The Safe Place, page 4
The look on all their faces when she’d gotten into drama school had been priceless; Emily knew exactly how Cinderella felt when the prince showed up and made the ugly sisters apologize for being bitches. But every Christmas she would return home looking more disheveled, more desperate, and the expressions of astonishment were gradually replaced by confusion. Her grandparents could not fathom why she had not yet been on EastEnders. Auntie Cath wanted to know why she wasn’t yet friends with Jude Law. Didn’t she live in London? Wasn’t she an actress? And why didn’t she ever have any money?
These were all valid questions to which Emily never had the right answers. Why didn’t she know more famous people? Why was she still living in a shoebox with no central heating? Why did she always have holes in her clothes? Every visit home was like one of those lateral-thinking problems they gave you at school, the ones designed to make you look stupid. So eventually she just stopped going.
She pressed her fingertips to her eyes. Maybe London had been a bad idea from the start; maybe she should’ve stayed in Hoxley. Wedding dresses and watercolors were starting to look less and less like the death sentences she’d always thought them to be.
No. She tossed her head as if to shake the thought free. No way. She’d been right to leave. Small-town life would have killed her. She’d have hated the monotony and the repetition and seeing the same faces every day for her entire life. She had always felt different because she was different, and not just because she was adopted. This was who she was, this was the life she was meant for, and she would just have to take the rough with the smooth.
Emily sat up, forced her shoulders back, and lifted her chin. Everything was fine. She was going to be okay. More than okay, she was going to be awesome! Yes! She would get that job today. This was her time, dammit. Her star was on the rise. She was living the dream!
* * *
Shuffling off the train at Bank, Emily caught the Central line to Tottenham Court Road and nursed a small latte in Pret until it was time to meet her agent.
“Darling!” Lara cried as soon as Emily walked through the door, standing up and pulling her into a short, sharp hug. “Aren’t you a bit early? What time is it?”
“It’s ten, I think.”
“Oh. Okay, well, in that case you’re right on time. Silly me! How are you, sweetheart? I feel like it’s been ages since we caught up. A few weeks at least?”
“Um, maybe five? Or six. I’m not sure,” Emily lied. It had been exactly nine weeks and two days since she was last called in for a chat.
“Well, anyway, it’s so good to see you. You’re looking so well.” Lara ushered her through the open-plan office, weaving through desks and clusters of dripping succulents, until she reached a partitioned meeting area, the back wall of which was plastered with black-and-white headshots, the current success stories most prominently placed (Emily’s was at the bottom, half-hidden by a cheese plant). “Come on in, honey. Sit, sit, sit.” Lowering herself onto a leather sofa, she crossed her tanned legs and gestured for Emily to join her. “So,” she said, a flush of pink creeping up her neck. “I have good news and bad news.”
“Everything okay?” Emily asked. Lara seemed a bit flustered.
“Yes, I … well, the good news is—drumroll—I’m getting married!” She flexed her wrist and fanned out her fingers, showing off an enormous glittering diamond nestled among lots of other glittering diamonds.
Emily was temporarily blinded as the ring caught the light. “Oh, wow. Congratulations!” she said, blinking.
“Thank you, yes, it’s all very exciting. Tom kept me waiting long enough, but we’re finally doing it.”
Emily rolled her eyes indulgently, as if to say, You guys! She knew all about wonderful Tom and his amazing family and their dog and their summer house on the Amalfi coast. A chronic oversharer, Lara offered up odd and borderline inappropriate details in the same way that other people offered refreshments. Emily knew all about Tom’s dietary requirements (no gluten, no eggs, and no carbs after 2 P.M.), his secret celebrity crush (Jane Fonda circa 2014), and which side of the bed he slept on (the right; Lara slept on the left because it was nearer the door and she usually got up two or three times in the night on account of her tiny bladder). The few times Emily had tried to share some details of her own, she’d been shut down so fast it was almost funny. Were they friends or weren’t they? It was exhausting trying to figure out where the professional line lay; it seemed to move all the time.
“Where are you doing it?” Emily asked politely.
“Um, well, New York actually.”
“Oh. That’s … far.”
“Yes. Tom got this fantastic promotion—like, really fantastic—so we’re sort of moving there.”
“Really? Moving to New York?”
“Uh huh.” Lara lowered her eyes. “Early next month.”
“Next month?”
“Yes, I know, it’s fast. And, of course, it means I’ll have to leave the agency.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I’m so sorry it’s so last minute. It’s all come as a bit of a surprise to me, too, actually,” Lara said, with just the merest hint of a frown. “Totally out of the blue. But, you know, it feels right. Tom’s been working so hard; he really deserves it. And hopefully, I’ll be able to join a new agency over there. After we get the family ball rolling, of course.”
Emily nodded, unsure of what to say. Was Lara leaving a good thing or a bad thing? It was the end of an era, she supposed, but maybe her next agent would actually take her calls.
“I’m so sorry,” Lara said again, pressing her hands to her face. “Are you very angry?”
“Angry? No, not at all.”
“Honestly, I agonized over telling you right before your audition today, but I figured it might give you the fire you need to really nail it this time. I mean, I’m sure it’ll be hard at first, finding new representation, but—”
Emily froze. “Wait, what?”
“Inevitably, it’ll be a bit of a transitional—”
“Hang on.” Emily shook her head. “What new representation? Don’t you just pass me on to another agent here?”
“Oh.” Lara’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, darling, I thought I’d been clear.”
“Clear about what?”
Lara looked down into her lap. “I … Look, there’s no easy way to say this. I’m so sorry, but the agency isn’t absorbing my client list.”
Emily felt her mouth slacken.
“All the agents are at capacity right now.” Lara paused and shook her head. Silently, she moved closer and reached out for Emily’s hand, squeezing it as though she was dying. “Darling, I’m afraid you’re out. I really am so, so sorry.”
CHAPTER SIX
SCOTT
FROM THE doorway of a Soho café, Scott watched the windows of a gray building on the opposite side of the street. He checked his watch: 10:17 A.M.
His phone buzzed in his hand. Without breaking his gaze, he answered the call. “Scott Denny.”
“Scott!” a voice bellowed. “My man! It’s Tom. You got my message?”
“I did.” The entrance of the building was still. No one had gone in or come out for over twelve minutes. “And you’re welcome. I didn’t do much, though. Nothing that you wouldn’t have pulled off yourself, given time.”
“Are you kidding?” Tom laughed. “I’ve been trying to get my foot in that particular door for years. I owe you several drinks, mate.”
“No need, we’re all square.” Scott shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The door remained shut, the windows still. “I’m grateful for the returned favor, by the way. I know it’s a little unorthodox.”
“Nah, it’s the least we could do.”
“I appreciate it.” A shadow crossed one of the windows. It hadn’t been difficult to track the agent down. Nor had it been hard to access her personal information. There was a lot of detail available online these days.
“Lara reckons Emma wouldn’t have lasted much longer anyway. She wasn’t making any money, and it’s all about the money, right?” Tom chuckled.
Scott rolled his eyes. He barely knew Tom Stanhope—they’d met just once, at a function several years ago—but it had been laughably easy to convince Tom otherwise. A few names dropped here and a boozy lunch there, and Tom seemed to think they went way back. By the time Scott had offered to tee up the job of a lifetime for him, Tom would’ve done anything for his “brother from another mother”—including asking his fiancée to drop one of her least successful clients so that Scott could keep his most promising new protégée.
“She was surprised, though.”
“Who?”
“Lara. She said she couldn’t imagine Emma having a knack for investments.”
A flurry of movement across the street caught Scott’s eye. The door to the building had opened, and a hunched figure was scurrying out. “Emily,” he murmured, following the figure with his eyes.
“Sorry?”
“Her name is Emily.” Hanging up, Scott began to move.
CHAPTER SEVEN
EMILY
IN A quiet side street, Emily’s vision blurred with tears. Dropped. Cast off. Thrown away. The very worst thing that could happen to an actor. She knew what it meant: the same thing had happened last year to an old friend from drama school, a poor unassuming Welshman who had immediately disappeared from the London scene never to be seen again. It was like he’d died. No one even talked about him anymore in case the mere mention of his name was enough to bring a plague of obscurity down on the entire West End.
No, come on, hold it together. She dabbed at her face with the sleeves of her cardigan, trying to save her makeup. She had one audition left. There was still hope.
She checked the time on her phone. Fifteen minutes to sort herself out and pull off the performance of a lifetime. You’ve got this, she told herself. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out the pages she’d been emailed. Just breathe, go over the lines, you’ll be okay.
But the lines danced in front of her eyes, mocking her. The audition was for a chewing-gum advert. A girl is about to be kissed by her date, read the summary, but the foods she’s eaten at dinner jump out and threaten to ruin everything. A fight ensues. The chewing gum wins.
Well, okay, so it wasn’t Shakespeare. Emily rolled back her shoulders. Doesn’t matter, she thought. I’ll still nail it.
But the last drops of her optimism were leaking away and humiliation was taking over, powering through her body like termites through dead wood. She wasn’t even reading for the role of the girl; she would be auditioning to play an onion. A karate-chopping, street-fighting, costume-wearing onion.
What a fucking joke. She crushed the pages of her “script” in her fist. Who had she thought she was kidding? She couldn’t make a living like this, with or without an agent. She flashed back to the previous week, when she had been asked, in an airless box of a room, to tackle a makeshift obstacle course in the manner of a “sexy cat.” Then another bizarre memory, this one of standing on a chair delivering a monologue while a director lobbed newspapers at her. Another, of singing “Happy Birthday, Mr. President” to a tub of butter.
The tears ran freely now, running down her nose and into her mouth. I hate myself. She pushed the words into every corner of her wretched body. Her stupid dream was the only thing that had kept her going, and now it had evaporated before her eyes. What was she going to do now? Where was she going to go? How would she ever get another agent? She had nothing to show anyone—no show reel, no showcase, not even a performance in a shitty advert as an onion, for god’s sake! No one would ever hire her again. She would have to leave London. She would have to—
“Hey.” A voice crashed into her careering train of thought.
Emily recoiled. Wiping her nose on the sleeve of her cardigan, she ducked her head and walked away in the opposite direction.
“Hey,” the voice called again.
She kept moving. Probably just some crackhead wanting change.
Lara’s words wouldn’t leave her alone. You’re on your own. Her face had been full of pity. You’re out. I’m so sorry. Shame burned like acid in Emily’s gut.
“Hey, wait.”
Weaving her way past a group of school kids, she snuck a look back. There was a man in a dark-blue suit just behind her, walking fast. Definitely not a crackhead. Oh god, it’s not one of those charity people, is it? She sped up. No way was she about to stop and chat to a stranger about the plight of polar bears when her entire life was crashing down around her.
Wiping the mascara tracks from under her eyes, she went to cross the road but tripped as she stepped off the curb, and her script fluttered free of her fingers. The pages came apart and spiraled into the gutter, and Emily, suddenly appalled at the thought that they might fly away, that she might lose her very last chance, cried out and reached for them, stumbling into the path of an oncoming cyclist. The bike swerved, only narrowly avoiding a collision, and Emily gasped, snatching at the paper, desperate now to make it to the audition on time, to prove that she was still worth something after all … but it was too late. Sheets of white paper were cartwheeling over the asphalt and disappearing under the wheels of cars.
She stood up, her vision blurred by fresh tears. Behind her, the man called out again.
“Hey, Emily.”
Shit, she thought, poised to run. Please don’t be a rapist. Then her brain caught up with her ears and she froze.
“Emily,” the man shouted again, louder this time, and when she turned around she was shocked to see a familiar face.
“Mr. Denny?” she managed.
Suddenly, there was a shout and a squeal of brakes, and her peripheral vision was filled with a huge red shape. More shouting ensued, then the blare of a horn, and Emily covered her ears with her hands, but the noise was deafening and the red shape was getting closer and closer, and the squeal was getting louder and her breath was getting faster and—
The panic hit her before the bus did, a great tidal wave of fear pouring down her throat, flooding her lungs until she could no longer breathe. And then a mad flurry exploded inside her, like the flap of a thousand wings. Something invisible was flattening her ribs, and her hands flew out as if to push a heavy object from her chest.
Oh, great, she thought vaguely as she toppled like a tree. Here we go again.
Buildings wobbled and the sky went black as the world turned upside down.
The bus stopped inches from her face—and then, from out of nowhere, Mr. Denny, Emily’s ex-boss, was leaping out of the chaos like a handsome human shield, a superhero, a knight with colors flying. Holding up his hand to the driver, he yelled at a few bystanders to give her some space, and she wanted to laugh because it had to be a hallucination. Surely, none of this could be real: this gentle hand on hers, this jacket under her head, this blurry shape with a halo of hair and an outstretched hand, this voice saying, “Don’t be scared, Emily. Let me help you.”
Surely, all of it was just a beautiful dream.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SCOTT
AS HE pulled Emily to her feet and steered her through the door of a nearby pub, Scott felt dizzy with triumph. If his plan had a flaw, it was that there’d been no real reason for Emily to trust him. The bus had fixed that in a matter of seconds.
Fate. It had to be.
Grabbing a handful of napkins and ordering a juice from the bar, Scott settled into his new role of rescuer. Up close, he noticed that Emily was pretty, in a wholesome kind of way. Blond hair, brown eyes, freckled nose … there was nothing especially remarkable about her, but all the pieces fit comfortably together. However, the effect was currently marred by blotchy cheeks, bloodshot eyes, and a slimy upper lip.
He waited politely while Emily blew her nose. Flushed and shaking, she babbled incoherently—something about an audition and being late, and all the awful things Lara had said to her. He nodded sympathetically, thanking his lucky stars that his hunch had been right. After just ten minutes of listening to her ramble, he was more convinced than ever that Emily was exactly what he was looking for.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, once he could get a word in. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just saw you walk past and wondered if you might need a ride back to work. You seemed upset.”
Emily looked at him askance, as he thought she might. “Work?”
“Yes. Work.” He laughed. “You know that thing you do for Proem? We give you money in return.”
“But…” She shook her head. “I don’t work for you anymore. I got fired.”
Scott put on a show of confusion. “Fired? What do you mean?”
Emily then told him a long and overcomplicated version of how David Mahoney had delivered the news, telling her she was “all out of strikes” and “not Proem material.”
Scott appeared duly shocked. “I think there’s been some sort of mistake.” He chose his moment carefully, waiting until her breathing had returned to normal. He asked if she’d like to be taken to hospital, and when she declined, he offered her a taxi home instead. He then placed his hand gently on her shoulder and told her she was going to be just fine. Everything happened for a reason, he said. Perhaps, he added, they were meant to meet—his only truly sincere words.
