Sunday, May 14

"EIGHT'S YOUR LUCKY NUMBER," MURMURED CARRIE IN ADRIAN'S ear, making sure her lips were hidden from the TV camera that was pointing at them. She kept her expression humble and nonchalant while she gazed up at the screens showing clips from the shows nominated for Best Screenplay. This was a live broadcast and you never knew when the director might cut to your face.

Adrian replied without looking at her. "And?"

"We're in the eighth row."

He glanced down at the seating in front of them, rows of the cream of the British television industry in the Royal Albert Hall. Carrie saw him mentally count and followed suit. They both automatically looked at the people sitting in front of them — on their seats! The A-list writer of a very successful crime show and, next to him, his leading man, who played a ruthless yet charming killer.

Suddenly the screen flicked back to the British Academy Film Awards logo and onstage the actress presenting the award stepped forward.

"And the winner is ..." said the actress in a candy-colored, figure-hugging dress (Roland Mouret, the online newsfeed had declared the second she put a foot on the red carpet), "Adrian Hill for episode one of Generation Rebel!"

Carrie turned and flung her arms around him as he stood, looking dazed and smiling. She couldn't take her eyes off him as he made his way to the stage.

He's done it.

He took the golden mask from the actress, accepting a kiss on each cheek as he did so. The applause subsided.

"Er ... well, that was unexpected," started Adrian, then made a joke of having to adjust the microphone lower so it fitted his small stature. The audience laughed. He ran his free hand through his tufty hair, and the familiarity of this gesture warmed Carrie further. "Seriously, I'd just realized I wasn't sitting in my lucky seat and was about to oust the most infamous murderer of all time when I realized it might not be in my best interests ..." He paused while the titters rippled across the auditorium and the cameras cut to the killer leading man, who was doing his best to look amused and not seriously pissed off that his show had just lost.

"Thank you to BAFTA, the cast and crew, my excellent producer, Elaine Marsh, and most of all to my beautiful, clever wife, Carrie."

She quickly quashed the embarrassment and smiled as he looked down at her, shielding his eyes from the lights.

She watched as he was led off the stage to the obligatory photo session. He won. He won, he won, he won ! Her delight was genuine. But deep in the pit of her stomach fluttered the nerves that had been growing there the last few days. There was something she needed to tell him. Perhaps his win might make it easier for him to hear.

* * *

Carrie milled through the after-party crowd, knowing that many a conversation would be the start of a new project, a deal struck, a negotiation finalized. She had lost Adrian a full twenty minutes ago, his ear "borrowed" by several people who wanted to congratulate him, attempt to lure him with the next brilliant drama idea, or just bask in the force field of his winning power, perhaps in the hope that some of it might rub off on them.

She spotted him finishing a conversation and made a beeline, carrying a fresh drink.

"A friendly face amongst the sharks," he said as she handed the glass over, then immediately poured a good third down his throat. She didn't touch her own.

"Better get used to it now you're a BAFTA-winning writer," she said. "Although, I hope you're not fraternizing with the enemy."

"Not allowed. Not now you've shackled me to your exceptional producing talent for the next three years."

"You make it sound like you're a man in chains."

"I am. Solid gold ones." He grinned and kissed her. "Seriously, though, I can't wait. Working exclusively with you as well as being married to you. I'm the luckiest man alive."

"Here he is. My favorite writer." A loud, gravelly voice from her twenty-a-day habit cut through the crowd.

"Elaine, how lovely of you to come and congratulate me," said Adrian.

"I haven't yet." Bangles jangling, she smoothed her mane of bottle-red hair and gave him a Cheshire cat grin through plum lipstick. "Nice speech."

"Thanks."

"Good to see you haven't totally forgotten who I am."

"Could I ever? You're such a dynamic and persuasive producer."

"Can't compete with the woman who's screwing you, though." Elaine smiled at Carrie, who did her best not to let her mouth fall open. "Still, at least I got one BAFTA out of you before you buggered off."

"I'll never forget you for giving me my big break," said Adrian.

Elaine nodded approvingly. Cocked her head.

"And nurturing my writing into such a successful show."

Another nod. She pushed her pink-framed glasses up her nose in a prompt.

"I think that's enough, isn't it?" "It's never enough, darling. As you well know." And then Elaine strode off into the crowd.

Carrie felt Adrian squeeze her hand. It seemed she'd made an enemy by being married to the hottest writer in town. And signing him up to an exclusive deal with the reputable production company she'd recently started working at. They'd already come up with what she thought was a brilliant idea for Adrian's next show — about a movie star who'd been at the top of his game but through decades of extravagant spending had recently filed for bankruptcy; his latest girlfriend, twenty-five years his junior, had dumped him in disgust and he was alone, broke and struggling to function in the real world. They'd discussed it with the drama boss and channel controller at the BBC, both of whom had been very keen to meet them. A few weeks later it had been given the green light and was about to be officially announced.

Adrian nuzzled her cheek, his beard tickling her skin. "Hey, you and me. It's exciting."

She smiled and felt the nerves return. "Yeah ..."

"You're not upset by Elaine, are you? Don't take any notice. Nothing's going to get in our way. We're going to develop this one together. I'm going to have one hundred percent access to your fantastic story brain; then I can go off and try to write something that isn't a load of tosh — you'll have to keep an eye on me, and hey, wake me up in the middle of the night if you get a brilliant idea —"

"Adrian, it's not me who's going to wake you up in the night."

"What? It's certainly not Elaine." He pulled a face as a less-than-savory vision floated through his head.

"I'm having a baby."

She watched as his face froze in the "in bed with Elaine" expression, then dropped.

"What?" he repeated, more slowly this time.

"I'm pregnant. Fourteen weeks pregnant."

"Four ... fourteen weeks?" "I only found out three days ago."

He looked so lost she almost felt sorry for him. But it would be okay. It will be okay, she mentally rallied.

"Right. But ... you're ... I mean, we always said, we decided that ... we weren't going to ... A family wasn't for us, right?"

She gave a small, hopeful smile.

He visibly paled.

"I see."

He was thinking of his career right now and part of her...