The Temp

by Michelle Frances

  It was mid-morning and she’d been up since half past five with Rory. He’d already completed his first nap of the day, and when Adrian surfaced, she felt as if she had been catapulted ahead in time, as if she were living in a different time zone from him.

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ he said, kissing her briefly on the lips. Then he promptly began to make himself a bacon sandwich for breakfast, which made her wonder when they might be eating Christmas lunch. She was already hungry, having had her own breakfast at seven, and again felt as if they were living on different continents.

  It was only when he went to the fridge that he noticed the gifts under the tree.

  ‘Bloody hell, who are all those for?’

  ‘Well, Rory mostly.’

  Adrian stared, open-mouthed. ‘He’s not even one. He won’t have a clue. How much . . . ?’

  He didn’t finish the question, but the bah-humbugness was apparent and she bit back a sharp retort. At least she was trying. If he’d actually come downstairs last night and helped her wrap, he would’ve known all about the presents she’d bought their son, but he’d taken himself up to the living room soon after dinner. He’d taken his phone with him too, slipping it into his pocket in a secretive sort of way, as if he was conscious of it betraying him several times during the evening, publicly announcing the receipt of messages, which brought a tense frown to his face. She’d asked once, casually, who it was, but he’d brushed her off with a vague explanation of an old friend.

  Carrie poured herself some coffee and tried not to let disappointment settle over her. Here they were on Christmas Day in their London house, just the three of them. Apart from the presents under the tree and the large, as yet uncooked free-range turkey in the fridge, it was like any other day off from work. The thought depressed her and she shook it off. Time to get into the spirit!

  ‘Let’s open some presents!’ she declared.

  ‘You do it,’ said Adrian, still eating his sandwich. ‘I’ll watch.’

  ‘But . . .’

  He looked at her questioningly and she tried her utmost to keep a calm and pleasant expression on her face. Did he not realize she’d wrapped them all, so she knew what was in them?

  Rory started to grizzle in his bouncy chair and she began to make up his bottle, scooping powdered formula into some boiled warm water and shaking it vigorously. As she turned round, she suggested Adrian might like to give it to him.

  He was over by the tree, his inner child having conquered his middle-aged Scrooge, and he was holding up a present and shaking it.

  ‘What’s this?’ he asked, and the look of anticipation and delight on his face made her smile and tell him to open it. She watched as he did and so ended up feeding the baby.

  He pulled out a box and looked at it, mystified.

  ‘It’s a baby gym,’ said Carrie. ‘Rory lies under it and reaches up for all the toys.’

  ‘Oh, right. Cool. Shall I do another?’

  He went on to open the remainder of the gifts until the floor was full of boxes depicting baby toys in bright primary colours.

  ‘Wow, he’s got a lot,’ said Adrian, looking at them. She could almost hear envy in his voice but then thought that was ridiculous, a grown man envious of a tiny baby.

  ‘There’s something for you too,’ said Carrie, pulling a small envelope from among the branches of the tree she’d decorated only the day before.

  He opened it to find two tickets to see his favourite rock band in concert.

  ‘Oh wow! Thank you.’ He kissed her. ‘How did you get these?’ he asked in wonder. They’d sold out almost instantly.

  She’d set an alarm on her phone to make absolutely sure she wasn’t distracted by something baby-related and had then gone online the second they were released, trying again and again despite the fact the system was near crashing from overload. Her tenacity had paid off. ‘Oh, you know. Just told them you’re their biggest fan.’

  He grinned and then there was an expectant pause in the conversation. ‘I’ve got something for you too,’ said Adrian. ‘It’s upstairs.’

  She smiled, but he didn’t immediately go and get it, and then his phone beeped.

  He moved away from her as he read the message and she tried to look at his face, but he had his back to her.

  ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing. No one important.’ He tossed the phone down on the kitchen counter, as if to prove the point.

  It’s Christmas Day, she thought. Who is texting him on Christmas Day?

  They looked at each other and she wanted to ask more but didn’t know how without creating an atmosphere, and in her hesitation, he made his escape.

  ‘Right, present. I’ll be back in a minute.’ And then he was gone.

  She winded Rory, waiting for Adrian to reappear, but the time dragged on. She could hear him through the ceiling, a muffled sound as he moved around. Maybe he was still wrapping her present. She looked over at the phone he’d left on the worktop, pondered for a moment. It wouldn’t be right . . .

  She got up and, with Rory over her shoulder, went to it. Only take a few seconds . . . She quickly unlocked it and then looked at the last text – a deep intake of breath when she saw it was from Emma.

  ‘You need to tell her. It’s only fair.’

  Her? Carrie knew who Emma meant – herself. Tell me what? But deep down, she knew. She tapped on the message, then scrolled through. Emma had sent him two other messages over the last couple of days.

  Saturday 23 December. 15:09

  ‘Have you told her yet?’

  Sunday 24 December. 09:54

  ‘You need to speak to her. Tell her it was my idea.’

  She was stung with hurt and humiliation. What was this? It almost sounded like it could be . . . she could hardly bring herself to say it, but . . . an affair? Or was Elaine right, Emma and Adrian were working on an idea together?

  Rory was starting to get tetchy, and on checking the clock, she saw it was time for his sleep. She climbed the two flights of stairs to the bedroom and put him in his Moses basket. Then she lay down on her bed, exhausted. Tried to make sense of what she’d just found out and how best to handle it. Tried not to let the betrayal floor her too badly – she knew she had to stand up and fight, but she was tired. So very, very tired.

  She woke to the sound of Rory waking and realized, with much surprise, she’d also been asleep. As she sat up and looked into his basket, she was rewarded with a smile. She then caught a whiff of roast dinner.

  ‘Hey, sleepyhead,’ said Adrian, as she went down to the kitchen with Rory over her shoulder. ‘Good nap?’

  ‘Yes. I hadn’t realized I’d dropped off.’

  ‘I came to check on you and you were dead to the world. Clearly needed it,’ he said indulgently. Then he indicated the stove. ‘Thought I’d crack on with our Christmas lunch. Your timing’s perfect. Turkey and spuds are done. And we’ve got red cabbage with bacon, stuffing, chipolatas, broccoli with chilli and peas.’ He waved his hand over the oven with a flourish.

  Carrie took it all in. Adrian had gone to a lot of effort.

  They sat down at the table he’d laid, poured a glass of red he’d already opened so it could breathe.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, lifting his glass.

  She returned the toast.

  ‘It’s delicious,’ she said, taking a small bite. ‘Thank you.’

  It was burning on her mind, and she knew she had to ask. ‘Adrian, is there anything you want to tell me? About you and Emma?’

  His face contorted with guilt before he hurriedly pulled himself together. Too late: she’d seen it.

  He laughed, a deliberately perplexed chuckle. ‘What do you mean?’

  Which question should she ask? ‘Have you been working together? On a new project?’

  He was staring at her in amazement. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out? she thought.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘She’s . . . she’s tried to pitch me a couple of thin
gs, but, well, you know what it’s like with these young, ambitious kids. Got no principles. Sell her own grandmother if she could.’ He reached across the table and squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t worry. She’s no match for you.’

  Carrie looked at him carefully and he sensed her hesitation.

  ‘I promise you, Carrie. I’m not about to start a new project, now or anytime soon, with Emma.’

  He said it with such conviction that she knew he was telling the truth. But the texts told a different story. She suddenly couldn’t face confronting him about them. Not now.

  They continued with their dinner and then sat in front of the TV for the rest of the day, Carrie dozing off again at one point.

  It was only when she was in bed later that night she realized Adrian hadn’t given her his present.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Tuesday 26 December

  The sun shone down on Wandsworth Common, making sculptures of the bare branches of the trees and casting the large numbers of post-Christmas walkers in a picture-perfect winter glow.

  Emma had needed to get out. Christmas Day had been a trial, she and her parents the only three round the table, Emma feeling outnumbered in every way. She’d felt suffocated by their annual routine and had attempted to suggest a couple of changes, perhaps something other than turkey for dinner or to maybe play a different game from Monopoly, but her parents’ response had been one of incredulity that she should want to do anything different. It was a tradition; it had worked for years, and would work thus, for many years to come.

  At church, her father thundering out the carols, her mother self-consciously satisfied at their pew position (warranted due to the amount of time they dedicated to the community), Emma found herself unoccupied. The devil makes work for idle hands and she sent – yet another – text to Adrian. She didn’t expect a reply, not on Christmas Day, and when one didn’t come, she was actually relieved. Perhaps it would be best to keep Carrie in the dark for now.

  It didn’t excuse Adrian for not telling her prior to now, though, and she was beginning to get angry at the way he was blanking her.

  This morning, once her parents had left for the airport, she was overcome with such a sense of loneliness she’d forced herself outside for a walk. As she strolled around under the bright blue sky, she pondered what to do over the next few days. A friend from university, Amy, had invited her up to her place in Hertfordshire to stay and she was sorely tempted to get out of London for a bit, but she had an appointment to see a room in a flat on Thursday. Something had unexpectedly become available through a friend of a friend. It was in a reasonable area and sounded nice, which meant it would be snapped up quickly, so she didn’t dare leave it until the new year.

  ‘Well, well, if it isn’t Emma Fox.’

  She turned to see a woman with flame-red hair and a bright green beret, and her heart began to beat rapidly.

  ‘Don’t tell me you live around here?’ said Elaine. ‘All this time and to think we’re neighbours.’

  Emma smiled politely, trying to cover up her anxiety. She knew she was worthless to Elaine and so something must have happened to make her stop and talk rather than turn and walk in the other direction.

  A small dog, low to the ground, fluffy, with no eyes visible, came running up to Elaine and deposited a ball at her feet.

  Elaine bent down. ‘Good boy, Monty,’ she said, and threw the ball again. Emma watched as the dog, presumably able to see it through all the fur, took off in the same direction.

  ‘Nice Christmas?’ asked Elaine.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘I hear you’re working over at Hawk Pictures, with Carrie and Adrian.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Unusual for someone to take you on without a reference. Must have been blown away by your interview.’

  Emma was churning with discomfort but said nothing. If Elaine already knew she’d faked an email address – and a reference – then she certainly wasn’t going to confirm it.

  ‘Enjoy working with Adrian?’ asked Elaine.

  Eager to follow any deflecting line of conversation, Emma smiled broadly. ‘Very much so.’

  ‘You’ve got a soft spot for him.’

  ‘What? No.’ Her denial bounced out of her mouth too quickly.

  Elaine smiled. ‘I didn’t mean like that. I meant his work, his talent.’

  Emma could feel the heat in her cheeks. Christ, go down, go down, she silently implored.

  Elaine was looking at her curiously. ‘Oh my word, you do like him.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Those red cheeks are not down to the cold weather, m’dear.’ She laughed. ‘Well, who’d have thought? Bet he loves it, young girl fancying him.’

  ‘I do not fancy him,’ said Emma, through gritted teeth.

  ‘He’s a bit of a flirt, in my experience. Tried it on with our production secretary. Had to give him a stern talking-to. Hard, though, not to feel something for someone when you’re working closely with them, day in, day out.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘I hope he’s been behaving himself . . . ?’

  ‘Of course he has,’ snapped Emma, instantly regretting her brusqueness. She suddenly felt a rising panic at her inability to handle the conversation and started to walk away.

  Elaine’s eyes widened in salacious delight. ‘He hasn’t, has he . . . ?’ she said, following her, taking her arm.

  Emma shrugged it off furiously.

  ‘What’s he done? Or more to the point, what have you done? Together?’

  Emma whirled round. ‘Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Just trying to ascertain the truth.’

  ‘It’s not the truth. It’s nothing but gossip. Nasty, malicious gossip.’

  ‘My dear, I find nine times out of ten gossip is gospel. You told his wife?’

  Emma cast her a look of loathing and then walked away again.

  ‘’Cos she’ll find out, you know,’ Elaine called after her. ‘This business is too small for secrets.’

  The blood was pounding behind Emma’s eyes. She was seething with fury. How dare that woman presume . . . ? Except, of course, it was all true. She felt sick to the pit of her stomach. If Carrie found out, she’d . . .

  Emma shuddered. It didn’t bear thinking about. Elaine had just better keep her mouth shut.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Tuesday 2 January

  The rich, buttery smell of pastries beckoned from across the room, piles of untouched croissants and Danish whirls. Competing with them was the toasted, homely scent of fresh coffee. As the great and the good of Leon turned up for the read-through, they migrated over to the breakfast table and devoured its contents.

  Carrie looked on in satisfaction; she’d been one of the first to arrive and so far everything was running to plan. All the cast would be here today, as would the executives from the BBC and the senior crew. Currently circling the room, getting to know the cast and welcoming them, was Emma.

  Carrie had quietly watched Emma ever since she’d arrived. She’d watched her husband too. And she had the distinct impression Adrian was avoiding Emma. He subtly moved away anytime she got close as she made her rounds, meeting and greeting. In fact, Adrian had stuck to her, Carrie’s, side for most of the morning in an unusual act of solidarity.

  She never did confront him about the texts. As much as she hated to admit it, she didn’t trust him to tell the truth and couldn’t bear what the lies would do to their already fragile marriage. Instead, she would keep watching, keep waiting, but she was wary.

  Something was going on and she didn’t like not knowing what.

  THIRTY-NINE

  Tuesday 2 January

  Emma took her coffee and a chocolate croissant, and found a seat next to an actress who was playing a lesser part: she didn’t want to ruffle any feathers by taking a prime spot next to one of the stars. Anyway, those were rightly Carrie and Adrian’s places, not hers.

  She looked across at Car
rie, who was chatting to another member of the cast, totally engaged. Adrian was by her side, as he had been all morning. It was as if the dynamic duo were back. They exuded authority and togetherness as they sailed around the room.

  For much of the morning, Emma had felt invisible. She knew Adrian was avoiding her and almost certainly wished she wasn’t there. She’d heard nothing from him over the Christmas break; he’d not replied to any of her texts. His arrogance astounded her and a ball of anger was growing deep in the pit of her stomach every time he refused to meet her gaze or moved away as she approached.

  Emma watched as Adrian and Carrie sat down next to the two stars of the show. She carefully assessed Carrie from the other side of the room. She couldn’t see any indication that Adrian had owned up to her about his theft, but then Carrie was a consummate professional, so perhaps she was keeping it well buried. Likewise, there didn’t seem to be any hint that Elaine had spoken to her, for which Emma was deeply relieved.

  ‘Right, shall we all take our seats?’ said Carrie, and people began to fill the remaining places round the large conference table. Emma caught Adrian’s eye – the first time all morning. He held her gaze for a nanosecond, then looked away. Unresponsive, as if he didn’t know who she was.

  Stung, she glanced down at her script so she wouldn’t betray her feelings to those next to her. Christ, she’d worked by his side the last three months. She was the one who’d been at his beck and call, who’d dropped everything to go to Broadstairs, his London home or the office, wherever he wanted really, at any time he’d needed her. She’d taken the evening phone calls, just when she’d sat down to have something to eat, replied to the weekend emails immediately, even leaving the cinema in the middle of a movie when he’d said how urgent it was, how much he could do with ‘her ear’. She was the one encouraging, cajoling, listening, suggesting, sometimes even coming up with the whole damn story herself just so he could put the words on paper. Words that she would again read, edit, discuss with him to make them better, make them enticing and exciting to this room full of people sitting down right now, people who’d been shaking Adrian’s hand and telling him how amazing his scripts were.