She never heard back. Two years later, it became perfectly apparent why.
Emma put the letter away and stared out the window. She had the proof. Now she had to decide what to do with it.
THIRTY-THREE
Wednesday 20 December
It was always the trucks that got Emma first, the sheer size and number of them. Gleaming white, full of shiny silver boxes of kit, hauled out by efficient armies of men, reeking of masculinity, with tool belts strapped round their waists, which she knew were full of gizmos that were actually used, not just for show.
Early for work, she’d made her way along 007 Drive past the Stanley Kubrick Building to the North Lot. Her pass had let her into the studios, but she deliberately kept a low profile while she wandered around, became immediately purposeful and moved on whenever she saw security looking her way. She loved being out here; often the sound stages were screened off, but glimpses of a snowy village or a 1930s New York street could still be found. She’d see cranes being erected, dolly track laid, lights going up. Sometimes, actors were hanging around, remarkably on their own, free of paparazzi or entourage, as they waited between scenes, having a cigarette or coffee break. The energy of a film set was electric to her, and even though much of a day’s filming was painfully slow, waiting for each department to be ready, for the director to block the scene, the actors to rehearse, she couldn’t get enough of it. She’d struck up conversation with one of the technicians, Ray, who had befriended her. He was the one who told her that there was a James Bond film currently being shot at the studios, along with a movie on the life of Marco Polo – earlier, she’d taken a peek at the exterior tank stage, where a mediaeval ship packed with men with swords and live horses was afloat in front of an enormous green screen.
Someone tapped her shoulder. She jumped, thinking it was security telling her to move on, but Adrian was standing there, carrying two coffees. She forced herself not to recoil as he handed her one.
‘Thought we could make a start on episode six – the notes from Luke. Then I can write the changes over the next couple of days, get the last of the scripts out to the cast just after Christmas. It’ll give them a few days to look over them before the read-through.’
The read-through was set for the first day back after the Christmas break. It was a marathon event that would bring the cast together for the first time, and in which they read aloud all six scripts to an audience of the senior producers and channel executives. Emma loved read-throughs, loved hearing the words come alive as the actors became their characters. It didn’t matter they were all sitting in a boardroom; she could imagine the cast in costume and in situ. It also gave her a sense of whether the script that had been laboured on for months was truly working.
Emma already knew Luke’s notes off by heart. ‘They’re not too bad,’ she said. ‘He’s gone easy on us. In fact, he’s been pretty good for the entire series. Was he like this for Generation Rebel as well?’
‘Yep. Scripts were in good shape so he let us off lightly.’
‘It’s the authenticity that impressed me. Your knowledge of the education system and how it had affected those characters.’
Adrian smiled modestly.
‘Did you get your inspiration from anyone in particular?’ she said casually, watching his face.
He seemed to be focused on a crane, loaded with a camera that was panning across a set, and didn’t meet her eye. ‘Just through talking to friends. Hearing about their experiences with their children.’
‘Well, it’s brilliant. Almost as if you’d just gone through school yourself.’
He glanced at her and she smiled in admiration.
‘Glad you liked it.’
Adrian suddenly blew on his hands. ‘Right, better get back.’
He set off in the direction of the TV stages, not waiting to see if she was behind him or not.
She watched him go, loathing him.
Adrian was taking off his jacket when she came into their shared office.
‘No Carrie?’ she asked.
‘She’s still dropping off Rory,’ said Adrian.
‘You want to wait for her?’
‘She’s already given me her feedback on the notes.’
Emma nodded. She worked through them with him, discussing how they might implement the changes Luke had suggested. It didn’t take long, and after an hour, he left to find a quiet room to write them up.
Carrie arrived soon after. Emma watched as she put down her bag and switched on her laptop. She’d said nothing to her other than the absolute minimum, a courteous greeting. It made Emma nervous; surely Carrie didn’t know anything about the night at the beach house. She sat at her desk too self-conscious to work, aware of Carrie’s every move.
‘Did you go through the notes?’ Carrie suddenly asked, breaking the silence.
‘Yes. Adrian’s writing them up now.’
‘Good.’ She paused. ‘Do you know what he’s going to do next?’
‘Well . . . no. I’m guessing these rewrites are going to take the rest of the day – longer probably.’
For the first time since she’d arrived, Carrie looked her straight in the eye. ‘I mean his next project.’
Emma was perplexed. ‘Um . . . no . . .’
‘Only, lots of producers would like him to write for them. I know he gets calls.’
Emma nodded vaguely, wondering where this was going.
‘Except he’s got an exclusive contract with Hawk Pictures.’
She knew about this. ‘Yes.’
‘That I negotiated.’
The threat was clear.
Emma’s eyes widened. ‘What do you mean?’
Carrie stayed silent.
‘Do you think I’m . . . developing something else with Adrian?’ she said incredulously. The thought made her feel nauseous. The intimacy of all that intense time together. The hours and hours required for the two of them to be alone, resident in a world of only their creation. It was all she could do not to gag.
‘I wouldn’t . . .’
‘Really? It would be quite a coup.’
Carrie didn’t believe her. Emma’s faced burned with mortification. ‘Maybe he’s not as good as he says he is,’ she blurted out.
Carrie’s mouth dropped with utter astonishment. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Emma bit her tongue. Wished she could take it back.
‘I can’t believe you just said that . . .’ Carrie was staring at her, astounded at her audacity.
Then Emma saw something click in her mind.
‘Are you serious?’ Carrie said coldly.
‘What?’
‘You’re really trying to make me think my husband is a substandard writer so that I don’t mind when you steal him from under my nose?’
Emma blushed. ‘What? No! I don’t know what you mean.’
Carrie lowered her voice. ‘I won’t have it, Emma. You might have inveigled your way into my job, this job, but that’s where it ends. As soon as this show is finished, there will be no more working with Adrian.’
Emma opened her mouth to speak, but Carrie was already out the door, though not before Emma got a glimpse of her face, riddled with sadness and exhaustion.
She sat there in the quiet room, shocked at Carrie’s accusation, her mind writhing with regret. None of this was going the way she’d planned. A flutter of panic rose up inside her. Somehow she had to get everything back on track.
THIRTY-FOUR
Friday 22 December
It was the last day of work before the Christmas break and Emma still hadn’t confronted Adrian. There was a sense of the holiday season in the air. Packets of mince pies lay open on filing cabinets for people to help themselves, and more than one member of the crew had found an innovative way of wearing tinsel: round their head, neck, backside.
They’d most likely finish early, everyone going back to their families for the holidays. Emma would be going home too, to a strained Christmas with her parents. It would be
some relief to all of them that Brian and Alice were going to Italy on Boxing Day. Emma had been invited but had declined. She did not want to be around conversations on how the lake house needed to be renovated, when she was soon to become homeless. Christmas was a bad time to be looking for rooms in flats in London, Emma knew, and this only fuelled her growing anxiety that she would have nowhere to live in a matter of weeks. She couldn’t even stay on at her parents’ house, as it had already been let: a family was due to move in at the end of February. Both her parents would periodically check in with her on the success of her search, her mother in particular, hiding occasional bouts of concern at her daughter’s prospects, but neither one would budge from their position. Emma knew they both secretly thought it would be the making of her.
Emma looked over to where Rory was in his pram in the corner of the office. Carrie had popped in, bringing small gifts for all the crew, and was down in the studios handing them out. As soon as Carrie had left the office, Adrian hotfooted it out of the room, leaving Rory alone with Emma.
She could hear him gurgling happily but couldn’t see into the pram from where she was sitting. She got out of her seat and walked over to him, curious. As soon as she came into his view, he looked up at her, unsure. She smiled at him, waved her fingers.
‘Hi, Rory. Have they left you all alone?’
She watched as he appraised her, his huge blue eyes wary.
‘How could they leave you?’ she murmured, and then reached into the pram and picked him up. He didn’t protest, and in fact she thought he seemed pleased to have a change of view. He gazed around the room as she bounced him gently in her arms, enjoying being able to study him.
His blond hair was so fine it was barely visible, and she smoothed her hand over his head, marvelling at how soft it was. She then touched his tiny little hands, staring in wonder at the doll-sized fingernails. She smelt the top of his head, taking in the sweet baby smell, and nuzzled his soft, minute earlobes. He was a perfect mini human being.
Then he looked directly at her and she felt her heart squeeze. She laughed in delight.
‘Hey, you. Shall we be friends?’
He smiled at her.
‘Because,’ she said softly, ‘I know what it’s like to have absent parents. If you need someone to talk to, I’m here.’ She held him close. ‘And if it ever gets really bad, I’ll come and get you. We’ll run away together. Eh? Won’t we?’
Rory began to rub his eyes with his fists and Emma gently kissed him on the forehead. She looked at him one last time, then, with great care, laid him back in his pram. She tucked him in and smiled tenderly at him. She pushed the pram back and forth and his eyes started to close. Soon he was asleep.
Now was the time. Before Carrie came back.
Emma walked down the corridor to the small office where Adrian had escaped to and knocked gently.
‘Yep?’ he called.
She opened the door. ‘Sorry to bother you but there’s an Anna King down at reception for you.’
He frowned. ‘Who?’
‘Says she has a meeting with you at one o’clock?’
‘Don’t know anything about it.’
‘I didn’t think you’d mentioned it. But she’s downstairs. Shall I bring her up?’
He pondered. ‘OK.’
‘I’ll take her to our office. Can I get you a coffee while I’m passing the machine?’
‘Love one.’
Emma went directly to the coffee machine in the kitchen, made two Americanos and brought them back, without going to the reception area. She placed them both in the office, then returned to the room where Adrian was writing.
‘She’s here,’ she said, putting her head round the door.
He smiled as he got up. ‘She say what this is about? I could do with a bit of a heads-up, make sure I don’t embarrass myself.’
They walked down the corridor. ‘She said she knows you from years ago,’ said Emma.
He frowned. ‘Where?’
‘Not sure.’
They came to the office. Adrian looked in, perplexed. ‘Where is she?’
Emma ushered him in. ‘Coffee’s on the table.’
‘Great. Thanks.’ He looked around, then picked up his coffee, took a seat on the sofa. ‘She gone to the ladies’ or something?’
Emma sat down opposite him. ‘She did mention one thing. She went to Exeter University.’
‘Oh, right. So where is she now?’
Emma stilled the butterflies in her stomach. Crossed her legs.
‘Emma?’
‘She wrote to you on 18 February 2014 to ask you for some advice.’
She watched him carefully as his memory started to throw back great burning cannonballs at him. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
‘I don’t really have time to meet her,’ he said. He stood suddenly and went to the open door, but she was already there, closed it.
He looked at her, puzzled.
‘You still don’t get it, do you?’ she said.
He frowned. ‘Get what?’
She smiled coldly at him. Like a dam bursting, an idea of preposterous awfulness seemed to flood his brain.
‘Jesus!’ He stared at her, horrified. ‘Are you telling me . . . you . . .’ He continued spluttering and running his hand through his hair in disbelief.
Emma decided enough was enough.
‘Yes, Adrian,’ she said with great patience. ‘It was me who wrote you that letter. Me who sent you the school-series idea. I am Anna King.’
THIRTY-FIVE
Friday 22 December
‘You’re lying.’
Emma remained calm. ‘Why would I lie?’
‘You’re not Anna King. I don’t even know who Anna King is.’
‘Which is it, Adrian? Make up your mind.’
‘What do you want? Is this some sick way of blackmailing me? My agent warned me about people like you.’
Emma got her letter and documents out of her bag and held them up.
Adrian’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘Where did you get those?’ he snapped.
‘You do recognize them, then. I got them from where you left them, in your office at the beach house.’ She paused. ‘I’d like to know why. Why did you feel you could just steal my idea? Is it because I was only a student? Did you think I was an easy target?’
She could see by his face that this was true.
‘It’s my idea,’ she repeated. ‘My characters. My stories. My entire series.’
Adrian’s face hardened. ‘You haven’t got a clue,’ he said. ‘I wrote the damn thing. I created it.’
Emma bristled. ‘No. I created it. You took my creation and ran off with it. Made yourself a load of money and a reputation. Did you ever stop and think of me? While you were coasting along with my idea? Did you ever think of how I wanted to write up that show, that it was my right to?’ The frustration of the last few years, of being unable to write anything new because of the searing sense of injustice, boiled over. ‘Did you ever feel guilty?’
He was stony-faced. She waited for an answer, but none came.
‘I want you to tell Carrie what you’ve done. How you stole my idea. And I want it all to come from you. This’ – she pointed between them – ‘conversation never happened.’
Adrian contemplated her for a moment, then walked across the room. ‘Why would I feel guilty? You think this has never happened before? People adapt—’
‘Steal.’
He ignored her. ‘. . . ideas all the time. There’s no such thing as an original idea. In fact, how do you know I wasn’t already working on something set in a school? I made it happen. You know how this business works. You would never have been commissioned to write it, not a complete newcomer.’
‘That’s not the point—’
‘What experience do you have? You haven’t done anything.’
‘It’s not about the exp—’
‘You’ve seen what I’ve accomplished and thought it was easy. There’s
no way you could’ve come up with the goods. What have you written in your life, Emma? Nothing. Zilch. You’re not a writer. You’re just a wannabe.’
Emma caught her breath, floored by his breathtaking cruelty.
Rory was stirring in his pram, disturbed by their argument. His cries quickly became louder and Emma looked across at him. His little face was screwed up, and his yells came between breaths. She turned to Adrian, accusation in her eyes.
‘Why don’t you pick him up?’
‘He doesn’t like it when I do it.’
‘That’s because you never do. I bet he hardly knows you. Pick him up.’
‘Keep your nose out.’
‘Pick him up.’
Adrian stared defiantly at her.
‘I mean it – pick him up and soothe him. Before Carrie hears him from halfway across the studios. Give her a fucking break, you prick.’ She folded her arms, fury in her eyes, and he tentatively went over to the pram. Clumsily picked up the baby and attempted to rock him, while holding him at arm’s length.
Miraculously, despite Adrian’s ineptitude, Rory stopped crying. Adrian took full advantage of this and immediately put him back in the pram.
Emma was still seething with anger. ‘What is wrong with you?’
He didn’t bother to reply. He picked up his coffee and turned to leave.
‘Children are a gift, you know,’ said Emma.
‘Not one I ever asked for.’
She slapped him across the face then. He put his hand to his cheek, and shocked at what she’d done, she turned and left the room.
THIRTY-SIX
Monday 25 December
There were numerous presents under the tree: a towering pile of gift-wrapped shapes in shiny coloured paper, adorned with ribbons and bows. Carrie couldn’t help but feel a burst of excitement when she first saw them, muscle memory formed in childhood that would probably never diminish, even when she was an old lady.
Except, when she looked through these presents, she recognized the paper on all of them. This was because she’d wrapped them for Rory, which meant there wasn’t one for her from Adrian. She bit down on her disappointment, then felt a murmur of hope: perhaps he was keeping it somewhere else.
The Temp Page 13