by Susan Lewis
‘Of course,’ Ellen answered. ‘And you take care of yourself, do you hear? Don’t go overdoing it at harvest, the way you usually do. And I’ll try to get back for Thanksgiving.’
Frank cleared his throat loudly. Ellen and her mother turned to look at him. He was staring past them towards the house, as though neither of them was there. ‘Tell her she should stay with Matty,’ he barked. ‘It’s not safe in that city. She shouldn’t live alone.’
Nina turned to Ellen. Ellen was looking at her father. ‘The apartments I’ve been looking at all have private security,’ she told him.
‘That city’s not safe,’ he growled, glaring at Nina.
Ellen glanced at her mother, then, turning back to her father she said, ‘Why don’t you come to LA and help me find a place? That way you’ll know where I am and then you won’t have to worry.’
Frank was already walking round the truck to the driver’s door.
Ellen looked at her mother in dismay. But inviting her father to his idea of Babylon wasn’t clever and not necessary either, for there was every chance that when she moved out on Matty she would actually move right in with Clay, provided the divorce was settled, so it was unfair of her to worry her father about living alone. She supposed she had just hoped to get some reassurance from him that he still cared and here, at the eleventh hour, he had given it.
‘I love you, Dad,’ she called out as he got in the car.
The door slammed, but she knew he had heard her.
‘Don’t tease him,’ her mother chided, giving her another kiss on the cheek.
‘Who’s teasing?’ Ellen responded.
‘You. Asking him to Los Angeles and telling him you love him, you know that’s not your father’s sort of thing. Ah, ah, don’t argue,’ she said, holding up a hand. ‘Just look after yourself and promise to call when you get to New York.’
‘I promise,’ Ellen said.
‘And tell Matty that her Uncle Frank and Aunt Nina would love to see her at Thanksgiving if she’s not going home to her folks.’
‘I’ll tell her,’ Ellen said, linking her mother’s arm as they walked the few steps to the truck.
She stood, waving and blowing kisses, until the truck was on its way to the horizon, then hurried back inside out of the cold. She’d be leaving herself in less than an hour and had several calls she needed to make before she got on the road to the airport. She looked at her watch to check the time in New York, then took out her cellphone and a heap of annotated contracts and started to dial. She shuddered to think what her father would say if he could see her working on a Sunday like this, but fortunately he would never know and what he didn’t know wasn’t going to hurt him.
Several lengthy and interesting phone calls later, she packed up her briefcase and carried it out to the car. It was clear that the next thirty-six hours were going to need every iota of negotiating skill she possessed. Not that she was sorry for that; she enjoyed a good fight and she could certainly do with something to take her mind off Clay for a while. She had lain awake until the early hours going over and over all the reasons she had to believe they would work out and trying desperately not to mind that he hadn’t called back as he’d said he would.
The fact that Ted Forgon wanted to see her the moment she returned to LA was playing on her mind too. It was rare for Forgon to summon one of the agents individually, though it was true he had singled her out for special attention in the past. But he hadn’t done that for some time, and feeling as vulnerable and uncertain about things as she did right now, she was scaring herself into thinking that he was intending to involve her in his ongoing battle with the British agent Michael McCann. That was a vendetta she definitely didn’t want to be a part of, especially not when three of her colleagues had already lost their jobs as a result of it and certainly not when she was so concerned about where her relationship with Clay was headed.
Chapter 3
SANDY’S HEART WAS thudding. Her small, anxious face, flushed from her walk in the wind, looked around the semicircle of offices that occupied the penthouse floor of Harbour Yard, one of the several towering office and apartment blocks of the exclusive Chelsea Harbour complex. The McCann Walsh suite was a bit like half an amphitheatre, with glassed-in offices around the upper level that looked out on one side to the river and the other to the cluttered arena of desks, filing cabinets, partitions and state-of-the-art technology.
The lift doors closed behind her and she walked uncertainly across the neutral carpet to the edge of the three steps that descended to the well. There was no one in sight, but she could hear a voice coming from somewhere behind one of the partitions. Her eyes scanned the walls and she felt a quiet excitement steal through her. So she hadn’t imagined all the famous faces on the giant posters and photographs, in fact there were even more than she remembered. She wondered if she was actually going to get to meet any of them and wished she had someone to boast about it to if she did.
She stayed where she was a while longer, hoping someone would notice her or even, remembering she was starting today, come to find her. She continued to look around, her hands hanging awkwardly at her sides, her Sunday market bag over one shoulder and her long black coat buttoned up to the neck. Her eyes were heavily made up in an effort to disguise their puffiness; the result of all the crying she had done these past seven days. She wasn’t going to think about that now, though, or she’d only start again. Instead she thought about her great new hair-style and how pleased she was with the way it looked now it had been cut short and highlighted. It was helping to make her feel a bit less nervous than she might have, though the fact that it had cost almost a hundred pounds was a shock she was still trying to get over. She’d never dreamed a haircut could cost so much. Her sisters had always thought Wendy the mobile overcharged, but at twelve quid for a cut and blow dry, and twenty to touch up the roots, Wendy was bargain basement.
The person the other side of the partition laughed loudly. Whoever it was was obviously speaking on the phone. Sandy put a foot out as though to go down the steps, then thought better of it. She couldn’t interrupt a phone call, so she’d better just carry on waiting.
She looked at her watch. It was only a quarter to nine, so she was fifteen minutes early. It had taken her over an hour and a half to get here, starting out with the District Line from Barking to Sloane Square, then the number eleven bus down the King’s Road to the humpback bridge by Chutney Mary’s, the Indian restaurant that the bus conductor had said was famous. From there she’d had to walk in her four-inch-heel ankle boots through the cold, wind-trap streets of World’s End where auction-house stock-rooms and very posh-looking art galleries were starting to open up business for the day. She’d known what the journey would be like, though; she’d done a practice run last Friday, after plotting it all out with her maps and timetables, to make sure she wouldn’t be late on her first day. The tube fare was really expensive, but she didn’t have enough to get a season ticket so she would have to continue with daily peak-hour returns for now. A bolt of dread suddenly twisted her heart and tears stung her eyes. All she had left was enough to get her back to her bedsit tonight. She had nothing for food and no means of getting in to work tomorrow.
She turned as the lift doors opened behind her and a crowd of people, all talking at once, spilled out into the office. Sandy watched as they passed, hoping one of them would be Zelda, the only face she would recognize, but there was no sign of her.
‘Hi, is someone taking care of you?’
A tall, thin-faced girl in fluffy blue earphones and a lime-green parka had come up behind her.
‘Oh, um, no,’ Sandy stammered, feeling suddenly very dowdy in her plain black coat and Victorian boots.
The girl’s friendly eyes widened in invitation for Sandy to continue.
‘I’m supposed to be starting work here today,’ Sandy explained.
The girl’s smile grew bigger as she held out a hand to shake. ‘Then you must be Sandy Paull,’ she said,
pumping Sandy’s hand up and down. ‘I’m Jodi Webb, Michael’s secretary. You’ll be sharing an office with me. Come on, I’ll show you where it is,’ and linking Sandy’s arm she led her down into the well where the others, still gossiping, were taking off their coats and opening up the steaming styrofoam cups of coffee they’d brought in with them.
‘Hey everyone,’ Jodi shouted, ‘this is Sandy, the new clerk.’ Everyone turned to look at Sandy and Sandy felt her cheeks burn. ‘Sandy,’ Jodi continued, ‘this is Frances, Janine, Bertie, Thea and Harry. The only one you should remember is Harry. He’s an agent and has the office over there, at the far end of the crescent.’
‘Hi, Sandy,’ Harry said, holding out his hand. ‘Welcome to McCann Walsh.’
‘Thank you,’ Sandy said shyly, taking his hand. He had a cheerful-looking face, slightly scarred from teenage acne and liberally freckled. His auburn hair was thinning on the top, but curled thickly around his collar and he had a sparkle in his pale-blue eyes that warmed Sandy to him right away.
The others came forward to shake her hand too, the first being Janine and Frances, the booking assistants who were around Sandy’s age and dressed as way-out as Jodi. The way they gave Sandy the once-over put her on edge, but she was careful not to let it show. Then came Bertie, another agent’s assistant, who was over six foot tall, as thin as a pole and camper than a row of tents, as Sandy’s brothers would say. Last was Thea, Harry’s assistant, who, with her stark white face, burgundy lips and straight black hair was a dead ringer for Mortitia in the Addams Family.
‘Don’t worry,’ Jodi laughed, as she led Sandy up the steps to the glassed-in offices, ‘they’re not as scary as they look. Now, I think the best thing is for us to take off our coats, get some coffee going, then I’ll show you round, OK?’
‘OK,’ Sandy answered, liking the cheery cockneyness of Jodi’s voice and wondering if she shouldn’t have studied that rather than the accentless one she’d got off to a tee within three months of starting the tapes. But then, she always had been good at mimicking.
‘Here we are,’ Jodi said, using a foot to push open a door that was mostly obliterated by a poster of Ruskin, the TV cop everyone was currently raving over.
‘Do you know him?’ Sandy asked, pausing to look at the familiar, craggy features that came on the telly every Friday night at nine.
Jodi turned. ‘Who, Peter?’ she said. ‘Oh yeah. He’s always in and out of here. He’s a great friend of Michael’s, actually, though he’s one of Zelda’s clients. You’re sure to get to meet him. So, this is our office,’ she continued, as Sandy followed her into an oblong room with two desks in the centre, a row of filing cabinets against one wall and an overflowing bookcase under the window. ‘Your desk is there,’ she said, pointing to the furthest one that contained a computer screen, keyboard and a pile of books called Spotlight. ‘And the ladies, when you need it, is just along next to the lifts.’
Sandy wished she could think of something to say, but couldn’t. In fact, her feelings of inadequacy were suddenly weighing so heavily on her that the only thing stopping her from running out the door was the fact that she’d have to pass all those people on the way out. Glumly she unbuttoned her coat and copying Jodi, hung it on the back of the door.
‘Oh, nice suit,’ Jodi commented and Sandy flushed to the roots of her hair. Jodi seemed like a really nice person, but there was a chance she was being sarcastic as, next to her own citrus-yellow leggings, red boots and pink top with zips all over, Sandy’s navy C&A pinstripe looked exactly what it was, a cheap, second-hand attempt to look like a career girl.
‘So you’re from Shropshire?’ Jodi said, going over to the coffee machine.
‘Uh, yes,’ Sandy answered, only just remembering that was what she had said at her interview.
‘Is that near the Lake District?’ Jodi frowned.
Sandy had no idea. ‘Not far,’ she answered. ‘Where are you from?’
Jodi laughed. ‘London. Can’t you tell? I was born and bred in Catford.’
‘Is that where you live now?’ Sandy asked, not having the faintest idea where Catford was.
‘God no,’ Jodi chuckled. ‘My mum does, but I live with my fella in Balham. Have you got a boyfriend?’
Sandy shook her head.
‘Oh well, I’m sure you’ll find one soon, London’s full of men on the look-out for mother replacements. Now, this’ll be the first thing you have to do every morning,’ she continued, holding up the empty coffee pot. ‘You wash it and fill it up in the ladies, the coffee and sugar is in the cupboard just there, under the fax, and the milk you have to buy on your way in every day. Shirley will reimburse you from petty cash. I got some this morning,’ she said, digging into her bag and pulling out a pint carton. ‘We keep it here in the little fridge next to the cupboard.
‘Oh, get those faxes will you? That’ll be part of your job too, giving out the faxes. Most of them go straight into people’s computers, but those that don’t, have to be delivered. I’ll come round with you the first couple of times so’s you get to know who everyone is. I expect you got the lay-out of the place, did you? All those desks down there in the well, the ones facing out towards the agents’ offices, they belong to the agents’ assistants and the others belong to the bookers and secretaries and administrative types like contracts and rights. I’ve got an office up here because I work for Michael. His office is next door that way, to the right. And Dan Walsh, the other partner, has the office to the left, which he shares with his assistant Shirley, because he’s hardly ever here.
‘Dan’s finance, Michael’s talent, so Michael’s here most days, when he’s not travelling, and Dan splits his time between here and the other companies he’s finance director of. Shirley, the one I mentioned, takes care of wages and staff records and all that kind of stuff, so she’ll probably want to see you later. Oh, that reminds me,’ she said, going to the phone as a light started flashing, ‘Michael’s got three lines that come straight into this office and one other that goes direct into his. You never give out his personal number, obviously. Only he gives that one out. We can pick up calls for everyone else from here too and they can pick up for us. Michael McCann’s office,’ she said into the receiver, while rummaging hastily in a drawer for pad and pen.
‘Oh hi, Ricky,’ she said. ‘I’m fine, thanks. No, he’s not here yet. Not until eleven, maybe even twelve. He’s got a meeting at the BBC first thing, then he’s going on to a viewing somewhere in the West End. I can get a message to him if it’s urgent. OK, I’ll tell him you called.’ She rang off, made a quick note on her pad, then picked up another call.
It continued like that for the next few minutes, so Sandy took the coffee pot and went in search of the ladies. By the time she came back, Jodi was off the phone and yelling out for someone to let Marlene know that Michael wanted her to call him at the Beeb the minute she got in. Whether anyone registered was impossible to say, as there was a lot of noise coming from that area now, as the usual two-way blizzard of phone calls got underway.
‘Great, you got the water,’ Jodi said, taking the pot from Sandy as Sandy came back into the room. ‘I’ll show you how to work the machine, then we’d better get started. I’ve put a pad and a couple of pens in your top drawer so you can take notes as we go along. The phones are pretty straightforward. The panel there, on your desk, operates like a kind of switchboard. Everyone’s got one and we all answer the phones for each other and take one another’s messages. There’s a board over by the lift where you can pin messages for anyone who’s not in. The stationery cupboard’s over the other side, next to the gents. Help yourself to anything you need, but don’t forget to note it down. In fact, it’ll be one of your jobs, keeping the stationery records and to order in new stuff when it’s needed. Your main job, though, is to fill in for me when I’m out of the office, which is rare, but sometimes Michael likes me to go to meetings with him and take notes, especially when there are lawyers involved. Do you do shorthand?’
Jodi shrugged. ‘Doesn’t matter. The only time you’ll need it is to take minutes when the agents are in conference, but you can always use a tape.’ As she was talking she was looking past Sandy and starting to grin. ‘Look who’s just walked in,’ she drawled, putting her hands on her hips as an extremely striking young man, with an unruly shock of blond hair and exquisite blue eyes, strolled into their office. ‘Sandy, let me introduce you to Craig Lovell, the greatest loss to womankind since they banned the douche. Craig, this is Sandy, our new clerk. Craig is our literary agent,’ she told Sandy, ‘meaning he represents all our screenwriters, script editors, script associates and creative consultants. Bertie, who you’ve already met, is Craig’s assistant.’
‘Hi, Sandy,’ Craig smiled, shaking Sandy’s hand. ‘Nice to meet you. It’s a bit of a madhouse around here, but most of us don’t bite.’
Sandy laughed and felt as instant a liking for Craig as she had for Harry.
‘Is Michael around?’ he asked, glancing over to where the coffee was starting to sputter.
‘Not until eleven or later,’ Jodi answered. ‘Anything I can do?’
‘Not unless you want to get heavy with Tom Whitehead over at Limehouse,’ he answered. ‘Has Michael got his mobile with him?’
‘Yes, but he’s in a meeting at the Beeb right now,’ Jodi said, looking at her watch. ‘Give it half an hour and he should be in a cab on his way to the West End.’
‘OK.’ Craig turned back to Sandy and smiled. ‘My office is three doors along, after Zelda’s,’ he told her. ‘If you’ve got any faxes for me bring them over, bring some coffee too and we’ll have a chat. I’ll fill you in on the real truth about Jodi and the crush she’s got on Harry.’
Jodi’s face turned beetroot. ‘Sssh,’ she hissed, only half laughing. ‘He’ll hear you.’