‘My mother’s idea. It was great. We took the Orient Express as far as we could – her idea again – then trained across Europe. I got to see some amazing places.’
Cherry, who had only been abroad once, to Australia, was taken with the idea of a long sojourn through Europe’s best cities, but they didn’t have time to talk any more, as the orchestra was warming up again, so they rearranged themselves to face the stage. Cherry sat with her arms around her knees and watched avidly, wondering how long it would take to learn to play an instrument at such a level and if she might start learning. There were probably lessons online. After a while, Daniel put his arm loosely around her right thigh and she felt a thrill at the possessiveness, this first touch of its kind. Then she leaned against him and they exchanged small, intimate smiles every so often.
‘It seems early,’ said Daniel, as they walked back across the park after the concert had finished.
It was still light, the evening was long and inviting, and both had their minds on what was going to happen next. Neither wanted to go home yet.
‘Do you fancy a drink?’ asked Cherry, looking dubiously at the packed trendy bars, people spilling out onto the streets.
‘We’re a bit laden,’ said Daniel, indicating the picnicware.
‘You want to take that back?’
‘And have my mum insist on meeting you?’ He smiled at her. ‘As much as I’d like that, she’ll have to wait.’
Cherry’s heart jumped with delight. Daniel was already thinking about introducing her to his mother. She thought about it and decided that they already had another date in the bag and if they woke up together, there was the very strong possibility they’d spend all of tomorrow together too. She could make him wait until he moved into the apartment he’d just had an offer accepted on, but that was still a few weeks away. She felt that was too long.
‘I’ve got a nice bottle of Sancerre in the fridge.’
He smiled. ‘Thank God one of us has got their own place.’
He made it sound as if her situation were preferable, even though he was in the multimillion-pound house. When he’d told her where he lived, she’d known from being at the estate agency how much it was worth, and then she’d Google Earthed it, homing in to see as much detail as possible until the picture had blurred.
They smiled at each other, each knowing the path they’d just taken. He took her hand, and held it all the way to the Tube, just like they were a couple.
FIVE
Monday 9 June
Laura sat in the large reception area at ITV Towers, grateful for the air-conditioning. She’d come a long way since she’d worked there in her early twenties as a script editor in the drama department. It was during that time that Howard had swept her off her feet and she’d given it all up when Rose, then Daniel had arrived. It was only when Daniel reached his teens that she suddenly found she had time on her hands and so had tentatively tested the commissioning waters with an idea for a new drama she had. Some of her old contemporaries were now running the drama departments at the channels, and after a few ‘remember me?’ emails (the industry was incestuously small), she got those first important meetings, then sold the idea. Seven years later and she had a small but thriving company and was, she thought, respected in the industry. Admittedly the BAFTA win had been some years ago now, but everyone knew how arbitrary and how fashion-dependent these things were; at the moment, a female comedienne who’d also branched out into drama was top of everyone’s wish list and every proposal with her name on got greenlit and, it was hoped, went on to win prizes. In two years’ time, it would be someone else.
She checked her iPhone for messages. Daniel had not come home on Saturday night, as she’d suspected, but as Sunday had stretched on, she’d become ever more aware of his continuing absence. She’d made him lunch but had to put it in the fridge, and then she’d sort of drifted around the house waiting for him to return, looking forward to seeing him and getting more and more restless the later it became. By five o’clock it suddenly occurred to her that he might not come back that night either and she’d laughed at herself and at the sensation she had of being stood up. She gave herself a stern talking-to and went to bed having not seen either of her immediate family all day, as Howard had gone to golf.
Her name was called and she stood as the PA to the commissioning editor of drama accompanied her in the lift to the eighth floor, where she sat in a small meeting room with Hercule Poirot on the window.
‘Laura!’ cried Alison as if she were welcoming a long-lost friend. They kissed each other on each cheek. Alison always spoke in inflated tones of optimism and energy, and Laura generally found it best to respond in kind.
‘How’ve you been?’ gushed Alison, taking a seat on one of the plastic chairs. Laura sat opposite.
‘Good!’
‘Well, we’re thrilled with ep one.’ Alison littered her sentences with extravagant adjectives: ‘superb’, ‘extraordinary’, ‘fantastic’ were often to be found, prowling around like ninjas waiting to attack in a showy display of power.
Laura gave an inner sigh of relief, but it was a bittersweet pill. She’d made the last-minute changes to the final scene as Alison had ‘suggested’, after having her argument that the lovers wouldn’t have left without saying goodbye to the jilted best friend swept aside in Alison’s trademark passive-aggressive way.
‘I don’t know, I just don’t believe it, do you?’ she’d said, and Laura had inwardly thought, Yes, I do, as did you, presumably, when you read the script six months ago. She’d tried to persuade Alison otherwise but had hit a brick wall and she’d known that if she wanted a second series, or any other commission with ITV in the near future, she’d have to not be ‘difficult’ and just do as she was asked. The director, naturally upset at the last-minute major change to his work, was comforted with the promise of two episodes on the hoped-for next series.
‘The ending really works for me now. I saw it this morning and I was . . .’ Alison clutched her bosom in theatrical agony. The young PA silently brought in two cups of tea and left them on the glass table before leaving again. Laura said, ‘Thank you,’ while Alison pulled a face that threatened to break into tears.
‘I’m glad it works for you.’ She knew, as did everyone in the business, that Alison badly needed a hit. Her recent run of new dramas had failed to make the expected viewing figures, and when this happened, people got fidgety. Nobody in TV liked to be around failure, and the finger of blame was already starting to seek out a victim. Alison had a particular talent for dodging its trajectory, but even she was arming herself with reinforcements, and her ego, being what it was, thought that she had just saved a good drama and turned it into a mind-blowing one.