The Temp

by Michelle Frances

  A few clicks on the computer and she was allocated a stylist and then found herself in a high, deep chair having warm water and shampoo gently massaged into her head. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation of feeling temporarily trouble-free. Once it was done, she sat back in the stylist’s chair, her hair being combed through.

  ‘So, just the ends, yes?’ asked the stylist, confirming what they’d discussed when she first came in.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Emma, taking a sip of the complimentary orange juice, an escapist magazine on her knee. She watched as he started to trim the ends of her hair, tiny centimetre-long blonde pieces falling onto her protective gown. It would be the same. The same hair, the same Emma, the same life. Nothing would change. She would go back to the beach house and Adrian would still be handcuffed to the fireplace. She suddenly felt an urge to derail everything, to take back some control of a situation she wasn’t sure she knew how to handle.

  ‘Actually, I’ve changed my mind,’ she said to the stylist. ‘I want something completely different.’

  SEVENTY-TWO

  Sunday 25 February

  She had to ask her outright. That was the only way she was going to be able to gauge what had happened – by watching Emma’s reactions.

  And then what?

  It wasn’t as if Emma was going to invite her in for a coffee and confession. Carrie needed to know something, though, a greater sense of what had happened, an understanding of Emma and Elaine’s relationship, anything to give herself some insight into whether or not this feeling of foreboding was warranted or a sleep-deprived new mother’s paranoia.

  She rested a protective hand on the top of Rory’s squirrel-hatted head as she walked along this neat road opposite a large cemetery. It was fairly ordinary, with irregular trees planted in the pavement, their branches trimmed to bare nubs. Carrie always hated the way the trees were shorn in winter: they reminded her of something out of a horror movie, hands severed from arms. She glanced down at Rory. He was enclosed in a pouch close to her chest; she’d wanted him cocooned next to her when she went to this flat. It would be easy to flee should she need to. Carrie shook her head. Flee? What did she think was going to happen?

  She was nearing the flat now and went up the narrow concrete path that led to the front door, the paint chipped and worn.

  Carrie rang the bell and waited. Rory, sensing they’d stopped, was looking quizzical. She bent down and kissed the top of his head.

  Then the door opened. A plump girl with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail was staring at her – rather irritably, thought Carrie. She was wearing a onesie made of fake leopard-skin fabric and Carrie had obviously interrupted a lazy Sunday. As she glanced through the window to her right, she saw the TV was on, an overseas-property show. On the coffee table in the middle of the room was an open packet of chocolate biscuits.

  ‘Can I help you?’ said the girl.

  ‘I’m looking for Emma Fox,’ replied Carrie.

  The girl’s irritation deepened. ‘She’s not here.’

  ‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’

  ‘No.’

  Carrie deduced that Emma had done something to offend this girl, judging by her curt responses. ‘Will it be later today, do you think?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. I haven’t seen her since Friday morning.’

  Carrie stood up straighter, surprised. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Went to work and never came back.’

  ‘Did you not . . . ?’ prompted Carrie.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Worry?’

  The girl snorted. ‘No. She sent a text. Staying with some friend now, apparently. God knows how she gets away with it at her work. She’s never there. Either working from home or on some jolly. And I thought filming TV shows was meant to be some all-encompassing gruelling marathon.’

  ‘It can be,’ said Carrie. The girl raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m one of the producers,’ Carrie explained. ‘Of the show Emma’s been working on.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ The girl suddenly warmed, then seemed to remember her manners. She thrust out a hand. ‘I’m Lucy Quinn. Emma’s flatmate.’

  ‘Carrie Kennedy.’ She paused. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance I could come in for a bit? Save chatting out here in the cold?’

  Lucy seemed to weigh up abandoning her private date with the packet of biscuits and talking to a proper TV producer, then held the door wider. ‘Course!’

  As Carrie walked past her into the flat, Lucy leaned in, too close. ‘Is that little Rory?’ she cooed. ‘Emma talked about him a lot.’

  The hairs went up on the back of Carrie’s neck. She looked down and saw Rory had fallen asleep on her chest.

  She was directed to the living room and offered a drink, which she declined. The room was simply and inexpensively furnished; almost everything had that cheap minimalist style that was indicative of somewhere like Ikea.

  ‘So is it going well? The filming?’ asked Lucy, as she quickly muted the TV and tucked the biscuits onto a lacquered black shelving unit behind a photo frame. The photo inside was of Lucy, Carrie saw, on a night out of some sort, dressed up with shiny clothes and skin, the flash giving her a bit of red-eye. In fact, every photo was of Lucy: her graduation, with friends, with a very self-assured male, who draped an arm round her shoulders while he grinned into the camera, his bow tie hanging loosely round a naked neck as his shirt buttons were open down to his mid-chest. There were no photos of Emma at all.

  ‘Extremely well. Thanks for asking.’

  ‘Emma’s been telling me about some of the stuff you’ve been filming. The hot-air balloon.’

  ‘That was a fun scene. It’s nice she enjoys her work. Has she ever told you about any of her other jobs?’

  Lucy looked puzzled. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Other shows she’s been involved in, other people she’s worked with.’

  Lucy’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, you mean like famous people? No, she has not! Why? Who else has she worked with?’

  ‘That isn’t quite—’

  ‘Come on, you can tell me. Emma and I are best friends.’

  That is a barefaced lie, thought Carrie. Anyone can see you can’t stand her. ‘I was thinking more of directors . . . producers . . . that sort of thing.’

  ‘Not that I know of. Hey, I’m so excited about Leon coming on the TV. It sounds like such an awesome show. I’ve been following all the PR stuff, you know, finding out about how it’s come together.’

  ‘Great. She ever mention anyone called Elaine?’

  Lucy frowned. ‘Elaine . . .’ she repeated, pondering. ‘I don’t think so. Do you still have lots to film?’

  A loud warning bell was ringing in Carrie’s ears. She ignored Lucy’s question. ‘Elaine was her old boss,’ she persisted. ‘She died recently.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said Lucy. ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  But the news had barely impacted her at all. Instead, she was sitting upright, her legs tucked under her leopard-clad backside, and her eyes shining with hope.

  ‘Do you know,’ she ventured boldly, ‘Emma kindly asked if I would like to go to the set. To visit,’ she added pointedly.

  Carrie somehow doubted the absolute truth of this statement and she resented this girl forcing herself on her, putting her in a position where she was required to substantiate Emma’s alleged invitation. She smiled. ‘That was very nice of Emma. But I’m afraid she no longer works with us.’

  It was as if she’d poured a bucket of cold water on Lucy. Her mouth had dropped open in shock.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’s left.’

  Just as Lucy was processing this, another realization popped. ‘So where does she work now, then?’ she asked suspiciously.

  ‘I believe she’s what they call “between jobs”.’

  Lucy’s face grew thunderous. The legs came out from their relaxed position and landed on the floor.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ asked Carr
ie.

  ‘She owes me rent, that’s what’s wrong,’ Lucy blurted out. ‘And it turns out she’s been lying about her job. When did you say she left?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  Lucy looked at her mutinously and Carrie relented. ‘Beginning of January.’

  ‘January!’ Lucy exploded. ‘That was weeks ago!’ Then it dawned. ‘Working from home, my arse! She didn’t have a bloody job to go to! She signed a bloody rent contract knowing she had no job,’ she fumed.

  Carrie could tell Lucy’s longed-for set visit had just sprouted a pair of wings and flown out of the window.

  ‘I want my rent,’ said Lucy darkly. ‘Who is this person she’s staying with, anyway?’

  ‘What makes you think I know?’

  ‘You two know each other quite well, don’t you? I mean . . . she’s kept everything. I assumed you go way back.’

  Carrie looked at her, puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

  Lucy lifted her head defiantly. ‘I was just putting some of her stuff away in her room. Happened to see.’

  A nervous ripple ran down Carrie’s back. She stood. ‘Would you show me?’

  Lucy reluctantly got up and led Carrie to Emma’s room, which was obviously the smaller of the two in this flat, even without having to see the other one. Carrie watched as Lucy stepped inside and opened the bottom drawer of a tall chest. She pointed.

  Holding Rory carefully, Carrie bent down to see. She saw her own face smiling back at her. It was a printout of the press release announcing the Leon green light. She flicked through other papers. There were industry magazine clippings and online printouts that charted her entire career, going back a decade or more. Her move to Hawk Pictures. Her BAFTA nomination. Interviews she’d done for various newspapers’ art sections – the Guardian, The Times, the Observer – on her factual programmes. Her blood ran cold – what did Emma have these for? What did she want with her?

  She saw Lucy watching.

  ‘So are you two mates or what?’ asked Lucy mulishly.

  Carrie stiffened with anger. This insufferable girl was nothing but a malicious, self-serving gossip. ‘Funny how you just happened to see these. When you were placing stuff in her room.’

  Lucy flushed with embarrassment and indignation. ‘I’m actually expecting someone,’ she said, glancing deliberately at her watch. ‘Any minute now.’

  ‘Don’t worry – I’m leaving,’ said Carrie, already walking towards the door.

  ‘Hey, the next time you speak to her, tell her I want my rent,’ said Lucy to her back, ‘or all her stuff, including her precious papers, is going in the bin.’

  Carrie suddenly remembered something. She swung back. ‘Where did you say her friend was? The one she’s staying with?’

  ‘Dunno. The coast somewhere.’

  Her heart was suddenly going like the clappers. Surely not . . .

  SEVENTY-THREE

  Sunday 25 February

  Emma was looking at herself in the mirror, while the stylist waited anxiously for her verdict.

  Her long hair lay in dishevelled clumps on the floor. She touched her hairstyle, getting used to its new shortness, and smiled. ‘I like it,’ she said, and the stylist beamed with relief.

  ‘It suits you, a bob,’ he said, patting the ends admiringly.

  He was right – it did, thought Emma. She should’ve known, really.

  Her haircut gave her a new energy and a sense of optimism as she walked back to the beach house. As she headed into the estate, she heard a car pull up beside her.

  ‘Hello,’ called Geraldine from the window. ‘How did the casserole go down?’

  Emma leaned down to speak to her, ignoring the growls from the pug on the front seat. ‘Very well. In fact, I think it fuelled him for hours. He was still going when I left for the day and all I could hear was a continuous clicking of the keyboard.’

  Geraldine gave a self-satisfied smile. No doubt, thought Emma, pleased with her contribution to Adrian’s genius.

  ‘He’s such a wonderful writer,’ said Geraldine. ‘I loved Generation Rebel. Such a powerful show. Those kids! They were utterly nightmarish. I suppose he wrote a reflection on what kids are like today, and very clever too, but I found myself wanting to murder every one of the little so-and-sos. And it was the poor headmaster who got it!’

  ‘You don’t think that they had been unnecessarily pressurized by the teaching establishment, and that after the suicide of one of their friends as a result of failing to reach the unattainable goals they were subject to, they were justified in making a stand against the government and the education department, and however much their teachers were “just following the curriculum”, they too were just as responsible and the whole series was a comment on the way we educate our children today?’

  Geraldine looked at her strangely. ‘No.’

  Emma smiled but said nothing, ignoring the slightly awkward pause that now existed between them.

  ‘How’s Carrie?’ asked Geraldine.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her down here for a while.’

  ‘She’s been very busy – you know, juggling work and the new baby.’

  ‘Of course. Oh, I hope she comes down soon. I’d love to meet little . . . Rory, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Geraldine nodded, clearly finished with small talk. ‘I’d better get on. I’ll pop by for the casserole dish at some point.’

  ‘It’s OK – I’ll drop it off,’ said Emma.

  ‘Not at all. I wouldn’t dream of putting you out,’ said Geraldine firmly. She held Emma’s gaze. ‘Have you had your hair cut, by the way?’

  Emma nodded as Geraldine openly appraised her. ‘Nice,’ she said approvingly, then drove off even as the window was going back up.

  Emma watched as she disappeared down the road. Interfering old busybody, she thought, but wasn’t overly threatened by Geraldine’s determination to come to the house. She could see on the camera who was buzzing at the gate and would simply ignore her.

  As she let herself into the house, Adrian started up from the dining room.

  ‘Emma! Emma! You cannot fucking do this. This is against my human rights!’

  She sighed and opened the dining-room door; his rant stopped mid-sentence.

  He was staring at her. ‘Jeez . . . you’ve had your hair cut.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said impatiently.

  ‘You look . . .’

  ‘Different?’

  ‘Like Carrie,’ he said. ‘Carrie has hair like that.’ His eyes roved over her, a new realization dawning. ‘And you’re wearing her clothes . . .’

  ‘I’ve been wearing her clothes ever since I got here,’ said Emma with another sigh. Was he really that unobservant? No wonder he struggled with his writing. ‘I didn’t bring any of my own, and yours didn’t fit me.’

  ‘You’re nuts,’ he said warily. ‘Totally cuckoo.’ He was looking at her strangely. ‘How long are you going to keep me here?’

  ‘We’ve already discussed this.’

  He jerked his arm angrily. ‘You are just some jumped-up little kid with ideas above her station. How dare you do this to me? You were my assistant.’

  ‘No, Adrian, I was more than that. A junior to you, yes, you’re right about that, perhaps even a pupil, but you need to watch us downtrodden pupils. We can fight back against our “mentors”.’ She looked at his arm. ‘You’re tied up in handcuffs, just like the headmaster. Just remember, Adrian, what happened to him.’

  He paled. ‘Jesus Christ . . . you’re not going to . . . Those kids hanged that man!’

  ‘Forced his head into a noose and pushed his body out of the window so he broke his neck,’ agreed Emma. ‘Perhaps that noose should also be here, where you can see it. A little reminder.’

  He was staring at her incredulously but she couldn’t be bothered with it. She shut the door and went into the kitchen to get herself something to eat. As she cooked a simple pasta dish, she considered ho
w long it had been since she’d given anything to Adrian. Twenty-four hours had passed since she’d provided him with any food or water and she wondered how much longer he could go on, what it would take for him to realize she wasn’t going to just come in the room and let him go.

  She knew he thought she wasn’t serious, not deep down, that he saw her actions as a child’s tantrum, and it irritated her that he was so dismissive of her. She suddenly had an image of him lying there, some time in the future.

  CUT TO:

  INT. ADRIAN AND CARRIE’S BEACH HOUSE – DAY

  It’s the year 2025. ADRIAN is still handcuffed to the fireplace, but now he exists as a skeleton clad in some dirty, faded rags. The skeleton’s jaw starts to chatter.

  ADRIAN

  Let me go, you deluded child. I’m telling you, this isn’t funny anymore!

  CUT TO:

  Emma smiled, amused by her own fantasy. She ate her dinner in solitude and then tidied away the dishes. Afterwards, she thought she’d go and watch some TV, so switched on the oversized screen in the living room. A new drama was about to start, something that had been heavily trailed and was a big show for the channel in every way: cast, budget, scheduled slot. The industry had been talking about it for months, dining out on titbits of gossip about how the original lead actor had been fired just a week into the shoot after a sexual harassment story broke (thank goodness it wasn’t any longer and they didn’t have to reshoot the whole thing), and how halfway through, the director had broken her wrist on set but had continued filming for another two days before being persuaded to go to A&E – then was back on set again at dawn the next morning, directing with a plaster cast.

  The opening titles started, monotone and moody, declaring that the spy show about to start was coolly stylish. Then as the show began, a set piece kicked in almost immediately: a car explosion. It certainly grabbed her attention, but as the drama continued to unfold, her interest started to wane. The actors were good, the production stylistic, but the story felt like something she’d seen before. The same familiar tropes of numerous spy shows kept cropping up, the same twists in the story that she’d seen dozens of times before.