The Temp

by Michelle Frances

  It was the second time he’d taken what he could from her, then walked away.

  No chance, mister, she thought furiously. You think you’re just going to get away with what you did?

  Her ears pricked up when she heard an actor sitting across from Adrian mention Generation Rebel.

  ‘I loved that show,’ said the actor. ‘Brilliant scripts, just like these.’ He tapped the piles of paper on the table in front of him.

  Emma watched as Adrian shrugged modestly.

  ‘And what a hit!’ exclaimed the actor. ‘Did you have any idea when you were coming up with it that it would be so successful?’

  Adrian laughed, shaking his head. ‘Of course not. It was just the right combination of timing and luck.’

  Emma was breathless with the injustice of it all. He’d blatantly stolen her whole idea. Used it to fatten his bank account and build himself a reputation.

  ‘Well, it was inspired,’ continued the actor. ‘A work of genius.’

  ‘One of those things no one can predict,’ said Adrian. He looked across the room, and catching her eye for a fraction of a second, he smiled, then turned back to the actor. ‘One of those freak lucky accidents.’

  FORTY

  Tuesday 2 January

  The last of the cast and the channel executives had left, driven away in their taxis, and the production team were bustling around the room, clearing the debris from the afternoon tea that had been served to revive flagging energies at around four. The cast had put their all into the lines and the words bounced off the page, becoming alive with the promise of the show that was to come. The actors were happy, and the channel was happy, and now Adrian would go and do the last few tiny tweaks to the dialogue before filming started the following Monday. Emma had made all the notes against the scripts, ready for his last edit.

  She watched as he finished up a conversation with the director, and then he left the room. Now was her chance. She looked across at Carrie, who was talking to the accountant, and quietly slipped out of the door herself. Down the corridor, she saw the door of the gents’ toilets slowly ease to a close and followed in the vacant slipstream, into the gents’ herself.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Emma!’ said Adrian, cock in his hand as he stood at the urinal. He turned his back so she couldn’t see, hurriedly zipped up. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’

  Emma wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘Believe me, I don’t find it pleasant entering the men’s toilets, but we’re long overdue a conversation, don’t you think? And seeing as you’ve been avoiding me, I had to come and find you.’

  Adrian was rapidly washing his hands. ‘There’s nothing for us to discuss.’

  ‘Don’t bullshit me,’ said Emma angrily, then reined herself in. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t get upset. ‘There’s a whole heap of stuff to talk about, but mostly, you stealing my series idea and passing it off as your own. Have you told Carrie yet?’

  Adrian finished drying his hands, lifted them, palms out, in a soothing pose. ‘Look, Emma, I think this has all got a bit out of hand. Yes, I may have used your idea as inspiration, but the finished product is certainly a long way from what you sent me.’

  ‘It’s the same setting, same characters, same story arcs. Generation Rebel is set in a school in which the pupils, led by a once-nice middle-class girl of fifteen, rebel against the authorities and end up hanging the headmaster in the boys’ toilets.’ She looked around. ‘Much like this one.’

  He scoffed. ‘Is that some kind of threat?’

  Emma ignored him. ‘Adrian, I’m not going to go away. I can understand why you don’t want to admit to your wife what you did. It’s humiliating, and it may well damage your already rocky relationship, and if it gets out, also your professional reputation.’ She took a breath. ‘I have reconsidered the situation. Carrie’s got enough on her plate, quite frankly, being the only parent who’s looking after Rory. You barely even acknowledge him. It must break her heart. So this is the deal. Just try and appreciate her. If you don’t, then I’ll tell her what you’ve done.’

  Adrian was staring at her, bamboozled by this change in direction. There was a hint of relief he was off the hook, but she could see he was puzzled by her demands. She kept her chin high, brazened it out.

  ‘Why do you care about her so much?’

  ‘She’s a decent person. Doesn’t deserve you, if I’m honest.’

  ‘Nah. There’s more to it than that. I’ve seen you, the way you’re always trying to please her. What’s going on between you two?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’

  Emma took a deep breath. ‘You’re just a shit to her and she deserves more. End of. The other part of the deal . . .’ She saw surprise in his eyes. Good – now he was on the back foot again. ‘. . . is that I need money.’

  He snorted. ‘Blackmail?’

  ‘Five thousand.’

  ‘You can piss right off.’

  Emma looked at him coldly. ‘I know how much you’ve earned from Generation Rebel. I’ve seen your contract. I know your fee, but that’s just the start. I know how much you get for international sales and how many countries it’s sold to. I know how much you get for format rights and the amount the cable channel in America has paid—’

  ‘I’m not giving you any money.’

  ‘You could add a zero, two, even, to what I’m asking and it still wouldn’t be anywhere near what I rightly deserve.’

  He was looking at her as if she’d lost her mind and it was all she could do to stop herself flying off the handle. Adrian had become a very wealthy man off her idea and she was about to become homeless. The room in the flat she’d seen just after Christmas had been tiny but clean. Trouble was, she needed six weeks’ rent as a deposit, plus a month up front, and she had to pay a steep holding fee. All in all, several thousand pounds. Her job was about to finish and it was clear there was little chance of being renewed at Hawk Pictures given the current circumstances. Indeed, it would be a long and hard search until she found anything else. She needed to keep a roof over her head, and what she was asking for was mere peanuts to Adrian – and was arguably hers anyway. In fact, she’d likely be asking him for more before she could get herself settled.

  ‘I’ll tell her,’ threatened Emma. ‘She knows you better than anyone – she’s seen how much hand-holding you’ve needed during this new show. The minute I tell her, she’ll know you did it.’

  It was that which convinced him. Not Carrie realizing he was a thief but having his ego pricked by her understanding he hadn’t come up with all that genius himself.

  The next day, five thousand pounds landed in her account.

  FORTY-ONE

  Monday 8 January

  ‘Roll, camera!’ called Kenny, his director eyes fixed on the scene in front of him: Michael Sheen playing Leon, about to storm into his agent’s office insisting he was the star and the studio had better give him four black Labrador puppies in his trailer or he was walking.

  ‘Rolling . . .’ replied the camera operator, ‘and set.’

  ‘Action!’ said Kenny, and Carrie watched, enthralled, as the actors played out the scene.

  She was transported by their performances, so much so it took a few seconds to register her phone silently vibrating in her pocket. Looking at the screen, she frowned – it was Rory’s nursery. The timing was terrible – first day of the shoot, first shot of the day. She desperately wanted to keep on watching, as Adrian and Emma were doing, but what if Rory had become ill? She waited until Kenny called, ‘Cut!’ and then slipped out of the studio.

  Back in the office, with her phone pressed against her ear as she waited to be put through, she hoped Rory was OK, for his own sake, of course, but it would also be very hard to leave the set on the first day of filming.

  ‘Hi, Carrie,’ said Sherie, over the line. ‘Just so you know, everything’s fine with Rory.’ Carrie sighed with relief. ‘The reason I called,’
continued Sherie, ‘was to do with this month’s fees. I’m afraid the automatic payment didn’t go through.’

  Carrie was confused. ‘What? Why not?’

  ‘The bank doesn’t give us a reason. Would you be able to check it and let me know?’

  Carrie reassured Sherie she’d call back as soon as she could, then went online to access the joint bank account. Her eyes widened – it was more than three thousand pounds overdrawn. She scrolled through the transactions and her mouth dropped when she saw a payment made the previous week for five grand. Five grand! It wasn’t her, so it must have been Adrian. What on earth had he been buying? Then her breath stopped and an unpleasant tingle ran up her spine. The payment was to a Miss E. Fox. Emma.

  Why was Adrian paying Emma five thousand pounds?

  She quickly transferred some money to put the account back into credit and paid the nursery. Once she’d informed them it was just an oversight, and had apologized, she sat back in her chair.

  Something was definitely going on between her husband and her maternity replacement. There was only one way to find out what.

  She got up and went back down to the studio.

  FORTY-TWO

  Monday 8 January

  Adrian ran his hand through his tufty hair, pacing in small steps back and forth. ‘I . . . er . . . Shit!’

  Carrie watched him. They were outside in a quietish side alley, away from any passing crew members.

  He rubbed his hands over his face, peered guiltily between his fingers. ‘I don’t know how to say this . . .’

  The butterflies in Carrie’s stomach fluttered around again, aching to be freed. ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘I can’t . . . I—’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Adrian, just tell me what you’ve done,’ snapped Carrie. She shivered and wished she’d put on her coat to come outside.

  ‘OK! OK,’ he placated, and then took a deep breath. ‘I had to pay Emma that money because . . . she was threatening to tell you something if I didn’t.’

  Carrie’s eyes were agog. ‘Wait, she was blackmailing you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In God’s name why? What was she going to tell me?’

  Adrian’s face crumpled. ‘I’m really sorry, Carrie. I never wanted to hurt you, but . . . Emma . . . she and I . . . we had sex.’

  Her ears were roaring, the deafening sound of her heart plummeting. She was aware of a great pain in her solar plexus, an inability to breathe.

  Adrian was looking concerned. ‘I’m so, so sorry. It wasn’t planned, it just . . . happened, and it was a mistake. A one-off. I’d undo it if I could, I really would.’

  She’d gathered enough energy to utter a word. ‘When?’

  ‘A few weeks ago. At the beach house. I didn’t mean it to happen. I . . .’ He put out his hand to touch her, but she flinched.

  ‘Where was I?’

  ‘At home. With Rory.’

  She nodded. With Rory. Everything had changed since Rory. Her relationship with Adrian had become unrecognizable. She no longer knew what it was, who they were. And now her husband was sleeping with a girl half her age.

  She was disturbed by a sound, a pent-up agony, finally released, and she looked up, astonished. Adrian was crying, not just a snuffle but full-blown weeping, tears of despair pouring down his face.

  ‘I’m just so sorry,’ he repeated again and again. ‘I never wanted this to happen. I never wanted any of this. I love you, but I feel like I’ve lost you. I miss you, Carrie. I miss what we did together. I miss our house not being full of baby paraphernalia. I miss being able to go out somewhere, to just walk out the door with you.’

  His grief was real, and his words echoed guilt-ridden sentiments that had crept into her own mind as well. She looked at him, overwhelmed with myriad emotions when he suddenly threw his arms round her, clinging to her. Uncomfortable, and still hurting deeply, she extricated herself, pushed him away.

  He suddenly seemed to be aware of his behaviour and got a grip. ‘What do we do now?’ he asked quietly.

  Carrie’s heart was still in freefall, rendering her unable to think, but there was one thing she knew instinctively. ‘She’ll have to go.’

  He nodded, guilt on his face. ‘It’s not just her fault . . . seems unfair somehow . . .’

  ‘Well, what do you want to happen? Me go instead?’

  ‘No! No, of course not.’

  ‘Because I cannot work on the same production as that girl now you’ve . . .’ She couldn’t get the words out: they were lacerating the inside of her throat.

  ‘No, I totally get that.’ He hesitated. ‘What do we tell Liz?’

  ‘I don’t know. What do you think?’ She resented the fact he’d put the question onto her.

  ‘We’ll think of something,’ he said quickly. ‘I will,’ he corrected.

  It was only later, in the middle of the most gruelling day, using every ounce of her energy to behave around her cast and crew as if she were having the time of her life, that a needling thought suddenly made itself heard. Adrian hadn’t exactly tried to hide the payment he’d made to Emma: he’d paid her out of their joint account.

  She couldn’t get rid of the uncomfortable feeling that maybe he had wanted her to find it. Wanted her to find out Emma was blackmailing him. And the question that left her feeling deeply unsettled was, why would he want that?

  PART TWO

  Emma

  FORTY-THREE

  Tuesday 9 January

  Today was the day.

  Carrie had told the nursery that she’d bring Rory in a bit later today. There had been no need really – he could have stuck to his hours and she could have spent the morning alone, catching up on work – but she’d wanted his company. She held him on her knee, supporting him as he tried to straighten his legs against her lap, babbling away happily to her, oblivious to what was going on in his parents’ lives. His innocence was uplifting and worked as a salve on her deep, hurting wounds, temporarily taking the edge off the pain.

  She hadn’t wanted to talk to Adrian after work the previous night. By the time she’d left the set and then got Rory from the nursery, it was late and every sinew, every nerve ending in her body throbbed with exhaustion. If she’d tried to face her husband’s infidelity, to hear more details, she knew she’d probably just burst into tears or be viciously angry, or both.

  So she’d put Rory to bed and then Adrian had sheepishly come to see her in the kitchen, but she’d made it clear she wasn’t up for conversation. She’d eaten some toast, then gone to bed herself.

  It was a cliché, the younger woman. Despite knowing it was a mistake, Carrie found she was comparing herself to Emma. Emma was thinner – yes, of course she was: Carrie had just had a baby and she was dubious her figure would ever recover completely, something she didn’t like to think about too much. Emma’s blonde hair was shinier than her own, and was still free of grey. In fact, they weren’t dissimilar in looks, she thought bitterly. Emma was a younger version of herself. But it wasn’t just looks; it was Emma’s brightness, her endless supply of energy, her enthusiastic eyes unbeaten by diabolical tiredness. In some dim and distant memory, Carrie thought she could recall being like that. At the start of her career, willing to graft and carrying an optimism that nothing could diminish. Her grasp on the image of her previous self flickered and she had to keep retrieving it again and again until it became too tiring.

  Old. She felt old.

  She slept fitfully, waking to feed Rory twice, and each time the revelation of the previous day had sunk its teeth into her again, feeling worse, as things always do in the silent, dark, lonely hours of night.

  Neither of them had said much this morning, both waiting for the axe to fall, unable to face a post-mortem until it was done. Adrian had slunk off to the Soho office and she had opted to spend stolen hours with her baby.

  She laid Rory down on a blanket on the living-room carpet so she could safely take a sip of her tea. He continued to chat away to h
imself as she stood rigidly by the window, looking out at the freezing January morning. A runner dressed head to toe in Lycra pounded past on the pavement, great puffs of air expelling from his mouth into the cold, hanging in the space he’d just vacated.

  How had she not seen what was going on? Emma had wanted the lot: her job, to work with her successful husband and ultimately to sleep with him. Carrie felt violated, as if she were naked, exposed in her stupidity – her naivety. She’d worked so hard for everything and this . . . girl, this abominable, awful, vile girl had tried to take it all from her. Just because she felt like it. She was like a stalker – no, a parasite, helping herself to someone else’s life.

  On the floor, Rory gave a distressed cry and she looked down to see he’d rolled over onto his tummy and got stuck. Quickly she put down her tea and plucked him from his blanket. As she held him in her arms again, she got an image of Emma picking him up that time and felt a wash of fury and revulsion. She held him tight and over his head looked at her watch.

  It was nine o’clock.

  FORTY-FOUR

  Tuesday 9 January

  Emma looked up from the scene rehearsal to see Liz across the studio beckoning her. She quietly slipped out to where Liz was waiting in the corridor.

  ‘Can I have a word?’ asked Liz.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘In my office,’ said Liz, and Emma followed her, wondering what it was about.

  As she passed the office she shared with Carrie and Adrian, she was surprised to see it still empty. She had spent the morning in the studio since breakfast, watching the filming and glancing at her watch, wondering where her bosses were.

  ‘Have you heard from Carrie and Adrian?’ she asked Liz as they entered the office.

  ‘Take a seat,’ said Liz, indicating the sofa.

  A bell began to toll ominously in Emma’s head. She slowly sat, waiting as Liz took the chair next to her.