by Jane Fallon
‘I think I’m over-thinking it.’ I was used to Dee always jumping to the most outlandish conclusion. And I knew this was nothing, I knew I should dismiss it, but for some reason I couldn’t. I still can’t. It’s niggling away at the corner of my brain two days later.
There’s a tap at my door and I look up to see Juliet standing there. I wave her in while trying to look as if I’m busy and I don’t have much time.
‘Sorry to disturb you,’ she says in a way that makes me think she’s not sorry in the least. Behind her I can see Roz and Lorraine getting ready to go to lunch. Roz looks over, raises her eyebrows as if to ask if I want to join them. Lorraine is standing behind her, gurning in her fuchsia sweater, turquoise skirt and dangly salmon-coloured earrings in the shape of flamingos. Something that Roz pulls off effortlessly looks contrived on her. Trying way too hard. The last thing I want to do is to spend any time with the two of them but it’s important that I act as if nothing is amiss, so I mouth, ‘See you there.’ Then I turn back to Juliet.
‘It’s fine. I thought you were in the studio today.’
‘They’re moving sets. I just came up to let you know we have a problem with Simon’s next batch,’ she says. Simon is one of our most experienced writers and usually a safe pair of hands. ‘He’s taken on a commission from ITV and it’s turned out to be much more work than he expected. He thinks he needs to concentrate on that.’
‘What?’ I say. ‘He can’t do that. What draft are they in?’
‘First. And they’re a mess. He clearly knocked them off in a couple of days, and when I told him he pretty much had to start again he said he didn’t have time.’
This isn’t an unheard-of event. Some of our long-standing writers have a tendency to treat the show with a bit of contempt, as if they’re just killing time until something better comes along.
‘It’s not that big a deal,’ she says. ‘There are a couple of the others free I can ask to take over. I just thought I should let you know.’
‘Fine,’ I say. I should be grateful that she’s got it in hand, but I just feel irritated that it’s happened at all. ‘Did you know about the ITV job when you commissioned him?’
‘Well, yes, but I thought he’d make it work. Obviously.’ She sounds defensive, as if she thinks I’m questioning her judgement, which I suppose I am.
‘Well, let’s not give him any more eps without checking if he’s going to put the work in in the future,’ I say. It comes out sounding more critical than I intend.
Juliet looks at me, and I can tell she’s pissed off, even though she keeps it well hidden under the unemotional veneer she always wears. ‘It’s just an unfortunate clash. He wasn’t to know the other bunch would keep changing their minds about what they want.’
I bite my tongue. She’s right. It’s not a big deal; I’m just programmed to find anything she says to me irritating. And at least she’s handling it like a pro. ‘Of course. Thanks for letting me know. Keep me up to date with whoever ends up taking over.’
‘Will do,’ she says and she heads for the door. The one thing I would say about Juliet is she’s always professional. She never seems to take anything too personally. Including me having basically accused her of being a jealous maniac.
‘Juliet,’ I say as she’s about to leave. Because something has just occurred to me. The uneasy niggle that I’ve had since my conversation with Dee last night has resolved into a fully formed memory. Or, at least, I think it has. Juliet stops. ‘Do you remember when Roz got married?’
She pulls a face. ‘How could I forget the Vivienne Westwood dress and the Jimmy Choos?’
It’s true that Roz went into great detail at every opportunity about the crazily expensive dress and shoes that Hugh had insisted she splash out on. For quite some months.
God knows what Juliet is going to make of my next question. ‘Did you ever see the photos?’
She scoffs. ‘No. Actually, didn’t the photographer lose them all or something? Or just run off with the money and never deliver?’
That’s it. That’s what I remembered. Roz had returned from the Caribbean tanned and refreshed-looking, full of stories about how fabulous everything had been, but distraught that there was no photographic record of the day.
I remember asking ‘Didn’t you take any on your phones?’ and her saying that they had both decided to leave their phones in England. That they’d wanted a complete break so they could devote time to each other and not be constantly fretting about work. They had taken photos of the rest of the holiday on disposable cameras they’d picked up, she said. She would bring them in as soon as they were developed. But, of course, she never did. And I’d never given it another thought.
‘Why do you ask?’ Juliet says now, puzzled, and why wouldn’t she be? And I have to smile and say, Oh, it’s nothing, I just suddenly couldn’t remember if I’d ever seen them or not, and I knew there was a reason but I couldn’t think what it was. Luckily she buys it. Or, at least, she’s so uninterested she doesn’t question it.
When she’s gone I send Dee a text. Roz and Hugh’s wedding pix got ‘lost’. No one’s ever seen them!!!
Almost instantly I get a reply. Oh my God!!! I knew it!!!
And then, thirty seconds later, before I even have the chance to ask her what she thinks she knew, I get another. Have you ever met Hugh???
I haven’t. Even though Roz and I are – were – best work friends we’ve never socialized outside beyond an end-of-day drink. It’s never really occurred to me to suggest we meet up on a weekend, or spend time at each other’s homes. Like lots of people, I imagine, we compartmentalize our social lives. I have, however, seen several photos of Hugh and his Greek god looks over the years. Including one on Facebook, with Roz standing next to him.
No, I reply. But that doesn’t mean anything. Have seen pix of the two of them.
My mobile beeps. What’s her surname again?
I send back Huntingdon and then I do what I imagine Dee is also doing right now – while she’s sitting at her reception desk, fending off the general public – I go on to Roz’s Facebook page. There’s the picture of her and Hugh together as her cover photo. I’m friends with her on there so I can see more than Dee will be able to but then I remember that Roz has always made a big deal about not putting anything personal on social media, so there’s precious little to see.
Hugh is listed as one of her friends. Hugh Whitehall. I click through to his page. His profile picture is of him, tanned on a sunset beach, Greek god abs on show. His relationship status says ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ I click back to Roz. Hers is blank. Back to Hugh. His place of work is listed as ‘Fitzrovia PR’. And that’s it. That’s all I can see.
There’s a ping to say I have another message. Is this him? Dee asks, attaching a copy of the photo of Roz and Hugh together. I reply that it is.
Nice, comes the response.
I’m about to google Fitzrovia PR when there’s a tap at my door and Emma is there, back from the sandwich shop, asking if I want a cup of tea. I remember I said I’d meet Roz and Lorraine. I close my browser down.
‘I’m going to pop out. I need the fresh air. Thanks though.’
‘So …’ Lorraine says once we’ve nabbed a table inside the café. They were sitting outside when I got there, but I insisted it was too cold. Whatever else, I’m determined not to be a pushover any more. ‘… I can’t believe Juliet is that much of a bitch. Well, I can, but …’
‘I know,’ I say, wide-eyed.
Roz shrugs. ‘I can. She wanted your job …’
‘But to stoop to something that low,’ I say, trying to suppress a laugh I feel coming on. ‘It’s sad. I mean, pathetic. Really pathetic.’
They both nod sagely as if this is indeed true. I can’t believe how stupid they are that they think they’ve got away with it so completely. Assuming Lorraine knows what’s been going on, but I feel as if Roz must have needed help at times. A lookout if nothing else.
‘You’
d have to be some kind of tragic loser …’ I say, warming to my theme. I need to be careful not to overdo it ‘… to get pleasure out of trying to ruin someone else’s life.’
‘That’s exactly what she is,’ Roz says without batting an eyelid.
‘Billy no mates,’ Lorraine says and guffaws. I laugh politely.
‘What was she doing in your office just now?’ Roz says. There’s a slightly anxious edge to her voice.
‘Fucking Simon has blown us out for ITV,’ I say. ‘She was just letting me know.’
‘Oh, right, so you weren’t confronting her about it?’ I realize that this is why she wanted to spend her lunch break with me. If I accuse Juliet and she can somehow prove that it couldn’t have been her then things might get tricky for Roz.
‘No. Not yet anyway. I don’t know what to do, to be honest.’
She nods. ‘I mean, you can’t prove anything, right? You don’t want to steam in there and end up looking like an idiot.’
‘Exactly,’ I say, as if I’m taking her sage advice under consideration. ‘I don’t think there’s anything I can do beyond try and make sure she doesn’t get the chance to make things any worse. Do you see why I insisted all my calls and appointments go through Emma now?’
‘God. Of course. Good idea. So, obviously you think she was behind that fake message from Patricia?’ Lorraine is loving the gossip. Her eyes are owl-like, made even bigger by the garish eye shadow she’s wearing.
I nod. ‘And a few other things.’
‘None of which you can prove,’ Roz says, nodding sympathetically.
‘It did occur to me that I could look on Emma’s computer and see the last time the story document was modified. Because Juliet was out somewhere for a big chunk of Friday, do you remember? At the dentist or somewhere. So if it happened then it couldn’t have been her.’
Do I imagine it or does the tiniest look of fear pass over Roz’s face? Just for a split second. ‘Of course! So, did you?’
‘I did. Sadly Emma put the words “Story Document” into bold when she opened it just before she printed it off on Monday morning. So that’s the date and time it gives me.’
Roz suppresses a smile. She thinks I don’t notice but I do. ‘Shit. What’re the chances?’
‘Shame she didn’t check the rest of the document while she was at it,’ Lorraine chips in.
‘She just scanned the first couple of pages apparently,’ I say. ‘And, as we know, they were fine. There was no time to go through the whole thing. It wasn’t her fault.’
‘What does Glen think about it?’ Roz might not rate Glen, but even she wouldn’t want to earn the wrath of the big boss.
I shrug. ‘That it was a practical joke. I didn’t want him worrying it was anything bigger. It doesn’t look good on your appraisal: “Someone has a vendetta against me.” ’
‘You’re right. Hopefully that’s it now, anyway. She’s done her worst.’
I bet Roz can’t believe how easily she’s got away with it. I’m almost more insulted about that than what she’s been doing in the first place. Do I think it’s over? No chance. Not so long as I’m still on probation. Not so long as there’s still a chance I might fuck up completely.
Satisfied for the moment, Roz launches into a story about meeting David Summers at the Dorchester last night. Apparently Hugh had a meeting with him and she went along at the end to pick him up and head out for something to eat. She was waiting in the lobby lounge, enjoying a G and T, with no idea of what time Hugh would be finished but not really minding because she was people watching, when he appeared in front of her with David Summers in tow.
‘Do you mind if David joins us for dinner?’ he’d said. ‘I’ve reserved a table in China Tang.’
Lorraine’s eyes almost pop out of her head. Clearly Roz has confided in her about David Summers being Hugh’s client, and the instigator of the super-injunction, but Roz getting to spend time with him herself is a whole other level of awesomeness. A few weeks ago I would have been hanging on every detail myself. Now I couldn’t care less.
‘What was he like?’ She takes a big bite of her ham salad roll and wipes a smear of mayonnaise from her chin.
Roz affects an air of nonchalance. ‘Do you know, he actually seems really nice. Normal. It’s hard to imagine all that … you know …’
‘Was he friendly?’
‘Very. But not at all letchy. I liked him, in all honesty.’
‘Wow,’ Lorraine says, looking at her starry-eyed. ‘You’re so lucky.’ I make non-specific noises of agreement, concentrate on my sandwich. Roz starts on a story about how David Summers told her he loved her style ‘but not in a creepy way’, and I zone out.
I watch her mouth move, not listening to the words, and indulge myself in thinking about all the ways in which I could repay her.
17
Emma knocks on my door.
‘Hi.’ She hovers nervously in the doorway. ‘Have you got a sec?’
‘Of course.’
She comes in and closes the door. Emma always enters a room as if she’s about to get a telling-off. As if she’d rather be anywhere else.
‘Sit down,’ I say. She has a sheaf of papers in her hand and my first thought is that she’s uncovered another piece in the plot against me.
‘Um …’ she mumbles. I clear my throat and she starts nervously. Then she takes in a sharp breath and it all comes tumbling out.
‘So, now the story conference is over I wanted to show you these …’ She thrusts the papers at me. ‘They’re probably rubbish but I thought, well, if I don’t show you then what’s the point … So I wondered if you could have a look and tell me if they’re any good or if I’m completely barking up the wrong tree, because the thing is I’ve decided I’d like to become a script editor one day, so, you know, I want to put myself up for the trainee position if it becomes vacant soon …’
It’s probably the longest speech I’ve ever heard her make. I look down at the papers she’s handed me and see that they’re storylines, six in all.
‘Why didn’t you give them to me before the conference? We could have included them.’
‘Oh no. You had enough to worry about without me boring you with my ambitions and, anyway, they’re for your eyes only because they’re probably crap …’
I want to tell her that half the battle of being an editor is having confidence but instead I just tell her I’ll have a read-through when I get a minute.
‘When did you decide this?’ I say as she edges back towards the door, desperate to get away.
‘Oh, I’ve wanted it forever. But I’ve never told anyone before. I just … I’m not putting Lorraine down at all, but I’ve been watching what she does and I know I could do it. Don’t mention it to anyone, will you?’
‘Of course not, but if you’re serious you’re going to have to at some point …’
‘I know. I wanted to see what you thought first.’
‘OK,’ I say, wanting to put her out of her misery. ‘Let’s have a chat when I’ve read them.’
‘Yes. Thanks. And you can tell me straight if you think they’re terrible …’
I smile at her. ‘I will.’ And then, because I can see how anxious she is, I add, ‘Good for you.’
‘Oh,’ I say as she’s about to leave. ‘That last load of first drafts that came in for me? Have a look and let me know what your notes would be. When you have a chance. No rush.’
On Saturday I wake up with a mission. Hattie has left to visit her mum for the weekend and, despite the fact that I hardly ever see her, the flat feels different knowing no one is home but me. I’m tempted to play loud music and sing along at the top of my voice, have a shower with the bathroom door open or mess up the kitchen just for the hell of it. In the end I settle for tea in bed.
Hattie and I shared a glass of wine on Thursday evening. She showed up with a cold bottle from the off licence round the corner and I accepted a glass, even though I didn’t really feel like one because I go
t the feeling she’d bought it with the specific hope of us sharing, a way of paying me back for the drinks she’d had with me and Dee the other night. Not that I expected to be paid back in the slightest. But it was a sweet thought. Inevitably the talk turned to my work and I told her an edited version of what happened at the conference. I played it down. Made it sound more like a practical joke than a genuine attempt to discredit me. I don’t want to come home and talk about it every night. I don’t want Roz to take over my life here as well as in the office. My flat is my sanctuary and I want to keep it that way.
Hattie’s mum had taken a bit of a turn for the worse, she told me when I asked, anxious to take the focus off me and my problems. Compared to what she was going through they were trivial, let’s face it. Ego versus life and death. She talked about it in a matter-of-fact way, and I got the feeling it happened often. That it was a cycle of her mother fading and then rallying.
‘It’s the nature of the disease,’ she said, delicate fingers stroking the stem of her wine glass. ‘It comes in waves. Unpredictable waves.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, unable to think of anything more original to say. I felt terrible that I couldn’t remember exactly what was wrong with Hattie’s mum. She did tell me at her interview and it felt too late to ask again now, as if I didn’t care enough to hold the fact in my head. I knew it was a progressive illness, but which one eluded me. Still, I remembered from when my own mum was sick that sometimes it’s enough just to know that people know. You don’t need them to understand all the specifics, you don’t want them to keep on asking you about it, you just want to know that if you behave a bit oddly or you suddenly break down and cry they know why.
‘It’s shit, in all honesty,’ she said. ‘But it’s how it is.’
Anyway, it occurred to me late last night – once I was tucked up in my room with a final glass of wine – that I have Roz’s address for the first time. I’ve always known she lives in swanky Holland Park, home to music moguls and old rock stars. Not in one of the enormous white stucco mansions, I remember her telling me – those cost many many millions, and as well as Hugh is doing he’s not there yet – but in a pretty cobbled mews. I remember being blown away that she lived in an actual house in one of the smartest areas of London. Something the rest of us could only ever dream about. Something not even our on-screen talent could afford to do. (To be fair, they don’t earn half as much as the general public assume they do, hence the willingness of so many of them to appear waving in front of baying crowds at iffy nightclubs or to sell every detail of their most personal moments to the tabloids any chance they get.) But now, courtesy of her application form, I have the actual details.
