‘Maggie Warren’s office,’ she winked at me. But her face quickly fell again, the torrent of abuse audible even from my position by the door. ‘It’s Alex, I think.’ She thrust the phone at me like it was too hot to hold.
I considered the lesser of two evils and made a run for it. ‘I’ll call him back, thanks.’ I pulled my door open. ‘Charlie? I need a word.’
Charlie rolled his unlit cigar between two fingers and considered me carefully. Then he checked his Rolex. ‘You’ve got five minutes before my conference call with HBO.’
‘That’s ample.’ I followed him into his den. He’d stopped short of writhing women on the walls here but still it was all leather, dark wood and a furry rug that screamed ‘
lie naked on me
’.
‘There are a couple of things actually.’ I cleared my throat bravely.
Charlie poured two glasses of whisky from the crystal decanter on the desk. ‘I know what you’re going to say, Maggie. You can’t do this any more, ya da ya da ya.’ He yawned widely – so widely I saw all the gold in his mouth. ‘Well, I’m here to tell you, you can. One more month, darling, just while we get the ratings back up there – and then I’ll keep my end of the bargain.’ He picked up the bronze desk-lighter, so heavy it looked like it was an effort to lift, and lit his horrible cigar.
‘But, Charlie –’
‘One more month, just to the end of the season – and one more show from you.’
‘I don’t understand –’
‘The crash show was a huge success – you know that. You and Fay being reunited – it melted hearts nationwide! Lyons is over the moon. It’s even been nominated for a Viewers’ Weepie Award.
If we can net one more hit like that, then he secures the American series, and all our dreams come true. You produce the
You’re Dumped
show, plus a
Survivors’ Reunion
with your pretty little friend Fay et al, and then you’re free to do your doco. That’s a promise, my darling.’
‘I can’t, Charlie. I’m never appearing on TV again. It was hideous.’
‘Don’t be so wet.’ He puffed smoke at me like an old dragon. ‘I mean, granted, you were hardly an on-screen natural, but I don’t know – there was something about you. The viewers love all that doe-eyed vulnerability.’
‘I’m not being wet. It just confirmed to me all the reasons I hate the programme so much now. And that
Dumped
show is completely immoral, you must know that.’
‘Since when did you grow a conscience, darling? You never complained before.’
I flushed angrily. ‘Yeah, well, people change. I’ve had my eyes opened.’
He laughed without humour. ‘What – by that loser boyfriend of yours?’
‘Who?’ I shook my head in confusion. ‘Alex? He’s not my boyfriend any more, and it’s nothing to do with him. Can we not bring him into it, please.’ With a sinking feeling, I remembered pushing Charlie away the other night after Bel’s party. I realised I was about to pay for denting his pride. I took a deep breath.
‘Look, the point is, I can’t do it, Charlie. I won’t. Let me do something I believe in – or let me go.’
He looked bored. ‘Maggie, you fucked up so badly in the summer, darling, you’re hardly in a position to negotiate.’
‘That’s not fair, Charlie.’ My skin was scalding. But God, I wished I had better recall of the events. However hard I racked my brain, the episode in question escaped me in its entirety. Each time I imagined my apparent ignominy I winced inside.
Harder still was accepting my memory was so impaired; it made me feel incomplete and broken.
‘Isn’t it? I’d say it was. I’d say it was
extremely
fair.’
‘I still can’t remember it properly.’ Which wasn’t absolutely true any more.
‘How convenient. I’m more than happy to remind you if it helps. And remember this, darling. You blew it – and then you left me in the shit. So you owe me.’
‘It just – it got a bit out of control, that’s all.’
‘I thought you couldn’t remember?’ He smiled malevolently. ‘Listen, darling.’ He leaned forward and blew smoke directly into my eyes, speaking very quietly and levelly. ‘You’d be nothing without me in the first place. Lyons would have had you out on your ear in June if he’d got a whiff of any of it. Your domestics should not affect your work, you know that, Maggie. Now it’s payback time.’
‘And if I refuse?’ I whispered.
‘If you don’t do my show, I won’t hesitate to use everything I know. And you wouldn’t want that now, Maggie baby, would you?’
I stared at him, appalled. ‘But I didn’t do anything really bad. I’m sure I didn’t.’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘They didn’t charge me in the end, I know that much,’ I said stoutly. The cigar smoke in this airless little box was making me feel ill.
‘So what? The industry loves a victim of their own kind – you must realise that. They’ll bring you down quite happily –
if
they find out.’ He studied the end of his cigar with great interest. ‘And you’ll never work again if they knew what came next.’
I gazed at him in disbelief. ‘Christ, Charlie, what’s this all about?’
But I knew the answer really. Charlie had created me – so he’d only let me go on his own terms. The closeness that we’d built
as colleagues stood for nothing, I realised now, if it wasn’t all up to him. And if it wasn’t, he’d rather destroy me first: he was that power-hungry.
I thought miserably of Gillian Router, the series producer before me. She’d fallen out with Charlie so badly there’d been talk of legal action at one point when she left
Renee Reveals
. With some considerable guilt I remembered that I’d simply seen the debacle as a weakness in her, and a great opening for me.
‘Can’t do without you, Maggie darling. Straightforward as that.’
There was a knock on the door.
‘Maggie Warren?’
I swung round as a familiar smell pervaded the small room, fighting with the pungent smoke that swirled visibly in the air. The post-room boy stood in the doorway brandishing a huge bouquet of flowers – of gloriously reeking lilies. My heart hit the floor.
‘These are for you,’ the boy said to me proudly, as if he’d just grown them himself.
Twice in one day was a first. Reluctantly, I opened the card.
‘
In Sympathy
.’
My blood turned to ice.
‘How charming.’ Charlie ground out his cigar and smiled wolfishly. ‘You don’t look very pleased, I must say. I do wonder who they’re from, eh, darling?’
Somehow I got through the rest of the afternoon. I signed off Sally’s show and viewed a VT of Renee’s best bits (the back of her as she walked away, in my opinion) for the National TV Awards. In between tasks, I tracked down the florist who’d delivered the latest flowers. She just confirmed what all the rest had –a man had rung through the order, paying on a card in the name of Steven I. Sweeger. It sounded American to me, and I had racked my befuddled brain quite desperately, but it rang no bells.
‘Can you describe his voice?’
‘Not really.’ The florist sounded bored. ‘Hang on – the red ones are three pound a stem, love.’ She came back on the line. ‘Kind of posh, I s’pose. Look, sorry, but I’m busy –’
‘If you remember anything else about him, can you please call me? It’s really important.’
‘Sure.’ I felt her shrug down the line. I knew damn well I’d never hear from her again.
As I stared mournfully at the phone and contemplated calling the police, not for the first time, Charlie stuck his head round the door and flung the
You’re Dumped
proposal on my desk with a sly wink. Leafing through it despondently, Joseph Blake ambled across my vision and I realised I still hadn’t broached his future with my boss. Right now, though, it could wait.
I watched the clock incessantly all afternoon, pretending to study the Christmas schedules until finally it was late enough to
get the hell out of there. Like most TV companies, Double-decker promoted the entirely masochistic idea that the later you stayed, the better you were at your job. Most of the girls looked incredibly diligent right now, beavering away at their computers; in reality they were probably buying dresses on Net-a-porter and updating their Facebook profiles, biding time.
At six I grabbed my coat, muttering something about a meeting, in truth desperate to open a bottle of wine with Bel. But in the deli on the South Bank, as I filled my basket with fresh tagliatelle and rosy tomatoes and fat white mozzarella, Bel rang.
‘I’m so sorry, Mag, but Hannah’s come out in some really odd rash. I’m taking her to A&E. Really sorry, babe.’
I stared sadly at my basket before dumping the lot. I strode out into the cold night air of the Embankment, the wind whipping around my face, my newly shorn neck feeling cold and exposed. I wrapped my woolly scarf tighter and tried not to feel sorry for myself. Everyone else looked like they were rushing, like they had somewhere interesting to go – everyone except me. The lights of the Jolly Sportsman on the corner twinkled enticingly, and I thrust my hand in my pocket to check what change I had. My fingers closed round something else – Seb’s card. I glanced at my watch. It wasn’t even seven. I still had plenty of time to get to Piccadilly if I fancied it. Fancied Seb. But first I slipped into the pub.
I was halfway through my first glass of wine when someone snuck up and grabbed my arm, spilling my drink all over my bag.
‘Maggie!’
‘For God’s sake, Fay!’ I nearly choked on my Merlot.
‘Shall I get one in?’ She gazed at me. ‘It’s never fun to drink on your own.’
‘Sometimes – sometimes it’s all right,’ I said stiffly.
‘Oh, Maggie, don’t be silly!’
‘Please, Fay. I’ve had a bit of a bad day. I just – I could really do with some time alone.’
‘I don’t believe you!’ She grinned at me. ‘Anyway, I brought this.’ She handed me an envelope.
I gritted my teeth. ‘If this is another photo of the bloody crash –’ I said, placing it unopened on the bar.
‘It’s not, I promise. Something
much
nicer,’ she giggled. She caught the barman’s eye instantly. ‘A spritzer please. And one for yourself.’ He was practically salivating as she slid the envelope towards me through all the sopping beer rings. ‘Go on.’
I peered inside nervously. A couple of baby photos gazed up at me, a solemn blue-eyed child with a mass of black ringlets, and a younger one, six months or thereabouts, with one tiny tooth. Then a child of about six in a Holly Hobbie-type hat, gazing adoringly at the camera, great violet eyes shining. A shiver went down my spine.
‘Do you know who they are?’
‘I could hazard a guess,’ I muttered, closing the envelope. ‘So –’
‘So, I just wanted you to see how alike we were as babies.’ She smiled happily.
I frowned. ‘How do you know?’
‘Because you had some photos at your dad’s. I saw them, remember?’
‘Fay,’ I stared down at the envelope, ‘I’m sorry, but this is really a bit weird –’
‘Why?’ She stared at me like it was me that was insane.
‘Because,’ I took a deep breath, ‘because we’re not even friends.’
‘There’s no need to be rude, Maggie.’ I’d never seen her pretty little face sullen before. ‘I just want us to
become
friends, that’s the point.’
‘Well, I don’t, to be really honest.’ It had to be said. ‘I’ve got plenty of friends already, thanks. And I’m sure you have too.’ Beating about the bush had got me precisely nowhere so far.
‘Fine.’ Her bottom lip quivered like a small child’s.
‘Fine.’ I steeled my stony heart and pushed the envelope back into her hand. ‘See you around.’ Then I relented a little. ‘Take care.’
Fay turned and flounced out of the pub.
In the end I didn’t ring Seb. Fortified by half a bottle of wine, and pushing thoughts of Fay out of my mind, I felt suddenly excited by the unknown. I could be single and spontaneous, I told myself, hurrying through fur-coated Christmas shoppers on Piccadilly, past the moss-green grandeur of Fortnum and Mason’s, fat chocolates stacked in mouth-watering mounds that glistened behind star-dusted windows. Being spontaneous was something positive, something to celebrate about losing Alex, I told myself, as the great flags of the Royal Academy shivered in the wind. If Seb looked pleased when he saw me, I’d stay. If not, I’d pretend I was just passing. I was just drunk enough to believe that I could be convincing.
But outside the BAFTA cinema I lost my nerve. As I watched the elite arrive, I realised with a sinking heart that I was horribly under-dressed, and suddenly my courage faded. I lingered under a shop canopy in the chilly wind and lit a cigarette, debating what to do, so cold my teeth were almost chattering, the wine that had warmed my core ebbing away.
A beautiful dark girl in a shimmery dress and pearls flung her arms around a very gay man in sealskin and air-kissed him passionately.
‘Alberto, baby!’
‘Darling! I am so excited. I hear you are fantastic.’
‘Silly!’ She simpered. ‘I’m so not.’
‘I’m sure you are,
mon ange
. You will light up the screen. I hear it is like Woody Allen at his best.’
‘God, well let’s hope it’s not at his worst!’
‘And your co-star, he is quite gorgeous,
non
?’ Seal-skin nudged the girl conspiratorially. ‘All that brooding darkness, that fabulous body.’
The girl went pink. The door swung shut behind them and their giggles faded. I took another desperate drag and wished I’d gone home to get changed. Into what, though? Yet another battered pair of jeans? Exhaling, I knew I couldn’t stay. I didn’t belong here.
Perfectly on cue, Seb stepped out of a black Mercedes that had just pulled up on the opposite side of the road. He hadn’t seen me yet. I held my breath, hovering – unable to decide –
‘Maggie!’
My blood ran as cold as the night around me. Fay was tripping lightly toward me, her long coat falling open to reveal the same green dress I’d worn to Bel and Johnno’s do. I was truly astounded.
‘Fancy seeing you here,’ she said, and she smiled – but she was cooler than she’d ever been before. ‘Have you come for the film?’
‘Umm, sort of.’ With considerable effort, I composed myself. ‘Have you?’
Over her shoulder, I watched Seb cross half of the busy lanes of Piccadilly, patting his jacket pockets, then turn back to the car, frowning. He disappeared behind a bus; I wished fervently that Fay would disappear too.
‘I was going to suggest we got seats together, but in the circumstances –’ She turned those huge eyes on me reproachfully.
I smiled feebly, but she was already through the door and pattering up the stairs as Seb strolled across the road again, clutching a phone and a fat book.
It was now or never. I took a deep breath and, chucking my cigarette away, stepped out of the shadows. ‘Sebastian.’
He turned on the second stair and a flicker of recognition crossed his face, followed by a huge grin. ‘Maggie Warren. What a lovely surprise!’
‘Oh, is it?’ This time my smile was truly sincere. ‘That’s nice.’
‘Yes, it is. I didn’t think you were coming, I must say. Why didn’t you ring me?’
‘I was – you know.’ I felt ridiculously nervous. ‘I was just passing.’
‘Really?’ He was courteous enough not to look disbelieving. His smart suit hung immaculately on his lean form, his sky-blue shirt complementing his olive skin perfectly.
A couple of braying Sloanes pushed between us with great self-importance, followed by a Kate Moss look-alike in sunglasses and a skirt that barely covered her pants, her bare legs so cold they were a mottled red, hissing something about standing-room only into a mobile phone. I caught Seb’s eye and we both burst out laughing.
‘You know what,’ he murmured thoughtfully, his hand finding mine.
I shivered, with cold or excitement I wasn’t sure. ‘What?’
‘I hate these occasions.’ Now his fingers gently circled my wrist.
‘Do you?’ I asked shyly. His touch was lovely and warm on my cold skin.
‘Shall we go and get some dinner instead?’
‘But – don’t you want to see yourself up there on the silver screen? I don’t want to ruin your big moment.’
He let go of me, pushing his hair out of his eyes, staring into the distance for a moment. ‘I hate it really. It makes me very uncomfortable actually, watching myself.’ He looked at me. ‘I’d much rather talk to you instead.’
‘Oh!’ I felt a small bubble of pleasure form deep inside. ‘Okay. Well, it’s entirely up to you.’
‘Hopefully the car’s still there.’ He grabbed my hand impulsively and swung me down the stairs. ‘The driver was meant to wait. Do you fancy some Thai?’
Food was absolutely my thing. I loved eating; liked cooking even more. I could drum up a meal fit for a king from just a few ingredients and no recipe, a gift I was proud to have inherited from my mother. I collected cookery books; read them in bed
for fun, treasured scrapbooks full of Gar’s old recipes for lamb casserole and Cornish fish-pie. My father had always said I should have cooked professionally; he thought I should have avoided the media entirely and concentrated on feeding bellies rather than brains. Feeding brains or rotting them was my current internal debate.
But tonight my usually reliable appetite had completely deserted me. I sat opposite Seb in the latest fashionably overbooked restaurant – where it was so dark I could hardly read the menu, and the maitre d’ was positively obsequious, calling Seb by his first name; where the waiters rushed forwards to pull out your chair before you even knew you wanted to stand; where most of the other diners were famous or certainly looked as if they’d like to be – and I found I could only drink champagne and grin foolishly. I watched Seb polish off his tom yam soup and green-curry-by-a-frilly-name with great relish while I just picked a bit at some very fat prawns and dropped my fork once or twice, oddly beset by nerves. There was a shiny baby grand piano wedged in behind the door, and every now and then a rather elegant blonde in a trouser suit came and played Gershwin songs. It was all very kitsch, and I loved it. And in between eating Seb asked me all about myself, which I hated, and I managed to steer the conversation towards him, although he was quite measured and discreet about his achievements.
‘What are you reading?’ I asked, nodding at the book he’d put on the seat beside him.
‘What?’ He licked his sticky fingers. ‘Oh, that. It’s just a film book. I’m a bit of an anorak about old movies. If you want a bit of trivia, I’m your man.’
‘Okay. Who played –’ My mind went blank. For some reason I could only think of Alex’s favourite film. ‘Who betrayed Harold Shand in
The Long Good Friday
?’
‘That’s easy. Derek Thompson, playing Jeff. He’s in
Casualty
now, actually. Good film,
The Long Good Friday
.’
The blonde came back, dark lipstick reapplied, and started up again. I recognised the tune immediately.
‘Maggie?’ Seb waved a hand in front of my face. ‘Hello? You’re a million miles away.’
‘Sorry,’ I was startled for a moment, ‘my mother used to play this song. I remember it from my childhood, I’m sure.’
‘Your mum?’ He looked at me intently.
I rolled my napkin up, then unrolled it again. ‘Yes.’ I didn’t want to appear rude. ‘Tell me about your family, why don’t you?’
‘There’s not much to tell really. My mother died recently.’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’
‘We were – it was just us two.’ I could tell he wasn’t keen to discuss it either. I changed the subject quickly.
Seb was making me laugh with stories about filming a trainer ad where the French director had kept screaming, ‘Dance, damn you, dance’ at the cast, and topping up my glass with the last of the Cristal, when my phone bleeped.
‘I’m sure I’ve seen that ad, you know,’ I said, ignoring it. Then it began to ring, stopped, and then almost immediately started again. I fished it out.
‘Sorry. I should have switched it off.’ Glancing down at the screen, I realised it was Alex. With a heavy feeling in my belly I remembered I hadn’t returned his earlier call to the office.
‘Answer it, why don’t you?’ Seb drained his own glass. ‘I don’t mind, really.’
‘It’s no one important.’ I rejected the call and ignored the text message as well.
‘So do you fancy coffee – or shall I get the bill?’
A cloud passed over the evening’s sun. I realised I didn’t want this to end – and I didn’t want to think about Alex either. ‘I’m not very good at coffee so late. It always keeps me awake.’
‘Is that such a bad thing?’ He had very straight teeth, I noticed, as he smiled at me, and my stomach lurched horribly; lurched with what I hated to admit was desire.