Suddenly she just wanted to go home. She quickly pushed the pram up the street, heading for the Tube.
NINE
Thursday 26 October
Emma took a sip of her cappuccino and listened to Adrian, marvelling at how much he could talk about himself. He had an insatiable appetite for the subject of ‘me’, often half-heartedly dressed up as the show or the industry at large.
Boredom aside, she didn’t mind; in fact, it helped her cause quite a bit. It must be tough for Carrie, though – she’d seen how he’d been so self-engaged he’d barely noticed her or their son and she’d felt Carrie’s embarrassment and hurt, exacerbated because it was so public.
She let her eyes wander over to the window of the cafe a moment, onto the Soho street outside, and her focus sharpened. Was that Carrie outside, across the street? She watched as the woman turned and then she saw her face – it was Carrie.
Emma went to tell Adrian, but he was mid-flow on Michael Sheen’s brilliant and insightful understanding of the character Adrian had managed to create. Damn, could he not shut up, just for a moment? She went to put her hand on his arm, but then Carrie started walking off and at the pace she was going, she was soon out of sight. It was too late.
‘Something wrong?’ said Adrian, finally realizing he didn’t have her full attention. He glanced over his shoulder out of the window.
She decided not to tell him he’d just missed his wife. ‘Tell me about Generation Rebel,’ she said, smiling. ‘If you don’t mind? I’m such a fan of the show and I feel very lucky to be sitting here with its creator.’
He gave a cheesy grin. ‘You’ll make me blush.’ But then quickly added: ‘What do you want to know?’
Everything, thought Emma.
‘It’s such a brilliant idea,’ she said, ‘totally captured the zeitgeist of the moment. How did it come about?’
‘I was just struck by how hard young people have had life in this country for so long. An ever-changing school curriculum, designed to push them further and yet funding in schools at an all-time low. And a massive debt to look forward to for the next few decades, either their university fees or the nation’s deficit, or both.’
It was the story he’d peddled for all the listings magazines and media pages of the newspapers, she noted.
‘And then that surge of revolution during the last election – backing Labour and Corbyn. It really inspired me.’
‘But the election happened after you wrote it.’
He frowned. ‘Yes, but . . .’
She left him hanging just a fraction of a second. ‘Guess it was prophetic.’
He laughed, pleased. ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that.’
Oh, but you’d love to.
She smiled. ‘I think it really touched on something, chimed with a million disgruntled voices—’
‘Eleven million.’
‘Sorry?’
He grinned. ‘Ratings. Eleven million with consolidated.’
‘Wow. You got the youth of the characters so well. They seemed like people I knew, had been to school with. I could even see myself in them! Brilliant,’ she enthused, ‘just brilliant. Where did you get your character inspiration from?’
He shrugged modestly. Tapped his forehead. ‘Just made it up really. Dug deep enough to re-engage with my younger self.’ He grinned. ‘It was a big spade.’
She laughed. ‘You’re not that old.’
He laughed with her, gratified, she saw, that he could still appear youthful to a twenty-four-year-old. It made her uncomfortable suddenly, the way he was looking at her as if they were of the same generation, bonded in some way. She thought of his wife.
‘It was nice to see Carrie today,’ she said. ‘And your beautiful baby.’
A cloud of guilt drifted across his face. ‘I was surprised she came in. She was tired,’ he explained.
‘Maybe she needs a little pick-me-up.’
He didn’t understand.
‘Something to brighten her day?’ She hesitated, not sure if she was going too far. ‘There’s a boutique next door. They have the most beautiful hand-painted Italian silk scarves.’
‘Oh, right?’ he said casually, as if he wasn’t very interested, but she knew he’d be slipping out of the office later to get one and he’d claim the idea as his own. Another demonstration of his slipperiness.
She wondered if Carrie knew what a total piece of shit her husband really was.
TEN
Thursday 26 October
Carrie hadn’t been able to stay cross with him long, not when he’d surprised her with an exclusive box, inside which was the most stunning, luxuriant yellow, turquoise and white scarf. He tied it round her neck, looping it through at the front.
‘Does it look good?’ she asked tentatively.
He smiled. ‘Go and see for yourself.’
Carrie went upstairs into the living room and glanced in the mirror that hung over the fireplace, an action that had not produced the best of results lately. Her eyes lit up. This scarf had magical properties, she could swear. The dark circles under her eyes and the ghostly pallor receded and for a brief moment she felt like her old self and she had a mental chat with the Carrie in the mirror. Maybe it’s not so bad. Everyone says it’s hard the first few weeks. Maybe things just need to even out a bit.
Glancing down at the fireplace, she saw the new baby cards still displayed, including one from Adrian’s sister in Australia, who couldn’t come and visit as she had three children of her own to look after. His elderly parents lived in Spain, and Carrie’s father had died two years before her mum. She briefly reflected on what it would be like to have an extended family around to help, but that was one of the many things you lost when you decided to have your baby so late in life.
Going back down to the kitchen, she was relieved to see Rory still asleep in his bouncy chair. She kissed Adrian on the lips.
‘Thank you,’ she said softly. ‘It’s very thoughtful of you.’
He appraised her, admiration in his eyes. ‘Looking good.’
‘Do you still fancy me?’
‘Dead right. Wanna go upstairs?’
She laughed. ‘Maybe not just yet.’
He put his arms round her and they shared a tender kiss. It had been a long time, thought Carrie, and there was a novelty to it.
‘I love you,’ he said.
‘Love you too.’
‘Hey, I was thinking. Maybe we should plan a little break for when the shoot’s finished in spring.’
Carrie considered. ‘Where?’
‘Somewhere not too far. We have to fly with the Decibel Breaker after all. Greece, maybe? It’ll be warm. We can get some you-and-me time.’
Carrie wasn’t quite sure exactly how that would happen, but she appreciated the sentiment.
‘We could go to that place in Crete. You know, that villa in the White Mountains we saw in the article about escaping the crowds or whatever it was. The place with the awesome hot tub.’
‘Sounds good,’ she said, thinking it might actually be possible. Rory might be in more of a routine by then. Suddenly the future felt a little brighter.
She watched as he chopped vegetables for the curry he was making. ‘I came to find you this morning. In the office, after I’d fed Rory.’
He thought back. ‘Oh, we went out for a coffee. Talked over Michael Sheen’s notes. She’s so good you know, Emma. She’s got a real intuitive sense about character.’
The warm, optimistic feeling seeped away.
‘And she’s had some great ideas on who’d be good opposite Michael to play Sally.’
Was there anything this girl couldn’t do? thought Carrie.
Adrian looked up and smiled. ‘She reminds me of you. Something about her sense of ambition.’
As a compliment, it was misjudged. All it did was make her feel more unnerved, more insecure.
‘Do you have to say that?’
‘What?’
‘How brilliant she is.’
‘Not as good as you,’ he quickly remedied. ‘Obviously.’
She stood there feeling miserable.
‘Hey, come on.’ He was trying to make light of it. ‘You’re not threatened by her, are you? You’re in a different league.’
Carrie pursed her lips, aware she was being childish, needy. She took a deep breath, tried to lighten up.
‘So what other great ideas has she had?’ It had been meant as a throwaway comment, but she was taken aback to see his eyes slide downwards towards her neck. He averted his gaze almost immediately, but she knew.
‘You are joking.’
‘What do you mean?’ he said, acting surprised.
She tugged at the scarf. ‘She told you to get this for me?’
‘Of course not!’
But she knew by the level of bluster he was lying.
‘It was my idea, one hundred per cent,’ he insisted, and she looked at him, hurt and confused. Why couldn’t he see he was adding salt to the wound?
Their eyes were held in a deadlock. So much unspoken. It was broken only when Rory started to wail.
ELEVEN
Thursday 26 October
As she walked in the door of her parents’ house, Emma was surprised to hear their voices coming from the kitchen at the relatively early time of six. She was even more surprised to hear a third, unidentified voice.
‘Oh, Emma, you’re back!’ said her mother as Emma went into the large, gleaming white kitchen-diner, lit with spotlights, floor lights and under-cupboard lights. ‘I left you a message. Did you get it?’
She’d been on the Tube and hadn’t picked it up.
‘This is Rebecca, a friend of your father’s,’ her mother said, indicating the woman with tightly curled auburn hair sitting on a bar stool holding a very large glass of white wine. She was the kind of person who had a knowing, confident smile permanently on her face.
Emma could sense her father watching her carefully as she said hello to their guest and wondered why.
It became apparent over the beef stroganoff. Rebecca was her father’s management friend in the NHS, parachuted in to assess his failure of a daughter and see if there was anything that could be done to save her, and his reputation.
‘Brian tells me you work in television,’ said Rebecca.
‘Yes, I’m doing maternity cover for a producer.’
‘It’s a temporary role,’ said Alice, by way of clarification, and Emma frowned. It was obvious, wasn’t it? Why reinforce it?
‘Most television jobs are, Mum,’ she said shortly. ‘Maternity cover or not.’ She’d made this point several times in the past.
‘Means it’s hard to make plans,’ said her father.
Emma bristled. She didn’t appreciate the subtle attack. It was made worse by the fact that her father was right. She couldn’t ever book a holiday or, more importantly, move out because she just didn’t know if she’d have any income beyond the next few months.
Getting her own place was something she was dying to do. It was funny how things had changed. When she’d first been sent to boarding school at the tender age of seven, she had longed to go home, spending hours lying awake in her narrow bed, the dark a large monster that watched and waited for her to fall asleep so it could attack. She’d cried and begged and pleaded, but it had made no difference and she was told she’d thank them when she was older.
Emma would live for the weekends, when her parents would visit. Saturday afternoons were everything to her, a time that she longed for so much it was like a physical pain, and she would launch herself at them as they came through the door of the common room. She remembered their first visit as if it were yesterday. She’d flung herself at her mother’s knees and, to her own surprise, had started sobbing uncontrollably. Her mother prised her off and Emma saw her brush at the wet patches on her skirt.
‘What’s going on?’ Alice had asked, puzzled. ‘Are you hurt?’
Emma, quiet now, had shaken her head.
‘It’s such a beautiful place,’ said her father, gazing around at the eighteenth-century wooden panels with pride on his face. ‘Reminds me of my old school.’
She sensed that it would be churlish to complain, and deep down was longing for their approval, something that she knew would be kept in check if she started to sound ungrateful about everything they’d provided for her. She knew it was a prestigious school: the head teacher said as much at every assembly.
They’d made it outside to the grounds. ‘Oh my goodness, they’re out riding,’ said Alice, pointing in delight at two girls on ponies heading down to the lake. ‘Have you had a chance to do that yet, Emma?’
In truth, she had, and she’d loved it. She nodded.
‘You’re so lucky,’ said Alice pointedly.
Emma nodded again, mutely.
‘What else have you done?’ asked Brian.
‘Taekwondo.’
‘And what about lessons? Are you doing well?’
She didn’t really know but did know the right answer was ‘yes’, so she said so and felt a flutter of anxiety in case she wasn’t telling the truth. She sometimes found maths hard, and occasionally it was pointed out that she wrote her threes the wrong way round, but she didn’t dare admit this to her parents.
The visits each weekend would all take the same shape, with Emma staying glued to them the entire afternoon, not daring even to go to the toilet for fear of them not being there when she came out. She noticed the disapproving looks they gave each other over the top of her head but ignored them.
When her parents left, she would retreat into herself, watching the other girls play at break time, unable to understand their exuberance, feeling as if she were a different species. Lessons were much the same and she felt detached from all that was going on around her and would look out of the window at the birds wheeling in the sky, then disappearing over the tops of the trees, envying them their freedom. Over the weeks, unsurprisingly, her work began to suffer.
One weekend, she was waiting for her parents in the common room as usual. One by one, other girls’ mothers and fathers came to pick them up and take them out for the day and as the crowd dispersed, she began to get anxious. Then she saw a woman she recognized from the school office come and speak to her house mistress, Mrs Jackson, who then glanced in her direction, a look on her face that struck Emma with dread. The woman from the office left and Mrs Jackson gently approached and asked her to go into her room for a moment. Once inside, she sat next to her on the sofa, a gesture of compassion that filled Emma with anxiety.
‘I’m afraid Mum and Dad can’t make it today,’ said Mrs Jackson, as kindly as she could.
Emma’s throat closed up in terror. She stared wild-eyed at her house mistress, not understanding, not knowing what had gone wrong.
‘Why?’ she managed to blurt out, her voice warped with hurt.
Mrs Jackson wrestled with her response. ‘They . . . feel as if they’re being a bit of a distraction,’ she eventually said. ‘And that maybe you need a little more time to focus on your grades . . .’
She stopped then as Emma was weeping silent tears, looking up at her in utter bewilderment. Mrs Jackson wrapped an arm round her, but Emma never really recovered from the brutality of her parents’ rejection. She became closed off, the hurt burying itself deep into her psyche. Ironically, she did work harder, but it was because work numbed the pain. When her parents materialized again a few weeks later, they were delighted with her progress, and that their psychology had instigated the turnaround.
Although she still needed them and her heart still leaped every time she saw them, it was never in quite the same way. Her heart would fall as quickly as it had risen, bereft and fearful they’d take away their love at any point.
As she hardened, she would lose herself in fantasy. She would think she was in truth destined for Hogwarts and would stare out of the large Victorian dormitory window, picking out the black boughs in the winter night, searching to see if an owl was p
erched on any. She longed for that letter of invitation almost more than she’d longed for her mother, but neither ever came to take her away. So she began to create her own escapism. Pictures playing out in her mind that seemed so real, she half thought they were. One night, she’d lain in bed unable to sleep. Closing her eyes tightly, she’d imagined a film playing out, one she was a part of.
FADE IN:
INT./EXT. SCHOOL DORMITORY – NIGHT
EMMA sits in her pyjamas on the windowsill, looking out at the dark school grounds, wishing an owl would appear with a letter. Her three other dormitory mates are all sleeping. Suddenly one of the top branches of the tallest tree starts to grow. It stretches long and far towards the window and opens it, beckoning an amazed Emma.
She carefully climbs onto the appendage, soft with moss, and it lifts her up into the warm night air, handing her over to the top branch of another neighbouring tree. Soon all the trees are waving their branches, carefully handing her from one to the other as they carry her away from the school.
Emma looks up in amazement as a flock of pink flamingos (Emma’s favourite bird) flies over her head, their feathers dazzling in the starlight. They sparkle with pink and coral and orange, and take care to keep up with her. Then one of them looks down, winking at her, and she knows she’s free and she’s safe and she’s loved.
CUT TO:
This fantasy would manifest itself in both her sleeping and waking hours, and if she stared hard enough at the trees when she was inside the classroom, she would actually think she could see them secretly stretching their branches towards her. No wonder her teachers always wrote in her reports that she had an overactive imagination.
‘Emma?’
She started, realized she hadn’t heard her father speak.
‘Wouldn’t it be better to get something more stable? A permanent job with a proper pension?’
‘My job won’t be temporary forever,’ she said brightly to her small audience, privately thinking, Why can’t they just be pleased for me? ‘As you prove yourself, you get offered more. Work your way up the ladder.’
‘Have you been offered something after this contract, then?’ asked her father.
The Temp Page 5