31. Nell
31
NELL
When the house lights come up an hour later, I am still trying to figure out what just happened.
All around us, people are standing, applauding and cheering. On stage, Jed and the actors are still bowing and waving. And down behind the cameras, Nate and the rest of the writers are fist-bumping and high-fiving, congratulating each other on a show well done. I blink.
Did . . . did that actually happen? Or did I just imagine the whole thing?
I’m peering at the tiny screen above us, which is showing the rolling credits. As soon as the ‘WRITERS’ column flashes up, my heart skips. But no. Nothing. No ‘ADDITIONAL MATERIAL’ section. No mention of my name at all.
But that was definitely my sketch they just performed.
It was the strangest feeling. Minutes after Talia’s keytar sketch brought the house down – while showcasing some pretty great mutant instruments created from the stuff Charlie and I scavenged in the cupboard – Jed came back to the stage for another skit. This was a spoof advert for his ‘latest invention’ . . . a scooter that ‘assesses emotional damage rather than physical’.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I think I actually gasped out loud, because Charlie leaned in and whispered, ‘Are you OK?’
I nodded numbly, but I was very much not OK. As the sketch had unfurled, the sense of giddy delight just got more intense. All around us, people were laughing. At my sketch! Yes, there had definitely been some tweaks made – most of the dialogue from the document I sent Nate had been tinkered with or taken out. But the premise was 100 per cent mine. My head swam as I realised Nate must have been kidding – pretending the sketch hadn’t made the cut so it made it all the more surprising when I saw it on stage! It was more than ‘funny in the room’. It was just . . . funny.
For the rest of the show I just clock-watched. Waiting with bated breath for the credits to roll. The idea of seeing my name up there . . . I was so close to messaging Chlo or Mica or Mum to tell them to tune in just to see ‘NELL BARTON’ on the screen, next to ‘TALIA JOSKI-JETHI’ and ‘NATE PRITCHARD’.
Thank bloody God I didn’t.
‘Nell? You all right?’ Charlie is staring at me with a concerned frown on his face.
‘Mm? Yeah. Fine.’ I blink and look around. Half the audience has gone.
‘Good show, wasn’t it?’ Charlie says. ‘Jed’s a way better actor than I expected.’
I just nod and glance at the writers down by the stage. Nate has his arm around Rich – he’s whispering something in his ear while Rich guffaws like a hyena. Weird to think that just two days ago Nate was slagging him off to me in that pub.
I suddenly wonder whether I should run down there and confront him. Ask why he didn’t even bother crediting me. I have no idea if the other writers even know the scooter sketch came from me. But then I remember what Nate said by the coffee machine yesterday. The thing about the writers’ room being a ‘melting pot’ of ideas. Everyone’s suggestions bouncing off each other, intermingling. I’ve been in that room enough now to know that every sketch is a group effort. It doesn’t matter who lit the initial spark – everyone is involved in fanning the flames.
Maybe this is just how it works in comedy. No egos – the team is bigger than the individual. I guess you have to graft a bit before you get your name in the credits. But still – I threw an idea into the ‘melting pot’, and it was actually served up. That’s pretty massive.
Charlie is still looking at me with his brow wrinkled. ‘You sure you’re OK? You look a bit pale.’
I nod, resolving to see this whole thing as very much a win. Because it is. ‘Yup. Fine, Francombe. All good.’
‘OK, cool.’ He grins and stands up. ‘Shall we head to this bar then?’
This ‘interns event’ was billed as a networking thing – Bishi’s email was full of corporate fluff about ‘the chance to connect and exchange ideas with like-minded individuals at similar stages in their career trajectory’, or some such crap.
So, to be honest, I was expecting a pretty dreary evening of small talk over paper cups of warm white wine. But what we actually walk into is more like a circus.
The whole first floor of the uber-swanky local wine bar has been rented out by Dust in Sunlight Media – the company that produces Punching Up, among tons of other shows – and the place is absolutely packed. A DJ is in the corner by the entrance, pumping out ear-splitting RB, and there’s a ‘Negroni Station’ draped in fairy lights behind him, being manned by a man and woman who must be professional models. In among all this are flocks of equally ethereally beautiful waiting staff carrying trays full of champagne flutes, plus a literal magician, in a black tux, weaving his way in and out of the crowd, performing card tricks. I also spot a vending machine that appears to be serving pizza by the slice, and a huge, brightly coloured photo booth with a set of ‘hilarious’ props outside it.
‘We should have brought the stilts,’ Charlie murmurs as we gaze around. I laugh as a waiter with an Hercule Poirot moustache glides by, offering us some miniature hamburgers. Charlie grabs two and thanks the waiter, but I hesitate before I take one.
‘Is this stuff all free?’ I wonder aloud. I’m suddenly very concerned about my rapidly shrinking bank balance. Even though I’m paying mates’ rates to Chloe and Mica, a fortnight in London has already blitzed through most of my savings.
‘Yeah, it’s all free.’ The waiter nods. ‘Free drinks too.’
‘Nice one.’ Charlie takes two more tiny burgers and hands them to me. ‘In that case . . . negroni?’
We weave through the crowd towards the Negroni Station, where Charlie orders two cocktails. The drinks come with a golf-ball-sized ice cube bobbing in the centre, and they are – I realise as I take a sip – ridiculously strong.
‘So, are we expected to, like . . . mingle?’ I shout at Charlie over the music.
He shrugs. ‘We can if you want.’
‘Definitely not,’ I say firmly. ‘I hate mingling. I’d say it’s my least favourite activity.’
He laughs. ‘What do you do at parties then?’
‘Just stand next to people I know.’
He moves closer and nudges my elbow. ‘Happy to be of service.’ I feel my heart dip as he grins at me. Oh God. I take another sip of negroni and try not to wince at the taste.
‘I’m actually a great mingler,’ Charlie says. ‘I love a mingle. I can mingle for both of us if you want.’ He nods across the bar to where the magician has just finished a trick and appears to be scoping the room for new victims. ‘Here, the magician’s looking at us. Shall I get him over and we can mingle with him?’
I whack Charlie’s hand down as he begins to raise it. ‘Oh God, please don’t. Maybe if we stand very still, he won’t see us.’
‘He’s not a T.rex, Nell.’
That makes me splutter into my cocktail. When I regain my composure Charlie is still smiling at me, his blue-green eyes twinkling, looking very pleased indeed at having made me laugh so hard.
‘So, you don’t like mingling, you don’t like magic . . .’ He sighs mock-dramatically. ‘What do you like?’
‘I like loads of stuff,’ I say, feeling the alcohol swim to my head.
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
The bar is getting crowded now, and we have to squeeze more closely together to make room for other people. I feel Charlie’s leg brush mine and, for one fleeting second, I wish we were back in that props cupboard, just the two of us. I hold his gaze, and as his smile widens to reveal those two perfectly circular dimples, I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing too.
‘Getting quite rowdy in here,’ he says, raising his eyebrows. ‘We could head outside for a bit if you want?’
My heart thumps. I don’t know if it’s the negroni, or the dimples, or the buzz of seeing my sketch performed – possibly all three – but I suddenly very much want to go outside with Charlie Francombe.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Good idea.’
Charlie grins. My stomach flips. And then –
‘Hey! Mug boy!’
Suddenly, there is a girl beside him at the bar, poking him in the ribs with a blood-red fingernail. She’s wearing a turquoise off-the-shoulder top, and she is tall, slim, blonde and beautiful. Very beautiful.
Did she say ‘mug boy’? Is she confusing him with someone else? Please let her be confusing him with someone else.
Charlie’s mouth hangs open in surprise. His eyes flit back and forth between me and the girl, as if his gaze can’t decide who to settle on. Finally, it settles on her. ‘Oh . . . hey! Mug girl!’ he says.
I feel something deflate inside me, like air being let out of a balloon.
‘I was wondering when I’d bump into you again,’ the girl says, extending her hand towards Charlie. ‘We never properly introduced ourselves. I’m Daphne.’
‘Charlie,’ says Charlie, shaking her hand. He turns to me, his cheeks flushed and his eyes flashing. He looks vaguely panicked. ‘We met in the office kitchen,’ he explains over the music. ‘She told me not to use her boss’s mug!’
Daphne chuckles and nods. I have no idea what to do with this information, so I just staple on a smile and say, ‘Oh! Right! Cool!’
‘Nell and I are both interns on Punching Up,’ Charlie tells Daphne.
‘Oh my God, I love that show!’ Daphne gushes. ‘So funny. Hey – that’s where you used to work, right, Clara?’
It’s only then that I realise there’s another girl standing beside Daphne. She looks a tiny bit older than us, with short brown hair and tortoiseshell glasses. ‘Yup. I did the internship a couple of years ago,’ she says.
‘Oh wow, nice to meet you,’ I say, braving another gulp of negroni. I’m having quite a hard time adjusting to this sudden U-turn. Part of my brain was already busy concocting various versions of what might happen outside with Charlie – so making small talk with strangers is proving to be quite the gear shift.
More people are crowding around the bar now, and we all move round to make space. Daphne turns fully towards Charlie, gifting me an excellent view of her impossibly tanned and toned back. Over the wall-shaking music I can hear her telling him about her marketing internship on another show.
I feel disappointment tugging at me, hard, but I don’t want to be rude to Clara. I lean in and ask, ‘So, did you enjoy the internship?’
She nods. ‘Oh yeah, loved it. And it was such good preparation for the job I’m doing now.’
‘What do you do?’ I ask, trying not to notice that Daphne has just put her hand on Charlie’s forearm.
‘I’m at the BBC. I’m a junior producer on a few of the Radio 4 comedy shows.’
‘Wow, that’s awesome.’
‘Yeah, I’m really lucky.’ She glances over at Charlie. ‘Hey, I didn’t know they were taking two interns on the writing team these days.’
Charlie is nodding enthusiastically at something Daphne is saying. The music is so loud she’s speaking almost directly into his ear. I take another large sip of my cocktail and look away. ‘They don’t normally,’ I tell Clara. ‘This year’s just . . . special, I guess.’
‘Are you enjoying it?’ she asks.
‘Yeah, I’m having so much fun. The team are so nice.’
‘Mm-hm.’ Clara nods and takes a sip of her champagne. ‘Nate Pritchard’s still the head writer there, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Are you . . .’ She pauses. ‘Do you spend much time with him?’
‘Um, kind of.’ Clara just nods and takes another sip of her drink, so I add, ‘Why d’you ask?’
‘No, no reason.’ She fiddles with her necklace. ‘He’d just been made head writer when I started my internship, that’s all. As I remember, he’s quite –’ She breaks off, searching for the right word. ‘Full on.’
‘Oh. Yeah, I guess so.’ Nate does have a fairly manic air about him, but I’ve always assumed that’s just the stress of his job. ‘He seems cool though,’ I say.
Clara finishes her drink and nods. ‘Oh yeah, no, he is. He is.’
The idea suddenly strikes me to tell her about the thing with my scooter sketch. Maybe she’ll have some insight into whether it’s normal to not get credited for an idea – maybe the same thing even happened to her while she was at Punching Up. But before I can ask, she looks behind me and raises a hand in greeting.
‘Nell, I’m so sorry – I’ve just spotted someone I haven’t seen in ages.’
‘No worries!’ I say. ‘Go for it – it was great to meet you.’
‘You too. Good luck with everything.’
I watch her walk off and hug another girl who’s standing by the pizza vending machine. The swell around the bar has doubled, and I’ve now been shifted so far away from Charlie and Daphne that it will definitely be awkward to sidle back over and rejoin them. Plus, their conversation is looking very . . . cosy.
Daphne is leaning right into him. He’s talking animatedly about something or other, and her eyes sparkle as she listens. He wasn’t lying about being a good ‘mingler’. She throws her head back, laughing at something he says, and I notice her lay her hand gently on his bicep.
Wow. She’s a fast worker.
The bitchiness of the thought surprises me even as it occurs. What do I care if some random girl is hitting on Charlie Francombe? I don’t care.
For some reason, my brain decides to replay that moment in the props cupboard yesterday, when Charlie’s T-shirt rode up as he wiped his forehead. I feel light-headed suddenly. Must be the negroni. I lay my still-half-full glass on the bar and glance around for anyone I know. But there’s no one.
I take a deep breath and step away from the bar. I’m not keen on the idea of wandering around on my own like a lemon, but bizarrely, I’m even less keen on watching Charlie Francombe flirt with another girl.