Lost for Words

by Andrea Bramhall

  Fleur looked at her and pulled a face like she was sucking a lemon. “Fine, I’ll do it the old-fashioned way.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ll get myself down to the bowling club.”

  Sasha snorted.

  “That’s better. So when are you going to tell this woman you’ll take her up on this offer?”

  “I already did. I told you that. I just…well…”

  “You’re scared.”

  Sasha nodded.

  “Of failing? Or succeeding?”

  “Maybe a bit of both.” She laughed sadly. “This will change things.”

  “Good. Things have needed to change for quite some time, my darling girl.”

  “Doesn’t mean it doesn’t make me uncomfortable.”

  Fleur slapped her on the arm.

  “Ow.” Sasha rubbed the spot. “What was that for?”

  “For getting so maudlin and letting me waffle on with all that sentimental crap when all you really need is a good old-fashioned kick up the arse.”

  “You saying you didn’t mean it? Please say you didn’t mean the Tinder bit.”

  “Just for that, I’m going to get Bobbi to hook me on.”

  “It’s hook me up, and I’m gonna tell her not to.”

  “Pft, that girl knows what’s good for her, so she damn well will hook me up.” Fleur pointed her nose in the air. Snooty. Clearly impressed with herself and her correct use of slang. “So, what are you going to do about work? I think you should tell ’em where to stick it.”

  “Not sure that should be my first option, Mum, but I’ll keep it in mind. I was thinking I might ask for unpaid leave.”

  Fleur rolled her eyes. “Just quit. That’ll give you more incentive to make this work.”

  “And what if it doesn’t? There are thousands, probably millions, of writers out there who are waiting tables to pay the bills. I’ve got a decent job. Quitting that to go running after a hope and a prayer isn’t a very smart idea. I’m forty-five years old, Mum. I need to be more sensible than that.” But even as she said it, she remembered Jac and how she and her friends had thrown everything into making their dreams a reality. Now they were living it. Could she be as brave? Or was it reckless?

  “Pish. If it doesn’t work out, you come back and get another job rubbing naked strangers’ backs. There’s plenty of folk out there go in for that. You’ll have no problem finding a job when you want one. Besides, we’ve got this house, it’s all paid for, and there’s a bit put aside. We’ll not want for out, honey. So put your big-girls pants on and bloody well resign.”

  Could she? Was it truly as easy as that? Roll the dice and let the chips fall where they may? Since when did I get so bloody clichéd?

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Fleur tutted and lifted her crystal necklace from over her head. “What’s to think about?” She held the crystal over the plate of brownies on the coffee table, shut her eyes, and let it swing as she mumbled something Sasha couldn’t make out. A smile spread over her lips and she reached out for the chosen cake slice without opening her eyes. After she took a huge bite, she moaned. “These are getting better and better, if I do say so myself.”

  “New recipe?”

  “Yes, young Dante on the corner gave me a top tip this morning.”

  “Oh yeah. What’s that?” Don’t burn your space cakes?

  “I can’t tell you, dear. He told me in confidence.”

  Sasha looked up at the ceiling and wondered how many slices Fleur had eaten already. “Since when are you on first-name terms with the local drug dealer, anyway?”

  “Dante’s a nice boy. He helped me with my bags a few days ago when I went shopping. We were out of margarine.”

  “Why didn’t you ask me to get it on the way home?”

  “Because I wanted to get the next batch in. I’m finding these cakes are working better for me than the smoking right now.”

  Sasha shook her head. “Fine. So he carried your bags for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you started swapping recipes?”

  “Yes.”

  “You realise that if I wrote this shit, no one would believe me.”

  “Speaking of writing shit, go and write your resignation.”

  Sasha smiled. She could feel it stretching across her lips at the thought of why that was even a possibility. Sasha Adams, writer.

  “And then make me a sandwich. I’m getting hungry and I should make the most of you waiting on me hand and foot for as long as I can, now. Right?”

  Sasha nodded and hoisted herself off the couch. She’d do the sandwich first, then attend to her career alterations. “What do you want on it?”

  “Spam and mustard.”

  She shuddered. Sasha hated the gelatinous tinned meat, but Fleur was a long-time fan, and she wasn’t going to change her now. “Right,” she said around a sigh.

  “With cheese and onion crisps on it too.”

  Revolting. But Sasha threw her a mock salute before escaping to the kitchen.

  Chapter 8

  “So how’d it go?” Bobbi asked when Sasha entered the staff room and switched the kettle on to boil.

  She shrugged and emptied her cuppa-soup sachet into a mug, stifling a yawn as she did. “Good.”

  Bobbi frowned. “You look tired.”

  “I couldn’t sleep last night. Too many things running through my mind.”

  “Like?”

  She shrugged again and poured the boiled water into the mug and stirred as she made her way over to the comfy-ish chairs scattered about the room. “Trying to decide whether or not to thank you for starting off this whole chance-of-a-lifetime thing or not.”

  Bobbi laughed. “What’s to decide? You just said it was the chance of a lifetime.”

  Sasha threw her head back and laughed too. “You’re right.” She wrapped her arms around Bobbi and squeezed until Bobbi groaned and let out a strangled breath.

  “Need air,” she gurgled.

  “Thank you.” She kissed the top of Bobbi’s head and let go.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Sasha reached into the pocket of her tunic and showed Bobbi the envelope.

  “What’s that?” Bobbi asked.

  “My resignation.”

  “You’re quitting?” Bobbi’s eyes widened as she stared at her, slack-jawed.

  Sasha nodded, then shrugged. “Yeah, I-I think I have to.”

  “But why?”

  “Because they want me to work on the set with them while they make the film. To do any rewrites and stuff that comes up.”

  “But that doesn’t mean you have to quit. What will you do when the film’s done?”

  “I’ll get another job or maybe…I don’t. Maybe I’ll have another script to sell then. I’m not sure.”

  “But-but that means we won’t work together every day?”

  “Well, no. But we’ll still see each other all the time, Bobbi. You’re my best friend. Nothing’s going to change that.”

  “Right.” Bobbi’s shocked expression clouded and shifted to a frown, and Sasha wasn’t sure what expression passed over Bobbi’s face before she tossed the magazine she’d been reading on the coffee table and scurried out of the room, mumbling about getting back to work.

  “Well,” Sasha said to herself, “that wasn’t the reaction I expected.” She looked at the envelope in her hand. She still had a couple of appointments booked in before she finished for the day, but she had twenty minutes until the next one. “Now’s as good a time as any, I suppose.” She stalked out of the staff room and didn’t stop walking until she was standing in front of the door with a placard saying, Maria Carter, Owner.

  “Come in,” the voice on the other side of the door called when Sasha knocked. As soon as she was insid
e, she slid into the seat opposite Maria.

  “Maria, I’ve—”

  The woman silenced her with a look and folded her arms across her chest. “A little birdie, who shall remain nameless, spent all of yesterday telling anyone and everyone how amazing this screenplay written by her best friend is. Won some big competition, gonna be a film, yada, yada, yada. On and on and on. All bloody day. So much so, I made her email it to me.”

  “You did?”

  Maria held up the tablet in her hand. “Not quite finished yet, but I figured if I was going to lose one of my best staff members, I should at least have an idea why.”

  “You like it?” Maria had always seemed so standoffish, aloof even. So much so that Sasha hadn’t even been sure she knew the names of the people who worked for her. The idea she was reading Sasha’s story felt strange. Exciting. But strange.

  “I do. So I’m going to make this easy on you.”

  Not sure where this was going, Sasha cocked her head to the side and waited.

  “Sasha, you’re fired.”

  Sasha stared at her, well aware she was impersonating some sort of fish, her mouth opening and closing, attempting to form words she couldn’t seem to force past her lips.

  Maria’s grin was smug, maybe even a little cocky.

  “Wh-what?” Sasha finally managed to sputter.

  “You’re fired.”

  “You’re sacking me?”

  Maria grinned evilly. “Yeah. I’m going to consider it my claim to fame when you’re collecting your Oscar. I want a mention in the thank-you speech, by the way, and if you feel like crying when you mention my name, I’d be most grateful.”

  “You’re firing me?”

  “Yes, we’ve covered that already.”

  “But I was going to resign.”

  Maria waved her hand. “Don’t want that.”

  “I was going to give you like a month’s notice. Maybe even six weeks to find a replacement.” She held out her carefully worded resignation letter for Maria to take.

  Maria snorted and waved it away. “This is Manchester and we’re an upscale spa. I’ve got CVs coming out of my ears. I’ll have a new you in here tomorrow.”

  Sasha felt more than a little affronted. “Gee, thanks.”

  “You’re going to have to grow some thicker skin than that, love.” Maria chortled. “The critics will be a lot meaner, I’m sure.”

  Sasha had to acknowledge she was probably right. Still… “You’re really sacking me?”

  “Yup, told you, my claim to fame.”

  Sasha stared, slack-jawed and still in shock. She stuffed the envelope back into her pocket. “Do you want me to leave now?”

  “End of the day will do, dear.”

  Sasha nodded, still feeling a little numb. So this is what a push feels like, she thought. Not sure I like it. Then she pictured her next boss—her new boss. Jac Kensington. She pictured walking into the suite of offices at MediaCity, sitting behind a desk—her desk. She could see that name plate on it. Sasha Adams, Writer. This was happening. It was really happening.

  “I think I’ll get Bobbi to organise your leaving party to start after the last appointment tonight.” Maria shook her head. “On second thought, I’ll do it myself. I want to be able to listen to the music and drink Prosecco, not some sort of alcoholic pop.” She stood and walked across the room, putting her hand on Sasha’s shoulder leading her out of the office. “I’m really happy for you, Sasha. You deserve this. So grab hold and enjoy.” She squeezed Sasha’s shoulder, then closed the door.

  “Well,” she said, staring into the hallway, “doesn’t look like I have much of a choice now.” She held up an imaginary glass, toasting her imaginary future. “Second star on the right, and straight on till morning.”

  Chapter 9

  Jac clicked on her email icon and held her breath when she saw a message from Sasha waiting for her. She opened it and quickly scanned the contents. A smile spread across her face, then she went back and read the missive thoroughly.

  Dear Jac,

  Please find attached the signed contract. I’ve put the physical copy in the post for you too.

  You should also find attached a first draft with the changes you requested for the screenplay. Is that what you’re looking for?

  Kind regards,

  Sasha Adams

  Jac pumped her fist in front above the keyboard and hit the Reply icon.

  Sasha,

  Great to hear from you, and thanks for the contract. Good thinking about the physical copy too. I’ll review those changes and get back to you on them.

  I’ll be in touch soon.

  Jac

  She shrugged as she hit Reply again. Sasha’s immediate response of gratitude made Jac smile. She opened the file and scanned the changes Sasha had made. Subtle in some places, broad in others, and totally in line with everything Jac had asked…plus the little something extra Sasha had hinted at. Jac was pleased, very pleased. Sasha was a gifted writer. The other works she’d sent to Jac were more than enough to convince Jac that Sasha could have a future as a screenwriter if she wanted to pursue it beyond this project—and she truly hoped she did.

  Jac leant back in her chair and looked across her office and out through the glass half-wall. She’d worked with many writers over the years, both through Kefran and in her previous incarnation at the BBC as a producer and director. Few of them had had the innate flair and natural ability Sasha seemed to have and brought so effortlessly to the page.

  Jac hoped it translated as well to the screen. It should do. And would do. She was determined to make sure of it.

  She went back to her computer and again checked through the dates again where they could get access to the studio space operated and managed by Dock 10. It was amazing to think that ten years ago when they moved in down the hall, MediaCity had been a rundown old warehouse, and now they were going to have access to Europe’s most technologically advanced HD studios, the heart of broadcasting across the country, the home to Coronation Street and Blue Peter.

  The thousands of exciting people working here on a daily basis, and the many thousands more contracted on revolving project-by-project work, made the pace hectic, but all of the energy in this place every day never failed to go straight to her bloodstream, and Jac loved it; she hoped Sasha would too.

  Sophie opened the door and dropped a folder on her desk.

  “Thank you, paper fairy, for shitting on my desk. What’s this?” She flipped open the file. A photo of a pretty young woman stared up at her.

  “Headshots of all the actors I’ve shortlisted to audition for the MCs. I need your choices soon so I can get them on board and work out logistics for the final round of auditions.”

  “Okay. I’ll get them to you by the end of the day.” Jac closed the file and sat back in her chair again.

  “What’s up with you? You looked lost in thought when I came in.”

  “Just thinking about when we moved into the offices here.”

  “Yeah, we’d have never got this space without your connections. Life at Beeb was good to you.”

  Jac agreed. “But I think we’d have probably still got the space here. They needed us as much as we needed them in the beginning.”

  “Maybe, but not now.” Sophie looked around. “Now it’s something else.”

  “Hm.”

  “Hm, what?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Christ, Pan-pan, some days it’s like pulling teeth to get even a hint of conversation out of you. Spit it out.”

  “I’m going to invite Sasha for a tour around when it’s time to check out the sets.”

  “Okay.”

  Jac bit her lip.

  “What’s up?” Sophie asked. “You’re all frowny.”

  She felt unsure of herself, and the feeling was…unse
ttling, to say the least. She was never unsure of herself. Not when it came to work stuff. Not when it came to beautiful women. But when it came to Sasha, something was throwing her off her game, making her question herself. “Do you think she’d, I don’t know, find it interesting or useful to see it?”

  Sophie smirked.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Sophie held up her hands. “Ask her. The worst she can say is no.”

  “Hm. Do you have a date when the mock-up sets will be ready to check out?”

  “I think it’ll be about two more weeks yet, just before we’re ready to start rehearsals. You know how this works. Need me to get the projected date off my computer?”

  “Please. Then I’ll see what I can set up with Sasha. I think she needs to see it all if she’s going to be working here. Maybe…I don’t know. Have you had a chance to look at those other scripts she sent me?”

  “Not yet. I was planning to take a look over the weekend.”

  “Okay, well, when you see how good they are, you’ll see what I mean. It’d be great if she’d work with us on more projects. She’s got it. I mean she’s really got it.”

  Sophie nodded and scrambled to her feet. “Right, well, I’ll email you the date and get to reading, then.” She waved her hand as she exited, closing the door behind her.

  Jac opened her email program and drafted her message.

  Sasha,

  The changes look great. But I also wanted to see if you were up for a tour of MediaCity and a look at the mock-ups for the sets for Nightingale? Would that be something you’d be interested in?

  Jac

  Jac opened the file to look at the casting choices she had the final say on. She looked at the first headshot—too harsh for the vulnerable Muslim girl. She turned it face down. The second looked too old. The character was in her early twenties, and the woman she was looking at seemed to be in her late thirties. She hated watching films where they cast thirty-year-olds as schoolgirls. Just wrong. She patted her pocket for her cigarette packet and remembered again that she’d quit.

  “This damn habit is getting old—fast,” she grumbled, then grinned when her computer pinged and an email dropped into her inbox.