The Funny Thing About Love

3. Nell

3

NELL

‘Oh my God. I’m so nervous. I’ve literally never been this nervous. Do you think they’ll be able to tell I’m nervous? Do I seem nervous?’

I turn to look at Chloe and Mica. We’re eating breakfast in the kitchen of their flat – our flat – and they’re both staring at me with looks of mild amusement on their faces.

‘You do seem . . . a little bit nervous, to be fair,’ Chloe says.

‘She won’t be chewing her thumbnail and manically pacing the room in the office though,’ Mica points out. ‘You won’t, will you, Nell?’

I realise I am doing both and stop immediately. They laugh.

‘Come on, Nell!’ Mica says, refilling her bowl with cereal. ‘You are allowed to be nervous, you know? This is a Massive Fucking Deal.’

‘Exactly! Let’s commemorate it,’ Chloe says, pulling me down to the table for a photo of the three of us. ‘Everyone say, “Dream job!”’

‘Dream internship,’ I correct her.

‘Dream internship that will definitely lead to a dream job,’ she shoots back.

‘Dream internship that may lead to a dream job, but let’s not jinx it by saying it definitely will.’

‘This is getting a bit long,’ Mica says. ‘Shall we just say, “Cheese?”’

‘Cheese!’ we cry, and Chloe takes the photo.

The last week has been an absolute whirlwind. After opening that email in the pub, I think I momentarily lost my mind. I can’t even fully remember what happened, but I definitely bear-hugged Ian at some point. He looked understandably flustered.

The next few days flashed by in a blur. I worked a shedload of final shifts at both my jobs – mainly because I felt so bad about leaving at such short notice. And then finally, on Sunday – yesterday – Mum drove me and Will down to London, our knackered old Volvo packed to the gills with suitcases and shopping bags full of fresh fruit, meat and veg. I tried to explain to Mum that they did, in fact, sell food in London, but she refused to listen.

Saying goodbye to her and Will was harder than I thought. We’ve always been close-knit as a family, but since Dad died – nearly six years ago now – we’ve become even closer. It’s like the three of us have shuffled up nearer to one another to fill the gap he left. There were times, in the months right after he went, when it felt like Mum and Will were the only people in the whole world who knew what I was going through. Which obviously isn’t true – cancer has screwed up plenty of other lives – but that’s how it felt.

When I left for uni, it didn’t seem like a particularly big deal. I was only at Nottingham – twenty minutes away on the train – and I still saw them both every other weekend. But this – London – is different. The internship’s only a month but if I do – whisper it – end up being offered a job, then I’ll be down here long term. And who knows when I’ll see them next?

Which is why I hugged Will extra-tightly as he got back in the car to leave. He’s fifteen, and he’s had a shit time at school lately – arsehole bullies getting on his case – but things seem to have calmed down now as the term drags to a close. I’m just praying they stay calm.

As I went to hug Mum, she took me by the shoulders and said, ‘You know, love, your dad would have been so . . .’ She didn’t actually get to finish the sentence, as her voice broke at that point. But I knew what she meant. Dad was the one who’d got me into Punching Up in the first place. In that moment, as I fell into Mum’s arms, I missed him so much it physically hurt.

The look on her face as she’d given me that hug was pretty similar to the ones on my best friends’ faces right now. Full of pride and joy and a sense of . . . finally.

Honestly, I’m feeling the same way. I still can’t quite believe this is really happening.

I pull the girls closer as Chloe snaps another picture. ‘Thanks, guys,’ I whisper.

‘Just enjoy it, mate,’ Mica says, squeezing my shoulder. ‘Massive Fucking Deal.’

Chloe grins and nods her agreement. ‘Massive Fucking Deal.’

I get there nearly half an hour early. Partly because I’m sure I’ll get lost on the Tube (doesn’t happen, surprisingly), and partly because I barely slept last night and badly need some pre-arrival coffee. But also because I just want to take a moment before I go in. It sounds dumb, but I want to stand outside the office for a second and try to appreciate the magnitude of what I am about to do.

It doesn’t look like much from the outside: just a big grey building on the outskirts of an area called Limehouse. But I sip my double-shot latte and stare at it like it’s the portal to another world. Which it kind of is, I guess. To me, at least. I think of all the hours of my life I’ve spent watching this show, obsessing over the jokes and sketches, studying the credits at the end for the writers’ names . . . And now here I am. About to walk through those glass double doors into that big grey building and become a very, very, very tiny part of it.

I finish my coffee, take a deep breath and walk in.

The inside of the office has a slightly more ‘showbizzy’ vibe than its drab exterior. Behind the reception desk there are huge framed posters of the various TV shows that are produced and filmed here. Most prominent is the Punching Up set. There are glossy shots of all the current cast and writers, as well as signed photos of previous guest hosts and all the bands and musicians that have played on the show over the years. I tell the receptionist my name, and she says someone will be down to collect me soon.

I sit on the squishy blue sofa, doing a breathing exercise that Chloe showed me for managing anxiety and trying very hard to banish the words ‘IMPOSTOR SYNDROME’ from my mind. I hear the clip-clop of heels and look round to see a tall lady with a perfect long braid and a bright smile striding down the stairs towards me. Bishi – I met her on the Zoom interview. She’s the producer on Punching Up.

‘Nell!’ She sticks out her hand. ‘So nice to meet you in person!’

‘Bishi! Hi! You too!’ I stand up and shake it.

‘Congratulations again on getting the placement! We’re so pleased to have you.’

‘Thank you! I’m so happy to be here.’ I beam at her. This feels like a Good Start.

‘Right, let’s head upstairs, shall we, and we’ll get you set up . . .?’

I follow Bishi’s heels as they click back up the steps, silently panicking now that I am seriously, embarrassingly, underdressed. As well as her stilettos, Bishi is wearing a dark-blue trouser suit and a crisp white shirt. She looks amazing. I, on the other hand, have gone for jeans, trainers and my black Uniqlo T-shirt. I guess I wanted a blend-into-the-background outfit for my first day. Plus, the weather forecast for today is sweltering and I didn’t want to be sweating away in a blazer. Chloe even chastised me over breakfast – ‘Shouldn’t you wear something a bit smarter?’ – but I’d just laughed and told her that comedy people and smart attire did not go together. Clearly, I was wrong. I briefly consider tucking in my T-shirt but decide against it.

As we climb to the second floor, Bishi sketches out the details of the Punching Up working week. I nod along politely, even though I already know every step of it by heart from reading zillions of interviews with the writers over the years. ‘So, Monday is the day things really get going here,’ she says, as we turn a corner into an open-plan office full of busy-looking and equally smartly dressed people. ‘As I’m sure you know, we shoot the week’s episode on Thursday night – it’s filmed as-live in our basement studio at 7.30 p.m., and then it goes out on air at eleven. So, Friday is a pretty relaxed day for all staff. Over the weekend, the writers will start working up ideas at home for next week’s show, and then Monday – today – the pitching and writing begins again.’

We turn another corner. Bishi walks impressively fast in her five-inch heels. I am having to borderline jog to keep up. ‘On Wednesday the week’s guest host comes in for their briefing,’ she continues, ‘so we aim to have the bulk of the sketches written by then, leaving spots free for anything more topical that might emerge on Thursday morning, of course.’

‘Right,’ I say.

She nods back at the office we’ve just passed through. ‘Sales and marketing are back through there. Production, post and IT are in the next office along. And this . . . is the writers’ nook.’

It really is a nook. The marketing department was all glass and chrome and gleaming state-of-the-art iMacs. But this space is no bigger than my mum’s living room. It’s got a little kitchenette squashed in the corner next to a tiny meeting room, and in the centre is a ramshackle arrangement of desks, chairs and laptops, most of them slathered with faded stickers or covered with toys and empty chocolate wrappers.

‘This is you,’ Bishi says, indicating the least cluttered desk. ‘Sorry about the mess.’ She grimaces as she picks up a crumpled Coke can from the next desk. ‘These writers . . .’ She drops the can in the recycling and glances behind me. ‘And speaking of these writers . . . Morning, Talia.’

‘Morning, Bish.’

My heart skips as I look round. I’ve seen Talia Joski-Jethi’s face a million times, of course, from years spent watching her interviews and podcasts and panel discussions on YouTube. But it’s weird actually seeing her in the flesh. Her dark curly hair is pulled up into a tight bun and – to my extreme relief – she is wearing jeans, a T-shirt and trainers. This is definitely the closest I’ve ever physically been to someone I could feasibly call a ‘hero’ and I am feeling the polar opposite of cool about it. Be cool, I tell myself sternly. For the love of God, Nell. Be. Cool.

‘Talia, this is Nell. Nell, Talia,’ Bishi says. ‘Nell’s our new intern.’

Talia beams at me, leaning across her computer to shake my hand. ‘I know. I read your stuff when you applied. I was gunning for you when we were whittling down the shortlist. Your hairdresser sketch was fucking brilliant.’

Her compliment melts me. At that moment, any hope of Being Cool goes straight out of the window. ‘Oh my God, thank you!’ I splutter. ‘It was actually completely inspired by your psychoanalyst sketch from last season! The idea of flipping the traditional roles – I mean, the way you did with the therapist and the patient. So I hope you didn’t think I was ripping you off, or anything! It was supposed to be a – what’s it called? – homage, rather than a rip-off!’

My gushing stream-of-consciousness peters out, and I feel my neck flush red as Talia and Bishi both smile at me. Bishi cocks her head and says, ‘I’ll leave you two to get better acquainted. Back in a sec, Nell.’

I swallow hard as I watch her walk off. ‘Sorry,’ I tell Talia. ‘I’m a bit nervous.’

She swats the comment away with her hand. ‘Don’t be. I was shitting myself on my first day here, but everyone’s really nice. I actually started on the internship programme too.’ She smiles. ‘Maybe you already knew that.’

I laugh. ‘I did kinda know that, yeah. Not to creep you out, or anything, but I’m a massive fan.’

She puts a hand to her chest, mock-flattered. Or maybe actual-flattered. ‘If that’s true, then this is huge, because it makes you my first ever fan. Not even my parents are particularly keen on what I do.’

‘Seriously?’

She shrugs. ‘They think writing is an “unstable profession”. They wanted me to do something maths-y, like them.’ She slides her bag under the desk and switches on her computer. ‘I’ve tried so many times to explain to them that what we do here is maths.’

‘How do you mean?’ I ask, genuinely fascinated.

‘Well, it’s all just problem-solving, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘Someone brings in a sketch, you take it apart, see what’s wrong with it, tinker with it, fix it, put it back together. Jokes are just formulas. They either work or they don’t. And if they don’t, you just need to keep tweaking them until they do. Hey – do you want coffee? I need coffee.’

‘Um . . . I’m good, thanks, I just had one.’ I watch her go to the kitchenette, feeling light-headed. Feeling like . . . this is it. This is where I should be.

Ever since I was twelve years old, I’ve known what I am: a Comedy Nerd. At sleepovers in Years 7 and 8, we’d all be watching Brooklyn Nine-Nine or BoJack Horseman and laughing ourselves silly – but when the episodes ended, it was only me that wanted to keep talking about them. Breaking them apart, quoting the best lines, trying to understand the mechanics of why the writing was so magically, pee-your-pyjamas hilarious. My friends would just sit there patiently, waiting for me to stop rambling so they could go back to discussing which boys they liked.

It’s been the same ever since. Chloe and Mica love Schitt’s Creek and Derry Girls and Punching Up too, but they don’t obsess over them in the same way I do. As much as I love my two best friends, I’ve always wished I had other Comedy Nerds in my life to geek out with. And right now, it looks like I might have found some.

As Talia comes back towards me, clasping a chipped Punching Up mug in her hands, I can’t help thinking of Dad. He’s the one that made me a Comedy Nerd in the first place. Talia’s comment about her parents not getting what she does only makes it hit harder how proud he would have been of me today. He set me on the path that led here.

Talia smiles at me as she settles into her chair. ‘It’s so great to have you on board, Nell,’ she says.

The rest of the morning is kind of an anticlimax after that.

I mean, how could it be anything else? The five other staff writers eventually show up – Rich, Noah, Kerri, Anna and Nate – and I am introduced to each of them. Most just give me a cursory nod and then turn to their computers. Except for Nate, the head writer. He was also on the Zoom with Bishi, and I’ve watched tons of interviews with him over the years too. He’s kind of a legend in comedy – he worked on loads of radio shows and sitcoms before landing at Punching Up. On the Zoom he came over pretty intense and earnest, but in real life he isn’t intimidating at all. He’s shorter than I was expecting, and full of boisterous energy, gripping my hand and my shoulder and telling me it’s ‘wicked to have you on the team, Nell!’

But then all of them – Talia included – plug in their headphones and start pounding away at their keyboards in silence. I feel like a bit of a spare part as they type all around me, frowning at their screens in total concentration. I’m too nervous even to disturb them to see if they want coffees or teas.

Luckily, after a few minutes of this, Bishi comes back into the writers’ nook. ‘The writers’ meeting is this afternoon,’ she tells me, over the clack-clack-clack of their keyboards. ‘They’re preparing their pitches for that. You’ll sit in on that, of course. But in the meantime, I’ve a few other things you could do, if you wouldn’t mind . . .’

‘Of course!’

It turns out to be all pretty standard, intern-y stuff. I follow Bishi through to another part of the office and fill out some forms so I can get my expenses paid at the end of every week. Then I spend the rest of the day doing about six lorry-loads of photocopying and scanning, taking coffee and tea orders and sorting through the applications for tickets to Thursday’s live show. It’s all so basic that at some point the thrumming anxiety in my chest even goes away.

That is, until Bishi tells me it’s time for the writers’ meeting.

I file into the little room in the corner of the nook, along with the others. I don’t know why I’m so nervous – clearly, I’m not expected to say anything on my first day. I guess it’s just that I’ve spent most of my adult life reading about writers’ rooms and now here I am, actually in one. It’s beyond surreal.

On the walls of the room there are dozens of Post-it notes of various colours. I squint at a few as I walk in. They seem to indicate sketches and monologues and interviews: the component parts of the show.

Everyone sits down, the writers all clutching notepads or sheets of paper that I guess contain their pitches for Thursday’s episode. They’re all talking and joking with each other – but there’s a crackly nervousness that seems to underpin it all. Talia sits opposite me and flashes me a reassuring smile. I’m so grateful for it that I almost well up. She notices me looking at a photo on the wall behind her, pinned next to all the Post-it notes. A black-and-white shot of the singer Lina.

‘She’s this week’s guest host,’ Talia says, raising her eyebrows.

I raise mine back. Lina is – to quote Mica – ‘a Massive Fucking Deal’. She’s a ridiculously talented nineteen-year-old who got famous on TikTok about a year ago. Since then she’s become one of the country’s biggest pop stars. She supported Billie Eilish on tour and is rumoured to be dating some famous rapper. She’s huge. And she is going to be here, in this office, later this week.

Nate is the last to come into the room. He closes the door behind him and stands in front of the whiteboard, juggling a Sharpie from hand to hand. ‘OK, OK, OK,’ he says, and the chatter subsides as everyone turns to look at him. ‘So, before we get into new stuff, have we got anything left over from last week?’

‘My scientists sketch,’ says Rich, who’s tall and stocky, his face pretty much obscured by a mop of curly black hair and a thick beard.

‘Remind me?’ Nate says, pacing in front of the whiteboard.

‘A press conference thing,’ Rich says. ‘A group of egotistical scientists announcing the discovery of an “I” in team.’

There are a few snorts of laughter – including from me. But Nate makes a face to show he isn’t impressed. ‘It’s like . . . It works as an Onion-type headline. “Egotistical scientists discover ‘I’ in team”. But is it going to work as a sketch?’

‘I can see it,’ Talia says. ‘They announce the discovery and then start fighting among themselves about which one of them actually discovered it.’

There’s more laughter. ‘“Me, me, I did!” “No, me!”’ Noah starts wrestling with invisible fellow scientists, and everyone cracks up again. Noah is the only writer on the team who’s also a performer. As well as acting on Punching Up, he’s a pretty successful stand-up. His stuff is good – mainly outrageous stories about extremely cringe Grindr dates he’s been on.

‘I think it works as a sketch,’ says Anna, who’s small and blonde with wire-framed glasses. ‘It’s funny.’

Nate pulls another face. ‘It’s . . . funny in the room.’

I have no idea what that means, and my face must show it, because Talia smiles at me and says, ‘That’s what we call something that makes us all laugh in here but might not actually work on the show. It’s “funny in the room”.’

‘Rich is the king of it.’ Nate smirks. ‘He’s only capable of making us lot laugh – no one else.’

‘That’s the only reason we keep him around.’ Noah grins.

Rich pouts, mock-offended, and then flicks his empty plastic water bottle at Noah. It bounces harmlessly off Noah’s forehead with a satisfyingly slapstick ‘plonk’ that makes everyone – Noah included – laugh even harder.

‘Was that funny in the room?’ Rich demands over the uproar.

‘That was hilarious in the room,’ Noah shoots back. ‘You should focus on the water-bottle material.’

‘Yeah, scrap the scientist thing,’ Talia chuckles. ‘Let’s just have Lina flicking empty water bottles at Noah’s head.’

I watch as they all carry on laughing and yelling and trading zingers. Funny in the room. It’s meant as a put-down. But to me, the idea of just making these six people laugh within these four walls would be a dream come true.