He was worried, though, as the piece of wood had broken several times over the night, small chunks bruising and softening before breaking away. What had once been a reasonable makeshift chisel was now a blunted stump. He had to keep going, though. There really couldn’t be much more of the brick to wear away.
EIGHTY-FIVE
Monday 26 February
The alarm on Emma’s phone woke her at nine. She hadn’t wanted to waste any more time sleeping. She quickly showered and dressed, and then found the number for Liz in her phone’s contact list. As it rang, she crossed her fingers. Please answer.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, Liz. It’s Emma Fox.’
A surprised silence and then: ‘Emma. How have you been?’
‘Fine. Better than fine, actually. I’ve been really busy. Writing.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘And I was wondering . . . You said to me once that you’d introduce me to your agent friend.’
‘Harriet Seward?’
Emma’s heart started racing. She hadn’t realized Liz was referring to Harriet Seward, who represented some of the greatest writers in television. She composed herself. ‘Yes.’
‘She’s one of the best in the business.’
‘I know.’ Emma spoke confidently. There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone; then Emma heard the amused approval in Liz’s voice.
‘OK. I’ll drop her a line. Tell her to expect a script from you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’ll have to send her a hard copy. They don’t accept emails.’
There must be a print shop in town, thought Emma. ‘No problem.’
‘Well, good luck.’
‘There’s just one thing,’ said Emma.
‘Yes?’
‘Can you send the email today?’ She’d never been so demanding before. ‘Please,’ she added.
‘It must be good,’ said Liz, with a challenging note to her voice, ‘if you’re in such a hurry.’
Was it? Emma thought so but was too close to it to really know.
‘I’m sure Harriet will tell me,’ she said.
‘Indeed she will,’ said Liz. ‘I’m intrigued. Will you send it to me as well?’
Emma’s heart spiked with nerves. ‘OK.’
‘Email is just fine.’
‘Thank you, Liz. How’s the show, by the way?’
‘Going well. Almost at the halfway point.’
She wanted to know if Adrian had been missed. ‘And everyone OK? Carrie and Adrian?’
‘Both fine,’ Liz said brusquely. ‘Adrian’s writing.’
Emma breathed a silent sigh of relief. They’d not noticed anything untoward.
After the call, Emma emailed her script to Liz and the local print shop. She tucked her laptop back under the bed and went downstairs, quickly throwing some fruit and crackers on a plate and pouring a glass of water. When she took them in to Adrian, he was already sitting up. She’d been expecting him to rage at her, but he was strangely well behaved.
‘Going out?’ he asked, looking at her coat.
‘Yes.’
‘Taking a break from the writing?’
She looked at him. ‘I’ve finished, actually.’
‘What? The whole script?’ His eyes were agog.
‘That’s right. Just going to get it printed.’
She didn’t wait to hear any more. Impatient to get her script sent, she put down the food and water, and left the house.
EIGHTY-SIX
Monday 26 February
‘It’s gonna be after lunch.’
Emma looked at the man who ran Print and Paper with dismay. ‘Seriously?’
‘Monday morning. Always busy,’ he said. ‘You want to go ahead or not?’
There were no other printing shops in town and so she nodded. It didn’t matter it would take a few hours. It wasn’t as if the postman would get the script to Harriet any sooner – it would still arrive tomorrow morning as long as she posted it by 5 p.m.
She left the print shop and headed down to the beach. It was too cold to sit on the sand and so she kept on walking until she reached St Mary’s Bay. The wind blew her along the promenade, occasionally taking her by surprise as it sped her up, pushing her into the path of the waves that came crashing up and over the wall, spraying her with cold, grey water. She laughed but still moved back towards the cliff base, away from the sea. The tide was high and the waves were huge, great monstrous surges of water. Gulls screamed overhead, wheeling and diving. They almost seemed excited by the sea’s display of power and arrogantly declared their lack of fear for it. Out in the distance, the turbines turned, their great blades constant and reassuring in their movement, and Emma thought of her script as it emerged from the printer’s rhythm.
Tomorrow, it would land on the desk of Harriet Seward, one of the industry’s most respected agents. Oh God, what if Liz didn’t send the introductory email as she’d promised? She could be called away on set and forget. Or what if Harriet took an age to read it? Or didn’t read it at all? She might automatically pass the script to a reader, an inexperienced freelancer employed to wade through the dozens of submissions they received every week. The reader, likely a new graduate, might be resentful of the tiny fee they were paid, when all they wanted was a full-time position in a TV company. They would type up a brief report with the damning summary word all but killing her only real chance to change her future: ‘PASS.’
Emma shivered. Mustn’t think like that. She had to hope.
EIGHTY-SEVEN
Monday 26 February
The screw was tantalizingly loose now. When Adrian yanked on it he could feel that only the very tip was held tight. The makeshift wood chisel lay discarded on the hearth, long since rendered ineffectual, and he now just pulled on the screw back and forth, back and forth.
He was aware Emma had been gone some time, and deep down he knew why. Now she’d finished her script, she was sending it out to someone. An agent or a producer. If it were any good, then she would be noticed. Her idea would be nurtured. She would be handled with sensitivity and care, with an underlying excitement from whoever was championing her. She’d be supported with whatever she needed to allow her to create. Ties and relationships would form, allowing confidences to be shared. Questions might be asked, dressed up as an interest in another show’s creation, but in reality questions about what it was like to work with him. How he came up with his ideas; what his early drafts were like; his temperament. These questions would be difficult for her to answer. She might be too professional to disclose the truth at first, but people’s antennae were highly tuned in this rocky business. It wouldn’t take much for conclusions to be drawn; an involuntary look of embarrassment from Emma, or perhaps a diplomatic laugh. And even if they were suspicions rather than certainty, the virus would have taken.
A wave of fear and nausea rampaged through Adrian. He would not be humiliated, his career picked over by the vultures in television. He would not have people feel sorry for him, consider him a has-been. He yanked again at the screw and a satisfying crumble of dust fell out.
No, he wasn’t going to let Emma get away with it.
EIGHTY-EIGHT
Monday 26 February
It was hard to concentrate. Carrie said a silent prayer of thanks that the day’s filming was – so far, touch wood – going without incident and she was left to herself in the office. She still hadn’t heard from Adrian and was wondering how much longer he was going to leave it before he bothered to contact her. Once again, the image of Emma and him flashed through her mind and she felt uneasy.
Emma was hiding something; she was convinced of it. Things weren’t adding up. Emma had written that letter about Generation Rebel accusing Adrian of stealing her project – something that Carrie believed to be true. But all those photos and articles . . . it was as if she was being targeted. What did Emma want with her? She’d held on to Rory a little longer this morning, not wanting to leave him, but t
hen his key worker had cheerfully plucked him out of her arms and she had no reason to stay at the nursery any longer.
A knock on the office door made her jump. It was the first assistant director letting her know they were ahead of schedule and so were going to pick up another scene before the crew broke for lunch. She nodded her thanks and then he left.
Carrie tried to focus on her work. She had to review the post-production schedule, but the highly complex chart full of dates and blocks of colour representing everything from music to ADR swam in front of her eyes. Irritated, she started again, looking to see where she could buy herself another couple of days to accommodate the delivery dates.
She was just beginning to see a solution when she was interrupted again by her phone ringing. Frustrated, she glanced across at the screen. It was a number from Italy – the same one she’d called Emma’s mother on. She tensed and abandoned the chart. Answered the phone, bracing herself for something, though she didn’t know what.
‘Is that Carrie Kennedy?’
‘Hello, Alice.’
‘Hello. I’m glad I’ve caught you.’
There was a pause and Carrie waited. She’d heard the solemnity in Alice’s voice. Then Alice began to speak and Carrie listened, blood draining from her face. She said very little. When the call was over, she quietly picked up her things and went to Liz’s office.
‘I need to go out for a bit.’
Liz was distracted by something and it took her a moment to look up. ‘What? Yes, sure. Everything OK? You look a bit pale.’
‘Everything’s fine. Well, hopefully. Rory has a temperature,’ lied Carrie.
‘Poor thing. Don’t worry – all’s good here. You get away.’
Liz was grinning, not because of what Carrie was telling her but because of what was on her desk. Her eyes kept glancing down to whatever she was reading.
Something made Carrie stop and ask.
‘What is it?’ she said, her hand on the door.
‘Huh? Oh, this?’ Liz held up a wodge of paper, looked a little awkward. ‘It’s a script. Written by Emma.’
Carrie’s chest tightened. ‘Oh?’
‘It’s . . . Well, it’s OK,’ said Liz, deliberately offhand, but she was still grinning.
‘You’ve heard from her? Recently?’ asked Carrie.
‘This morning.’
‘Where is she?’
‘At home. She’s been writing.’
Except she hadn’t, Carrie knew. She hadn’t been home for days. She was about to go when a sudden thought hit her. ‘What’s it about?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Emma’s script. What’s it about?’
‘Oh! Well, it sounds kind of strange, but it’s quite brilliant, actually. There’s this librarian and she . . .’
The room began to spin as Liz continued speaking and Carrie gripped the door handle tighter. It was the idea that Adrian had texted her about. ‘I need to go,’ she mumbled, and left the office.
Please don’t let her be there, she begged as she half stumbled down the stairs to her car.
EIGHTY-NINE
Monday 26 February
Emma clutched her still warm printed script to her chest as she selected a suitably sized envelope from the post-office shop. She wrote a succinct covering note and then allowed herself one last look at the printed pages. Beautiful in their freshness, paper unthumbed and gleaming, the crisp contrast of black on white. Her words, all her own words. She slipped them into the envelope with the letter and went to the counter. It was weighed and branded with a next-day-delivery sticker. And then the post-office clerk picked it up and put it in a sack behind him. Emma watched it disappear and quietly crossed her fingers. She’d done all she could.
Outside on the street, she felt a sense of completion and suddenly the exhaustion of the last few days hit home. It was tempting to go and buy a coffee and daydream about what the next few days might bring as the envelope she’d just posted was transported across the country, the words captured inside ready to dance in front of someone’s eyes, hopefully captivating their reader as soon as they were released. She glanced at her watch. What would another hour hurt? She was starving and feeling faint from lack of sleep. Just a coffee and a sandwich and then she would go back and sort out the problem that was Adrian.
She sat in the warm cafe overlooking the beach, devouring a ham-and-cheese toastie, and wondered how to solve her dilemma. There was no need to keep Adrian tied up any longer, but it would be impossible for her to let him go free. Despite his outwardly calm demeanour earlier, he was probably furious with her and she had no desire to release him and bear the brunt as he retaliated like an angry wasp that had been kept captive in a jar. On the other hand, she could hardly leave him to die there. Right now, she didn’t know what to do for the best.
Emma finished and paid, then walked back to the beach house in the fading light. She was looking forward to leaving and realized it was the last time she’d ever come back to this house. She opened the electronic gates, then waited to make sure they closed again. She didn’t see Geraldine walk past on the other side of the road. The mechanism stopped whirring as they clanged shut and Emma went up to the house.
She got the keys from her bag and put them into the lock. Entering the shadowy hallway made her suddenly want to be away as soon as possible. It wouldn’t take long to stuff her few possessions in her bag, she thought, and then she could be at the station and on a train within the hour. She still hadn’t decided what to do about Adrian but would figure something out.
There was no sound from the dining room as she closed the front door behind her. She flicked the switch for the hall light, but it didn’t come on. Puzzled, she tried it again, back and forth. Nothing. She stopped for a moment, listening intently for a rustle, a movement, but all was quiet, and in her eagerness to get away, she headed straight for the stairs. She flicked the stairs light, but again the bulb didn’t come on. Odd. She looked about her, still puzzled, and then started to climb the stairs.
She’d only got to the second step when she turned and looked back. Something was wrong. The dining-room door, although still ajar, was slightly wider than she’d left it.
She knew this because she could see further into the room. She could see part of the fireplace. And Adrian was most definitely not tied to it.
NINETY
Monday 26 February
Emma suddenly felt very, very cold. She stood there, hand gripping the bannister, knuckles white. Her breath felt heavy and loud, and she tried to still it so she could listen to every creak of the house.
Nothing.
Slowly, silently, she placed one foot in front of the other and went back through the hallway. She cocked her head at the dining-room door. Heard nothing. She tried to peer through the crack along the hinged side of the door frame. A haze of fading light where the window was but nothing else.
Emma stalled. Should she find a weapon? The idea seemed so ludicrous she almost laughed out loud, but her mirth died in her throat. Truth was, she didn’t know. A quick glance around the shadowy hall revealed a few coats and an umbrella stand, which would be too heavy to lift. She stood there for a few more seconds, then slowly pushed open the door. Waited. Nothing happened. She glanced into the room.
On the hearth, placed upright in the centre of the marble block, was a long screw. The metal shank was dusty, but the hardness of it, the sharp tip, the horror-movie thread with its never-ending mincing curves made her shudder. It was a message, a defiant retaliation. She whipped her head over her shoulder but saw nothing. The screw pulled her gaze back down, and behind it, right in the fireplace, was a hole in the place where Adrian had been tethered, the bright redness of the fresh brick where he’d torn himself free like a raw wound.
Slowly she stepped into the room. There was no one there. She looked for bulges in the curtains, concealed bodies behind furniture, any place Adrian could hide, but it was empty.
Get out! Get out! her inner survivalist sc
reamed. Her skin prickled with fear and every instinct told her to run for the front door, but she couldn’t. Her laptop was upstairs with her script saved on the hard drive. Briefly, she thought that maybe Adrian had left the house. But his car had still been in the driveway, she remembered.
She turned and left the room as quietly as she could. Crossed the hall, listening for sounds in the kitchen, the living room, but all was quiet. She looked up the stairs, trying to remember if any of them creaked. The house was dim in the dying light and she couldn’t see into the shadows up on the landing.
Emma trod on the stairs as gently as she could, one by one, but still it was almost impossible to make no sound. The slowness of her journey was agonizing; all she wanted to do was get her laptop and run.
She reached the landing and glanced at all the doors to the rooms to see if any were different from how she’d left them, but she couldn’t remember. Adrian could be behind any of them, she thought, and the hairs went up on the back of her neck. She silently made her way to the bedroom she’d been using and stopped at the door. There was no sound from inside, so she slowly pushed it open. No one jumped out at her. She peered in, then entered the room.
Lying on the bed were the handcuffs, and next to them, the key she’d kept in her bedside cabinet. He’s been in here, she thought frantically, her brain feverish with activity. She started gathering her things, stuffing them into her bag, making sure she took the handcuffs and key too.
She felt under her bed for her laptop and at first her hands landed on empty carpet. Heart racing, she stopped still. What if he was under the bed?
Slowly, slowly she bent down until she was on her knees. She peered under the bed. No Adrian.
No laptop either. Her heart plummeted. Where was it? Had she put it away somewhere else? No, she distinctly remembered putting it back there.
The Temp Page 28