The Temp

by Michelle Frances

  Carrie felt enormous and the day was unseasonably warm. She shuffled herself further down the sofa to get out of the sun that was streaming through the window. She was tired from being woken by the hip pain, the huge, uncomfortable bump and the kicks. This baby had invaded her body and her life in every way possible and it hadn’t even arrived yet.

  Through the glass doors she saw her boss wave as she approached. Liz: svelte, perky, able to work at a natural human pace. Mother of two boys, both now at secondary school and she had only just turned forty. She had a reputation in the business for being a bit of a powerhouse, a dynamic force who put her ambitions above everything else. You could argue that was the only way to get anything done in this dog-eat-dog industry.

  Liz sat next to her on the sofa and leaned over her bump for a peck on the cheek.

  ‘You look amazing, as ever.’

  ‘No, I don’t. I look large and exhausted.’

  Liz tutted. ‘Nonsense. Anyway, soon you’re going to pop. Four weeks, isn’t it?’

  Carrie nodded. She was more apprehensive than she cared to admit about the birth. Not just the physical act of it but the fact that this baby would then exist, in the real world. She’d have to . . . do stuff for it. Look after it. Despite knowing it was going to happen, she couldn’t quite imagine the scenario. Her life was still caught up in the day-to-day well-known whirlwind of work, and sometimes, deep down, a thought fluttered that she never admitted to anyone. What if she’d made the wrong decision? And what if her temporary replacement couldn’t cope or, worse, coped too well? She was counting on what so many of the articles on the baby websites said: she’d fall in love with her baby as soon as it arrived. Or at least stop guiltily thinking of it as an inconvenience, something to be managed before she went back to work, which she was planning to do when it was about three months old. She simply couldn’t afford to take any more time off, especially not after she’d worked so hard to get this job in the first place. Up until recently she’d always been a freelancer, a producer for hire, and permanent jobs were extremely hard to come by. Now she had one and was taking advantage of the company’s very generous maternity package, even though she’d not even been there a year. She was grateful to Liz for being so gracious about it, but, despite all the assurances, couldn’t relax. This was an industry in which going off sick was frowned upon and you took your eye off the prize at your peril.

  She tensed protectively when she thought about her project. She’d had a lot of success with previous shows, even been nominated for a BAFTA for one of her fact-based dramas, but this new project was the biggest yet. Leon was an expensive, long-running series with international distribution and it was her baby. Her other baby, she quickly reminded herself. If she weren’t there to develop and produce her own show, particularly a show with such prestige behind it, someone else would very happily step in for her.

  Which was why she was here in this room right now.

  ‘So, your proposed cover. Emma is really switched on, clever, and she’s brilliant at fixing story problems,’ said Liz.

  ‘Not too brilliant, I hope,’ said Carrie lightly, inwardly cursing at allowing her insecurities to be on display. The person they were proposing to help cover her maternity leave was the script editor on their existing long-running show, which had recently been cancelled.

  ‘Well, of course she’s not in your league, but she won’t . . . screw it up,’ said Liz. ‘Anyway, didn’t we say you didn’t want to interview for producers?’

  ‘I don’t see why I can’t just carry on.’

  ‘Shout out script notes while you’re giving birth?’ Liz smiled. ‘She’s only going to be there as an extra ear for Adrian if he needs it. I’m going to take care of all the producing stuff.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Carrie unconvincingly.

  ‘Hey, I get it. No one likes the idea of someone else doing their job. Least of all a hormonal woman who’s worked her backside off to get where she is. I was the same.’

  Carrie smiled. ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Oh, I hated her on sight. Too good.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I came back early, got promoted, had her transferred to another department.’ Liz squeezed Carrie’s arm. ‘I know you – you’re still going to be working while you’re changing nappies. This is just a caretaking thing in the office, that’s all. And if she doesn’t work out, we can come up with another plan. OK?’

  A pause before Carrie nodded.

  ‘You’ve not met her yet, right?’ checked Liz.

  ‘No.’ Her replacement had in fact been based at Pinewood Studios, which was where they’d shot the now-deceased show.

  Liz smiled. ‘She worked for Elaine Marsh before us, but don’t hold that against her. If for any reason you’re not happy, we don’t have to go ahead.’ She checked her watch. ‘She should be here – I’ll just go and see if she’s in reception.’

  As she left the room, Carrie sighed deeply. She was usually up for helping the newbies as much as she could. She knew how hard it was to gain a foothold in the industry and had done her share of working for eccentric and tough bosses, being required to do everything from arranging their children’s birthday parties to going round to their houses and watering their plants, when really all she’d wanted was to learn about scripts and television. So when it was her turn to be the boss, instead of testing the bright young things’ resilience to demoralizing tasks, she usually liked to take them under her wing, give them opportunities and encouragement.

  She’s just a script editor, she chided herself. Stop being paranoid. But the queasy feeling had resurfaced.

  FOUR

  Wednesday 11 October

  Emma followed Liz, Hawk Pictures’ managing director, down the highly polished corridor, each clack of her heels announcing her imminent arrival, when actually all she wanted to do was quietly and unobtrusively enter the room. Her nerves were so bad she thought she might be sick; in fact, she was physically shaking and had to stop a moment to try to pull herself together.

  Liz looked back. ‘Everything OK?’

  Emma made herself smile. ‘Yes, just got my heel caught,’ she said, lifting up the back of her foot and adjusting her shoe.

  She could hardly think straight, and yet she needed to be calm to get through this – there was too much at stake to mess it up. She’d also prefer to get a look at Carrie in the flesh first, rather than the other way round. It might help still those nerves, even just a little.

  Then they were at the meeting room, and Emma saw her through the glass door. A middle-aged woman pushed herself up off the sofa as the door opened and came forward to greet her. She had pale blonde wavy hair that was cut into a bob, giving the effect of a small cloud hovering around her head. She was very pretty, which Emma was pleased about even while knowing it was absurd, and she suddenly felt a rush of enthusiasm to put her plans in motion. Carrie’s small stature was rendered off-balance by the huge bump she was carrying and Emma felt herself staring before quickly looking away.

  Liz introduced them and Emma felt Carrie’s light – distant, she noted – touch as she took her hand, embarrassed that her own palm was still damp.

  It was a surreal moment, meeting Carrie. She’d followed her for years and watched her career closely, in part because Carrie was married to the screenwriter whom Emma had at one point admired most in the whole of television. This opportunity to work closely with them both was terrifying and serendipitous all at once. She had to get this job.

  The call from Liz had been a miracle. After working so hard to get the script-editor role on the tired show (with a few embellishments to her CV and a fudge with the referee), she’d then worked her socks off from the minute she started, reading scripts through the night to get up to speed, making notes and suggestions, and never letting the script team want for a cup of tea the entire time she was there. It wasn’t writing, but it was being close to writers and helping them with their scripts, and she had been learning loads. Then came a
massive dose of bad luck – two weeks ago, they learned that the show was being cancelled so there was no chance of staying on for further series, and with only a five-month stint on her CV to join the three-month blip at her internship, it didn’t look great.

  Emma was dreading telling her parents she was unemployed yet again, something that she was hoping she could narrowly avoid, assuming Carrie liked her – and God, please let that happen, she thought, her fists clenching in desperate hope.

  Carrie sat, so Emma followed suit. She briefly wondered what Carrie saw when she looked at her, which triggered another rush of nerves, and so felt she needed to say something before she completely clammed up.

  ‘Can I just say . . . how much I absolutely love your shows. You’ve touched on some really important subjects and they’re all so classy and different to anything else, and it’s as if you’re always defining what we should be watching.’

  My God, she was gushing like a schoolgirl. Calm down. You’re freaking her out. She dug her nails into her palms hard until the pain was almost unbearable. Then Carrie was talking, so she relaxed her hands and made herself concentrate.

  ‘So you’ve just finished on Buried Evidence?’

  ‘Yes, I loved working on that show. It was good to get my teeth into something that was actually in production, and I worked with a great many different writers, some new, some very established.’

  ‘And before that, Elaine Marsh? How was she to work for?’

  Emma considered the question, knowing that Elaine had a certain reputation in the industry. ‘She put me through my paces. I learned a lot.’

  Just a flicker of a raised eyebrow from Carrie. Emma wondered if she should have elaborated. She knew that Adrian had recently moved from Elaine’s company and she felt on shaky ground. This business was full of political potholes.

  Carrie glanced down at a piece of paper, what Emma assumed was her CV. ‘You weren’t there long,’ said Carrie. ‘Three months. Why did you leave?’

  Stay calm, thought Emma, desperately trying to ignore the fact her heart had started racing. ‘It was only a three-month appointment. My contract was up.’

  She kept the relaxed smile on her face, maintained eye contact with Carrie and prayed she’d move on.

  ‘So what do you think is key to the role of a script editor?’ asked Carrie.

  ‘I’m here to support the writer, represent his or her vision to the producers and the broadcaster. Also assist with research, story ideas and script notes whenever needed.’

  It came out as if it was learned by rote and she cringed inside. Emma anxiously checked Carrie’s reaction to her response. An indiscernible nod. Emma’s heart sank.

  ‘Of course, Carrie is still going to be working across all her projects,’ said Liz. ‘Most likely working when she’s not supposed to be,’ she chided gently.

  They all smiled indulgently. No one spoke.

  She’s trying to think of a brush-off, thought Emma, hope dying inside. She doesn’t want me and she’s trying to think of a way to close the meeting down. Probably say they’re seeing other people or something.

  ‘But it would be good to have someone here in the office, keeping things ticking over,’ said Carrie, and Emma felt her spirits soar.

  Liz turned to Carrie. ‘What do you think of Emma starting next week, getting her up to speed?’

  Carrie nodded. ‘Sure. OK with you, Emma?’

  ‘Great!’ said Emma, elated. She tried to keep the tremor in her hands hidden. She’d got it! She’d passed the test. As she’d found out in television, getting on wasn’t just about your experience, how good you were at your job – a large part of it was about whether you were liked.

  Carrie, she tentatively thought, seemed to like her. Emma felt a surge of satisfaction. She was going to work so hard in this job, she’d make Carrie love her.

  FIVE

  Wednesday 11 October

  ‘She’s young. Only twenty-four,’ said Carrie. She shifted around on the kitchen chair, her back aching. Really, it would be more comfortable to lie propped up with cushions on the sofa in the living room, but Adrian was cooking and she liked their evening chats.

  He frowned. ‘That is young. Is she any good?’

  ‘Has shown moments of brilliance, apparently,’ said Carrie gloomily.

  Adrian looked up from the potatoes he was mashing. ‘You’re not worried, are you?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m about to leave my dream job.’ He didn’t answer instantly and she knew what he was thinking: she wouldn’t have to if she hadn’t decided to have the baby. ‘The Decision’ had underscored everything they’d said and done for months now, and life was a constant balancing act of walking on eggshells.

  ‘Only temporarily,’ he said.

  ‘People have short memories in this business.’

  ‘You’re their hot new recruit.’

  ‘I think you’ll find that’s you.’

  She saw him preen momentarily; then he recovered, remembering what his role was right now. ‘I’m just an extension of you. The producer who’s made several critically acclaimed docu-dramas,’ he added pointedly.

  ‘Hmm, a long time ago now.’

  Adrian looked across at her, incredulous. ‘It wasn’t that long. Only a couple of years. And it doesn’t take away from the fact they’re all brilliant. Why are you putting yourself down? Again.’

  ‘Oh, you know me. Always think the fraud police are going to come knocking. Half the time I feel like an imposter. How the heck did I get this job, anyway?’

  She saw Adrian take the conscious decision not to answer, and knew it was because he found her insecurities mildly irritating. And he had a point – if she was forced to admit it, she had made some good shows, very good shows. The fear it was all down to luck or timing just never went away.

  ‘Did you see your parcel?’ he said, nodding towards a large cardboard box in the corner of their kitchen-diner. She looked across, knowing what it was. Easing herself to her feet, she opened it up and lifted out a Moses basket, complete with white broderie anglaise lining.

  ‘What do you think?’

  He glanced across. ‘Yeah, nice.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  He looked again. ‘What do you want me to say? It’s a bed. For a baby.’

  ‘Our baby. Who’s arriving in the next four weeks.’

  There was no animated response, no lit-up eyes.

  ‘Peas or beans?’ he said.

  Deflated, she put the Moses basket back. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘I’ll do both. More vitamin C for you . . . and baby.’ She knew it was an olive branch offered in guilt. ‘And you’ve got to stop worrying about your job so much,’ he continued. ‘No one’s going to oust you.’ Carrie winced and he looked at her sternly. ‘And if they try, I’m going too.’

  Contractually she knew that he couldn’t, but it was his way of making amends. A few moments later, he brought two plates of sausage and mash over to the table. Three very well-done sausages stuck out of a mound of mashed potato like an alien. A pile of green vegetables was arranged to form a beard.

  ‘All right?’ he asked, waiting for praise.

  She smiled. ‘Looks great.’

  It was part of their routine. He cooked while she was on her way home, commuting on the overcrowded train back to Blackheath in south-east London. They’d bought a three-bedroom Edwardian terrace a year after getting together and gradually done it up. A childless couple’s dream: white walls, open staircase, water feature in the garden. It had taken some time to finance all the improvements, as when they’d met, both had been working on the same soap opera; she was a script editor, he a jobbing writer. They each had ambitions to go further, but it was hard to find time to pursue anything when they were both shackled to the relentless schedule of a show that went out four days a week every week of the year. Holidays for the staff were banned for any longer than a week, the daily hours would often stretch on into the dead of night, and God forbid you became ill. C
arrie had had tonsillitis once and hadn’t dared take more than a single day off to recover. If she didn’t get back, her scripts wouldn’t be ready to film. And despite being ill, it would be her fault, and it would determine whether or not her short-term contract was renewed.

  She and Adrian had hit it off at a monthly story conference, recognized the bright hope in each other, and had soon fallen in love. After a night out at the cinema four weeks into the relationship, Adrian had come back to her rented flat and said he wanted to be honest with her. She’d felt a flurry of nerves, thinking he was about to confess to a wife, or a girlfriend at least, but he raised the subject of children.

  ‘I just want you to know . . . it’s not something I’ve ever wanted. And most women do, so I felt it’s only fair to tell you. So you can tell me to get lost – if that’s what you want?’ He’d raised his big brown eyes up at her and in them was such a look of anxiety it had squeezed her heart. She knew then that they were made for each other, as she’d never really wanted children either, not after what happened when she was a teenager.

  They’d got married at the same time as they’d bought their house – just a year after meeting. Adrian, having worked his way up to being one of the ‘star’ writers on the soap, had managed to earn enough to take a break from its relentless schedule and concentrated on coming up with ideas for shows of his own. Some got development funding, some didn’t, but all withered and died within a year or two.

  Then he thought of something so brilliant, so commissionable, it was picked up like lightning by notorious producer Elaine Marsh. She got interest from the BBC and before he knew it, he had a green light. The show, about a pupil uprising in a secondary school with tragic consequences, was an instant success and Adrian’s star catapulted into the heavens.