The Temp

by Michelle Frances

  Rebecca listened keenly.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Emma, keeping her voice level. ‘But they’re really pleased with how it’s going. I’m getting included on everything – we met with Michael Sheen today.’

  ‘Oh, is he the one from The West Wing?’ exclaimed Alice, sounding impressed.

  ‘No, that’s Martin Sheen,’ said Emma.

  ‘Oh. Who’s this Michael Sheen, then?’

  Emma was about to explain he was one of the best actors ever to come out of Wales when her father spoke again.

  ‘But aren’t you covering for this producer?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘So shouldn’t you be in on the meeting anyway?’ Emma saw him turn and look at Rebecca as if to say, I’m not missing something here, right?

  Emma’s eyes flickered down. They’d never understand because they just didn’t want to. Even if she were collecting a bloody BAFTA, it would never be good enough. It would be a jokey ‘It’s been a long time coming!’ or ‘We thought she’d never get there!’

  ‘We just don’t want to see you put everything into a job that doesn’t reward you properly,’ said Alice. ‘You need security, need to make the most of the education we gave you. There are other options out there. Rebecca here, for example, could talk you through some schemes she’s aware of.’

  ‘If you’re interested,’ said Rebecca, ‘although, it does seem to me you’ve already got your heart set on TV.’

  Emma looked up sharply but couldn’t tell if her tone was disapproving or not. Who cared, quite frankly.

  She excused herself up to her room, her only remaining vestige of privacy, as soon as wouldn’t be deemed impolite. She fell onto her bed and wondered what it would be like to have parents who backed you, who didn’t see you as a disappointment, a wasted investment.

  As she lay there, she knew part of what they were saying was right. She desperately wanted some longevity to her job, some financial stability. She couldn’t wait to get out of this house. She needed to get out.

  TWELVE

  Monday 20 November

  There was an abundance of ladybirds painted in a bright, cheery red right from the sign at the entrance gate. They continued on the exterior walls of the building and again inside. It was one of the reasons Carrie had been drawn to this nursery. Her mum had loved nature and in particular had a thing about ladybirds. She adored them and they’d appear in all sorts of guises around the house: on a mug, in a silver and enamel necklace, on a tea towel.

  Carrie was met at reception by the nursery manager, Sherie, who cooed over Rory, strapped to her chest in his baby carrier. It was the best in the area, rated ‘Outstanding’ by Ofsted and supported by dozens of glowing reviews on various mums’ social media sites. A few of her antenatal-class friends had also heard good things, including Hannah, whom she was meeting for a coffee afterwards.

  ‘How old is he?’ asked Sherie.

  ‘Five weeks,’ said Carrie.

  ‘Ahh. Not long until you’ll be getting your first smiles.’

  Carrie had heard about this milestone and what a wonderful moment it was supposed to be, something she couldn’t imagine. She didn’t want to let on to Sherie, though, and nodded.

  ‘Ready for the tour?’ asked Sherie.

  Carrie was led into the playroom, a chaotic place full of plastic toys, some enormous, some small enough to chew, throw or sit on. A number of small children ran around and Carrie tried to count them, both appalled and fascinated by how few were needed to make such a cacophony of noise, but they didn’t stay still long enough.

  Sherie continued to the other end of the room and out through a door. ‘And this is our outside area,’ she said.

  More plastic toys, these faded due to being outside in all weathers.

  ‘We try to get them in the fresh air for at least half an hour every day, even if the weather’s bad. It’s only if it’s torrential we’ll stay inside.’

  It was freezing, with an icy wind cutting across her cheeks and making her eyes water, and Carrie instinctively put her hand on the back of the baby carrier.

  Next stop was the kids’ toilets, plastered with large laminated picture posters instructing them to wash their hands or a cartoon germ the size of a small rodent would . . . do what? It wasn’t clear, but it implied something threatening. There were also notices for the adults, reminding them to use the readily available blue plastic gloves when changing nappies, something that struck Carrie as very clinical, but she reasoned with her unsure self that it made sense and good hygiene was for the benefit of the children.

  ‘And here is the dormitory,’ said Sherie, her voice a whisper. She held a door ajar and Carrie looked in. A row of about a dozen cots filled the room, lined up against opposite walls. Nearly all of them contained a baby, fast asleep.

  It shocked her. There was something about the way they were all there, so many babies in a uniform line, that reminded her of an orphanage. One of them began to stir.

  ‘That’s Asher,’ said Sherie, going over and picking him up. She spoke to him in the upbeat, bright way Carrie had heard her address some of the other children. No soft murmurings, no gentle caress, despite the fact he’d only just woken up. Sherie led them out of the room as Asher squinted against the instant light, rubbing his hands over his eyes.

  Carrie glanced back at the rows of sleeping babies, still mesmerized by them. She wondered who their parents were, what they were doing right now.

  ‘When did he come here?’ she asked, indicating Asher.

  ‘Mummy dropped him off at seven thirty and she comes to get you at seven, doesn’t she, Trouble? Earlier, if the traffic’s not bad.’

  Just before it’s time to go back to bed, thought Carrie, at the same time chiding herself for her thoughts. Wasn’t she about to do the same thing?

  ‘So, I think you mentioned on the phone you were looking for somewhere when Rory is three months?’ asked Sherie.

  ‘Actually, things have changed,’ said Carrie, fighting the unexpected reluctance in her voice. ‘I need somewhere sooner. In the next week or two.’

  ‘We do have a waiting list, but I think someone’s recently dropped out,’ said Sherie. She smiled. ‘You could be lucky. We’d love to have you, wouldn’t we, Rory?’ she said, stroking his cheek with her finger. Carrie watched as he frowned and batted at his face with his hands. Sherie didn’t seem to notice.

  As they went back along the corridor, they passed the lunch room and Carrie glanced in. Several small children sat at half-size tables in half-size chairs. Some were thrusting food haphazardly into their mouths. More than one seemed to be overwhelmed, despite the cheery presence of the staff, looking bewildered at their plates of food and plastic cutlery.

  She forced herself to look away and moved on.

  THIRTEEN

  Monday 20 November

  It was a definite bonus that her parents, in their pursuit of shaping their daughter, had purchased the best kit for her Duke of Edinburgh Award, and Emma was thankful for her premium-brand coat’s wind and waterproof capabilities as she stood on the railway platform waiting for her train. She looked around for something to distract her from the cold and saw an open window on the third floor of the block of flats opposite the station, a plume of smoke drifting into the air and a torso-less arm flicking a cigarette’s ash down to the ground. The smoker suddenly stubbed out the cigarette against the wall and tossed it, at the same time shouting angrily to someone who was inside the flat.

  ‘Shut up! Fucking shut up!’

  A wail came floating down on the cold air.

  ‘I said, shut your fucking mouth!’ screamed the woman. Her voice was brutal, dangerous, and Emma gave an involuntary shiver. One or two other people looked up and there were a few disapproving tuts.

  The child began to cry louder and its voice was cowering. ‘Please, please no—’

  ‘You’re still fucking crying,’ threatened the woman.

  The child cried even louder. ‘Stop,’ it be
gged.

  Deeply uncomfortable, Emma looked up again, saw several people frowning and staring up at the window.

  The woman began to count. ‘One!’ The crying continued. ‘Two!’

  ‘No . . . !’

  ‘Three!’

  Emma was starting to feel sick with apprehension. Her hands moved agitatedly in her pockets, fingers tapping against themselves with horror.

  ‘Four! Five!’

  ‘No . . .’ begged the child.

  ‘Leave your kid alone,’ muttered Emma under her breath.

  She saw the man standing next to her had heard and he smiled ruefully.

  ‘Six!’ screamed the woman, her voice blood-curdling with its threat.

  ‘Leave your kid alone,’ repeated Emma.

  ‘Yeah, leave your kid alone,’ agreed the man. He looked at her and she saw the disquiet in his eyes, echoing her own. It emboldened her.

  ‘Leave your kid alone!’ she suddenly shouted up at the open window.

  ‘Seven!’

  She hadn’t been loud enough. ‘Leave your kid alone!’ Emma shouted again.

  The man suddenly joined her. ‘Leave your kid alone!’ he bellowed.

  Then there were others – an elderly lady, a man in a leather jacket – and soon several people on the platform were joining in her chant and it elevated in power and volume. ‘Leave your kid alone!’

  A woman’s face came to the flat window. She looked down, peeved. ‘What the fuck are you lot going on about?’ she spat.

  They kept on chanting and she shrank back at the force of their voices.

  ‘Or we’ll call the police!’ the elderly woman called out.

  The woman’s face fell and she pulled back from the window, shutting it.

  Emma breathed deeply, still shaken by the vitriol in the woman’s voice. She hoped the child was OK. A collective sense of relief and tentative triumph was felt up and down the platform.

  They were recceing locations today. When Leon, the ex-film star, hit rock bottom, he was forced to take a job at a car wash (something he did abysmally) and the production’s location manager, Jake, had lined up several for her, Adrian, Kenny, the director, and the production designer to take a look at in various places across south London.

  ‘This one’s definitely larger,’ said Adrian.

  ‘More run-down-looking too,’ enthused the production designer.

  ‘Cast and crew base would be across the way in the timber yard,’ said Jake. ‘There’s plenty of room for all the trucks.’

  It wasn’t the most glamorous location to be checking out, but it was still immense fun and Emma was excited to imagine scenes from the scripts coming alive as she gazed around the forecourt. Many of the locations that would be used regularly, such as Leon’s house, would be built as sets at Pinewood Studios, but if they only had a few scenes to shoot somewhere, it was cheaper to find a live location.

  Kenny, the director, was walking around waving his arms about as he played out the scenes in his head while the rest of them huddled in the cold, waiting for him.

  ‘Have you got any thoughts on the Spanish village?’ Jake asked Adrian.

  ‘Damn!’ exclaimed Adrian. ‘I left my drawings at home.’

  The Spanish village was a key location as it was where Leon first met Sally, his potential new down-to-earth girlfriend, who was there on her first holiday in years. Emma had learned that Adrian liked to dabble in art and he’d clearly been getting his vision for the show down on paper.

  ‘Can we just talk them through?’ asked Jake.

  Adrian looked dubious. ‘Not really. I think they capture something that’s hard to explain.’

  ‘Could Carrie scan them and email them over?’ suggested Emma.

  ‘She’s out. Spending the day with a friend. I’d go and get them,’ added Adrian half-heartedly, ‘except we’ve still got one more garage to see, haven’t we?’

  Jake nodded. ‘We’ve got time after, though. I’m going to need to take the car as I have to get back to make some calls, but there’s plenty of time for you to drop in at home before we meet back at the office.’

  ‘You reckon?’ mumbled Adrian.

  ‘I can go,’ said Emma. She saw his eyes light up.

  ‘Really? You don’t mind?’

  ‘It’s fine. I don’t really need to see the next place, so I might as well get a head start. Meet you back at the office?’

  ‘I’ll have Soho’s finest cappuccino waiting for you,’ said Adrian, and she could see he was delighted someone else had volunteered to travel all the way to Blackheath and then back into town.

  As Emma set off, she felt Adrian’s keys through the lining of her coat against her chest, held tight in the zip-up pocket. Their constant presence poked at her, fuelling her excitement and nerves. This was the opportunity she’d been waiting for.

  FOURTEEN

  Monday 20 November

  The row of terraced Edwardian houses just minutes from Blackheath Station were penned in by glossy black railings, beyond which flights of steps led up to equally glossy front doors in regal colours of deep green, blue and pillar-box red. Emma went up the steps of Adrian and Carrie’s house, past the matching bay trees acting as foot soldiers at the top, and taking Adrian’s keys out of her jacket pocket, placed the Yale smoothly in the lock and turned.

  It opened onto a light, inviting hallway with real wood floors and a cream-and-red patterned rug. She slipped off her shoes and lined them up carefully with the others on the wooden shoe rack. The house felt warm, not just because she’d come in from the freezing November wind but under her socked feet she could feel the underfloor heating.

  Adrian had told her his study was on the lower ground floor and she could see the modern glass staircase ahead of her but couldn’t resist a peek in the living room immediately off to her right. As with the hallway, it was immaculately decorated, the Edwardian ornate black iron fireplace gleaming, the paintwork a carefully chosen shade of period duck-egg blue. She went over to the mantelpiece, drawn by the collection of framed photos she could see half hidden behind a plethora of baby cards.

  Plucking one out, she recognized Carrie and Adrian in scuba gear on a small boat, the sea behind them an impossible hue of aquamarine. He had his arm round her shoulders and she was laughing at something. Emma put it down, seeing the one next to it was of their wedding. She looked closely, studying every square centimetre of the picture, the dress, of course, but also Carrie’s expression, the backdrop, trying to learn as much as she could. They were standing under a tree in a large garden, perhaps that of a stately home.

  Then she saw another photo, smaller this time, which was almost completely covered by a card with a blue stork on it. This one took her breath away, for it was Carrie many years ago, when she’d graduated, on the steps of her university. She looked so young, thought Emma. She stared at it for one last time, then put it back carefully, making sure she didn’t dislodge any of the cards.

  Sighing, she stepped back and looked around the room. What else was there? A modern painting over the sofa, which she instinctively knew was Adrian’s – bold primary brushstrokes on a white background. A set of coasters on the side table that were carved – by hand, it looked like – in a light-coloured wood. Each was of a different African animal, the Big Five, perhaps a souvenir from another holiday.

  She left the room and hesitated in the hallway, undecided whether to look around upstairs first or go down to the lower ground floor. Down won out and she trod carefully down the glass steps that wound round on themselves until they deposited her in a large, modern kitchen-diner. At one end were floor-to-ceiling windows that led out onto a courtyard garden; at the other end, a wooden door behind which Emma knew was Adrian’s study. Then something made her gasp with delight – the length of one entire wall of the dining area was covered in books. Shelf after shelf of them, the top ones only accessible by the rolling ladder that moved across. Emma had always wanted a bookshelf like that, and one day, when she had th
e right job, that was what she was going to buy herself.

  She started with the fridge: bottled smoothies, olives, a fancy French brand of sparkling mineral water. French cheeses, too, and expensive sliced meats from a deli, not the supermarket. The pull-out larder was full of tins of tomatoes and beans with Italian labels, unusual-shaped pasta in authentic paper packaging, some boxes of organic granola, one of which she recognized as the brand she herself liked, which gave her a wave of pleasure. A washing basket piled high with ironing sat on one of the worktops. She laid her hand on it, touching one of Rory’s fleecy jumpers, blue with a small cream penguin on the front.

  She moved over to the bookshelves, and once again was pleased to recognize a number of titles in the collection that she also owned. She was going to browse further when she checked herself. Mustn’t get too distracted.

  Going into Adrian’s office, the first thing she saw was a noose hanging on the wall, which swung in the draught from the opening door. Emma recognized it as a prop. The rope the children ultimately hanged their headmaster with. Next to it was a large, stylized print of the cast of Generation Rebel, signed by each of them. She read some of the messages – Thanks for creating our show! and To the writer of our generation – but didn’t smile at the generous acknowledgements.

  She went over to Adrian’s desk under the window. Above her, she could see legs of people as they walked by on the street outside. The drawings were exactly where he’d said they would be, in a pile on the left side of the desk.

  She didn’t pick them up; instead, she opened the set of drawers underneath, top one first, but it was just full of pens, staplers, a bar of fine dark chocolate. She methodically worked her way through the others, riffling through printouts, magazines, all dull, boring stuff. Where did he keep the important paperwork? She moved over to a set of shelves and stopped dead when she saw, next to a pile of books, a small bronze mask. Adrian’s BAFTA. It was a moment before she could pick it up, but then she felt its weight, held it aloft, closing her eyes—