After Daniel was born, when she really did have a baby, she began to have black thoughts – visions and panicked ‘what if?’s that would wrestle their way into her head, leaving her terrified and vulnerable until she could gather herself enough to shake her head and force them out. She’d be pushing him down the street in the pram and a car would pass and she’d suddenly see nothing but its wheel and imagine Daniel whipped beneath it, his head crushed and mangled under the metal. She’d be in the shower and see him falling from an open window that she’d mistakenly left open, see his tiny body lying inert on the paving below. A knife in the kitchen would become a gruesome blade that she would put out of sight even though he was happily cooing in his bouncy chair. Worst, she would hear on the news about a young child who’d been snatched and she would plummet into nightmarish visions of him calling for her, screaming out, confused as to why she didn’t come and finally broken when he realized she wasn’t ever coming for him; she would start to hyperventilate and have to get up, walk around the room to expel the images. They had been dark hours, nights, months, but the fear had gradually lessened as the years passed, although it never disappeared completely. If he was late home from school – or later, when he was at uni, and she heard of a car crash on the M11 – her imagination would start breeding ideas, one horrific thought morphing into another at rapid speed, until she forcibly stopped them, telling herself he had just got talking to some friends (which he had) or hadn’t been driving to or from Cambridge on the day of the accident (which he hadn’t).
A movement in front of her made her look up and she saw Alison and Sean, the drama powers from ITV, had arrived at La Galette, the restaurant they’d picked for lunch. It was in Upper Ground, not far from their HQ, but still they were nearly fifteen minutes late. Alison’s PA had called to offer a girlish apology – ‘They’re so sorry!’ – and had managed to make it sound anything but.
Sean came in first. With arms outstretched he took her hands as she stood. ‘Laura, we’re so sorry. Got held up with Helen at the last minute.’
Helen was the controller of ITV, and the rumours were she was fond of summoning people to her office in a very headmistressy way, something that won her no favours among her staff.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Laura affably. She’d met Sean a couple of times before and liked him, felt he had a nose for a good script and wasn’t afraid of speaking his mind.
‘We only managed to get away by saying we had to see you,’ said Alison. Laura was sure that Helen didn’t give a flying fig whether or not they had a lunch date with an independent producer and the false bolstering of her ego made her slightly nervous – as if she shouldn’t trust anything Alison said. As well she shouldn’t, thought Laura wryly. Nothing had changed there.
As they took their seats, she wondered what had briefly unsettled her, and it wasn’t Alison’s throwaway flattery – it took more than that to throw her off balance – it was this uncertainty with Cherry. She had to put it out of her mind for the next hour or so: this lunch could be pivotal to the future of her company.
Sean looked at her through his square, dark-rimmed glasses. ‘Thank you so much for coming, Laura, and thank you for Pillow Fight. I’ve seen two episodes now and I love them.’
Laura said she was glad, while Alison sat with a magisterial smile as if she were the one behind it all and without her, Laura or the series wouldn’t be what they were.
‘Yes, we’re really chuffed,’ he beamed. Sean was younger than Alison and liked to speak on a more informal level; he worked in television because it was ‘fun’.
‘Has Helen seen it?’ asked Laura.
‘Not yet. It’s in her schedule for next week. But we think, well, it’s obviously still too early to say for sure, but we’ve got great hopes for it.’
He meant ratings, Laura knew. They wanted a big hit.
‘And Sasha is amazing. She’s going to be a big star when this comes out. Like I say, we’ll have to wait on Helen and the first couple of weeks’ overnights, but Alison and I would like to see a second series.’
Laura smiled. This was great news indeed. ‘That would be fantastic.’
‘Alison says you might have a couple of other things to talk to us about?’
She did. The first one was the private school. Laura had sent an abridged version of the writer’s treatment to them ahead of the lunch. As she launched into the pitch, she watched their pleasant faces remain static and knew they weren’t biting.
‘We like it . . .’ said Sean, ‘like it a lot. It’s just we have something very similar already in development.’
It was the kiss of death. Laura left the fully worked-up treatment, which she and the writer had worked so hard on, in her bag. That was the nature of the business: something you got excited about and spent a lot of money and hours of time on could be quashed with one idle sentence. It felt more of a blow than usual, but she had to move on. There was also a book adaptation that had piqued the interest of a British star who was currently earning ten times what she could in the UK on an HBO series but who was, Laura knew, desperate to get back to the UK as she missed her family so much. They remained lukewarm over that one too, citing that their core audience probably wouldn’t identify with the romantic novel as much as perhaps a BBC one would.
‘It feels a bit gloomy,’ said Sean. ‘What we loved about Pillow Fight was the suspense, the way the lead character tricked her best friend and ended up getting her man.’
Alison was nodding along in agreement, and then they were both looking at her expectantly. She had one last idea up her sleeve. It was a crime drama, and as one or two of those on ITV felt they were nearing their sell-by date, there could be an appetite for a replacement. This one Laura liked, as the lead character was a formidable lady detective who had come out of retirement to avoid being saddled with her grandchildren while her daughter went (out of necessity) to work. She’d rather help pay for a childminder than have to do it herself. To her surprise, they liked it and they spent the next half an hour batting around some story details and who might make a good lead.
‘Can you get us a treatment?’ said Sean. ‘I think this one could really go somewhere.’
Laura said she could, and lunch continued pleasurably amid various intrusive texts and calls.
She arrived home to find a rucksack in the hall and had barely removed her jacket before Daniel came through and swept her up in a hug.
‘You’re home!’ she said, delighted.
‘So are you. Just in time for a glass of Chablis and some quiche and salad. I’ve made dinner.’
She ruffled his hair and followed the delicious smells coming from the kitchen, opened the oven door and was blasted with heat. Inside was a large mushroom quiche. ‘You made this?’
‘Hmm.’
‘Fibber. It looks suspiciously like it’s from Vincent’s.’
‘OK, rumbled. It survived the flight well, eh?’
They compared tans and news on Izzy and Brigitte as they set the table and served up dinner.
‘So how was the rest of your trip?’ asked Laura. ‘Did you get much studying done?’
‘Yep. Loads, in fact.’ He smiled. ‘I think it picked up once Cherry left. Although we did seem to spend quite a bit of time Skyping.’ He suddenly lit up as if he’d just realized something. ‘We never seem to run out of things to say to each other.’
He was completely in love with her, Laura thought, trying to keep the smile in place while her heart stuttered in dismay.
‘That’s nice.’
He looked at her quizzically and she knew the response had been inadequate.
‘She’s a great girl . . .’
‘But . . . ?’ he prompted, eyes sharp.
‘It’s just . . . you’ve only recently met.’
‘And . . . ?’ he prompted again, and this time his tone had an edge of defensiveness.
Now was her chance. Should she say something? Dare she? How could she not?
‘I’ve just noticed . . . she’s someone who . . . You’ve helped her quite a bit since you’ve been dating.’ She felt herself begin to blush. God, this was a hideous insinuation.
‘Helped her?’
‘Financially.’
His face seemed to stall in an expression of incredulity.
‘Whoa, whoa, are you trying to tell me you think she’s some sort of . . . gold-digger?’
The blush flooded her face.
‘Seriously?’