still a thing to worry about. Chlamydia, HPV, herpes, HIV. I could go on.”
“Oh God.” Sasha groped in her bag for her phone. “I can’t be taking my seventy-five-year-old mother to the scabs-and-crabs clinic cos she fancied a quickie.” She punched a few buttons, then cursed. “Voicemail. Mum, it’s me. Listen, make sure he uses protection…a condom…even when you take your teeth out. You don’t know where he’s been.” She put her phone away again.
“So, what’s better with or without teeth?”
“Fellatio.”
Laughter bubbled up and escaped Jac’s lips at the same time as a quiver rippled up her spine.
“Exactly.” Sasha visibly shivered and wrapped her arms about her body. “I need a drink. And somewhere to stay tonight. Aren’t parents supposed to tell their kids to make sure they come home at a reasonable hour?”
“I’m not sure that rule stands when you get past forty.” Jac wiped at the tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Didn’t you say there was a Premiere Inn in this complex?”
Jac shook her head.
“No? Is it a Holiday Inn?”
“No, I mean there is a Premiere Inn, but you’re not staying there. I only live five minutes away, got plenty of space. You can stay with me.”
“I can’t put you to that trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. It saves me taking you home or having to worry about you not going home. Then I’ll sleep better. You won’t have to waste money on a hotel room so your mother can get laid—”
“That’s just so wrong.”
“Agreed. Usually it’s the person getting laid that shells out for the hotel.”
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