The Go-To Girl Page 6

  Bloody hell. Enough of sisterhood and solidarity. I hate all of them. And I hope that Rob spends all day long spitting in Sharon’s coffee.

  ‘Anna?’ Kitty is talking to me. ‘Did you come across anything yet?’

  I think of Charles Dawson’s card in my pocket.

  ‘Might have done,’ I say morosely.

  ‘Well, get to it,’ Kitty says intently. ‘Now Mike knows, everybody will. There’s no time to waste! He could be here tomorrow.’

  ‘Eli Roth is coming here?’ John asks.

  ‘Anytime,’ Kitty says. ‘So let’s get to it. Our franchise is out there, people!’

  For the record, even though she’s not strictly pretty, I also hate Kitty.

  * * *

  ‘Hello? Is that Lady Cartwright?’

  ‘No,’ says a voice. Pure Albert Square. ‘Her ladyship ain’t in. Take a message?’

  ‘I’m not actually looking for her,’ I say. ‘I’m trying to get in touch with her nanny, Trish Evans.’

  ‘This is her, innit?’ says Trish, her tones as soothing as a cheese-grater scraped across a blackboard. ‘What do you want?’

  This is so obviously a wild goose chase that I’m about to hang up.

  ‘Are you from Nice Nannies?’ Trish continues. ‘Because I already told you I ain’t switching again. They offered me another four grand to stay. And my own car. Besides, I’m tired of moving.’

  ‘Not Nice Nannies as such,’ I tell her.

  ‘Or Mother’s Help?’ she asks, suspiciously.

  ‘I’m not trying to poach you as a nanny,’ I say. ‘Though I hear it’s a cut-throat world.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it,’ she says darkly.

  ‘I met Lady Cartwright’s brother the other day.’

  ‘Prick,’ she says, loudly and clearly. I can’t help wondering where exactly the little Cartwrights are right now.

  ‘Well, he recommended you as a writer,’ I lie.

  ‘Did he? Not like him. Thinks he’s Charles Dickens.’ She snorts. ‘What did he say, then?’

  ‘Only that you were writing a movie and I thought maybe we could meet for coffee.’

  ‘Are you a serial killer?’ she asks suddenly.

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘Well, how do I know?’

  ‘You could ask Charles.’

  She treats this response with the contempt it deserves.

  ‘Look,’ I say desperately, ‘I would just like to meet up with you for coffee in a public place. Absolutely no knives or acid baths. My name’s Anna, Anna Brown, and I work for a production company. Looking for good scripts.’

  ‘All right,’ she concedes. ‘I got lunch at one but you’ll have to come here. I don’t have time to muck about on the tube and that.’

  ‘Give me the address,’ I tell her. Well, it’s easy enough – Lady C lives in Albany, Piccadilly. Just round the corner from me. And a million miles away.

  * * *

  This is totally futile.

  I’m standing here talking to a snooty porter at the entrance of London’s absolute grandest rental address (cars in front – Bentleys, Rolls-Royces, and one Lamborghini the others probably look down on as far too nouveau), trying to feel more than two feet high, and absolutely sure I’m wasting my lunch hour.

  On the other hand, it gets me out of the office.

  I need that.

  I can’t sit still for one more minute listening to John bitch about Mike, or Kitty screaming at her secretary just to have someone to bully. And most of all I can’t sit there thinking about pretty Sharon and her totally undeserved promotion that I should have got bloody months ago. So maybe it’s worth listening to this doorman telling me that if 7F doesn’t answer soon he’s going to have to ask me to leave the property as I can’t ‘loiter’. I can always go to a coffee shop here and sit and stew in my own bitterness. Or, I could just take the rest of the day off, go home and stew in my own bitterness there. What an enticing prospect!

  ‘Look, miss, you’ll have to – oh. Yes? Hello? Miss Evans? Yes, there’s a young … lady waiting downstairs for you…’

  He hangs up, clearly surprised that I am indeed expected.

  ‘She’ll be right down, madam,’ he says.

  And indeed she is, one minute later. I’m sure she’s an absolute favourite with the staff here. She comes racing down the hall, her footsteps clattering loudly on the glorious old flagstones.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ she half shouts. ‘I couldn’t get the little bastards to sit still long enough for me to answer the bloody phone. Wotcher! You all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say through clenched teeth.

  She extends a hand. ‘I’m Trish. There’s a coffee place down the street, Cook’s got the little ones while I’m on my break.’

  I shake, gloomily. Just my luck!

  Trish is absolutely, cast-iron, triple-certified gorgeous. Let’s run though the list, shall we? Long blond hair, bleached. Legs that would do credit to an Arabian racehorse. Smooth, pearly skin with a natural rosy bloom on high cheekbones that will ensure she’ll look great at sixty. Big green eyes with thick, dark lashes. A full, pouty mouth. If Kate Moss were just a touch more upholstered, and a blonde, she might look a bit like Trish.

  I want to cry off right here and now. No way Barbie here has written anything remotely interesting.

  ‘I bet you’re fucking glad to get out of the office, eh?’ she asks with a disarming smile. ‘When I worked as a temp I couldn’t stand it. Wanna fag?’

  ‘Um, no thanks.’ I look around for a cafe, and there’s Costa Coffee, rising to greet me like an angel of caffeinated mercy. ‘We’ll just go for a quick coffee and you can tell me all about your writing. I can’t promise anything, though,’ I hasten to add. ‘It’s really just to get to know you.’

  ‘You don’t need to know me,’ she says. ‘You just need to read my script, ‘cause it’s great.’

  I smile thinly. ‘I’m sure it is.’

  She grins back at me. ‘Wow! I can’t believe I’m really talking to you. I’m so lucky!’

  We sit down at Costa Coffee and order. I get a cappuccino and she gets a plain black decaf.

  ‘Watching your weight, I suppose,’ I say glumly.

  ‘I have to,’ she says. ‘Girl like me. Not much going for me. Dropped out before university. Bunch of crappy jobs, waitressing and temping, then I found being a nanny. That pays well, but I hate it,’ she says passionately. ‘So I wanna get married. Old fashioned, right?’ she asks, self-deprecatingly. ‘But it’s the only chance I got.’

  ‘Why do you hate being a nanny?’ I ask. ‘If it really pays well?’

  ‘It does,’ she says, ‘but they treat you like a maid. And make you give the kids all this vile stuff they don’t want to eat. Macrobiotic. More like macro old bollocks.’

  I laugh. She’s actually not that bad. For a fox.

  ‘Lady C don’t care about them kids,’ she says. ‘Breaks your heart, watching them try to please her. Drawing little pictures and she just throws them out and they find them and start crying. I have them framed and say she did it.’

  I grin. ‘So you want to marry for money?’

  ‘Can’t afford a flat,’ she says. ‘Can’t afford anything. You have to be practical, don’t you?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll read my script and like it and offer me a million pounds,’ she says hopefully. ‘Then I wouldn’t have to.’

  ‘Would you stop dieting?’

  ‘Just watch me,’ she says. ‘I could murder a McDonald’s.’

  I haven’t had a McDonald’s in months. My mouth starts watering. ‘Oh, don’t.’

  ‘Big juicy burger and fries with three packets of ketchup,’ she says temptingly.

  ‘Um. You’re not very likely to get a million pounds. You’re not all that likely to get any pounds,’ I say, and watch her face fall.

  ‘Oh well.’ She shrugs. ‘Knew it was too good to be true, didn’t I?’

  ‘So
rry if I gave you the wrong impression,’ I say, and to my surprise I am. I actually like her. ‘I’m just looking for projects right now. I’m looking all over. For what it’s worth, I’d like to read yours, but I should tell you, we reject almost every script we read.’

  ‘Why’s that, then?’ she asks. Genuinely curious.

  ‘Because they’re crap.’

  ‘Oh. Fair enough. Well, I’ll be OK then because mine’s not crap,’ she says, reaching into her bag and pulling it out. She’s done it up properly, good formatting, holes punched in the right places.

  She’s a fun girl and I don’t want her to be disappointed.

  ‘I just think you need to know that everybody believes their script is great,’ I tell her, ‘and almost everybody’s wrong so please don’t be too upset if it’s not right for us. It might be right for somebody else…’

  ‘Look at you,’ she says, grinning away. ‘Trying to let me down gently and that. I’m not thick, honestly. I was just lazy in school. If you don’t like it, no harm done, right? It’s hard to even get scripts to readers.’

  ‘If I don’t like it,’ I say, because I know I won’t, ‘I’m going to call you and give you some pointers to help you with your next one. OK?’

  ‘All right,’ she agrees. ‘Is there any money in script reading?’

  ‘No. Fuck all.’

  ‘Always the way, innit?’ She sighs. ‘The boring jobs pay the most, that’s why there are so many lawyers.’

  * * *

  Amazingly enough I am in a slightly better mood when I get back to my desk. She was a funny girl. She can’t help being stunningly beautiful. She would be, wouldn’t she?

  I put Trish’s script to one side and make some phone calls, trying to sound very authoritarian.

  ‘Yes, Kitty wants your best stuff. Right away. And nothing like that one you sent me last week about the two circus midgets.’

  ‘Hi. Yes, I heard you have the galleys of Permanent in. Any chance you could slip them to us? Kitty’s office, care of Anna Brown…’

  I don’t know if it’ll work but at least it makes me feel useful. I get a few good responses to the urgency in my voice. When Kitty passes me, she gives me a thumbs up. To my astonishment, she even returns a minute later with a coffee for me.

  ‘Good work,’ she hisses, shooting a look of loathing over at Mike’s office. ‘Keep it up.’

  I drink the coffee and feel all jittery. Two shots of caffeine in two hours and I’m looking for some chewing gum to stop my teeth grinding, but never mind. It helps the nervous energy. And you need it, to try and get your hands on something good.

  I shoot a look across the hall at John. He’s sitting crouched in his cubicle, hand covering his face, so I can’t see what he’s saying in those low, fast tones. Like I care. John thinks he’s Jerry McGuire now. Mr Superagent.

  ‘What’s this?’

  I look up to see Sharon standing by my desk, flicking through Trish’s script.

  ‘Mother of the Bride?’ she asks. ‘By Trish Evans. When did this come in?’

  I snatch it back from her. ‘That’s mine.’

  Sharon extends one hand, her nails glittering with frosted silver polish. ‘Actually, it belongs to the company,’ she says. ‘Hand it over.’

  I take it and lock it in my bottom drawer. Sharon’s radiant cheeks redden. She scowls.

  ‘I am a development executive now,’ Sharon says. ‘I’m senior.’

  ‘I’m reading this for Kitty,’ I say. ‘Or do I report to you now? Because I haven’t got that memo yet.’

  Sharon tosses her curls. ‘Maybe I’ll call Personnel and see if I can arrange it,’ she threatens. I take a gulp of coffee.

  ‘Oh, will you?’ asks Kitty in icy tones. She has seen this from her office and snuck up behind Sharon, walking as Lightly and predatorily as a cat.

  Sharon jumps out of her skin. ‘Oh, hi, Kitty.’ She recovers, then looks at Kitty defiantly. ‘Maybe you can help me convince Anna that all script submissions are to the agency, and not just to Anna Brown.’

  ‘Or Kitty Simpson?’ Kitty asks with quiet menace.

  Gosh, this is great. It’s just like one of those BBC2 nature shows where the young lion squares off against the old lion.

  ‘Exactly,’ Sharon agrees, unfazed. ‘We work as a team, we all need to share our leads.’

  This is so ridiculous that I give a derisory snort, but unfortunately coffee spurts out of my nose and ruins the effect. Winning Productions is not a ‘team’. It is a hothouse of fear and loathing. And greed.

  ‘That’s an excellent idea,’ Kitty says smoothly. ‘Why don’t you run back to Mike’s office, gather up copies of everything he’s working on and deliver them all to me. Then we’ll send you a copy of Anna’s discovery.’ She rests a proprietary bony hand on my plump shoulder; I can see her huge canary diamond flashing and glittering with my peripheral vision.

  Sharon searches in vain for a good response.

  ‘I can’t take Mike’s things,’ she says. ‘But I can send you everything I’ve come up with.’

  ‘No thanks,’ says Kitty immediately. ‘I don’t need any tips on nail-painting or eyeshadow application.’

  Sharon flounces off, but not before muttering, ‘Oh yes you do,’ just loud enough so the whole office can hear it.

  ‘What is that you’ve got?’ demands Kitty, as soon as her tight little butt has minced out of sight. ‘Anything good?’

  ‘Doubt it,’ I say. ‘First try by someone’s nanny.’

  ‘Oh. Well. Don’t give it to her anyway. And don’t just sit there, Anna. Start dialling. Eli Roth will be here tomorrow.’

  * * *

  I finally make it home, weighed down with a huge overnight read. All I want is to go down to the offie and pick up a bottle of wine. Or possibly a couple of those Mixed Doubles instead. Three. Or four. And a Snowflake. And then nuke one of my Marks and Spencer ready meals. And have a hot bath with some Matey bubble bath, wrap myself in my big, frayed and, OK, a bit grimy white towelling robe and just sit down and pig out.

  Ooh. That sounds really nice. My muscles are just starting to unknot from the day’s tension as I turn the key in the lock, and then I hear the unmistakable sound of sobbing.

  I dump my stuff on the couch. It’s Janet. She’s curled up in floods of tears.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s Gino,’ she sobs.

  Of course it’s Gino. Her Euro-trash boyfriend, an Italian count or something. Inherited a bunch of money from a car-manufacturing daddy, and now dedicates his wastrel life to getting rid of it all as fast as possible. Gino is your typical Trustafarian. He espouses socialist and anarchist principles while hanging out at very exclusive clubs, dating models and sneering at the poor.

  I’m not his biggest fan.

  ‘What’s he done now?’

  ‘Du-du-dumped me,’ she sobs. ‘We were at Brown’s and he suddenly says that he thinks it’s time to see someone else. He’s going with Katrina Pereshkova!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Oh, you have to know her. She was in Company last week. And she’s just done German Vogue,’ Janet wails. ‘She’s so hot right now! And when I asked him why, Gino shrugged and said that my butt was too big. He said that curves are going out … and he called me Janet instead of Jay-Me!’

  I look at Janet’s incredibly slim form, and her ludicrously high and tight bottom. Perky doesn’t begin to do it justice.

  ‘What curves?’ I ask. ‘You’re 34B if you’re lucky. That’s not curvy.’

  ‘It is for a model,’ Janet says. ‘I’m huge! I’m a size eight,’ she whispers, ashamed, and then dissolves again.

  ‘Oh. I see,’ I say, trying really hard to be sympathetic.

  Because the tough thing is, living with two models I do actually know she’s right. Janet is just this side of anorexic looking, which in her world makes her a hefty girl. The more usual look is Lily’s, all bony and angular, without an ounce of fat anywhere. And a jerk l
ike Gino trades up with his models like he trades up his watches or his cars. The trends have been all about so-called curves, which means shots of Kate Hudson and Catherine Zeta-Jones, but that was last month. Now we’re back to waifs and heroin chic, and Janet’s tiny, perfect little bottom is too much.

  So Prince Charming has dumped her.

  ‘I told him I’d go on a diet,’ she sobs. ‘But he said I’d never be thin enough and I was getting too old, anyway.’

  ‘Gino’s a pig.’

  ‘He was only being honest,’ Janet sniffs.

  ‘He was only being spiteful. Look, you can do so much better.’

  ‘But he was a millionaire,’ Janet says. ‘And a count. I could have been a countess.’

  ‘Those Italian titles are ten a penny. I bet he got his out of a magazine by sending away twenty Euros for a certificate.’

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I bet,’ I tell her. ‘And I don’t think he’s going to have any money left in a year or so. He’ll be calling you and begging you to take him back, but you’ll have moved on to Bill Gates.’

  ‘He’s already married,’ says Janet mournfully. ‘I checked.’

  ‘You stay there,’ I tell her, ‘and I’ll pop out to the offie and get us some booze and then I’ll go down to the Golden Dragon for a Chinese takeaway.’

  Janet’s eyes round. ‘Do you even know how many calories are in that stuff?’

  ‘Chinese people eat it, don’t they? And they’re all skinny.’

  ‘I suppose once couldn’t hurt,’ says Janet doubtfully. ‘Just get me something from the diet menu, OK?’

  ‘You got it.’

  She fumbles in her little Prada purse and hands me a couple of twenties.

  ‘That’s all right, it can be my treat.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Anna,’ Janet says, wiping her eyes. ‘Everybody knows you’re poor.’

  We stay up late drinking Mixed Doubles (rum and Coke for me, gin and tonic for her. I decanted it and told her it was diet) and eating dim sum and shrimp lo mein, which I also told her was diet. Janet eats most of it, and who can blame her? She probably hasn’t had a decent meal in five years.

  Eventually, she hugs me.

  ‘I’m going out,’ she announces.

  I blink. ‘Are you sure? You’re a bit merry.’