The Temp

by Michelle Frances

  Carrie got out of bed and pulled back the curtains, letting the room fill with sunlight. The snow had all gone – it was as if it had never happened. She dressed Rory and took him downstairs, where he played happily under his baby gym while she made coffee and checked her emails. She fired off a few replies and was about to close the laptop when she saw the tab she’d been reading the day before: the article on Elaine’s accident.

  She clicked on it and Elaine’s smiling face stared out at her from the screen, a publicity shot from some professional event. Carrie read the article again. A man called Nick Aston was name-checked first – he was the passer-by who’d been trying to resuscitate Elaine when the paramedics arrived. She slowed down when she came to the mention of Emma, but there was nothing she’d missed. Nothing to explain why Emma had been there. It was weird, thought Carrie, and she shut the laptop. She finished her coffee and looked at Rory, who was batting the monkey with a bell in its ear that was hanging above his face.

  ‘Shall we go out for a walk?’ she said, and he looked over at her and gurgled happily. She took that as a ‘yes’.

  Carrie managed to find a parking space right next to the common, outside a parade of shops. After the usual five-minute delay of extracting the pram from the boot, assembling it and transferring Rory from his car seat, they were ready to go. She wheeled him across the road into Wandsworth Common and strolled down the path in the sunshine. She headed for the lake and could see the spot before she got there: a small shrine had been laid on the bank.

  Carrie stopped and bent down to see. People had left flowers, now dead, and a small teddy bear, which was more than a little bedraggled. There were also messages of condolence. Most were simple – Rest in peace or God bless – but one card caught her eye because it had more written on it than the rest. It was tucked inside a cellophane-wrapped bunch of decaying, small yellow roses and so had mostly survived the weather-battering; only a few words had run.

  I am so sorry I couldn’t help.

  May you rest in peace.

  Nick Aston

  Carrie looked up, thoughts whirling in her head. This was the man who’d tried to save Elaine: she recognized his name from the newspaper article. He’d been here when Emma was here. She stood up, and taking off her gloves, got her phone from her bag. It would probably come to nothing, but she typed his name and ‘Wandsworth’ into Google. Almost instantly, the search revealed its findings. Second down on the list was a link to a vinyl record store, and in the blurb underneath, a name was highlighted: the owner, Nick Aston. Carrie clicked and the site opened up. The shop was right next to where she’d parked.

  She put her gloves back on, and giving a respectful nod to the shrine, turned and pushed Rory across the common.

  The door had an old-fashioned tinkling bell, which jingled incessantly as she manhandled Rory’s pram into the shop. A man looked up and came hurrying over to help her, holding the door so she could get the pram in. Once the obstacle course was completed, Carrie looked up, seeing a pleasant-faced thirty-something with a goatee, dressed in a hip T-shirt and jeans.

  He had an expectant, helpful look on his face; he was waiting for her to say something and it suddenly struck her she didn’t really know what she was doing there.

  ‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’ he asked, and she gazed absently around the store at the shelves and upended pigeonholes of records, feeling totally fraudulent.

  ‘Um . . .’

  He waited patiently, the helpful smile never leaving his face.

  ‘Are you Nick Aston?’ she asked.

  He nodded.

  ‘Actually, I wanted to ask you about the incident on the common. Last month. The lady who collapsed and died by the lake.’

  The smile faltered and Carrie felt the welcome cool a little.

  ‘I’m a friend of hers,’ she explained quickly. ‘We know each other from work. I went to her funeral, but . . . well, I just had to come here too. To see the place where . . .’ She took a deep breath and became misty-eyed, not all fabricated. ‘It makes it easier to say goodbye,’ she said, while thinking, Dear God, Elaine, do not strike me down.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Nick. ‘It must be terrible for you.’

  Carrie nodded. ‘I saw your name in the paper,’ she said, ‘and the flowers by the lake. Thank you,’ she added, ‘for everything you tried to do.’

  His face clouded over. ‘I wish I could’ve done more. But I only heard her friend’s shouts some moments after she’d collapsed.’

  ‘That must’ve been so awful for her. Not being able to help Elaine like that.’

  ‘Do you know her?’ asked Nick.

  ‘No,’ lied Carrie. ‘I guess she was struggling . . . with giving Elaine mouth-to-mouth? When you arrived?’

  ‘She was so upset . . . You know, I don’t think she quite knew what to do.’

  Carrie nodded. ‘Was she alone?’

  Nick looked at her strangely. ‘Of course. Or she would’ve had help sooner.’

  Carrie nodded, realizing she was coming across as a little odd. It was making Nick suspicious.

  ‘What was she like? At the time? Her manner?’

  For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. His voice was cold. ‘She was distraught. As you might imagine. Were you looking for help with any records? Otherwise, I really need to get on.’

  Carrie nodded and wheeled the pram out through the door, then took Rory back to the car. As she started the engine, she glanced over to the shop and saw him watching her through the window.

  He was deeply unimpressed by her nosiness. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting by coming here, but something was bothering her. Maybe Elaine and Emma had bumped into each other in the same place at exactly the same time. It was a bit of a coincidence, but they were both local, so it was possible. But she couldn’t get rid of the niggle that it wasn’t the whole story and she allowed herself a deeply unsettling thought: What would Nick Aston have seen if he’d been at the lake five or ten minutes earlier?

  She put the car in gear and drove off, feeling his eyes on her until she disappeared from view.

  SIXTY-THREE

  Saturday 24 February

  He was a free man. He could do whatever he wanted. Go away whenever he wanted, take up cycling, as he’d promised himself he’d do, and had resented not being able to, thanks to feeling guilty once Rory had arrived. He was free to lie in bed until whenever he liked. (Actually, he did that anyway but conveniently glossed over this fact.) As of this morning, this first day of his new life, he had nothing tying him down. So why did he feel as though a thick cast-iron chain was hanging round his neck, his shoulders, and pinning him to this goddamn chair so he could barely breathe, let alone move? He suddenly sprang up, the wheeled chair flying across the room behind him. He ran his hands through his hair. Christ, he missed Carrie. The old Carrie, not the new one who’d been taken over by a small baby. Carrie would know what to do.

  He stared at the computer screen, its reciprocating white glare mocking him. An idea, he needed an idea. He wasn’t greedy, only one, but it had to be good, brilliant in fact. It had to reflect his current standing in the television industry, make his contemporaries widen their eyes and grin ruefully as they realized – yet again – just what a genius he was. He could feel himself breaking out in a cold sweat. He’d spent days waiting for a bolt of inspiration and nothing came. Christ, at times like this, he was even willing to admit he missed Emma.

  Calm, he thought. You have to keep calm. He slowly retrieved the chair and sat back at his desk in the tiny room at the Soho office. He didn’t much like it there, tucked away, lonely, with no one around to tell him how brilliant he was, and briefly wondered if he was addicted to praise.

  He lifted his hands over the keys. Come on, come on, he urged his brain, waiting for divine inspiration, even while knowing it was fruitless. Ideas didn’t come like that; at least, they never had done for him. He sensed the returning spectre of his past, creeping up ov
er his shoulder. Sixteen years of toiling away on a soap or working as a writer for hire on other people’s shows, waiting for his big break, secretly wondering if he was good enough.

  He’d had ideas, of course he had, he’d had ambition too and had spent years working on his free days, through his unemployed stints, developing new TV shows. Occasionally he’d managed to get those shows funded by a production company, which led to draft after draft written and rewritten while Adrian had watched two years of his life drift by, until finally the producers professed themselves happy enough to submit to a commissioner, only for it to sit on the commissioner’s desk for another six months while they decided whether it was worth taking further.

  The rejections would come by email; Adrian never even met the individual in their ivory tower who had so much power over his career and his life. They were brutal in their politeness or their vagueness. Not quite for us. Or So sorry, but now with the success of XYZ show, there really isn’t room for this on the channel as well, as brilliant as it is.

  Well, XYZ show wasn’t even conceived when he bloody thought up his idea! he’d fume internally, while of course remaining politely disappointed. The industry was too small to spit and rage.

  Adrian had been in the game so long he’d watched what seemed like the same writers get commission after commission, building their status into something untouchable while he languished at the bottom of the ladder, sometimes even staring into the chasm of defeat. Should I give up? had raised its ugly head on more than one occasion. Maybe he just couldn’t do it. And then Emma’s letter had arrived and he’d instantly seen something special in her project, its rawness, its visceral power, and he’d done what any talented writer would have done: made it into a living, breathing show, at the same time proving to all the doubters that he was the brilliant writer he’d always known he was deep down. Not for the first time, he kicked himself for his utter foolishness at not destroying her letter and documents. He thought he had, but the heady sensation of victory must have distracted him. It was extremely busy being successful – so many demands on his time by so many people – and it had been hard to keep track of everything.

  He looked at the blank screen again, silently pleading with it, but nothing happened. A deep, strangled sound of frustration and fear came from his throat and he stabbed his fingers into the keyboard. What the fuck was he going to deliver to Liz? He’d already gone way past when he should have got her something and he was afraid she could smell the whiff of failure. And if that got out . . . His blood ran cold. He couldn’t bear the thought of everyone whispering behind his back, gleefully relishing in his inability to do anything else, perhaps even picking up on the fact that Carrie had brought Leon to him – and Christ, what if Emma started spreading rumours about Generation Rebel? His industry was an unforgiving one, and if he couldn’t keep up with his success, it wouldn’t be long before he was shunted to the writers’ graveyard.

  He rested his head in his hands as the full weight of expectation seemed to crush him. Time ticked on and he knew he should move but didn’t want to look reality in the face again.

  A pinging sound came from his computer. He looked up – an email. His stomach jolted as he saw who it was from: Emma. He looked at it suspiciously. Should he? His hand moved of its own accord and he clicked:

  Hi Adrian,

  I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but no one can deny how well we work together. I don’t think we should throw that away. I have an idea that I could share with you. Conditions attached, of course. A librarian who becomes a corrupt kingpin in her community. Might sound insane, but I think it has legs. Perhaps we could have a coffee together, confidentially, at least at first, given everything that’s gone on.

  Emma

  Adrian stared, his heart racing. Of course, he should turn her down. It was madness, especially after everything that had happened. In fact, he should just ignore it, delete it and pretend it had never arrived. He moved the cursor over to the trash-can symbol, poised to click. A librarian who becomes a corrupt kingpin . . . It was bonkers, but also intriguing . . .

  He shook his head. No. He reduced the email so it went to the bottom of the screen, and behind it, his blank page popped out at him again. Bright white screen. Liz was expecting a pitch. His breathing quickened as he thought about the conversation they’d have, the excuses he’d blunder through, the humiliation. He couldn’t do it. He brought the email back up and started to draft a reply.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Saturday 24 February

  Emma sat back at the kitchen table and contemplated the effect her email might be having in London. It was difficult to predict and she didn’t want to get her hopes up. Needing to distract herself, she put on her coat and went out into the garden. Some early daffodils had opened up their sunny heads in the flower bed alongside the covered swimming pool, and she breathed in the sea air and watched as they bobbed in the wind. She liked their cheerful optimism and decided to pick a few. Emma continued to walk round the garden, uplifted by the tiny shoots and buds on the bushes and trees. It was large – about a hundred feet long – and along the back and the sides of the plot were tall conifers, much like those at the front of the house. Their dense green branches rose nearly twenty feet up, obscuring the view from the neighbouring houses. Behind the trees stood a fence. The garden was secured and private in the strongest way possible. No one could get in. No one could see in.

  Going back into the house, she couldn’t help but glance at her laptop screen; there were no new messages. The daffodils went into a vase, which she placed in the middle of the kitchen table, smelling their green, unripe scent.

  Emma decided to make herself a hot drink and then go out for a proper walk to take her mind off the wait. The kettle boiled and she was just pouring water on the coffee granules when a bleep came from her laptop. She abandoned the coffee and went over to the table. It was a reply! On tenterhooks, she clicked, eyes scanning the response. It was a yes! Her heart did a little victory dance. Then she composed herself. She went back to finishing the coffee, allowed a few minutes to slip past. Then she sat down and typed.

  Glad we can be grown-up about this. I would suggest we meet away from London. I’m having a small break down at the coast in Kent, not far from Broadstairs. Am happy to travel down to your house, but it has to be this afternoon as I’m leaving this evening.

  Emma

  She hit ‘send’. Almost immediately, a response came back – he was in agreement and would meet her at his house at 2 p.m.

  Emma looked up at the clock. She didn’t have much time. She quickly searched her laptop and found a large, anonymous chain hotel in Margate, just a few miles away. Phoning them, she booked herself a room for seven nights. Then she took her laptop upstairs and hid it under her bed. Hurrying back down to the dining room, she assessed the space. She heaved the large, glossy wooden table across the floor so it was up against the window and then placed all the chairs on top. The room looked out onto the garden, which she knew was like a fortress. She took all the tools away from the fireplace and made sure there was nothing that wasn’t fixed to the wall or floor within three metres of the marble hearth. The bucket she’d bought earlier she placed on the floor. Then she surveyed the room again and was hit by a wave of sadness. All this was no less than Adrian deserved, but she couldn’t help thinking of Carrie too. They’d been a team once, albeit a very long time ago, and now her relationship with Carrie was so damaged she couldn’t see any way of repairing it. Adrian really had a lot to answer for.

  Emma went back into the kitchen, washed and dried her mug, and put it away. She took the daffodils and regretfully threw them out of the window, then tidied away the vase. Everything was back to how she’d found it when she’d first arrived. She grabbed her coat and bag, and closed the front door behind her.

  Emma walked into the town centre, and got a taxi, asking the driver to take her to Margate. He dropped her off outside the anonymous hotel. She went to the reception d
esk and checked herself in, then took the lift to her beige, nondescript room. There, she messed up the bed, took the ‘Do not disturb’ sign and hung it on the outside of the door.

  She went back downstairs and waited until the receptionist was busy. Then, while no one was looking, she slipped out.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Saturday 24 February

  Adrian turned into the North Foreland Estate, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time to a song he admired on the radio. He was intrigued by Emma’s proposition. It wasn’t as unusual as one might think at first. Plenty of artists who worked together couldn’t bear the sight of each other for at least part of their working relationship: Simon and Garfunkel, Lennon and McCartney, Noel and Liam Gallagher. He realized as he thought this that these were all musicians, but hey, surely the same principles applied.

  He’d dropped a text to Carrie before leaving, just to let her know he was working on something. He knew she felt sorry for him and he hated it. Well, his message would give her food for thought: ‘Going to the beach house for the rest of the day. Got the seed of an idea: local librarian becomes corrupt kingpin in her community. Think it’s got something!’

  He’d received a simple acknowledgement in return and he’d smiled to himself, knowing she wouldn’t have expected him to have come up with an idea.

  Up ahead, someone was waving him down and he suppressed a groan. He pulled up to the kerb and pushed the electronic window button. Into the car came freezing air and Geraldine Kidd’s beaming face as she bent down to talk to him. He could smell her perfume, the overpowering reek of Chanel No. 5, something she’d once told him she’d worn since her twenties.

  ‘Hello, stranger,’ she said. ‘How’s our local superstar?’

  He smiled. ‘Been busy, you know. Working.’