By the way Liz was looking at her, she was contemplating how best to break whatever she had to say, and Emma braced herself but was still unprepared for what happened next.
‘Emma, I’m sorry but considering your recent intimacy with Adrian, I’m afraid I’m left in a very difficult position and have had to decide what is best for the show and those who are essential to delivering it. Therefore, as of this morning, I am terminating your contract.’
Emma sat there, shocked, silenced. Then a deep blush of shame rose up her neck and flooded her face. Liz knew. And if she knew, Carrie knew. Oh my God, thought Emma, and the room suddenly started to spin. She reeled and her hand went out to the arm of the sofa to steady herself. Stricken, she looked at Liz, who was still waiting for her to say something. She was aware she should be defending herself, expressing her outrage, explaining that Adrian had come on to her, even made a veiled threat if she didn’t sleep with him.
‘I . . . It was Adrian’s idea.’
Liz raised an eyebrow as if to say, Is that the best that you can do?
‘He . . . suggested that if I didn’t sleep with him, then he would . . .’
Liz frowned. ‘What? Are you suggesting that he forced you?’
Had he? It wasn’t exactly like that, but he had said something about calling the police unless she had a good reason to explain why she was in his house. Put like that, it wasn’t unreasonable of him. Why had she felt so threatened, so powerless?
‘Because if you are, then that is a very serious allegation.’
Emma squirmed, unsure. She felt completely out of her depth.
‘Are you saying that?’ asked Liz. ‘That he forced you?’
She was under pressure to answer, and it wasn’t as simple as a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’. All she could process was the misery of Carrie knowing about that awful, terrible night. One that had cost her dearly and now had sabotaged everything she’d hoped for.
‘Emma?’ prompted Liz.
‘Yes?’
‘Are you saying that Adrian forced you to sleep with him?’
Emma looked up at her, took in this successful woman who had brought her on to the production. This was her moment to confess everything – tell Liz how Adrian had stolen Generation Rebel from her. And then what? Generation Rebel was nothing to do with Liz. Her focus was Leon. All she cared about was making a success of the multimillion-pound star-studded juggernaut that was Leon. Her own reputation depended on it. Nothing must get in the way of the show. That’s how it worked in TV. Liz might offer sympathy, might even tell her to direct her complaints to Elaine, but she’d still be fired and Adrian would be protected. Leon would be made, and those still a part of it would continue cresting on its wave, while she was left to fend for herself with nothing. She’d been cast adrift.
‘No, I’m not saying that.’
Liz nodded. ‘I’m sorry it’s come to this, and I do feel sympathy for your situation, genuinely I do, but you had such an opportunity, Emma. Why on earth did you do something so stupid?’
Was anyone telling Adrian he was stupid? Emma wondered. She didn’t answer. She needed to get back to her desk, clear her head and think about whether there was a way to salvage any of this.
‘OK, well, if there’s nothing else to discuss, security is waiting outside.’
Emma sat up in alarm. ‘Security? What for?’
‘You’re on garden leave, which means I’m afraid you have to go now. Collect your things from your desk and then they’ll see you off the premises.’
‘Seriously? I’m not a criminal!’
Liz shrugged. ‘It’s just the way these things happen. It’s best you go along with it.’ She stood, went to open the door and Emma started as she saw a man in uniform standing outside. What was she going to do? Run past him? Wrestle him to the ground?
SMASH CUT TO:
INT. STUDIOS – DAY
EMMA is angry at how she has been made a scapegoat. She reaches for the belt round her waist and presses the metal buckle. Instantly, with great panache and fluidity, her clothes metamorphose; the jeans and sweatshirt are replaced by a kick-ass jumpsuit and silver mask. She is empowered.
KAPOW! She punches the SECURITY GUARD in the face and he collapses to the floor. LIZ is staring, open-mouthed. Emma leaps down the corridor and soars out of the window, her superpower enabling her to fly, up, up to the sky, where the endless space allows her to expend her frustration and sadness.
CUT TO:
Smarting with humiliation, Emma got up from the sofa by Liz’s desk. Her heart was pounding as she stiffly walked along the corridor to her office, conscious of the security guard following her. She threw her personal effects in her bag.
‘No scripts or nothing like that,’ said the security guard. She threw him a dark look and continued to gather her belongings, then took her coat and made her way down the stairs and out of the building.
As they crossed the grounds, the walk had never seemed so long. She held her head high but inwardly prayed for it to be over, and for the man behind her to disappear.
‘Emma? Everything OK?’
Her heart sank as she turned slightly to see Ray, the technician whom she’d become friendly with, watching her with a puzzled expression. Keeping her mouth clamped shut for fear of bursting into tears, she gave a tight nod and continued her walk of shame until she reached the exit and was unceremoniously dumped onto the street outside.
FORTY-FIVE
Wednesday 10 January
She’d been used and chucked on the rubbish heap. No longer needed. It had all become clear once she’d got home yesterday. She’d lain on her bed with time to reflect on the horrible events of the morning and that’s when the thing Liz had said had hit home. ‘I’ve had to decide what is best for the show and those who are essential to delivering it.’ She, Emma, was no longer essential to the show. Adrian had finished with her, taken what he wanted and dispensed with her.
She was seething, fury and hatred bubbling away in her veins, coursing through her body, round and round and round, never letting up, reminding her again and again of how grossly unfairly she’d been treated.
She hated him.
Knowing he wouldn’t answer her calls or texts, she’d phoned Zack, the runner at the Soho office, as she still had Adrian’s iPad to drop off. She’d managed to glean he would be in the Soho office this morning and so here she now was, walking up the stairs. She opened the door and Zack was on the desk. He gave her an embarrassed smile and she wondered how much he’d been told. Everything by the look on his face.
‘Hi,’ she said breezily. ‘I’ve got Adrian’s iPad.’
He held out a hand. ‘Great. If you could—’
‘I’ll go and give it to him personally,’ she said firmly, and before Zack could do anything, she was opening the door of the back office, where she’d spent so many hours working with Adrian.
He looked up, startled, when he saw her. Emma could sense Zack coming up behind her and she shut the door in his face.
‘I think we need to talk, don’t you?’ she said to Adrian.
‘Er . . . not really. Nothing to say.’
‘If you don’t get your coat and follow me right now out of this office, I will make such a scene you’ll wish—’
‘OK, OK!’ he said, irritated. He jumped up and plastered on a serene expression for everyone watching as they left.
‘Why did you have to make me a scapegoat?’ asked Emma. ‘We could’ve carried on working together. We were still working together, despite our . . . mistake.’ They were in the coffee shop on the street outside, the place where she’d given him tips on buying a gift for his wife.
He shrugged. ‘It wasn’t my decision.’
She fought to keep her temper under control. ‘Adrian, you’re the showrunner. You could have done something, said something so I wasn’t unceremoniously thrown out on my ear. After everything I did for you. I was a part of this too, you know.’
He briefly looked uncomfortable, p
ulled himself together. ‘I’m not saying you didn’t work hard—’
‘Work hard? Of course I worked bloody hard. But it was more than that. I developed this show with you, Adrian. Those characters, their stories, they’re as much out of my head as yours.’ She could hear her voice almost pleading with him to admit it.
He glanced down at his coffee, then back at her. ‘I think you’re being a little unrealistic . . .’
‘Don’t, Adrian.’
‘Emma, you may have been a sounding board, but that was all.’
Her throat felt tight, stuck with hurt. What did she expect? It was pointless, a waste of time. There was only one way to deal with people like Adrian.
‘I’ll tell Carrie you stole Generation Rebel from me. And Liz, and anyone I care to and your reputation will be ruined.’
He contemplated her. ‘Carrie won’t believe you. Neither will anyone else. It’s a waste of time.’
‘I’ve got my letter.’
He scoffed. ‘You could’ve written that this morning.’
‘I—’ she began indignantly, but he spoke over her.
‘Emma, you’ve just been fired for having sex with your boss. A silly, inappropriate thing to do. So now you’re spitting blood and you make up some ludicrous statement about your boss’s previous success. Emma, the woman scorned, tries any sort of revenge, even if it means fabricating an outlandish story. Who are they going to believe? You, the newbie trying to get a foothold in the industry, or me, the established, respected, BAFTA-winning writer who can make them a lot of money?’
Emma’s face crumpled as it all became crystal clear. She’d been set up. He’d admitted to their sleeping together because he wanted to rid her of the hold she had over him with Generation Rebel. And now if she said anything, it would be as he was painting it: she was seeking revenge for being sacked.
‘Actually, I have a bone to pick with you,’ he said. ‘Why did you tell Carrie about us?’
‘I . . . I didn’t . . .’ She was baffled, horrified. ‘It was you . . .’
‘And why would I sabotage my own marriage?’
‘To get me fired.’
‘Could’ve done that a million ways.’
‘I didn’t bloody tell her!’ She was raising her voice now; people were looking round.
‘Well, who else knew? Who have you told, Emma?’
Oh Jesus, no. Could she have got it wrong?
A name had come hurtling into her head. Elaine.
FORTY-SIX
Thursday 11 January
The bare branches hung low, dressed in green dust, which was lit to a patchy emerald where it caught in the bright winter sun. Under Carrie’s feet were the remnants of the annual autumn cast-off, a blanket of leaves, their crunch long gone. A criss-cross pattern of long shadows lay over them, stark black lines that mirrored the branches and trunks above.
She walked through the ancient woodland of Marden Park, high on the North Downs in the Surrey Hills, Rory encased in fleece in a baby pouch strapped to her chest. It had been years since she’d come here, her mother’s favourite place when they’d lived nearby in Purley. As a child, she would be brought here through the seasons and had grown to love every one of them: the vivid bluebells in spring, playful butterflies in summer, glistening treasures of conkers in the autumn and occasionally, if they were lucky, boughs laden with snow in winter. Then there were the ladybirds. They’d always loved the ladybirds, which would hide among the tall grass, Carrie seeking them out, exclaiming in delight when one crawled onto her hand. Her mum once sang her the nursery rhyme ‘Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home. Your house is on fire and your children are gone’ and Carrie had found it upsetting. Her mother had needed to reassure her that she’d never abandon her and Carrie was enveloped in a hug. Then they’d sat for hours letting a ladybird explore up and down her arm.
Through the branches Carrie could see the piercing-blue, cloudless sky, and she impulsively kicked at the leaves on the ground, releasing their sweet, musty scent. She’d thought she might get lost, it had been so long, but the paths remained the same and she enjoyed the comforting sense of familiarity as she came upon sections of the landscape she recognized. Soon she would break out of the woods onto the chalk grassland, and sure enough the view that presented itself to her five minutes later was one that still took her breath away.
Rolling green hills interwoven like dipping waves, framed by the heads of bare trees and ancient hedgerow. Nestled down in the valley was once an eighteenth-century manor, now an exclusive girls’ boarding school set in several acres with a lake. Her mum had always said she liked to see the girls out in the extensive grounds during their break time; she liked to see the new generation getting ready to take on the world.
To Carrie’s right was a wooden bench. She went to sit on it, first polishing the brass dedication plate with the cuff of her coat.
HELEN KENNEDY, 1946–2007,
AGED 61 YEARS,
MY DARLING MUM
As she sat, she gave a quick check of the bench, which left her pleasantly surprised; it was almost in as good nick as when she’d had it put there a decade ago. A bit more weather-beaten but still strong. It faced her mother’s favourite view. A place they’d stop and picnic, if the weather was good enough. She remembered one such occasion, a special treat after school with just her and her mother, as her dad was still at work. They’d sat down, only to be harassed by several wasps within minutes. Carrie, being irrationally terrified of them (she’d never been stung in her life), had screamed the place down. She smiled and glanced at Rory, who was asleep, his fat cheek resting on her chest, pulling his tiny mouth ever so slightly open as he breathed steadily against her.
Carrie put her arms round him and gazed out at the hills. The vastness of the landscape was what she’d always loved, the way it made her feel as if she could hurtle down the slopes, arms outstretched, filling her lungs with a power and purpose that might even enable her to fly.
‘What am I going to do, Mum?’ she suddenly said out loud.
Her mum had liked Adrian well enough; at least, she’d never said anything to the contrary. The only time she’d voiced an opinion was when Carrie had announced their whirlwind marriage. Helen had been surprised at the speed of it and had checked, once, that her daughter was sure, was happy, and as soon as Carrie had professed herself deeply in love, Helen had buttoned up and been nothing but supportive. She’d only known him a few years before she died, and since then Carrie had always imagined that her mum’s relationship with Adrian would have continued to grow and she’d have become close to him.
Except now, after everything that had happened, she felt as if she’d been fooling herself. Maybe her mum’s gentle questioning of Adrian had hinted at her hidden doubts. She suddenly missed her madly, her mum who never judged, who had always stood by her, regardless of the mistakes she had made.
A rustle in the trees behind her made her jump. She turned her head to see a little brown face watching her, ears pointed forward, nose twitching, its whole body poised to run. An elegant roe deer. She felt Rory stir and looked down to see him fixated on the little creature. Then it disappeared back into the trees.
She shivered and realized she’d got cold sitting still on the bench. It was time to go.
Rory slept again on the drive home, and as she opened the front door, Adrian came into the hallway, surprising her.
‘Left the set?’ she asked, a little concerned.
‘Liz is there. She, er . . . It was important for me to come home.’
Carrie squirmed with embarrassment. She didn’t like other people knowing her business, but it was likely that most of the crew and cast would know by now that her husband had slept with both producers and she’d be the topic of much discussion in the endless waiting around between shots.
She hung up her coat and started to make her way down to the kitchen, carrying Rory in his car seat.
‘Don’t go,’ said Adrian. ‘I . . .’
She
turned.
‘I was hoping we could talk. You haven’t spoken to me since Tuesday.’
She looked at him, his tufty hair sticking up at odd angles, something she’d always found endearing. He was staring at her earnestly, desperate for her to say yes.
‘It’s four o’clock,’ she said tightly. ‘Time for Rory to be fed. As per his routine. Surely you know this by now?’
‘Course,’ he said quickly, eyes shifting to the floor, and she momentarily felt bad for putting him in his place. But she knew he had no idea of anything to do with looking after Rory and it suddenly made her feel incredibly sad and lonely.
After she’d seen to Rory and taken him upstairs for a nap, she reluctantly left the sanctuary of the bedroom. The living room was empty and part of her wanted to close the door and curl up in front of the TV, but she knew this . . . thing . . . had to be faced.
In the kitchen, Adrian was pounding a pestle and mortar. ‘Just making a marinade for the chicken. Kebabs – that OK?’ he prompted.
He was looking for reassurance their conversation would be civil. It was nearly five. Was that too early for a drink? She considered the rows of white wine in the rack in the fridge – stuff she hadn’t touched for months, although she knew Adrian kept them circulating. She suddenly knew she couldn’t face any sort of a hangover, not with a young baby to look after.
She poured two glasses of water, pushed one his way.
He watched her as he took a sip. ‘Thank you.’ Then he pushed aside the pestle and mortar. ‘I realize you probably hate me right now . . .’
She felt a flash of irritation. Why did he say it like that? Like it was so simple, so trivial. As if she wasn’t so speared with pain it hurt to look at him.
‘I need you to know that I regret what I did from the bottom of my heart.’
‘So why did you do it?’
‘I don’t know. Flattery?’
‘You’re saying she came on to you?’
‘I know it sounds like a cop-out, but . . . yes.’
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