The Temp

by Michelle Frances

  ‘Out of the blue, she fell to the ground. I tried to resuscitate her,’ continued Emma, ‘but it didn’t seem to have any effect. I was screaming for help and someone came. A man. He took over.’

  DS Bryant was still watching her, but nothing she’d said was untrue. She was also pretty confident the man would say exactly the same thing – as he had yesterday. She’d been trying to save Elaine when he’d heard her cry out and came to help.

  ‘How did you happen to be with Ms Marsh in the first place?’ asked DS Bryant.

  Emma frowned. ‘It wasn’t planned. I’ve seen her before, when she’s been walking her dog. We both live near the common. I assume she uses . . . used it regularly.’

  ‘So you just bumped into each other.’

  ‘Yes. She said she hadn’t been feeling well and thought fresh air would help.’

  ‘Did anything frighten her? Shock her?’

  Emma slowly shook her head. ‘Not that I noticed.’

  ‘Only, we had a report of raised voices. Perhaps there was an argument?’

  Emma did her best to look bemused. ‘No . . . we were just talking about Monty. Her dog. I mean, I did shout.’ The detective raised an eyebrow. ‘To get help,’ explained Emma. ‘Maybe that was what they’d heard.’

  She could feel DS Bryant scrutinizing her face, and then after a few seconds, he nodded. ‘How well did you know Ms Marsh?’

  Emma shrugged. ‘Not that well. As I said, I saw her in the park every now and then.’ She paused, knew she had to say it. They almost certainly already knew, and if they didn’t but found out, it would only paint her in a bad light. ‘I used to work for her as well. For a very short time.’

  DS Bryant looked surprised and Emma was unsure as to whether or not it was genuine. It unnerved her. She had to hold it together.

  ‘Well, it was more for some of her staff. I was an intern. Too junior to really interact with her.’

  ‘Good job?’

  ‘It was all right,’ she said nonchalantly.

  ‘So why did you leave?’

  Emma stared at him. Was thankful that she’d managed to persuade her parents to wait in the kitchen while she spoke to the police officers. ‘I got fired,’ she said, ‘for looking through confidential papers. It was a mistake. And a long time ago now.’

  ‘So you left on bad terms?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘But you got fired . . . ?’

  Emma spread her fingers on the seat next to her thighs. ‘I deserved to be. I was unprofessional.’ She looked up at DS Bryant, her heart racing in her chest, and suddenly knew he could pin nothing on her. If she could only hold it together for long enough, they’d go and leave her alone. This thought actually wasn’t as comforting as it might be. She would still be crippled by guilt. She’d hated Elaine for telling Carrie about her horrible night with Adrian, but she’d never meant for this to happen.

  DS Bryant was putting on his coat. ‘Thank you, Miss Fox, for taking the time to talk to us.’

  ‘No problem,’ Emma said quietly, not quite believing it was over. The two police officers stood and she did the same. She half raised her hand as if she wanted to speak.

  ‘Was there something else?’ asked DS Bryant, eyes once again alert.

  ‘I was just wondering what happened to Monty. The dog,’ said Emma.

  ‘Battersea Dogs Home . . .’ said DS Bryant. ‘That’s where they usually go when there’s no one to take them.’

  Emma thought of the friendly little dog that had lifted her from her black mood and felt such a pang of sorrow she was in danger of drawing attention to herself. She swallowed hard. Nodded at the police officers and then saw them out.

  Afterwards, she went to join her parents in the kitchen.

  ‘How was it?’ asked Alice kindly.

  Emma shrugged. ‘OK. They just wanted to take a statement.’ She realized her hands were shaking and quickly busied them so her mother wouldn’t notice. ‘Anyone want a coffee?’ she asked, filling the kettle.

  They both accepted and Emma got the sense it was so they could spend a bit of time with her after her ordeal of the last two days. They’d been horrified when she’d told them the night before, on their return from Italy, and had offered to delay their move date, but she’d quickly insisted they stick to the original plan.

  Her father came over to her at the sink, rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘I know it’s hard, Emma, but you have to take comfort from knowing you did a wonderful thing. A very brave thing. You did your best to save that poor woman, and that’s the most anyone can ask of you.’

  Tears pricked at Emma’s eyes. She could hear the pride in his voice and couldn’t remember the last time she’d done something that made her father speak to her like that. Words she’d been longing for most of her life. She closed the kettle lid and her tears dripped into the sink. If only he knew the truth.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Friday 2 February

  ‘So are you going to the studios today?’

  Emma looked up as Lucy took her bowl of cereal and sat across from her at the tiny table in the tiny kitchen. She could hear the hope in Lucy’s voice. Lucy’s face had lit up in the interview when she’d said she worked in television and Emma suspected this might have been what swung it so she, Emma, got the small single room in this flat, instead of any of the other people also looking for somewhere decent and (just) affordable to live.

  She shook her head and played around with the toast on her plate. She really should eat something. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m working from home this morning, then popping out for a meeting.’

  When Emma had moved in the previous weekend, she’d been clear to Lucy that she worked from home quite a bit so she was at least able to avoid pretending to go out each morning. Lucy had given a badly hidden look of disapproval, but Emma assured her she wouldn’t be running up a big heating bill. ‘I have a small plug-in fire,’ she said. ‘I’ll just be in my room and I can pay a bit extra.’

  Placated, Lucy had resumed her enthusiasm for Emma’s job, plying her with questions and hugging the answers to herself as Emma explained the intricacies of her so-called glamorous job in television. Emma could see it coming well before it did and so was prepared.

  ‘Do you think . . .’ asked Lucy coyly, ‘. . . what are the chances of being able to visit the set?’

  Emma smiled in a positive way and said she’d have to see. It wasn’t just up to her, and it might not be ‘until further on in the shoot, when everything has settled down properly’, but it was definitely a possibility. She needed to keep Lucy on side. She looked across at her, with her swept-back hairdo and strong lipstick, her dark suit pulling just a little over her plump frame, all part of her self-styled ‘successful’ look for her job in the City.

  Emma wondered what Lucy would think if she knew what was really going on in her life. There was no meeting this afternoon. Instead, she was going to Elaine’s funeral. She was petrified but knew she couldn’t avoid it. She planned to arrive at the last minute and sit at the very back. She would be alone with her thoughts. She wanted to make peace with Elaine.

  The organ was playing something melancholy as Emma slipped into the small church, which was surprisingly warm. Her experience with weekly chapel at boarding school was a draughty stone building that chilled the girls right to the bone.

  She took a seat in the very last pew, which was thankfully empty, and was relieved to see that there was no one in the three pews in front of her either. She huddled up near the imposing stone pillar, her face half concealed by it, and instinctively pulled her black scarf up over her chin.

  She looked at the dark-clad bodies in front of her, several rows of people who had known Elaine and come to say goodbye. She recognized a couple of the actors from Generation Rebel, sitting together. One woman was wearing an elaborate black hat with netting over her eyes. Emma suddenly realized she had no idea who Elaine’s family was, and with a sense of dread, forced herself to look towards the front, to
see who might be there. Their faces were all turned forward and she couldn’t make anyone out. It was still, silent, with only the odd rustle of a Bible or hymn sheet turning.

  Emma made herself look towards the altar, where, just in front, there was a long, narrow table. On the top of the table was a lacquered wooden coffin. On its lid lay an arrangement of orange lilies. Feeling herself start to tremble, Emma looked away, glanced down at the shadows under the pew where the cushions lay, waiting for her to get on her knees and seek repentance. She suddenly had a desperate urge to leave and was about to get up when the organ started a new tune, loud and thundering, and the vicar began his saintly glide up the aisle. She could still slip out, she thought, once he’d passed her, but she glanced over her shoulder and saw another church figure, a steward or something, close the doors. He stayed standing there like a sentry.

  They were being asked to find the first hymn. It was something she recognized from school and she began to mouth the words while the congregation sang along, the actors’ voices louder than anyone else’s.

  Emma was suddenly engulfed by a sense of remorse and shame so strong she felt as if she was falling. She grabbed the pew in front and slowly her balance returned. When she looked up, a face was turned back to look at her, a face on which was an intense look of dislike. Emma held her breath for what seemed like an age and then Carrie turned away and continued to sing. Emma could tell by the backs of their heads that Carrie was next to Adrian and Liz, but there were no nudges, no nods to the rear of the church, and Emma’s presence remained something between only her and Carrie.

  A hand was outstretched at the door and Emma’s heart sank, but she knew it would be rude to ignore the condolences of the clergy. She was desperate to step out into the air, get away from the church, which had given her no reprieve, but she allowed the elderly man in his white robe to take her hand in his and look kindly upon her. She glanced backwards; people were just leaving their pews, so she needed to be away. A few platitudes later and she escaped, almost running into the cold winter afternoon. It was only half past four, but dusk was already settling and a fog was lingering near the ground. A small glow of red flickered by a gravestone and Emma saw Liz throw a depleted cigarette on the ground, grinding it out and depositing the butt in a drain.

  ‘Hello, Emma. I didn’t know you were coming.’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘How have you been?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Working?’

  Emma quickly shook her head and Liz’s resigned smile told her it wasn’t surprising. It was a tough business and news travelled fast.

  ‘I heard Bread and Butter Productions is looking. Script editor,’ said Liz.

  The kindness wounded her. Small scraps handed out as an acknowledgement she’d been made a sacrificial lamb. Liz clearly felt sorry for her, not enough to do the right thing, but still, maybe she wanted to assuage some guilt.

  ‘I’ve already approached them. Anyway, I want to write,’ Emma said defiantly.

  To Liz’s credit, she didn’t smile in amusement or dismiss this as a lofty ambition. ‘Do you, now? You know you need a spec script.’

  Emma nodded, heavy-hearted, as she was reminded again of how hard she was finding it to break her writer’s block.

  ‘Well, when you have one, let me know. I might be able to introduce you to an agent friend of mine. In the meantime, try again at Bread and Butter. But maybe next time don’t sleep with the boss, or at least make sure he doesn’t tell his wife,’ said Liz wryly.

  Emma’s head snapped up. ‘What?’

  ‘Well, I think it’s obvious,’ said Liz, bemused. She took out another cigarette, tried to get the lighter flame to hold. ‘What’s that expression – don’t doo-doo on your own doorstep?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Emma impatiently. ‘About Adrian telling his wife. You mean he was the one to tell Carrie?’

  Liz’s cigarette was still clamped between her lips, and then finally the lighter’s flame managed to catch the end. She took a long drag. ‘That’s right. Confessed on the first day of filming. His timing was shitty . . .’

  Liz continued talking, but Emma had tuned out. A boiling noise was throbbing in her ears, deafening her. Adrian had told Carrie. Not Elaine at all.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  Emma looked up, realized Liz had a hand on her arm and was looking at her, concerned.

  ‘You looked like you were about to faint,’ said Liz, by way of explanation for her hand. She gingerly let go and Emma straightened. She needed to get out of there.

  ‘I’m fine. I just need a hot drink or something. It’s cold,’ she added, unnecessarily, pulling her coat closer. She started to walk towards the road.

  ‘Not coming to the wake?’ Liz called after her, but Emma didn’t answer. She couldn’t believe what she’d just learned. Adrian had lied to her. Made her think Elaine was the one who’d blown their secret. When all along the bastard had done it himself.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Tuesday 6 February

  The lime-green submarine surfaced about two metres from the rocky Nova Scotia shoreline. Large boulders guarded the snowy beach, beyond which dramatically vertical cliffs soared up into the sky. On the clifftop grew countless tall pines, those at the very edge with their roots exposed where the cliff had crumbled away. Their dark green branches were laden with snow, which every now and then, when the wind blew, would tumble to the ground in a powdery thump.

  ‘I need a coyote,’ said Kenny, the director, as he stared up into the trees. ‘Three, in fact. At least three.’

  Carrie caught Liz’s eye. ‘I think that might be a bit of a challenge,’ she said to Kenny. ‘We’re filming these scenes tomorrow.’

  ‘Leon’s gone on a survival weekend,’ said Kenny. ‘He’s taken his sub to the wild coasts of Canada to get back to nature. I need nature.’

  ‘There are trees and snow and not a Starbucks in sight,’ pointed out Liz.

  Kenny smiled indulgently. ‘It’s where his agent calls him and breaks the news he’s lost the movie deal. I think it would work better if he was up against the elements.’

  Adrian cocked his head. ‘It does add to the tension of the scene. If his life is under threat at the same time as his livelihood.’

  Carrie refrained from gritting her teeth. She needed to rein this one in quickly. ‘The scene is set in the day. Coyotes are nocturnal.’

  ‘Are they?’ said Kenny, not entirely convinced.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Liz held up her phone, having rapidly googled. ‘Mr Attenborough confirms it. Not the movie star, the wildlife one.’

  Kenny was looking disgruntled. Carrie indicated the giant green screen behind the fir trees. ‘We can always add some in. If it’s crucial.’

  ‘Won’t be in close-up.’

  ‘Cutaways?’

  Kenny frowned. ‘Close up with Michael,’ he said sulkily.

  ‘No, the coyote won’t be in the same shot as Michael,’ replied Carrie patiently. ‘But I think it’s going to be hard to find a trained coyote – three trained coyotes for tomorrow. And anyway, wouldn’t it be better to keep the budget for the extra crane? I’m sure we can stretch to both of those you asked for if we save in other areas.’

  Kenny was weighing it up. Shrugged. ‘OK.’ A runner came hurrying up to them. ‘Are you free to block the next scene?’ she asked Kenny. ‘Lighting’s complete.’

  Carrie let out a silent sigh as Kenny followed the runner back into the studio.

  ‘Coyote?’ said Liz, under her breath.

  ‘I liked the idea,’ said Adrian.

  ‘You would,’ said Liz lightly.

  ‘Looks good, though, don’t you think?’ said Carrie, gazing up at the set. The art department had done a phenomenal job – it looked exactly like a rugged beach on the wild Atlantic coast of Canada.

  ‘Amazing,’ agreed Adrian.

  ‘You planning on taking us round the world in your next show?’ asked Liz.

&nb
sp; It was said lightly enough, but Carrie’s antennae prickled. She knew what Liz was getting at. Liz wanted to know how Adrian’s next idea was coming along. The one he’d been contracted to write.

  ‘Not sure yet,’ said Adrian. ‘Haven’t written it.’ He laughed, but it was slightly forced.

  ‘Got any thoughts?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Liz smiled. ‘Care to share them?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he said, with a hint of irritation.

  ‘Honestly, Adrian, I’m not pressurizing you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Promise.’

  Adrian indicated the Nova Scotia beach. ‘There’s been another show to get on the road. Not to mention a whole load of personal stuff to deal with.’

  Carrie glanced away, embarrassed.

  ‘I’m talking about Elaine,’ said Adrian. ‘We only buried her on Friday.’

  ‘Elaine would have had you storylining at her wake,’ said Liz. ‘You know, once she called a writer at the hospital as his wife was giving birth. Gave him his notes over the phone while his wife was screaming through her contractions.’

  ‘Idiot should have turned his phone off,’ grumbled Adrian.

  ‘I’m not saying you need to deliver all six scripts of a new series by tomorrow, but it would be good to get a sense of what you want to write.’

  Adrian went silent and Carrie wondered if he had any ideas he was mulling over. They hadn’t spoken about work for weeks, beyond what was immediately necessary on Leon. Other events had taken over. Was he dreaming up new ideas?

  An uncomfortable feeling settled over her as she was reminded of the letter Emma had delivered, the one in which she claimed Adrian’s first success was actually her idea. She still didn’t know whether to believe it or not, but it wouldn’t go away. Thoughts of Emma plagued her constantly. Emma, who’d been a thorn in her side ever since she’d walked through the door to interview for her maternity cover. Carrie couldn’t seem to shake her; the woman had infiltrated every part of her life. It had jolted Carrie to see Emma at the funeral, as she hadn’t expected her to be there. Emma had only worked for Elaine for a few months and had been unceremoniously fired from the job. Why would you attend the funeral of someone who fired you over a year ago? Someone you hardly knew?