The Temp

by Michelle Frances

  ‘Wow. Job-sharing. With you. Are you telling me she’s some sort of producer?’

  ‘Liz is very impressed by her.’

  ‘She’s impressive. But I wouldn’t trust her an inch.’

  Carrie bristled. ‘Why did you give her such a good reference, then? You know, it’s one thing being a bit annoyed with me for supposedly stealing my husband from you but totally out of order to go and deliberately sabotage my show.’

  Elaine looked at her strangely. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Didn’t what?’

  ‘Give her a reference. Nor would I try to sabotage your show. Looks like you’ve gone some way to doing that yourself, anyway.’ She mused. ‘Producer?’

  ‘Well, someone spoke to Liz.’

  ‘It wasn’t me.’

  Carrie narrowed her eyes.

  ‘Oh, stop being so bloody ridiculous,’ said Elaine. ‘This business is full of bullshit. People find unscrupulous ways to inveigle their way into jobs all the time. Maybe she got someone else to do a reference on my behalf. And if I ever find out who, I’ll kill them. And her,’ she added.

  Carrie knew she was telling the truth. ‘OK. Sorry,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Pardon?’

  Carrie gritted her teeth. Spoke louder. ‘Sorry.’

  Elaine smiled. ‘Accepted.’

  She started to head off, but Carrie put her hand on her arm.

  ‘You still haven’t told me what she did.’

  ‘Oh. Yes.’ Elaine cocked her head, curious. ‘She was very interested in your husband.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  Friday 15 December

  The wind was bone-crackingly cold. It pierced through Emma as it came blasting off the dark sea and over the top of the cliffs, the gusts trying to dislodge her as she waited. She huddled against the iron railing that surrounded the Thirty-Nine Steps, trying to take shelter by squeezing next to an overgrown straggly bush. It couldn’t be much longer. Adrian would want to get back to London before it got too late.

  He’d asked her to come down to Broadstairs so they could work on the scripts together, and she’d been torn. It was another opportunity to look around the house, but on the other hand, she didn’t relish the idea of being alone with him again, not after he’d come on to her last week. She’d been relieved that today had remained professional; they’d worked through until late afternoon, Emma hiding her impatience for them to finish so he would leave the house. Eventually he’d called it a day and she’d graciously refused a lift, saying it was quicker for her to get the train as she was meeting friends in town and was wary of getting snarled up in Friday-evening traffic.

  Night shrouded her, the only light coming from the street lamps on the other side of the road, within the compound of the North Foreland Estate, and the weak half-moon hanging over the sea, sporadically visible whenever the wind sped the clouds along the charcoal sky. From her windswept hidey-hole, Emma could also see the melodic red-and-white beam of the lighthouse – she’d been stowed away long enough to count its rhythm, five bursts every fifteen seconds, a radiant glow that carried out to sea, illuminating the ghostly turning blades of the offshore wind farm before being lost somewhere out in the ocean.

  Her teeth started chattering. She should’ve brought more clothes, a scarf. She looked around, trying to take her mind off the needle-sharp wind penetrating through to her bones. She could see the entrance to the steps, dark and fathomless. For want of something to do, she pulled out the torch she’d brought and with numb fingers switched it on and directed it towards the black space, trying to look down the steps through the cliff. The beam didn’t reach far enough.

  Suddenly a car came down the road and she quickly flicked off her torch. She crouched behind the bush, peering out as the car passed by. It was Adrian.

  Pulling the hood on her coat right over her head, she hurried back towards his house. Emma glanced up and down the road, checking for faces in windows, die-hard dog walkers, but it was quiet and empty, everyone probably cosied up in their houses out of the cold December night.

  She threw her bag over first, hearing it land with a thud on the driveway. Then she leaped against the gate post, her hands grabbing the top of the bricks, their cold grit painful against her skin. Pushing her feet against the side, she managed to leverage herself up and over.

  A security light immediately popped on and she instinctively shrank back. After a few seconds, it turned itself off again. She knew the minute she moved, it would once again illuminate the driveway, but no doubt foxes triggered it all the time. She would just have to be quick. She hurried up to the front door, and using the key she’d got cut the week before, put it in the lock and turned. In seconds she was inside. She remembered the code for the alarm from her last visit to the house, when she’d watched him type it in. A few taps to the keypad and then the house was silent.

  Emma took a second to catch her breath, still her pounding heart. Standing there in the dark, grateful for the warmth, she thought she’d be there an hour at most and then she could get the hell out and make her way home. Keeping the torch low, she climbed the stairs to the roundel and went into Adrian’s office.

  Going over to his desk, she sat in his chair and opened the drawers. The top two were full of miscellaneous knickknacks, more of the bitter dark chocolate. The bottom one was deeper and full of papers piled up on each other. She heaved them out and placed them on the desk, flicking through methodically, careful to keep them in the same order. They were all notes or documents relating to Leon: pages of scripts that had been scribbled on, character biographies, synopses. It took longer than she thought to go through them, but finally she placed them all back in the drawer, heart beating fast. She didn’t like being in there but knew she had to check the oak unit before she could leave. She went over to the other side of the room and opened its doors, nearly losing heart at the piles of paper stacked inside. Did this man never throw anything out?

  She worked from left to right, pulling out each pile and carefully going through the papers on the wooden floor, her back against the leather sofa. As she flicked through, illuminating the pages with her torch, she grew ever more despondent and anxious. More stuff on Leon. Then suddenly the content began to change. Script pages and notes from Generation Rebel. Encouraged, Emma sat up straighter, flicked through with a new energy.

  It had struck her several times before tonight that there was probably nothing there and the evidence she was looking for had been long since destroyed, but a part of her had to search, had to find out for sure.

  The documents began to get older, emails dated from a couple of years ago, with notes on Generation Rebel scripts from various executives. The hairs went up on her arms as she recognized the fictional people; she knew them as well as she knew herself. Then outlines of stories – again ideas she recognized. Emma found herself slowing down to read the old drafts before chastising herself: these weren’t relevant.

  There was one pile left. With a deep breath, she pulled it out of the cupboard and onto the floor.

  That was when she heard the front door snick shut.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Friday 15 December

  Emma froze, her heart pounding in her chest. Had she been mistaken? She felt sick and in a panic leaped to the window, keeping out of sight as she edged open the curtains. Down on the drive was Adrian’s BMW. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  She wildly looked down at the papers on the floor. Frantically she stashed them back in the cupboard, trying to remain quiet, trying to listen to the house. She flicked on a side light and then grabbed her phone from her bag, and fingers stumbling over the keys, quickly sent a text. She stood up and faced the office door, just as it slowly began to open.

  The look on his face morphed from surprise to a barely registered flicker of lust to suspicion. ‘Emma! What are you doing here?’

  ‘I left something behind,’ she said breezily.

  He switched on the main light and she squinted in its brightness. ‘How did you g
et in?’ he asked.

  She thought quickly. ‘The window. In the kitchen. It was ajar.’

  Adrian frowned. ‘I didn’t open it.’

  ‘No . . . I did . . . earlier. To get rid of the smoke. The bacon sandwiches, remember?’

  ‘And the alarm?’

  She had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘I . . . er . . . I’d seen you key it in.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that right?’

  She saw him look around the room, mistrustful, trying to work out what was really going on. Then his phone beeped. He checked it out. Emma knew what it was – the text she’d sent moments before.

  He looked at her, held up the screen. ‘“Hi, Adrian. Please can you call me?”’ he read out.

  ‘Yes, to explain. About the window. Having to come back.’

  He nodded. ‘Emma, you’ll understand why I think nothing of what you’re saying is true.’

  She swallowed. Kept quiet.

  ‘In fact, I’d go as far as to say you were covering something up.’

  She smiled weakly, innocently, she hoped.

  ‘You see, I’m driving home along the M2 when I get a call about half an hour ago from Geraldine . . .’ The nosy neighbour, thought Emma, heart sinking. ‘She’d been out walking her dog,’ continued Adrian. ‘Said there was a small light flickering in the office here, as if someone had broken in, was searching the place, so of course I came straight back. You want to tell me what’s really going on?’

  Emma felt the sofa pressing against the back of her legs. Weak, she sat down. Remained silent.

  Frustrated, Adrian waved his phone around. ‘This isn’t cool. I thought we got on, you and me. I thought we worked well together, trusted one another.’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘Newsflash. You’ve just broken into my house.’

  ‘I told you . . . the window—’

  ‘Bollocks. Emma, don’t treat me like a dick.’ He pushed his hand through his hair. She saw him mentally work out what approach to take with her. Then he sighed. ‘I’m putting my everything into this show, shitting myself, in actual fact, because there’s always the possibility it might not work out. Something that perhaps only you really know. Certainly Carrie isn’t aware of how much I’m cacking my pants.’ He paused. ‘I don’t need to tell you how important it is that I get it right. And as much as I love you being a part of it – goddamn it, you’re so bloody brilliant sometimes I feel like you could write it yourself – that feeling is not going to stick with me if I’m checking over my shoulder to see if you’re stabbing me in the back. Or whatever the fuck it is you’re doing here in the dark without my knowledge. Now, I’m not one for threats, but please, Emma, give me something that makes this’ – he waved his phone arm between them both – ‘our brilliant team of you and me, keep going. ’Cos apart from anything else, it’s going to be a right pain in the arse to go looking to hire somebody new.’

  Emma sat still, her body rigid. She had no idea how to get out of this. She looked up at Adrian and knew she had to give him an answer. Something. She couldn’t lose her job, not for several reasons. It was unthinkable. She saw the hope in him start to flicker away, and knew in a few more moments, everything would be lost. Everything that she’d hoped for, had been yearning for since she was a little girl.

  She nervously crossed her legs and saw his eyes follow this action, saw the glimmer in them.

  He held up his phone. ‘You know what? I think this might be one for the police.’

  No!

  ‘Unless you can give me a reason not to.’ He paused, softened his voice. ‘A very good one. Only, I see you here in the privacy of my office and you’ve just sent me a text so you can tell me you’re back at my house . . . Someone could mistake that for an invitation.’

  He smiled and she felt sick to the pit of her stomach, hardly able to take in what she’d just heard. She should – what? Tell him where to go? Get fired? Never work in TV again? She couldn’t think straight. All she could feel was fear. A deep, consuming fear that she knew would engulf her if he cut her from the life raft that was her work.

  Adrian held his thumb poised over the keys, eyebrows raised in anticipation.

  Later she would think it was the diabolical fear that had robbed her of her courage. That and the unspeakable loneliness. She couldn’t face it again.

  She rested her trembling hand on the empty seat next to her. Smoothed it over the soft leather. ‘The reason I texted . . . the reason I wanted to speak to you is . . .’ She couldn’t continue, but she didn’t have to. He’d dropped his hand to his side.

  She forced herself to make eye contact with him again, an animal caught in a trap, and felt herself cross over to a place from which she’d never be able to return.

  She saw his face light up, soften. Then he slowly placed his phone on the desk and went to join her on the sofa.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Monday 18 December

  Emma lay in bed listening to her parents get ready for work. The cheerful, optimistic smell of freshly ground coffee wafted up the stairs and under her door, and she could hear ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful’ on the radio being belted out by a large chorus, accompanied by her dad’s admittedly rich tenor, her mother’s descant voice chiming in singing choirs of angels. It reminded her of school. Four hundred girls in chapel, all following Miss Barkham the music teacher’s carefully trained baton.

  She listened as the carol finished downstairs and the Messiah started its opening bars. She wished they’d hurry up and leave so she could return the house to silence.

  At least it was better than the usual overplayed rock and pop fare, songs she’d tired of since they’d first appeared on the radio in October, but after having to listen to them in Adrian’s BMW on the drive back from the beach house on Friday night, would never be able to hear again without their making her heart plummet to depths she didn’t know existed.

  It had been an excruciating drive – having to sit so close to Adrian after what they’d done. Regret and self-loathing growing inside her until she was rigid with misery. He’d been quiet on the way home too and the silence was filled with the over-bright screeching of Wizzard’s ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday’. He offered to drive her all the way home and she’d protested at first, saying he could drop her at a London station and she’d find her way from there, but he’d insisted, had been quite caring, in fact, and in despair, she hadn’t known how to argue with him. He’d asked her twice if she was OK, concerned perhaps by how quiet she’d been, and she’d said she was fine, even giving him a quick smile, anything to get him off her back.

  When he dropped her at the end of her road (she’d insisted, not wanting him near the house, but had felt even more sullied by this skulking action), he’d turned the engine off, a sign, she knew, for them to talk.

  It was the absolute last thing she wanted to do, to speak about what had happened between them, and she’d opened the car door.

  ‘Wait . . .’ he’d said, a small, concerned frown on his face, and she’d stopped midway out of the car. ‘Are you sure everything’s OK?’

  It had taken a lot of effort, but she’d smiled and nodded.

  ‘You and me. We’re still cool?’ he’d asked tentatively.

  ‘Course.’

  ‘Only, I know it might be difficult now, with Carrie . . .’

  You don’t know the half of it, thought Emma miserably.

  ‘. . . and I’d appreciate it if . . .’

  She looked at him, astounded. Who did he think she was? ‘I wouldn’t dream of saying anything,’ she said, aghast.

  He blushed. ‘Sorry. Of course. I know that.’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ Emma stepped out of the car as he leaned across the seat, smiling at her as if everything were normal.

  ‘Have a great weekend. See you on Monday.’

  She’d nodded, but now it was Monday and she had no intention of going into that office. She couldn’t bear to see him, couldn’t look at him knowing he
’d seen her naked, touched her. Worse, it was one of Carrie’s workdays and she just couldn’t face her.

  She’d ruined everything. There, she’d admitted it. That was the thing that devastated her the most. And she hadn’t even managed to find the evidence she’d been looking for. She’d derailed her whole plan because she’d been stupid enough to get caught in their house. Tears of self-pity started to flow, but just as the dam opened up, there was a knock on her bedroom door. Emma quickly wiped her face as her mother came in, dressed in a light grey trouser suit and a pale blue shirt.

  ‘Still feeling poorly, Emma?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you want any breakfast? Dad’s made scrambled eggs.’

  ‘Sorry – just can’t face it,’ mumbled Emma from beneath the duvet.

  ‘Are you sure? Toast is still warm.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Oh, well, never mind.’ She sounded disappointed. ‘So you’re not going to work today, then?’

  ‘No.’

  Alice hesitated. ‘Well, maybe you’ll be better later. Take care of yourself,’ she said, and Emma looked up, surprised by the solicitous tone, but her mother had already closed the door.

  Emma reached out for her phone and composed an email to Carrie, informing her she’d caught a bug and wouldn’t be at work. It was short and matter-of-fact. Not long after that, she heard the radio switch off downstairs and her parents leave for work.

  She went down into the kitchen, pulling her dressing gown tight around her as the heating was on a timer and had gone off for the day. Ever conscious it didn’t feel like her house, it seemed indulgent, almost disobedient to switch it back on, so she made herself a coffee and sat at the breakfast bar, her hands wrapped round the cup. She stared out through the patio doors, the frost on the tiny patch of grass, the sky not fully light. Her phone beeped. She glanced down – Christ, it was a message from Adrian. She pushed it away, but it tugged at her until, furious, she had to read it.