‘Of course.’
‘That’s particularly the case given the influx of competitors recently. Other production companies, especially overseas ones, can do things more cheaply, often more
quickly.’
‘But can they do them as well?’
‘We can’t afford to be complacent. Ratings are unsteady, Emma – and that makes everyone nervous. Factors have combined against us this year. The loss of Sarah McIntyre and
probably – if Perry’s entirely honest – some lack of direction.’
Perry pulls a face as if he’s been sent to his room without supper. ‘I was only trying to come up with something different . . .’
‘You see, Emma,’ Perry Snr says, rescuing Perry from himself, ‘the thing I’ve explained to my son is that when Little Blue Bus was at the height of its success, when we
were blazing a trail in the industry . . . it was a team effort. We had the best working for us. And every one of those people had a clear idea of our aims. That’s how we were a success. And
that’s how we’ll be a success again.’
‘I see.’ I twist my napkin. ‘So . . . what’s your role in all this, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘The presentation to Channel 6 takes place a week today. Which makes this one of the most critical weeks in the history of the company. If we don’t win this, there
is
no
company. I’m the major shareholder in Little Blue Bus Productions, Emma, and although I’ve taken a back seat, there are times when I have to do what I think is best for the company. My
intention is to come out of retirement for limited and fixed period of time. To prepare for the presentation and – if it goes the way we want – to get the next series off the ground. At
the same time, I intend to launch the process of trying to find our next big hit, something I propose we dedicate a significant amount of time and resources to. All being well, I will step down at
that point.’
‘I wish you luck. Little Blue Bus is a brilliant company and it deserves to thrive.’
‘I’m glad you think so. Because there was a reason we wanted to see you today, and it wasn’t just for a chat. I wanted to ask you what we could do to persuade you to come
back.’
At that moment, I think of the hell I’ve been enduring under Lulu and I want to leap over the table and smother him with kisses. I manage to restrain myself. And instead simply manage:
‘Well, it’s really flattering—’
‘Before you refuse,’ he interrupts, ‘I should tell you that it’s not your old job we’re offering you. It’s Creative Director. You’d be in charge,
Emma.’
My jaw drops so rapidly it almost lands in my starter. ‘Me?’
I look up at Perry Jnr and he throws me a wobbly smile. ‘It’s nothing less than you deserve.’
‘Of course, there’s a lot riding on the pitch – I can’t pretend otherwise,’ Perry Snr continues. ‘If we don’t succeed in persuading Channel 6 to take
the next series, everything is up in the air. I hope you think it’s a risk worth taking.’
In the history of resignations, nobody has ever done it as fast as me. I quit this job faster than a Serengeti wildebeest on the run from a cheetah, faster than Superman pulls
on his tights and, if not faster than the speed of light, then certainly fast enough to break some law of physics.
The only thing faster is the speed with which Lulu accepts it.
‘This has been an interesting experiment for both of us,’ she smiles, as we skip to the door after I’ve handed in my notice, precisely twenty minutes after I left the two
Perrys.
‘Do I need to put this in writing?’
She races back to her desk, rips off a bit of scrap paper from her desk pad and hands it to me. ‘Scrawl something on that – it’ll do.’
‘How would you feel about me leaving early?’ I try.
She grins. ‘Go for it!’
I grin. ‘Thanks!’
And after I’ve scribbled an official cheerio on a piece of paper, told Dee that she can shove her request for a not-too-milky tea up her perfect jacksy (not really, that was in my dreams),
I’ve grabbed my coat, my bag, and am striding out of the door of this dystopian hell, ecstatic at the end of a not-so-beautiful relationship.
‘Well, I’m very glad,’ Dad concludes, duster in hand as he attempts to put such a shine on the mantelpiece that it’d be capable of causing instantaneous
optic-nerve damage. ‘You’ve got to feel passionate about what you do. It was obvious that that was the last thing you felt in that place.’
‘Do
you
feel passionate about what you do?’
He spins round. ‘Of course! Show me another mobility specialist offering seventeen different brands of bath lifts. You don’t achieve that unless you do it with passion. Your mum was
the same. She approached everything with one hundred per cent commitment, not least raising you girls.’
I smile.
‘She used to read to you for hours, you know – even when you were tiny,’ he continues. ‘She’d recite
The House at Pooh Corner
endlessly when you were still
ages off being able to speak. You were a bit of a slow starter, admittedly.’
I pretend I haven’t heard the last bit. ‘I wish I could remember that sort of stuff.’
‘You were very small, Emma.’
‘I wish I could remember
anything
,’ I say, sipping tea. ‘I can’t tell you how much it frustrates me that all this information is missing.’
Dad puts down the duster and looks at me, as if the possibility that I feel like this has never occurred to him. He sits on the armchair opposite mine.
‘Do you really feel like that?’
I nod, suddenly overwhelmed by how much I do.
‘You can ask me anything you want about her – at any time.’
I think for a second, barely knowing where to start. ‘What was she like when she was my age?’
Dad looks out of the window and smiles. ‘She was beautiful and bold.’ He turns back to me. ‘Just like you. She loved dancing. And Roxy Music. And gingerbread. And bright red
lipstick. And she loved being a mum.’
I smile hesitantly. Because knowing she loved gingerbread and Roxy Music and bright red lipstick still doesn’t feel enough. I want to know what she’d advise me to do about Matt. And
Cally. And I wonder if she’d think I’d done the right thing about work. I want to know how she spoke, her way of thinking. Was her personality like mine?
‘You know, thinking too much about this can get you into a real spin, Emma,’ Dad says. ‘None of it will bring her back. If
thinking
about someone could do that,
I’d have managed it long ago. You have to get on with life. It’s too upsetting otherwise.’
‘But it’s good to think about someone important to you every so often, don’t you think? Even if it is upsetting.’
Dad looks at his hands and says nothing. Then he looks up again. ‘Not long now until the big day, hey?’
I frown. ‘What big day?’
‘Your birthday! The big three-oh!’
‘Oh . . . yes. Two-and-a-half weeks.’
‘How many people are coming to your party?’
‘About fifty or so.’
Dad frowns. ‘You don’t look overly excited. When you were seven you didn’t sleep for three nights then almost fell asleep on your own birthday cake. Your hair would’ve
been like a fireball if Aunt Sheila hadn’t had reflexes like the Karate Kid.’
‘I am excited, Dad, honestly. And it’s
so
good of you to pay for this. You really don’t have to.’
‘All I ask is that you have fantastic time.’
‘I will,’ I promise, determined not to let him down – even if this suddenly feels like the worst birthday of my life.
Every moment Matt and I spend together now is a moment to savour. Every small thing we do – from going to the park with the children, to cooking dinner – is precious. Because the
moment I hit thirty, he’ll be gone.
‘Any more dating news, by the way?’ I ask.
Dad rolls his eyes. ‘I’m giving up.’
‘Oh.’ I feel surprisingly disappointed. ‘Have you met someone else who was no good?’
‘I wouldn’t say that. She looked like Jerry Hall.’
‘So what was the problem?’
‘I don’t look like Mick Jagger.’
The night before my return to Little Blue Bus Productions, I have a dream about walking in there.
My reception is comparable to that of the Duke of Wellington when he came back from Waterloo – all back-slapping, cheering and cries of how much I’ve been missed. I pull into the car
park with ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads’ on the radio, then push through the door to be greeted by Carolyn, the receptionist.
‘Morning, Em!’
‘Morning!’ I grin. ‘God, it’s nice to be back.’
‘Ooh, I’m just back from Turkey myself – we must have been on our hols at the same time. Been anywhere nice?’
Giles is already in the office when I open the door and head to my old desk – Mathilda apparently decided to take advantage of another free desk last week, a move Giles is both baffled and
delighted by. As creative director, I’ll apparently get a new one, although it won’t be ready for a while. Not that I care – because I’m astonished to see that the office
has been spruced up. It’s been decorated
and
cleaned. It actually smells of
Cif
, that joyful whiff of chemicals that’s been absent for so very long.
‘You won’t believe what that imbecile’s done to my script.’
I raise an eyebrow.
‘He wants me to rework it. I’ve already told him I’ve reworked it. How many times
can
you rework something? If I rework it any more it’ll go up in
smoke.’
He throws an espresso down his neck and I silently switch on my computer.
‘And another thing.’
‘Yes?’
He smiles. ‘I’m so glad you’re back.’
In some ways, work is a blessed relief from my personal life over the next couple of days. It’s still pandemonium, of course – a frenzy of stress, turmoil and
creative wrangles capable of resulting in GBH charges.
Despite this, working at Little Blue Bus is more enjoyable than I ever remembered. It’s as if the sheer joy of the job has returned tenfold – and is every bit as exhilarating as in
the early days. Despite Giles’s warning, I even got on with Mathilda, before she went off sick with stress and handed in her notice.
I can’t deny I’m feeling the pressure too. As creative director, the buck stops with me. I’ve never even had a buck before. This is the most scared I’ve been since a
power cut during
The Woman In Black
, when I screamed like I was undergoing open-heart surgery with Germolene as the anaesthetic.
Yet, I love it. I love it so much that I have to remind myself how serious our situation is. If we don’t win the pitch next week, I and everyone else could be out of here faster than we
can pocket our P45s and ask directions to the Job Centre.
Of course, the one issue that’s constantly at the back of my mind – the thing from which I need a distraction – is Matt.
Every moment of my spare time is spent with him and even when he’s doing something as mundane as watering the plants on his kitchen windowsill, I can barely keep my hands off him. Not in a
sexual way, you understand. Well, okay,
sometimes
in a sexual way. The point is, for the first time in my life I find myself constantly needing to kiss someone’s skin, or feel his
hand clutching mine, or stroke his cheek or ear or . . . just about everywhere, if I’m honest. It’s as if my hands have a life of their own and are making the most of every inch of him
before they’re unable to touch him again.
On Sunday afternoon, he is packing all his worldly goods into the boxes from which they came less than six months ago. I spend the morning helping, but when Marianne – who’s home for
the weekend – phones to ask me to the cinema with the girls that afternoon, Matt insists that I leave the dirty work to him. Clearly, he wants to save my poor, reddened eyes from further
torture.
Woolton Picture House is tucked away in a side street of what is unquestionably Liverpool’s prettiest village – a conservation area of beautifully preserved terraces, with a
Victorian swimming pool and lovely old-fashioned pubs.
I’ve loved coming to this cinema ever since Dad brought Marianne and me to see a rerun of the
Wizard of Oz
when we were little. It’s how cinemas used to be – an art
deco palace complete with retro music at the start and an ice-cream lady in the interval (yes, there’s one of those too).
We’re here for one of their classic film afternoons, even though I’m not normally an enthusiast – anything pre-
Dirty Dancing
leaves me a little cold. However, my
sister’s suggestion, Hitchcock’s 1940s version of
Rebecca
, is brilliant. It’s one of the most chilling and compelling movies I’ve seen.
Afterwards, we drive to a pub next to the river to grab a quick drink before heading home.
‘That was an exceptionally good way to spend a Sunday afternoon,’ says Asha as we step out of the car.
‘Wasn’t Olivier something special?’ agrees Marianne. ‘They don’t make stars like they used to.’
‘People might say that about Justin Bieber one day,’ I reply, only, as I turn to Asha, I realise I’ve lost her. I mean, really lost her. She dropped back several steps ago and
is frozen to the spot, gazing at the opposite side of the large car park.
‘What is it, Asha?’ asks Cally, at which point Asha ducks behind a car, as if instigating the first game of cat and mouse we’ve played since the days when we wore gingham every
day. ‘Get down,’ she hisses.
We all look at each other, bemused, before crouching behind her.
‘Look,’ she says in a choked whisper.
I peep round the car and focus on what’s caught her attention.
It’s Toby. And he’s not alone. The love of Asha’s life has a little boy on his shoulders. Next to him is a woman I recognise as his wife, Christina, holding hands with a small
girl. They’re a bundle of giggles, chatter, swinging hands – like real-life Boden models, a deliriously gorgeous representation of family life.
It’s a vision that’s so far removed from the description of domestic misery Asha has described it’s almost impossible to believe these are the same people.
‘Shit,’ mutters Cally.