by Jane Fallon
‘Of course. I’ll go down now.’
I stop in on the room where the editors watch the monitor and communicate with the studio to see Juliet and fill her in – not to mention ask her advice about what I can possibly say to Patricia that won’t have her campaigning for me to be fired or just flooring me with one punch – but Fay, the producer of this week’s eps, is in there with her, chatting, so I just check if Patricia is on a break between scenes and leave it at that.
I’m terrified to knock on her door, let alone speak to her. I decide to track down Chris the runner to find out if she’s left any specific instructions not to be disturbed. I find him puffing along a corridor with two Starbucks coffees in his hand. There isn’t a Starbucks in walking distance so I have no idea where he’s been to get them.
‘I have to drop these off,’ he says as soon as he sees that I’m going to approach him. I want to ask where he got the coffees from, and who has insisted that the local café won’t do, but I decide to save that for later. ‘They’re going cold.’
‘I have to speak to Patricia,’ I say, following him. ‘Is it OK to knock?’
‘God. I mean, no. But if it’s urgent … She’s not napping or anything. I think she was going to watch something on iPlayer.’
‘It is urgent. Don’t let anyone disturb us for a bit, OK?’
He nods with a cursory ‘Fine’ and rushes off. I stop outside Patricia’s door trying to summon up courage. This is ridiculous, I tell myself. You’ve done nothing wrong.
I force myself to knock. For a blissful second I think that maybe she’s not there. She’s in make-up or one of the other actors’ dressing rooms. But then the door is flung open and she’s right in front of me.
‘You!’
Imagine a cartoon bull, up on its back legs, smoke coming out of its nostrils, furious that someone is waving a red flag at it.
‘Could I come in for a second?’
She doesn’t answer, just stands back from the open door to let me in. I’ve never actually been into her dressing room before. She’s inhabited it for five years so it’s packed to the brim with home comforts. Photos and throws and jars and pots of both cosmetics and her favourite snacks. A kettle and a tiny fridge. There’s a sofa but also an armchair on which sits a huge knitting bag. There’s a pile of CDs and an old CD player. It smells a bit fusty, like the windows haven’t been opened in a long time.
She doesn’t offer me a seat but I feel as if I need to sit down before I keel over so I plonk myself in the armchair. I’ve decided that despite her harsh exterior Patricia must have a heart in there somewhere – doesn’t everyone? – so I am going to appeal to her softer side.
‘I … I …’ I stutter. I just need to get it out. She has placed herself on the sofa, facing me, and looks as though she might quite like to kill me. I clear my throat. Twist my gold hoops round. Here goes. ‘I understand you got an email that supposedly came from me. It didn’t. Well, that is, it came from my account but I absolutely, 100 per cent, didn’t send it. I would never say anything like that. I didn’t even see the dress you wore to the Soap Awards …’ Stop, Holly, I tell myself. Slow down.
‘I don’t want to tell tales but something strange has been happening. Someone has been doing things in my name to try and make me look bad …’
Shit. I can feel tears forming. I don’t want to show her weakness. She already thinks I’m flaky after the Post-it note incident. This would confirm that I’m not someone to be taken seriously. She’d go in for the kill. I can’t look at her so I stare at a stain on the carpet. Will myself not to cry.
As usual I ignore myself. A big heavy tear plops on to my cheek. I bat it away but then there’s another and another and my nose starts running in sympathy. I don’t even have anything to stop the flow of bodily fluids. I think about using my sleeve I’m that desperate, but then a tissue wafts in front of my face.
I look up as I take it. Patricia is staring at me, stricken. ‘Oh, my poor dear girl, what on earth is going on?’
I’m so taken aback I don’t know what to do so I just cry some more and blow my nose and wipe my tears. She hands me about five more tissues.
‘Take your time,’ she says.
I don’t know if it’s the adrenalin or the relief but I can’t stop crying. ‘You have to believe me,’ I say through a miasma of snot and tears. ‘I would never do something like that. I’m going to lose my job …’
‘Don’t be silly.’ She leans over and puts a hand on my knee. The gesture absolutely floors me. ‘Of course you won’t. Who is it then? Who’s doing this to you?’
‘I can’t,’ I gulp. ‘I mean, I know but I can’t prove it.’
‘Someone here? On the show?’
I nod.
‘It’s not that Roz girl, is it? I’ve never liked her. None of us do. Way too full of herself.’
For a second I think I’ve misheard. Roz, Ms Popular, disliked by the cast. Well, if Patricia’s to be believed.
‘I really can’t …’ I say, but I look her right in the eye as I say it. I see the moment she gets what I’m not saying.
‘No. No. Of course you can’t. But, whoever it is, why do you think they’re doing it?’
I know I shouldn’t say any more. Glen has made it clear he doesn’t want the cast to think the ship is being steered by a bunch of incompetents. But it’s so tempting.
‘Because they want my job …’ There. I’ve said it. I can’t take it back. Maybe she’ll believe me. Maybe I’ll have people in my corner.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she says. ‘She would never get it anyway. Surely Juliet would have if it wasn’t you?’
I’ve never really thought the cast took any notice of what was going on in our department. Beyond complaining every now and then if they didn’t like a storyline. But why wouldn’t they? They’re reliant on us to do our job well so they can do theirs. It has an impact on them.
‘Not that I’ve said it’s her,’ I say, suddenly nervous. For all I know Patricia might be the world’s biggest gossip and she can’t wait to go and spread this around until it gets back to Glen that I’ve been bad-mouthing Roz to the cast.
‘No,’ she says. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not about to call her out on it.’
‘I appreciate you being so nice to me about this,’ I say and I almost start bawling again. ‘You didn’t have to be.’
‘Trust me, I know an actress when I see one,’ she says. ‘And I know you’re not one.’
She rustles round in a cupboard. Produces a half-empty bottle of whisky and two glasses. Pours two fingers in each. ‘Here you are.’
I know I should say no. I’m hopeless with spirits. But I don’t want to ruin our bonding moment. I’m embarrassed that I’ve made an idiot of myself but if it’s going to stop her calling for me to be publicly hung, drawn and quartered then it’s been worth it.
‘Thank you.’ She knocks hers back in one, so I do the same. Cough. Recover. Cough again.
‘That’ll start rumours on the set,’ she says with a cackle. ‘Patricia’s a drunk.’
‘I’ll defend you,’ I say with a laugh, the glow hitting me. ‘Medicinal.’
‘OK. What do you want me to say to Paul Hollywood?’
I have to think for a moment. Realize she means Glen. ‘Um … I don’t know really. Maybe just that you’re satisfied it wasn’t me? I mean, if you are …’
‘I am. I’ll tell him I’m happy that it was some kind of practical joke someone played on you and that I don’t want to take it any further.’
‘Don’t say I told you it was Roz … I mean, if you don’t mind … He thinks we’ll all look really unprofessional if people know …’
She taps my knee again, her hand so heavy with the weight of her big gold rings that I imagine this is what it must feel like to be pawed by a bear. ‘Leave it with me. Now, clean your face up a bit; you don’t want her to see you looking like shit.’
‘She’s not here. She’s on holiday this week,’ I say, and then
I wish I hadn’t.
Patricia frowns. ‘Then how did she …?’
‘I have no idea. I know the other things were her because she admitted it to me but this …’
Why would I expect Patricia to believe me now? I can hardly even believe it myself.
‘She must have roped someone else in to help her,’ I say unconvincingly.
‘Well, let me know when you find out who that is.’ Patricia hands me a wet wipe and I dab under my eyes to remove any streaked mascara. I curse myself for saying too much.
The thing is, I’m clueless. I have no idea how someone could have accessed my computer at eleven this morning. Can you send an email on a timer? Could Roz have composed her missive last week and set it to send today? Maybe. It sounds feasible. Except that she has no idea what my password is now and I’ve made sure neither she nor Lorraine are ever around when I enter it. The only person who knows it is Emma.
‘Have you got a second?’ I say as I walk past Emma’s desk on the way back in. I put my head round Glen’s door first to let him know things had been smoothed over with Patricia. I almost laughed when I saw him and thought of her comment. OK, so he’s Paul Hollywood with a full beard and not a goatee, but yes, he’s Paul Hollywood. I managed to control myself though. If I laughed I would probably cry and I didn’t think that would help.
‘Good,’ was all he said, and then he went back to work so I left it at that.
Emma follows me into my office and I close the door behind her. She looks nervous, as if she can pick up that I’m not happy. I indicate for her to sit in the armchair and she does. I look at her in her baggy cardigan, knee-length skirt and trainers, with her shapeless Velma bob, and I just can’t imagine her doing anything so mean, so calculated.
I walk round to the other side of the desk and sit down. ‘OK, I’m just going to come out with it. Did you tell anyone my new password?’
She opens her eyes wide. ‘No. Of course not. Has it happened again?’
I ignore her question. ‘And if anyone saw you put in your password and went on to your computer could they get into my email that way?’ Emma is the only person who has access to my email other than me.
‘Yes, but they’d still have to know your password too, because I don’t have it saved. Just in case.’
‘So could someone have seen you log into mine? Seen the password you put in?’
‘Theoretically yes. But I don’t think I’ve even looked at it since you changed it. I only really do it if you’re on holiday or off sick. In fact I’m sure I haven’t.’
I exhale loudly. ‘Is it possible to send a timed email? So, for example, someone could have gone on to my computer last week and set something to send this week?’
‘No. I mean, yes, that can be done but not on our system. So, no.’
‘Were you at your desk all morning?’
‘Well, apart from making tea, and you were in here when I did that. Oh, and I went to the Ladies but, again, you were here. Since you asked me to keep an eye on things I try to make sure I only leave if you’re at your desk.’
I believe her. She’s conscientious to a fault. ‘And you didn’t see anyone come in here? When I wasn’t here? Lorraine?’
‘Lorraine?’ she says, incredulous. ‘Do you think it’s her? I mean, I know she’s a bit of a bitch but I don’t think she’s clever enough to even think of it, let alone do it.’
‘Just indulge me,’ I say.
‘No. I didn’t see anyone come in. If I had I would have asked them what they were looking for.’
I lean back in my chair. I’m stumped.
‘Change your password again,’ Emma says. ‘Don’t even tell me what it is. If you ever need me to check your email you can tell me then.’
‘Good idea,’ I say. ‘Not that I don’t trust you. At all. I just need to narrow down the field.’
‘It’s fine. I understand.’ She talks me through how to do it again and then she makes a point of turning away when I enter my new details. Unless she has eyes in the back of her head or the ability to decipher text from the sound of the keys she has no way of knowing what I’m typing.
‘Let me know if there’s anything else I can do. Anything,’ she says. ‘I feel terrible that this is happening to you.’
‘Thanks. I really don’t think it’s you. Don’t worry.’
I know how awful it feels to be blamed for something you haven’t done.
32
When I get home from work Hattie is doing something in the kitchen. I can’t really face being sociable so I grab a glass of wine and tell her I have some work I need to do. I wake up my desktop. Open my work email. I want to check that there’s nothing there that shouldn’t be, whether there are any tell-tale clues. A box pops up, telling me that my stored password is invalid. I enter the new one, the one that only I know and I tell it yes when it asks me if I want that password to be saved. I know I’ll forget it at some point.
Of course there’s nothing to see. Whoever sent the email deleted it as soon as it was sent. I take my wine over to the sofa. Flop down. Stare at the ceiling. She’s started the endgame but she’s changed the rules. I don’t even know who or what I’m fighting against now. All I can do is wait to see what happens next.
Another day, another email. This time I get a call from HR. Thank God she – Karen – phones me and not Glen. She thought it was a bit odd, she says. She wondered if I meant to send it.
I’ve only met Karen once. She was on the interview panel when I got my promotion. I liked her. She was good cop to a man called Alan’s bad cop. She obviously thought I deserved the job over Roz.
‘I don’t even know what it says,’ I say. ‘I haven’t sent you an email.’
There’s a pause and then an ‘Oh’. I know I have to explain myself quickly or she’ll think I’m being crazily defensive. Or just crazy.
‘What I mean is that someone keeps messing around on my computer. Sending people things that are meant to be from me and then deleting them so I don’t even know about them until the recipient asks me what the hell I’m on about. I’m really sorry. I didn’t think they’d start sending them to people outside the show. I can only apologize.’
‘No. Gosh, how awful for you. Do you know who it is? I mean it would be a disciplinary offence …’
‘I’m trying to find some proof. Could you let me know what it said? The email. I might as well know the lengths she – they – are willing to go to.’
‘I’ll forward it on to you. Let me know if I can help in any way, Holly.’
‘Thanks. And I’m really sorry again that you got dragged into this. I appreciate you calling me.’
I wait anxiously for the ping that will let me know I’ve got mail. I’ve been lucky so far that the people affected have taken it so well. At least in so far as I know. Maybe there’s something sitting in someone’s inbox at this moment that will spark World War Three. The Head of Continuing Series, the channel Controller. Someone I’ve never met, who won’t be so ready to believe my defence.
I see Karen’s name pop up at the same moment I hear the sound. I’m almost too scared to open the message.
I force myself to do it.
‘Here you go,’ it says.
Ten twenty-three a.m.
And then underneath:
Dear Karen,
I hope you’re well. As you know my probation period for the position of script executive is almost at an end. I’m sure you’re aware of the stresses and responsibilities of the job and I’m hoping you’ll agree with me that once my appointment is confirmed (as I assume it will be!) it would be only fair for us to have a full and frank discussion about my pay level, and whether it could be improved.
Yours sincerely …
I stare at it in horror for a full thirty seconds. Then I bang out a response:
Thanks, Karen. Just for the record I hope you know that I’m extremely happy with what I’m being paid and if I’m fortunate enough for my post to be made permanent (which I’m b
y no means taking for granted) I have absolutely no expectation for it to be increased and would not even consider requesting it. I really appreciate you coming to me with this, and not Glen, as I’m sure you realize this is a very delicate situation. I’ll do my best to ensure nothing like this ever happens again.
And then I get up and close my office door. I don’t want to have to deal with anyone.
I text Dee to see if she wants to come over, but she’s covering a late shift. I don’t feel like being alone. I feel completely at a loss, under siege. I actually thought about sending an email to everyone in my contacts saying that they should ignore any communications from me that seem out of character or just a bit odd, but who knows who she’ll target next, and I don’t want to start a whole rumour mill going unless I have to.
As luck would have it Hattie arrives home at the exact same moment I do. She’s clutching a Waitrose carrier bag, swaddled in a baggy jumper even though it’s so warm I’m sweating in my cap-sleeved shirt.
‘Hey,’ she says with a big smile. ‘Good timing.’
I already have my key out, so I let us in. ‘How was work?’
‘Good,’ she says, heading for her room. ‘I finished early because my last client cancelled.’
‘Lovely.’ I shrug out of my jacket. Hang it up. ‘Do you fancy a drink?’
‘Definitely.’ She indicates the carrier bag. ‘Let me just put this lot in my fridge. I have wine in here too.’
‘I’ll open one. White?’
She nods yes and I go into the kitchen and find a bottle in the fridge. I’m so relieved to have company, and someone who knows at least part of the story. I don’t often feel as if I just want to wallow in my own misery but tonight I definitely do. I want sympathy. I want someone to tell me it’s all going to be OK.
‘You look knackered,’ she says as she comes back in. She puts the bottle she’s brought with her into the fridge, accepts the glass I offer her. ‘Rough day?’
‘You could say that.’ I move an old newspaper off one of the chairs and sit down. Smokey appears out of nowhere and jumps up, kneading his claws into my lap.
