Suddenly realizing he was the centre of attention, he beamed and they both laughed, catching each other’s eye.
EPILOGUE
Sunday 10 May – two years later
Carrie glanced across at Emma, who was sitting in the seat beside her, staring up at the screens showing clips of the shows nominated for Best Drama Series. There was something about the way Emma held her chin, a certain tilt that she recognized: it was the same as Rory’s. She got that strange feeling again, a mixture of protectiveness and great vulnerability. She sometimes imagined she saw glimpses of what Emma would have been like when she was small, but she’d never know for sure.
There had been various points in her life, mostly when she’d least been expecting it, when she’d been ambushed by thoughts of the baby she’d given up. Curious wonderings underwritten by an unfamiliar pain that she reasoned away with a stern talking to about how her life could never have been as it was if she’d taken the ‘wrong’ road by keeping her, when she was no more than a child herself. Carrie looked again at Emma, who was trying to keep an impassive look on her face, and smiled. These moments, her children, you had to appreciate each and every one.
Rory had been told his sister might get a prize tonight and his eyes had lit up at the idea there could be a ‘trophy’ coming home. He’d been less receptive to the idea he had to go to bed even though the prize-giving was going to be on television. Carrie had half worried he might play up for the friend who was babysitting, but she’d had a text saying he was snoring away happily, clutching his cuddly dog. He’d only had it a few weeks. Emma had taken him to a toy shop in the Lanes in Brighton, when they’d had enough of paddling in the sea. Much debate had been had on the dog’s name, with both Carrie and Emma coming up with various meaningful suggestions, but Rory had rejected every bit of his mother’s and sister’s creativity and insisted on ‘Doggie’. Which, actually, was perfect.
Emma had won her trophy. Her show about the Mafioso librarian had been awarded the BAFTA for Best Screenplay, beating off some hefty competition. When Carrie had watched her go up on stage, she’d been surprised at how emotional she’d been. She knew this was partly because the last time she’d been here watching a writer claim his award, it had been Adrian and the memory stirred deep inside, a time now long gone.
Watching Emma, her daughter, she thought again – still finding this word pause on her tongue in its extraordinariness – go up and receive a BAFTA was one of the proudest moments of her life. Her heart had swelled and she’d felt so incredibly happy for her. She’d gazed at the young woman on stage, knowing she was a part of her yet in awe of what she had independently become.
Now, with Emma back in her seat, Liz on her one side and she, Carrie, on the other, they were waiting to hear if the luck would continue, if the show that they had all worked on together as producers and writer would win.
Emma watched the clips on the large screen, knowing the cameras would be cutting to her, Liz and Carrie at some point during the sequence. Try as she might, she couldn’t get used to them, and in doing her best not to look self-conscious was aware that was probably exactly how she was appearing. Her first thought was what Brian and Alice would think, before reminding herself it didn’t matter. She inwardly sighed; old habits die hard.
She knew her adoptive parents were watching the show from their hotel in central London. They’d flown over from Italy specially and would take her out for a celebratory meal later in the week. They were also coming to see her first flat. She’d finally been able to afford a smart two-bedroom, and after discussion with Carrie, had decided on Blackheath. That way, she could see more of Rory, the little brother she adored.
Alice would take a full tour, admire (or critique) her decor and comment on the choice of artefacts and pictures. Everything would be on display . . . well, not quite everything.
When Carrie had cleared out Adrian’s office, she had asked Emma if she wanted any of the memorabilia from Generation Rebel, seeing as it had been her idea in the first place. Anything personal to Adrian Emma had rejected. The signed cast photo, the BAFTA. Then she’d taken the noose out of the cardboard box, and holding it up, Carrie had stopped still, no doubt remembering how Adrian used to have it hanging on his office wall, how it had swung every time anyone had gone in the door. It was strange to think now that the thing Adrian had loved so much had also symbolized his undoing.
Emma wasn’t sure why she’d wanted to keep it, but it had seemed fitting somehow, as a mark of order restored, or perhaps a warning.
The screens cut back to the BAFTA logo and the actor presenting the award stepped up to the mike, an envelope held up to the audience.
A hush fell over the Royal Albert Hall as he opened the flap and pulled out the card.
Nerves gripped Emma and she tensed in her seat. Suddenly a soft hand held her fingers. She squeezed Carrie back and they waited to see what life would bring them next.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Trisha Jackson, this book would not exist without you. Thank you so much for all your brilliant insight and support; you really are the best editor an author could wish for. And everyone else at Pan Macmillan for their mastery and help: Jayne Osborne, Mel Four, Sam Sharman, Laura Collins, Karen Whitlock, Rosie Wilson, Lucy Wai, Becky Lloyd and Laura Marlow.
Huge thanks to Gaia Banks; your advice, story-related or otherwise, is invaluable. As is your steadfastness and sense of humour. Lucy Fawcett, thank you for all the wisdom. I feel so blessed and humbled that you guys always go above and beyond.
A special thank you must also go to Alicia Condon, Alba Arnau, Markus Hoffman and Joel Gotler. Also, to Barbara Heinzius, Kerstin Schaub, Lukasz Wrobel and Aleksandra Saluga.
Anna Stimson, thank you for letting me peck your head in the playground about police procedure. You were very patient with me and it’s much appreciated.
The amazing Sally Cooper and Susie Menzies Coe – your support means everything.
My family for their boundless enthusiasm: Mum, Rhys, Dad, Sally, Leila, Brandt, Neil, Tina, Jack, Thomas, Molly, Ettie, Catherine and Rob. And my dear Grandma, Winifred Patmore, for all the memorable holidays in Broadstairs.
Finally, Jonny, Livi and Clementine. It’s all for you!
PRAISE FOR THE GIRLFRIEND
‘Brilliantly twisty, a sharp, sinister and addictive read’
Sunday Mirror
‘I was blown away. The Girlfriend is the most marvellous psychological thriller’
Jilly Cooper
‘Tension oozes from the pages’
i newspaper
‘A fab debut with two twisted women at its core’
Prima
‘Utterly compulsive reading’
Jenny Blackhurst
‘An original and chilling portrayal of twisted relationships’
Debbie Howells
‘A fantastic psychological thriller . . . We couldn’t put it down’
Take a Break
‘The Girlfriend is a taut psychological thriller, the evil chillingly drawn. Every character is layered and beautifully twisted. Makes me consider running background checks on any potential spouses my children bring home!’
Karen Rose
THE
TEMP
Michelle Frances has worked in television drama as a producer and script editor for fifteen years, both for the independent sector and the BBC. The Temp is her second novel, following her debut bestseller The Girlfriend.
ALSO BY MICHELLE FRANCES
The Girlfriend
First published 2018 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2018 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
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Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-5098-7715-7
Copyright © Michelle Frances 2018
Cover Images © Compassionate Eye Foundation/Getty Images
The right of Michel
le Frances to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Pan Macmillan does not have any control over, or any responsibility for, any author or third-party websites referred to in or on this book.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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