by Lucy Dawson
I gasp.
‘I know! You may find something gets naughtily leaked to the press about it, just a heads-up.’
‘I think it already has been – I’ve been getting strange messages congratulating me this morning.’
‘Really? I’ll find out. Anyway, it will come out soon enough in any case, so prepare yourself for that, not least because the extraordinarily good news is that ten minutes ago I took a call from a very prominent film studio about optioning the book and making it into a major movie!’
‘What?’ I exclaim. ‘You’re kidding me!’
‘I never joke about deals,’ he says soberly. ‘I want to be the first to congratulate you, Mia, for writing such a life-changing book. We will dot the i’s and cross the t’s next week when you come in to sign the UK contract and meet your new publisher, but in the meantime you might get an email to tell you how thrilled she is to have secured you, now the deal has formally been done. Her name is Kate and she’s very, very nice. Can I offer you a little advice however?’
‘Yes, please.’ I’m already feeling hugely out of my depth as I arrive at the stage door.
‘Take a second to go and sit quietly somewhere. This moment will never come again. You will never again be a debut author on the cusp of such an exciting journey. This moment is to be savoured, privately. Call me if you need me at any point over the weekend, but otherwise, can we say you’ll come into the office on Monday at midday?’
‘Yes – of course. And Jack? Thank you. Thank you very, very much.’
‘You’re very welcome, Mia. We’re going to have a lot of fun with this, but for now – that quiet moment to reflect on your achievement in finding such an exciting home for your extraordinary book. Congratulations.’
I hang up, stunned. I should email Charlotte immediately… and Seth. And Mum and Dad. Or maybe I should do as Jack said and just—
‘Mia Justice! You dark little horse!’
I jump at the shout behind me and turn to see Theo striding up the street. Before I can say anything, he arrives in front of me, breathless and sweaty, leans in and hugs me effusively. I can feel his fat wrapping around me.
‘I’m sure there was something in your contract about telling me in my director’s capacity if you were secretly writing a mega book that I might want to option, you cheeky little minx.’ He leers at me as he steps back and waves the Evening Standard in my face. ‘Congratulations, darling. I’m thrilled for you. Which studio is it that you’re going to go with, by the way?’
I must stare at him blankly because he looks a little uncomfortable. ‘Ah – I see you’re still understandably upset about our exchange last week. What can I say? It was the wrong technique to use on you. Sometimes, you really can squeeze a little more out of an exceptionally talented actress like yourself by pushing them further into part – but I can see now it didn’t do that for you. I misjudged the situation. I’m sorry.’
‘You’re saying you shouted at me, made me cry and belittled me, to help me “raise my game”?’ I say slowly.
He looks alarmed. ‘Of course! Nina is a character who simply must come out fighting! Don’t say you never experienced that “knock them down, build them up” technique during your formal training and thought I actually meant it? Oh you sweet thing! I’m mortified. Mia, you are a wonderfully gifted actress. You’ve been a delight to have in this show and I’m so proud of everything you have achieved. I’m not surprised in the least to discover that you are poised to also achieve wonderful things in the literary world.’ He taps the Standard again.
‘May I see that?’ I hold out a hand.
‘You haven’t yet?’ His mouth falls open. ‘Of course!’ He flicks through the pages eagerly. ‘Here!’ He passes the paper to me.
ACTRESS TURNED AUTHOR SET TO NET £1M-PLUS DEAL AS PUBLISHERS SCRAMBLE FOR ‘HOTTEST BOOK OF THE YEAR’
A million pound major auction is underway for the debut book by actress Mia Justice. The twenty-five-year-old, currently starring in The Seagull at the Wyndham’s Theatre, London is the latest hot-property hopeful as publishers looking for the next big thing battle to snap up her book, Complicit. Described as a thriller, ordinary working wife and mother to grown-up children, Layla, receives a video message from herself urging her to safety immediately. Nothing she knows is real. The identity she knows as her own has been forced upon her without her knowledge, and has now been compromised. ‘Layla is an irresistible heroine,’ agrees agent Jack Cartwright, who signed Justice after staying up all night to read the book, the same evening it was submitted to him. ‘I read a lot of unpublished material that is a pale imitation of whatever last year’s brilliant breakout success might be. Currently I’m being sent a lot of stories about quirkily named ladies who are very well, thanks for asking. Layla stood out as a breath of fresh air when she exploded into my life this week: forced not to succumb to the weakness of emotional relationships in her life, that may or may not be real, in order to survive.’
While mega deals like this are ‘unusual’ Cartwright points out that the figures concerned reflect the energy and passion publishers are keen to commit ‘to this truly gripping page-turner. I couldn’t be more delighted for Mia, a significant new voice who has a very exciting career ahead of her’.
Deals are currently underway in all other major territories, including America, with the film rights rumoured to be heading to Universal Studios.
‘May I keep this?’ I manage.
‘I think the whole world is yours right now!’ he grins.
I simply walk off. Not because I’m intentionally being rude, but because I have to phone Seth. It goes to voicemail.
‘Hey, it’s me,’ I say. ‘Firstly, thank you for your text last night. It meant the world to me. And, um, secondly – you might see some stuff about me in today’s Standard that I obviously haven’t mentioned to you yet. It’s all a bit, mad, to be honest, but… exciting! Anyway. I’ll talk to you properly about it all later and…’ I hesitate, still feeling a bit shy, ‘I love you. Bye!’
More messages start to come in. Still mostly people I’ve worked with, although someone helpfully posts a link to the Standard article on my Facebook page, as it seems to have gone online now, too. Cary himself rings to congratulate me; ‘I’m already getting casting calls – enjoy your weekend off, you’re going to be a busy, busy little bee next week.’ My parents and brother are stunned but delighted when I call them. Even Hugo weasels out of the woodwork to ring from a new number and let me know he’s been telling everyone how clever his ex is, how pleased he is for me, how much I deserve it. I’m shaking with anxiety when I hang up. And yet still I hear nothing from either Seth or Kirsty. It’s too late to go down to Seth’s office and I don’t want to make a habit of that anyway. Instead, in my dressing room, I email Charlotte with the link to the online piece.
Update to the attached – it happened! I agreed a deal this afternoon. Hope it’s not vulgar to confirm the reports in the paper are all true! Drink on Monday, or sooner if you’re in town, on me to say thank you for all of your help and advice?! Mia xxx
I try to imagine how she must be feeling out there, watching her plan come off so spectacularly, but also knowing it’s her book that is causing all of this fuss. Does she even care she’s getting none of the glory? I doubt it somehow. I get the feeling Charlotte isn’t bothered about being liked. This is just a straightforward business transaction for her. How trusting is she, though? She has no proof she gave it to me… What if I were to make off with everything? I would never do that of course – but I could.
Although again, I bet Charlotte has thought of that and somehow has it covered. In fact, I don’t think she’s the sort of person I’d ever want to try and cheat. She’s too clever for that. She’d always be one step ahead. You’d steal the suitcase full of money, go on the run and wake up in some motel room somewhere to find her standing at the foot of your bed, gun pointing right at you.
Basically, you never steal the suitcase of money. Everyon
e knows that. It always ends with bad blood.
ELEVEN
CHARLOTTE
Teddy has finally fallen asleep, despite the bright lights, the beeps, talking and crying babies around us. I stroke my son’s head, shhhing him gently as he whimpers, while I watch the three female doctors at their station in the middle of the paediatric ward discussing their cases. Please be deciding to let us go home soon. I look down at my poor, exhausted boy clutching my hand tightly, and with my free one, I try Tris again. His phone is still switched off. I ring his work mobile. It goes to voicemail, just like last time… so I call the London office switchboard. ‘Hi,’ I say quietly as Teddy stirs alongside me, ‘could you try Seth Tristan’s line, please? Or one of his colleagues? It’s his wife, again, Charlotte Tristan. No, I still haven’t been able to get hold of him. He definitely hasn’t been back in the office since he left at half past six, then? No? OK – thank you. Yes, if he does that would be great.’
I hang up and exhale heavily, eyes closed. Where are you, Tris? I have been calling and calling since we arrived at A&E nearly four hours ago. I have left messages everywhere. Your four-year-old son is being treated for a paracetamol overdose – that sounds scary enough to want to know exactly what has happened, surely? Especially when you were the fucking idiot who left the lid off the bottle, for him to find in the first place.
I consider this situation in reverse – him calling me to say that one of our children has been brought into hospital in an emergency; that I need to come now. I can’t imagine a scenario in which he wouldn’t be able to reach me – unless perhaps my phone was stolen, I suppose – but Tris has two phones and numerous office lines. By now, if I were him, I would be running over broken glass, barefoot if necessary, calling for updates constantly on my way… yet I have not seen or heard a thing from my husband since he left the house at half past five this morning. As usual he’s nowhere near Sheffield, seeing as he definitely left the London office earlier this evening, but nonetheless, it is now nearly eleven p.m., and he appears to have vanished into thin air. It is also completely unlike him to have his phone actually switched off – he never does that.
There is, of course, a possible, rational explanation. He might really be driving to Wales for the stag do, which is why he hasn’t picked up yet. His battery could also have died while he was driving.
But it’s a stretch. I stroke Teddy’s head, lean down and kiss our son lightly. I’m finding it increasingly hard to believe not a single message about Teddy has reached Tris. So, why isn’t he at least calling me? Why isn’t he here?
I do another restless sweep of all of my accounts, including my email – Mia hasn’t mailed today with news, so there won’t be any until Monday now, which means his disappearance can’t be anything to do with her or any of that. I briefly consider his threat of wanting us to talk ‘properly’. Could he have managed to push himself over the edge? Decided to just leave anyway? I doubt it. We agreed that we’d—
A baby in the bay opposite starts to cry with the wheezy, broken crackles of a very ill child and, immediately distracted, I can’t help but look up at the pitiful sound. One of the two doctors now examining it has begun some sort of procedure that seems to involve the baby’s painfully vulnerable spine. The white-faced young father is looking on helplessly, hands on his wife’s shoulders as she holds their child protectively in her arms, fighting her every instinct and trustingly letting someone do something that is obviously hurting her child, while trying to make it bearable for them all with desperate songs and loving whispers.
The sight brings tears to my horrified eyes. I don’t want to intrude, but neither can I seem to look away from the little family. I know exactly what that woman is thinking right now; that she would sell her soul, do whatever deal with God that it takes, as long as her child is OK. A nurse sees me staring transfixed, kindly stands up and pulls our curtain across.
Relieved, I wipe my eyes and exhale slowly… as my mobile starts to ring in my hand, making me jump – but it’s not him, it’s my mother.
‘Darling! We’re still in Ludlow at Jerry and Sarah’s and I’ve found all of your messages on my phone! You’re in hospital with Teddy? What’s happened?’
I have recounted what Teddy did so many times tonight – to various very nice nurses and doctors – I now repeat it on autopilot for mum. ‘He drank a load of Calpol at bedtime. I was running his bath; Clara is at her friend’s for a sleepover tonight so he was on his own in his bedroom, otherwise she would have seen what he was doing and stopped him, I know she would. I came in and he was swigging it from the bottle. Tris had given him some in the night because Ted was coughing again, but he didn’t put the lid back on properly. Teddy found it and thought he’d have some medicine before bed. Because I couldn’t be sure if it was a new bottle or not and I couldn’t get hold of Tris to find out – so I didn’t know how much he had – I had to bring Teddy into A&E. We’re on the paediatric ward now while they keep us under observation.’
‘Oh, that poor little boy!’ Mum says. ‘He’s going to be all right though? Is Tris with you now?’
‘Not yet. He was supposed to be in Sheffield today, now he might be on his way to Wales, but I’m almost certain he’s in London – I’m just not entirely sure yet.’ I pause and gather my thoughts. ‘In answer to your question about Teddy, yes. He’s OK. He’s sleeping. I’m hoping they’re going to let us go soon.’ I slide away from Teddy carefully and stand up. The baby has stopped crying, so I peep around the curtain to see if a doctor or nurse is free now. I really want to get us home.
‘You must be exhausted as well. Thank goodness Clara was at a friend’s and you didn’t have to drag her out too,’ Mum continues. ‘I’m SO sorry I’m right at the other end of the country. Even if I left now – and I’ve had a drink and so has Dad – I wouldn’t be there until half two at the very earliest given it’s nearly eleven. What about Flo? Have you phoned her?’
‘Yes. She’s on her way to our house.’
‘Well that’s a relief.’
‘I think she’s going to stay the night.’ I can’t see anyone and so quickly head back to Teddy. I don’t want him rolling off the side of the high bed. ‘I better go, Mum, if that’s OK. I haven’t got much battery and I want to keep it in case Tris calls.’
‘Of course, big hugs all round. Tell Teddy Nona loves him!’
I barely hear her, hanging up as one of the doctors suddenly reappears around the curtain – a sensible Mum-type. I wonder who is with her children while she’s in here, looking after us.
‘Hello!’ She looks at Teddy, still flat out. ‘He’s had enough then,’ she says sympathetically, ‘and you have too, I expect.’ She smiles at me. ‘Want to take him home?’
‘Yes, please,’ I say quickly. ‘That would be great. He’s OK then?’
‘Everything has come back completely normal – and I’m happy with his obs. Of course, if anything changes or you’re worried, come back, and you did absolutely the right thing in bringing him in – but he needs his own bed now, I think. As do you.’
Teddy is so tired, he barely stirs as I quickly put his coat on – the poor little baby opposite has started crying again and I just want to leave, I can’t bear it – before lifting my son into my arms. It takes a huge effort to get him into a position where I can carry him and my handbag, he’s grown so much these last few weeks alone, plus the bag of books, spare clothes, water and snacks I grabbed in panic when we dashed from the house earlier. He’s like a dead weight and I stagger through the double doors barely able to see over his shoulder as we pass the now-heaving A&E. I hear someone call out and hurry on, thinking it’s probably some drunken fracas I don’t want Teddy to wake up and witness, but then I feel a hand on my back and spin round to see Noel, one of the school dads, frowning down at me in concern.
‘Hello! You look like you’re about to collapse.’ He grabs at my handbag, slipping off my shoulder. ‘Let me help. You here on your own?’
I nod, too ou
t of breath to speak.
‘Hang on.’ He turns back to the waiting room. ‘Max?’
A boy in his late teens looks up from his phone, other hand aloft, elbow propped on the seat rest, as a trickle of blood runs down from his thumb into the tea towel loosely swathed around his wrist.
‘I’m just going to help Charlotte. I’ll be right back, OK?’
He nods and returns to his screen.
‘My son Max. From my first marriage. I don’t think you’ve met him before. Anyway – sorry. Now’s not the time. So you’re done? Heading back to the car?’ Noel thumbs a gesture in the direction of the car park.
‘Yes,’ I gasp, as Teddy slips slightly lower still and I have to bend my knees, my biceps already screaming, ready to shunt him back up again. ‘He’s so heavy!’
‘Here, give him to me.’ Noel reaches out and takes Teddy, lifting him effortlessly into rugby-strong arms. Teddy immediately rests his head on Noel’s shoulder, still fast asleep. ‘Poor little bloke, what’s he in for?’ Noel asks as we start to walk down the brightly lit corridor.
‘He found an open Calpol bottle. I couldn’t be sure how much he drank, so I brought him in. I didn’t leave the lid off, I just want to say.’
‘Ah,’ Noel says and diplomatically doesn’t comment further. ‘But he’s OK now then?’
‘Yes, he’s fine. What’s up with your son?’
‘Beer injury. The whole neck of the bottle shattered in the hand he was holding it steady with while he popped the cap off – sliced his thumb open. Total freak accident. It’s not his messaging hand and swiping thumb though, so thankful for small mercies eh?’ He rolls his eyes, and I smile. ‘I’ll no doubt get it in the neck when he goes home to his mum’s on Sunday though,’ he adds lightly.
