Читать книгу Remember My Name - Havana Adams - Страница 17

CHAPTER 7

Shit! Shit! Shit!

Talia sat stiff as a board, her spine straight as she waited in the empty office for her boss’s appearance. Though he had asked to see her, Rick himself had yet to turn up and Talia stared stiffly around his office, her eyes darting at the papers and notes pinned up on the corkboard that lined the walls on either side of the room. As her eyes ran down the list that marked out when the show’s cast had holidays booked and the various shooting schedules, Talia could sense that there was trouble on the horizon. She could feel it coming, though for now at least she could not say for sure what form the attack would take. She might still be relatively new, had only been in the TV industry for five years, but she’d seen too much, witnessed too many long knives in action not to anticipate that something rotten lay in store for her. A painful knot formed in her stomach, as it did during moments of tension and stress, when suddenly the door was wrenched open and Talia turned to see Rick enter the room, followed closely by Damian Sanderson, the show’s executive producer. Talia’s stomach dropped further. Something had to be seriously amiss to rouse Damian to come down from his tower.

The general sense of foreboding that had dogged her all day now crystallised into something more certain. As she met Damian’s eyes, she knew with an instinctive sense of self-preservation that somehow, she was fucked. Damian strode casually across the room and Talia watched him fold his ridiculously tall frame into Rick’s chair behind the desk. Rick himself hovered uncertainly as he tried to figure out where to place himself in his own office. Rick finally dropped into a soft sofa, which placed him several inches below Damian and Talia watched silently as Damian pushed his jaw-length hair behind his ears. He stared at her, as though he was the interrogator trying to psyche out the perp in some police procedural show that was playing out only in his imagination.

Talia knew that something had gone wrong and somehow she was now in the line of fire but with the fear came an unexpected, uncharacteristic spark of determination; she would not go down quietly. She had never liked Damian and she’d sensed that the feeling was mutual. She hated the way he cultivated a sense of avuncular detachment, the way he strode through the department like some benign earth father constantly talking about his yoga sessions, his three children at prep school, his yummy mummy wife. Even as he continued to stare at her in silence stroking his ridiculous stubble, Talia was determined that she would not be the one to break this silence.

Finally Rick spoke. “Well Talia…”

Immediately Damian cut him off. Even though she was the one caught in the crosshairs, Talia felt a moment of sympathy for Rick. He was the backbone of the production team, he was the one who lived and breathed the show, but he simply hadn’t played the game as well as the slimy Damian. Now he found himself saddled with a boss who threw orders about and made demands but who had no idea about what production entailed or the ramifications and consequences of the pieces he moved about on the board in his tower office.

“Talia…” Damian said as he leaned back in the chair. He was enjoying himself. He let her name hang in the air and then he continued. “Frankly,” he said, “you’re in something of a predicament, aren’t you?” Talia let the breath that she had been holding escape her and suddenly a face flashed into her mind. Chris Priestly, her predecessor, who one day had simply not returned to work. His desk had been cleared and Chris was gone, never to be seen or heard from again. That was how it worked in television; like the Mafia, once you were out, you were out. You disappeared into the ether, into some unmarked grave never to be spoken of again. Randomly months later, during an impromptu break to visit her mother, Talia had run into him in a service station outside of London. He’d been gaunt, with a look in his eyes that had stayed with Talia, the look of a man who had given all that he had, the look of a broken man.

“The thing is,” Chris had said to Talia, “you’ve got to be in the driving seat. TV is just one big appetite, it will take and take and take, it never says when and it’s never satisfied. But at least if you’re going to crash and burn, make sure you’re in the driving seat, make sure that you and only you drive yourself off the cliff.” He shook his head with a bitter smile and Talia had watched him climb back into a battered Volkswagen before driving away. She’d watched him go and wondered what had happened to his BMW, which had been his pride and joy when he’d worked on the show. She hadn’t thought about that chance meeting in over a year but now his words raced back into her mind.

“A predicament?” She pushed the words out through dry, parched lips. “How do you mean?” She watched as a small sneer spread across Damian’s face.

“You’ve seen the photos, haven’t you?”

Talia nodded.

“Of course. But what has that to do with me?” Talia tried for directness even as something inside her died. So this was what Dom had been talking about, what he had tried to warn her about.

“Don’t play about, Talia, we know everything.” Talia watched Damian sit back with a satisfied sneer. She’d never bought into Damian’s act and the fact that she’d once caught him exiting Tamara’s dressing room whilst doing up his fly had cemented their mutual dislike. For all his talk about his kids and his yoga-practising wife, Damian wasn’t above fooling around with the cast. Talia turned to Rick.

“What’s going on, Rick?” Talia watched as Rick shook his head, a mix of confusion and anger on his face. Gruffly he spoke, barely meeting her eyes.

“It doesn’t look good, Tal.” He gestured at the collection of compromising newspaper front pages. “Big bosses are going mad, saying we have to suspend Angelina, maybe even sack her.”

“What’s that got to do with me?” Talia repeated.

“Don’t pretend to care now.” Damian spat the words out with irritation. “We know that the photos were leaked by you – the emails were sent from your email. You weren’t even smart enough to cover your tracks properly.”

“What?” The word exploded from Talia as Damian threw down a sheaf of papers on the table. She glanced down at them but her mind was a whirr of activity. She barely took in the text on the printed sheets of paper as slowly it all fell into place. Between Dom and Tamara, she’d been played. She looked up at the smug look that played on Damian’s face; perhaps he had also been in on it. Slowly the scale of the shitstorm she was in became apparent to her. “I’ve been set up.” Even to her it sounded weak and she watched the disdain on Damian’s face and the look of confusion on Rick’s. “Rick, I work harder than anyone, you know that. Why would I do this?” But she wasn’t winning him over, even in her daze she could see that.

“You’re out of here, get your things and get out. HR will ring you to sort out the finer details.” There was a note of triumph in Damian’s voice as he barked the words across the table at her. Talia sat stunned even as Damian rose, his job done. “For the sake of morale we’ll keep this under wraps, but you’re mud in this industry, don’t forget it.” And with that he strolled out. Talia sat frozen in the seat and then she heard a movement and turned to see that Rick too had stood up to move round to reclaim his seat behind the desk.

“I didn’t do this, you know that, you know me.” But all she saw reflected in Rick’s eyes was doubt and fear. He’d championed her, helped push her up the ranks and now he was afraid that her fuck-up might ricochet back on him and bring him down. Rick wasn’t going to go out on a limb for her.

“I need your key fob.” In a fog, Talia reached up and pulled off the security fob and ID card which hung around her neck. There was a knock at the door and Talia turned as two men from security entered the room. Men that she’d greeted every morning as she entered the studio. Their eyes were averted and they wouldn’t meet her gaze.

“You’ll be escorted off the premises and your personal things will be posted to you.” Talia felt a roar in her head, like the sound of a wounded animal dying as everything she had worked for was obliterated by the storm that she now found herself unwittingly at the centre of.

If it were a movie, the scene would have played out in slow motion. In the days that would follow, Talia would not remember the walk down to the main exit, she would not remember who had met her eyes and who averted their gaze. She didn’t remember what Wayne on security with the kind eyes had said to her as she’d stepped off the premises. Those moments after she was sacked were a blank. What she remembered was this – sitting on the train with only her battered handbag on her lap. The script bag, which she always carried with her had been left behind, she would not need it now. There was something almost surreal about the empty train and the sunshine that warmed the carriage in which she sat. Talia was unused to being out so early in the middle of the day. Usually she’d still have another four maybe five hours at her desk. She knew that by now passwords would be being changed, storyline rewrites would be beginning and even with the embargo, slowly the news would be trickling out that she was gone. Tomorrow, it would be confirmed and like Chris who had gone before her, stories and half-truths would grow and settle around her name to explain her mysterious disappearance. But what with the Angelina scandal on the cover of the papers and her sudden departure, it would not be long before someone put the rest of the story together. Talia sat in silence as a headache pounded through her head shooting needles of pain around her temples. On autopilot she climbed off the train at her stop, noticing how empty the station was. It was the middle of the afternoon, people were at work; she should be at work. A loud sob rose in her throat but she held it back and composed herself as she tapped her ticket on the reader and exited the station.

Without thought Talia headed towards Hampstead Heath, a long diversion through the park, which she rarely allowed herself to enjoy. The sunny day had brought the yummy mummies out in force and, barely aware, Talia slipped her shoes off and sat on the grass watching as super-slim women with Pilates-toned arms laughed and talked and rocked prams or kept one eye on toddlers running around. Talia put her head in her hands, as once again tears threatened. This morning her world had been on track and now in the space of hours, it had all fallen apart. For a moment she reached into her bag for her mobile phone and then stopped, remembering that her phone had been on her desk, it would be mailed to her. Perhaps, she thought, it was just as well. She thought briefly of calling Simone or Helena but dismissed the thought quickly; she wasn’t yet ready to talk to anyone. Anything she said would surely end with her sobbing on Hampstead Heath. Talia started as she felt the cold sprinkle of water on her bare feet, followed by tinkling, childish giggles. She turned to see a small girl watching her with curious eyes, a small water pistol in her hand.

“Where’s your baby?” the little girl asked and for a moment Talia’s brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of the child’s babyish speech and then she glanced around, her forehead clearing as she realised the reason for the child’s question and understood. All around her, apart from the occasional jogger, were young mums and their babies. With a small stiff smile, Talia rose to her feet; she didn’t belong here. She slipped her shoes back on and continued the walk towards the flat. As she made her way down the high street, her eyes were caught by something and her quick footsteps slowed to a dead halt. She stopped outside a small exclusive boutique staring at their window display. There in the window was the Mulberry handbag, the one that she would have been buying for herself this weekend. Now the tears came hard and fast, a tide that could not be stemmed. Pride and embarrassment were cast aside and Talia sobbed for the bag that she wouldn’t now buy with the fruits of her promotion. She cried for the script commission that was gone. She cried for the job that she loved and the sacrifices she had made as she finally realised that Damian was right, no one would ever employ her again. Like Chris, she was dead to the world of TV. Her career was over and now all she had left was some unmarked grave to crawl into.

Five hours later, Talia woke to the sound of pounding on her door. For a moment, confusion reigned – how could she feel so bad and where was she? She felt a burst of nausea and suddenly she was violently sick, turning only just in time so that the vomit was directed into the bucket that had been placed by her bed. The knocking had stopped and slowly the door opened and Nina entered. The look of sympathy that was etched on her face immediately brought it all back to Talia and in a flash, the crushing well of hurt was back. She remembered arriving home, having cried herself hoarse outside of the boutique in Hampstead. After telling Nina the story she’d drunk an entire bottle of Baileys that she’d found in the fridge.

“Are you OK?” Concern was etched onto Nina’s face as she moved into the room, coming to crouch down next to Talia’s bed. Nina handed her a tall glass of water, which Talia gratefully sipped from as she sat up slowly in bed.

“I said I didn’t want to be woken ever again,” she muttered as she set the glass down.

“Look, Helena called, something’s happened.” At Nina’s words Talia sat up straighter, the fog clearing quickly from her brain.

“What’s wrong?” Talia demanded, her own troubles momentarily forgotten as her thoughts turned to her best friend. “Is she OK?” Nina shook her head slowly.

“You’d better call her.”

With a sick sense of worry, Talia took the mobile phone that Nina was holding out to her. As she turned to dial the number, she caught a glimpse of herself in a small mirror and she grimaced. Her face seemed hollow, her eyes dark pools in her face and she had dark circles under her eyes. This morning, she’d had everything to play for and now it seemed that the old phrase was true: it never rained but it poured.