The Temp

by Michelle Frances

  He’d had to extricate himself from the flurry of questions every now and then to go back into the kitchen, where he’d smiled modestly to himself, contented as he’d pulled out the latest pepperoni from the pizza oven, sliding it onto the peel, the base making contact with the wooden implement with a temptingly light, crispy sound that he knew meant another delicious creation to marvel his friends.

  And now, she had hit him with that peel. To shut him up. He’d been so shocked it had worked.

  There had been a series of stunning moments that had happened to him that day. The first being one of great joy, like a gift from the heavens: Emma’s offer of an idea. Something that he now knew to be a trap, set to lure him to this house – his house – which she was treating as her own. This thought alone was enough to enrage him, but he was beginning to realize that he needed to keep his cool, to start thinking a little more, as Emma had got the better of him ever since he’d walked in the door.

  Adrian was still unsure as to whether this thing – this tying him up – was all a great prank. A stupid way of Emma making her point. He knew she was feeling a great sense of injustice, and he could see why. But half a million! It was truly laughable. Emma was utterly deluded. As for the public apology, who the hell did she think she was? She watched too much TV – that was clear. He ruefully looked at his position on the draughty floor, his head having to lie on the pillow on the marble hearth so his arm wasn’t stretched out in agony. The soft feathers were no match for the hard stone, which dug into his skull. He plumped it up again with his free hand and tried to sleep. He needed to keep his wits about him so he could get out of this ridiculous situation as soon as possible.

  He reflected back to another time when he’d been with Emma in this house – just a couple of months ago, they’d been screwing on the sofa up in the office. An amusing thought popped into his mind: if only she’d been into tying him up then!

  It was inevitable this would come to an embarrassing end, with Emma going off with her tail between her legs. Stupid girl. He’d bet she hadn’t thought beyond the initial sweet taste of revenge she’d no doubt got by humiliating him like this. Well, he would have the last laugh. Probably get her for ABH. He wouldn’t threaten her, no. Not because he thought she was in any way dangerous and he was worried what reaction he might provoke – she was just a stupid young kid with a chip on her shoulder – but he didn’t want to delay his release any longer. He’d save the retaliation for after she’d set him free. Then she’d see just who she’d been fucking with.

  No more shouting, no more outrage. From now on he was going to play it smart.

  SIXTY-NINE

  Sunday 25 February

  When Emma woke, her head still full of her dream, she had a warm, safe glow inside her that she didn’t want to let go of. She’d been at Carrie and Adrian’s London house; he was nowhere to be seen and she’d known in her dream that he’d gone, he didn’t exist anymore, and there was a lightness and happiness to the atmosphere in the house. Rory was tucked away asleep upstairs and it had been just her and Carrie, in the kitchen. The doors to the garden were wide open and it was warm and sunny. Carrie was baking, Emma was sitting at the kitchen table reading through a script she’d written, which she knew Carrie was going to produce, and all through this she had the sensation she came here a lot; she and Carrie were relaxed in each other’s company.

  Carrie pulled a tray of fairy cakes out of the oven and put them to cool on the counter, which was already piled high with them. There were so many it felt like there were hundreds stacked up on each other, little bites of soft vanilla sponge, and even in her dream, Emma could smell their buttery warmth.

  They’d looked in amazement at how many there were and laughed, both knowing there were still more to come, and then Carrie had begun to fill some more paper cake cases. Emma knew they needed more – the more cakes they had, the safer they’d be somehow – and she felt an overwhelming happiness as she watched Carrie spoon in the mixture. Then she’d woken and that happiness was a physical feeling in her chest, which was now dissipating rapidly.

  When it had finally gone, it left a hole that Emma couldn’t stand and so she got up. While she ate breakfast, Adrian’s phone buzzed on the counter and she saw it was a message from Carrie. She desperately wanted to read it, so she thought for a moment, then typed in Adrian’s birthday in the hope it would be the PIN, 12 August: 1208. The screen unlocked and she shook her head at how easy it was. She composed a reply while she put on some more toast for Adrian, and then tucking the phone in her jeans pocket, she picked up the toast and some water, and went into the dining room.

  Adrian was sitting up, his hair and clothes dishevelled, though he looked surprisingly calm considering he’d spent the night shackled to the fireplace. There was a faint whiff of urine from the plastic bucket and she wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Adrian, ‘but needs must. You could always set me free. Then I’d be a lot more civilized.’

  ‘Have you composed your letter?’ asked Emma. ‘Are you ready to give me your bank details?’

  ‘They’ll call to check,’ said Adrian. ‘Such a large amount, they’ll want to know it’s not fraud. You answer my phone, it’ll be obvious there’s something up.’

  ‘That’s why the money’s coming out of your joint account,’ said Emma. ‘And we’ll make sure the number registered for Carrie is here, the house phone.’

  She saw his pleasant mask slip. ‘They’ll notify her by email. Check it was her who changed the number.’

  ‘By then it’ll be too late. The money will have gone across. Anyway, I personally think that she’ll agree it’s only fair I get something. She knows it was my project.’

  By the look on his face, Emma realized then that Carrie had read her letter and knew the truth. It gave her a surge of hope.

  ‘You’re not going to get away with this, Emma. Why don’t you just let me go and we can talk like two grown adults? I’m not going to freak out or hurt you or anything. And I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement.’

  She looked at him and his badly hidden attempt to withhold his anger and didn’t believe a word of it.

  ‘Do you really think I’m that naive?’

  ‘No one’s saying that,’ he quickly reassured her. ‘It’s just, all this’ – he gestured at himself – ‘because of some silly misunderstanding that I’m sure we can sort out.’

  Emma bristled. Silly? Was it silly that he’d taken something of hers and used it to further his own success, and then refused to acknowledge the fact or share the spoils? Was it silly that he’d used her a second time, taking her ideas and relying on her to shape his next show and then getting her fired the minute she was no longer useful to him? Was it silly that he’d deliberately planted the idea in her head that Elaine had been the one to blame for opening her mouth, causing her to lose her temper and then poor Elaine had died from a heart attack? Was any of this silly?

  ‘I don’t think you’re taking this seriously enough.’

  ‘Carrie’s going to wonder where I am,’ he snapped.

  Emma took his phone out of her pocket, held it up. ‘No, she won’t. You’ve texted her to say you need space to work, a week at least, maybe more.’

  His face darkened. ‘You’ve no right to do that.’

  ‘Have you two broken up?’ asked Emma suddenly. ‘There was something about her reply.’ She opened his phone and read aloud. ‘“That’s fine. In fact, stay as long as you like. It might do us good to have a little break, and it’ll probably end up being your place anyway. I would prefer to keep the London house.”’

  ‘It’s none of your business,’ he growled.

  Her heart sang then, lifted up off its perch and soared around her chest. A smile blossomed across her face.

  ‘Why are you so obsessed with her?’

  She looked at him. ‘Not obsessed. Just knew she deserved better than you. So back to our arrangement. I have a very good idea, even if I do say so myself. An
idea that I think you’ll love. Pay me my money, write the letter, and there’s no reason we can’t go on writing brilliant shows together. I’m prepared to forgive everything you’ve done, but we need to hit the reset button first. It needs to be fair.’

  ‘You don’t have an idea. That line about a librarian – that’s bullshit.’

  She smiled at him. ‘I think it’s quite brilliant.’ In actual fact this wasn’t true. Not fully. She did have a new idea and thought it had potential, but it wasn’t complete. She was struggling to make it work, but he didn’t have to know that.

  She looked across at the toast and water she’d placed on the sideboard. ‘Perhaps we need to speed up your decision-making,’ she said, and picking them up, she took them from the room.

  ‘Hey, Emma—’ he shouted, but she was out the door and back in the kitchen.

  She cocked her head, but he’d gone quiet. Time to leave him for a bit. She had some errands to run.

  At the Margate hotel, Emma went up to her room, noting the ‘Do not disturb’ sign was still hanging on the doorknob. She carefully checked the room for anyone’s presence. The bed was as she’d left it, the creases in the duvet the same as she’d made them. A glass was in exactly the same position as she’d placed it. Good. That meant she might even be able to leave it a couple of days or so before coming back.

  On the way out, she made sure she spoke to the girl on the reception desk, asking about the opening times of the Turner Contemporary art gallery, which was down on the seafront, and then she went to enjoy a day out.

  SEVENTY

  Sunday 25 February

  It had upset Carrie that Adrian hadn’t come home the previous night. Actually, that wasn’t true. It had upset her that he hadn’t bothered to tell her and she’d had to prompt him this morning, sending a text asking where he was. It had felt strange doing so: what were the new rules for recently separated couples? They were no longer together, but did that mean they switched off all those thoughts and actions that had been so much a part of their lives? Did they no longer tell each other where they were going and when? Did they still eat together, cook for one another? It seemed odd to do so, but at the same time, it was ludicrous to both be in the kitchen, each cooking a separate, solitary meal. And there was Rory – Adrian was still his father and yet had made no reference to any future plans other than monetary.

  She sighed. In truth, it was probably easier he’d chosen to be away for a while. The break-up, although on the cards for some time, was still new and painful. And the memories, the good ones, would stalk her around the house, stopping her in her tracks. It didn’t help that there were so many photographs of the two of them around. She would have to put them away, something she’d maybe do later today.

  She had to get used to the idea of being single, of being alone in the house, just her and Rory. It had felt strange the previous night not knowing if or when Adrian would come back. The more she’d wondered, the more she’d felt alone, and her anxiety had grown as the hours ticked by. She’d locked the front door, double-checking it, and she knew why she was feeling so anxious. Ever since she’d discovered that Emma had been present at Elaine’s death, she couldn’t settle. Emma knew where she lived and had been inside her house. Emma had been looking through their things. It had seemed merely invasive at the time, but now everything had a darker slant to it.

  Why had she been at the lake? Was there something about Emma that she, Carrie, didn’t know? Something she should know? She looked at Rory, who was chewing a rattle in his bouncy chair, and felt a wave of vulnerability.

  ‘What shall we do today?’ she asked him.

  He looked at her askance, rattle in his mouth.

  ‘I know,’ said Carrie. ‘I can’t decide either. It’s weird, isn’t it? How she was there. I can’t stop thinking about it.’

  She sat with him on the floor, playing with him, but couldn’t relax. Was this how it was going to be now? She tried turning some music on, but her mind kept going back to Emma. She didn’t know why but she had an unnerving feeling that Emma wasn’t done with her yet after all.

  ‘I think we need to go out,’ she said to Rory. She couldn’t stay in the house any longer, wondering, waiting – for what? She thought ahead to the day coming to a close and having to lock up and be alone in the house.

  Carrie jumped up, and looking through her work files on the kitchen table, copied down an address. It was Sunday. There was a good chance Emma’s parents would be home.

  Carrie looked through the car windscreen at the smart Victorian terrace. It was on a four-by-four-clogged street not far from Wandsworth Common. The front door glistened in the sunshine, not least because a man in overalls was covering it with a layer of fresh black paint.

  She got out of the car and the man looked up and gave her a friendly smile before re-focusing on his brushwork.

  ‘Excuse me?’ called Carrie.

  He looked up again, just as she noticed through a ground-floor window that the room on the other side of the glass was completely empty. She frowned.

  ‘Is this the Foxes’ house?’ she asked, unsure.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Are they . . . no longer here?’

  ‘Gone to Italy. Renting this place out.’ The decorator held his brush and tin of paint aloft. ‘I’m on a deadline to get it finished.’

  ‘Italy?’

  ‘Got a place on one of the lakes. All right for some,’ he said lightly.

  ‘What about their daughter? Emma?’

  ‘Don’t know of any Emma,’ said the decorator. ‘That who you’re trying to get hold of?’

  Carrie was trying to think. Had Emma ever mentioned her parents going away? That she’d had to move house?

  ‘When did they move out?’ she asked.

  ‘Um . . . let me think. A few weeks ago? I’ve got their number. Brian and Alice. If it’s of any help?’

  Carrie said yes, it would be a great deal of help, and found a piece of paper on which she could copy the number that he read out from his phone. Then she got back in the car, and with a wave to the helpful decorator, she drove back home.

  After she’d put Rory down for a nap, she sat on the sofa, the slip of paper with Emma’s parents’ phone number in her hands. She didn’t know what to say to them. It was one of those things you could overthink, she suddenly decided, and started dialling. She listened to the long, foreign ringtone, and then a woman’s voice answered.

  ‘Is that Alice?’ asked Carrie.

  ‘Speaking. Who’s this?’

  ‘It’s . . . I’m Emma’s boss. From the TV show. Leon.’

  ‘Oh, hello.’ Alice sounded surprised and Carrie couldn’t quite make out if she knew that Emma no longer worked there. ‘Is she OK?’ Alice suddenly asked.

  ‘Oh yes, fine. Emma’s fine,’ said Carrie. ‘At least, I assume so. She finished working with us a short while ago.’

  ‘Oh yes, she mentioned. She had a new job to go to.’

  Did she? thought Carrie. Since when? ‘I . . . um, we have some payslips to send on to Emma and I know she recently moved, but we don’t seem to have her new address. And for some reason, I can’t get through on her phone. I had this number down on her contact details as a back-up. I’m sorry to bother you, but I wonder if you might have her address? Just so I can get these in the post.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Alice in her ear, and Carrie could hear the shuffling of papers. ‘We’re still getting sorted here – boxes everywhere. Oh, here we are!’

  Carrie copied down the address as Alice read it to her over the phone.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Carrie. ‘I’ll make sure these get to her safely.’

  ‘I’ll let Emma know you called,’ said Alice. ‘What did you say your name was?’

  There was no real reason not to give her name, thought Carrie. It might even flush Emma out more quickly.

  ‘Carrie Kennedy,’ she said.

  A long silence filled the airwaves and Carrie wondered if she’d
been cut off.

  ‘Hello? Are you still there? Alice?’

  More silence.

  ‘Hello?’ said Carrie again.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m still here,’ said Alice quickly.

  Carrie couldn’t be sure but she thought it sounded as if Alice’s voice had become tense, strained.

  ‘Right, well, I’d better get on,’ garbled Alice. ‘Goodbye.’ And she’d hung up before Carrie could reply.

  She looked at the now silent phone in her hand. Strange. Outside, it had started to rain. Miserable slashes of wet splattered the glass. Carrie checked her watch. Rory was still asleep and would be for at least a couple of hours.

  Her visit to Emma could wait until later.

  SEVENTY-ONE

  Sunday 25 February

  The wander round the gallery didn’t take long, and afterwards Emma caught the train back to Broadstairs. She stood on the pavement outside the station and wondered what to do. The days stretched out when you had nothing to fill them. She could go back to the beach house, but she didn’t feel in the mood to be anywhere near Adrian, and actually, the longer she left him, the quicker he might toe the line. She shivered. It was too cold to stand around being indecisive, so she headed towards the town, her scarf pulled up over her chin.

  As she neared the bustle of the High Street, she felt less isolated and found herself slowing down. Maybe there was something she needed, a shop she had to pop into, and then a door opened onto the pavement next to her and a waft of warm, scented air briefly enveloped her. She turned her head and saw she was outside a hairdresser’s. It would kill at least an hour, and she could totally relax, hand her life over to someone else for a short while.

  ‘Do you have availability for a cut and blow-dry?’ she asked the black-clad girl at the reception desk.