The Temp

by Michelle Frances

  ‘Hope you’re OK? Worried illness has something to do with Friday???’

  Oh, for God’s sake. She didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to engage, wished he’d just disappear, and she pushed her phone away. Picked up her coffee and went back up to bed.

  Despite indulging in a day of moping, Emma made sure she was showered and dressed by the time her parents came home. Her mother appeared first, pleased to see her daughter feeling better, and delighted – even relieved – she was able to join them for dinner. Alice had texted during the day too – twice – just to check in, and Emma was puzzled by all the attention.

  They broke it to her over dinner. With both of them turning sixty-five the following year, and solid pensions behind them, they’d decided to retire.

  Emma had been warily pleased for them. ‘That’s great. You’ve worked so hard for so long.’ She smiled. ‘You’re not going to know what to do with all your new spare time.’

  ‘Actually . . .’ started Alice.

  ‘We quite fancy a change,’ said Brian.

  Alarm bells started to ring. Emma looked from one to the other.

  ‘We’ve never really spent enough time at the lake house,’ continued Brian.

  ‘And we’d like to. Get to know the area – and the neighbours – properly.’

  ‘How long for?’ asked Emma uneasily.

  ‘A while,’ said Alice.

  ‘Months?’

  Brian put down his knife and fork. ‘For the foreseeable.’

  Emma quashed her rising panic. ‘And this place?’

  Her father paused before speaking. ‘We’re going to rent it out.’

  Her stomach twisted and she looked at both her parents, crestfallen.

  Her mother was sympathetic. ‘I’m sorry, Emma, but we’ll need the income. You know there’s no central heating at the villa and we’ll have to get that sorted. And the windows need replacing.’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Of course we’ll help set you up. Contribute towards your first rent,’ said Brian.

  ‘And after that?’

  Neither of them answered her, and Emma saw them exchange a wry glance.

  ‘I know it seems hard, but . . . well, I’m sure you want to stand on your own two feet, don’t you?’ Alice smiled.

  Tears threatened, but Emma kept them at bay. Her eyes blazed. ‘So this is your latest plan. To manipulate me into somebody you want me to be.’

  ‘What?’ said Alice.

  ‘Will you only be happy if I become the person you think is good enough?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Brian. ‘We’ve always been very happy to discuss all options with you.’

  ‘You’ve discussed nothing. It’s all been one-sided. You’ve made it perfectly clear what you want me to do.’

  ‘That’s not true—’ started Alice.

  Emma stood abruptly, her chair scraping back.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How long until you rent this place out?’

  Alice looked at Brian. ‘Well, we were thinking . . .’

  ‘February,’ said Brian.

  Jesus!

  ‘Fine. I’ll be out by then.’

  ‘Emma . . .’ Alice stood.

  But Emma didn’t stop. As she left the room, she heard them speak sotto voce to one another.

  ‘She’ll come round,’ said Brian. ‘Rebecca’s still got a position open for her. She’s bloody lucky. We can’t let her ruin her life on some whim. My God, she could be so brilliant, if only she’d see what was in front of her nose.’

  Alice sighed. ‘I know. Whoever knew bringing up children was so hard?’

  Emma silently climbed the stairs and went to her room.

  She closed the door and leaned back against it. Her life was falling apart. She had no time to wallow in the misery of the other night. She had to fight back.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Tuesday 19 December

  ‘Let’s get one thing clear: it was a mistake. We shouldn’t have done it and it won’t ever happen again.’

  ‘You got it.’

  Emma stared at Adrian; his casual attitude was irritating. Now he was smiling at her, his head tipped quizzically to one side.

  ‘So why were you there?’ he asked. ‘As flattering as it is to believe you climbed through my kitchen window and arranged our little tryst, I can’t help feeling there was something else going on.’

  Emma held his gaze, suppressing the fear in the pit of her stomach. He mustn’t know what she’d been looking for.

  ‘Nothing else.’ She shrugged. ‘You underestimate yourself.’

  His head tipped again: Explain.

  ‘You’re very clever, a very successful writer. It’s attractive.’

  She saw him preen and held back the impulse to gag. She needed to get to the end of this gruelling conversation. They were in the back office on borrowed time – Carrie would no doubt miss them in a minute and come looking, and Emma wanted this out of the way and forgotten as soon as possible.

  ‘So we’re in agreement. Big mistake. Not ever going to be repeated?’

  Adrian looked at her. ‘It’s OK. I get it. We’ve all got jobs to do. I have a wife . . .’

  ‘And child.’

  He hesitated. ‘Yes, one of those too.’ He lowered his voice further. ‘I am not intending to jeopardize this show or anyone’s career. So please don’t worry.’

  She examined his answer carefully, scrutinized his face.

  ‘Trust me, Emma. I have more to lose than you.’

  I don’t think you do, she thought, but said nothing. A rap on the door made her jump.

  Carrie came in and looked between them. ‘Everything OK?’

  Adrian held up a DVD. ‘Emma just dropped off this composer’s reel. Mark Williams. Have you heard it yet?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Carrie.

  ‘Any good?’

  ‘I like him.’

  ‘Cool. Let me check him out.’ He put it into his laptop.

  Nervous about being in such close proximity to both of them, Emma saw her chance to escape and quickly left the room.

  THIRTY

  Tuesday 19 December

  Carrie watched through the open doorway as Emma went back to her desk. She didn’t understand why the door had been closed if Emma was just dropping off a DVD.

  She glanced back at Adrian with the distinct impression she’d interrupted something, but he had his headphones on and didn’t take his eyes off the screen.

  She left the room and went to the kitchen to make herself a coffee. It had been four days since her conversation with Elaine, but she couldn’t get it out of her head. Especially as Adrian had spent the whole of Friday working with Emma at the beach house.

  They’d stood in the cold outside Elaine’s office as Elaine had regaled her with what had happened all those months ago when Emma had been fired from Marsh Pictures.

  Elaine had caught Emma snooping. Looking at confidential documents. She’d left Emma in her office with instructions to hunt out a particular draft of a script and had walked back in half an hour later to find her looking through the contracts file for Generation Rebel – specifically, Adrian’s contract.

  It was something she kept in a separate cupboard. So Emma had very little with which to defend herself. Strangely, she hadn’t even tried, apparently, just put the contract back on the desk and gone to get her things. She’d been out of the building less than ten minutes after getting caught.

  ‘Maybe she was looking at your husband’s fee,’ Elaine had said, ‘to see how much he cost. Then she’d know what to offer.’

  ‘We all know it’s the channel who pays, not us producers,’ said Carrie.

  ‘Still gotta raise it, though, haven’t you?’

  Carrie had mused on this theory darkly. It goaded her that Emma and Adrian worked so well together – maybe Emma was already drip-feeding new ideas into his ear. Well, she could go to hell – Adrian
was signed up for three years with her. Three years that she anxiously knew she couldn’t fulfil, not the way she’d originally planned it. There was plenty of room for Emma to inveigle her way in.

  ‘Ambitious, is she?’ asked Elaine, knowingly.

  Carrie shrugged.

  Elaine let out a peal of laughter. ‘Oh, you’re to die for. So transparent. Must feel threatening, someone so set on doing well taking over half your job.’

  She refused to rise to the bait. ‘Did they ever meet?’

  ‘No, Adrian was already cooking up ideas with you by the time Emma had her short stint with us.’ Elaine leaned in. ‘I’ve seen it before, you know. Producers circling like sharks. Whispering poisonous thoughts into writers’ ears. “You deserve this . . .” “You should be allowed that . . .” “Are you sure you’re getting the right respect?” Subtle words designed to look like magnanimous support when all they want is to drive a wedge between the writer and his or her current producer of choice.’ Elaine’s eyes glinted. ‘I’m sure you didn’t ever say anything like that about me . . .’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Carrie.

  ‘Hmm. Christ, every producer in town would dig out their own eyeball to bag Adrian. He’s got green-lighting power.’

  ‘You really think she’s trying to set something up with him?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘She’s so young . . . I mean, this is her first producing gig.’

  ‘And a pretty impressive one at that. Do you ever stop to think she’s in the office more than you? She’s doing five days a week on your show – you’re doing three. You’ve practically handed it to her on a plate.’

  Carrie baulked. She was so naive. Why hadn’t she made this basic observation?

  Elaine smiled. ‘But you’ll be able to keep her at bay. Just so long as you and Adrian are getting on.’

  Carrie’s eyes flickered. She instantly regretted it, but it was too late.

  ‘Oh my. Better paper over those cracks before she steals him while your back’s turned changing nappies.’

  Elaine put a comforting hand on Carrie’s arm. ‘Don’t look so down. Anytime you need to talk, I’m here. I know what it’s like, remember!’ Then she removed her hand from Carrie’s arm and walked away.

  It had been a disturbing conversation that had plagued her all weekend. Adrian and Emma spent enough time working together alone for Emma to cook up anything. And then there were the private conversations like this morning, the closed doors.

  Carrie took her coffee to her desk, opened up her emails. There was one from the head of costume.

  She looked to her right, where Emma was working. ‘Did you get this? Jill’s got some outfits for us to look over. Wondering if we’re free to go over to the production office at Pinewood this afternoon.’

  Emma looked apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, Carrie, but I think I’m going to have to bow out. I may have come back to work too early . . .’ She rubbed her stomach. ‘Still feeling a little queasy. In fact, would it be all right if I . . . ?’

  She did look pale, thought Carrie. ‘That’s fine. You go.’

  ‘Thanks. Sorry again.’

  Carrie watched as she gathered up her things and left the office. There was definitely something about her she didn’t trust. Maybe Elaine was right, Emma was planning to oust her. She didn’t know yet, but she was certainly going to find out.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Tuesday 19 December

  Emma didn’t go home. Instead, she headed to Victoria Station and then took a train to Broadstairs, finding a quiet seat by the window. There were only three other people in the carriage and everyone sat in contented silence. The train wound through the Kent countryside in the bright, cold winter sun, many of the fields dark and restful, sheep and cattle dotted on those that were still green. As she neared the coast, she’d occasionally catch a glimpse of the sea, a pewter sparkle when the sun caught it.

  Emma walked the two miles to the North Foreland Estate, through the town and then along the clifftop road, watching the seagulls swoop and dive down to the beach below. The tide was out, revealing countless rock pools, populated with unlucky winkles, their fate sealed as the seagulls stood mercilessly on the edge, plucking them from the water.

  The estate was quiet. Emma looked around, trying to see beyond the trees and high fences, where there were glimpses of houses, spying on her, she felt, and she wondered which one was Geraldine’s. The windows she could see were blank, the driveways empty. Emma lifted herself over the wall, walked up to the front door and let herself in. Alarm off, she wasted no time in going upstairs to the office. She faltered briefly as she opened the door, but gave the sofa a wide berth and opened the oak cupboard, pulling out the last pile of documents she hadn’t searched. She checked her watch. She had hours if needed, as Carrie and Adrian would only just be arriving at Pinewood. But she wanted this done as quickly as possible and so she set to work, turning each paper over as she searched. She knew there was a good chance there was nothing, that this, like the last time, was a wasted trip. One that had cost her dearly. Everything she was looking through still related to Generation Rebel, so her heart could not help but hold some hope.

  She stopped abruptly as she came across a large white envelope. It was addressed to Adrian, via his agent, an address she remembered she’d looked up online. The bright orange stamp she’d stuck on had now been darkened by a postmark, the date from nearly four years ago. Tentatively she opened the worn flap, wondering if the original contents were still inside. She slowly pulled out several sheets of paper. A bittersweet smile of triumph. She could remember writing this letter, she thought ruefully. She could remember her naivety. She didn’t stop to read any of it; instead, she put the papers back in the envelope, returned the other documents to the cupboard, and after resetting the alarm, left the house.

  As she walked back along the cliff road, she smiled to herself. Her bag was pulled close to her body, the envelope carefully placed inside.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Tuesday 19 December

  The wind blew her along and she laughed joyfully. The world suddenly seemed brighter somehow, its colours more vibrant, more radiant. Her secret, so long a tiny, private smoulder, was now a rampaging inferno inside her, and as she passed Bleak House, with its solid, fort-like strength, she gave a little nod to the ghost of Charles Dickens. He’d appreciate the twist in this tale, the wronged individual getting a piece of luck, luck that had the power to change the narrative. Yes, indeed! She continued walking until she came to Viking Bay, its glorious golden crest of sand before her, and suddenly felt the urge for spontaneity. A celebration!

  ‘A strawberry and chocolate double scoop in a cone, please,’ she said, then paid for her ice cream and took it down to the beach. She sat on the cold sand, looking out to the water, grinning between licks. What a stupid idiot he is, she thought. She’d hoped, somewhat in a fantasy world, that she might find something, anything to vindicate what she’d been harbouring, not really believing she’d get anything – but this! God, this was something he was going to regret. Justice, she thought. Justice needed to be carried out.

  A frisbee landed a few metres to her right and she looked up to see a little girl, dressed in school uniform, running along the sand. She was followed by her mother, who was wrapped up in a huge, puffy coat, a scarf poking out of the top, her daughter’s school bags braceleted over her gloved hands. The mother put the bags on the sand and joined in the game, shrieking with laughter as much as the little girl did as they ran for the frisbee, often both of them diving for it at the same time. The girl was about seven, Emma guessed. Around about the age she was when she’d been sent away to boarding school.

  She watched them playing together for a while; then the girl looked across and Emma raised a hand and smiled, but the girl ran past, a wide grin on her face full of the simple joy of freedom, and Emma realized she hadn’t been looking at her at all – she’d been following the line of the frisbee.

  Feeling f
oolish, she stood up and brushed the sand from her backside. She left the beach and headed up to the station. On the train, she picked a seat that was away from anyone else, and once it had pulled away, she took the envelope out of her bag, lifted the flap and pulled out the contents.

  Dear Adrian Hill,

  I am writing to ask if I might be able to seek your advice. I am a student at Exeter University in the second year of my English degree. I am also a television-drama nut and watch everything (!) from the US drama imports to the brilliant shows that are made here in the UK. I absolutely loved your recent episode of In Good Faith – it’s the best soap on TV. It was so fresh and surprising, and the twist at the end when Jonah revealed his second wife blew me away. I love to write in my spare time and eventually would like to have a career as a television screenwriter, much like yourself.

  My understanding is that in order to get taken seriously, I will need an agent, and I was wondering if you would be able to advise me on how best to choose the right agent to contact. My style is still evolving, but I am currently working on a series set in a school in which the children rebel against the establishment. After years of being forced through the education machine like sausages, being bullied and pressured to do even more advanced learning (to keep up with the Chinese), they finally crack. Demands made to the authorities are laughed off and so the kids form an uprising until they ultimately hold the teachers hostage, leading to tragic consequences for one. I see it as a modern-day Lord of the Flies and a comment on today’s education system and its part in the rise of mental-health issues in children. I have enclosed a full outline, should that be of interest.

  I hope you don’t mind me contacting you, but I am such an admirer of your work. Any pointers you can give me would be very gratefully received.

  Best wishes,

  Anna King

  She remembered being gripped by nerves at the last minute and choosing the false name. The entire letter was handwritten, a deliberate choice, in the hope that by giving it the personal touch, she would receive a reply.