The Funny Thing About Love

39. Nell

39

NELL

Hey! Are you still up for this thing tonight?

I hit ‘send’ on the email to Charlie and wait.

It’s just gone six on Tuesday – exactly the time that Daphne said the rest of the interns would be heading out for these drinks tonight. I saw Charlie in the writers’ meeting this morning, but I didn’t get the chance to ask him if he still fancies going. I cringe and suddenly wish I could retract the email – maybe he was hoping I’d forget all about it. Maybe he doesn’t want me there, playing third wheel while he cosies up with Daphne.

I stare at my inbox, willing him to reply. I can already feel the nerves thrumming in my chest. I’m not even particularly up for going to these drinks – I certainly don’t want to spend another evening watching Daphne drape herself all over Charlie. I do, however, want to know what – if anything – is going on between them. And this seems a pretty good opportunity to find out.

A second later, Charlie’s reply drops into my inbox.

I am if you are?

My nerves ratchet up a notch as I type back, Meet you downstairs in 5? He replies straight away with a thumbs up.

I switch off my computer and say goodnight to my next-desk-neighbour, Jarrod the IT guy. I’ve actually begun to bond with him a little over the past week. Our main topic of conversation is our shared love of niche snacks. I spent a very enjoyable twenty minutes this morning with Jarrod showing me a slideshow on his phone of all the obscure types of German Haribo he tasted on holiday recently. He even offered me a fistful of his BBQ Beef Hula Hoops at lunch (I politely declined).

I nip to the loo before I head down to the lobby. I stare at myself in the mirror as I faff with my hair. I look . . . OK. At a push, I suppose I look ‘nice’. I could have touched up my make-up or worn a slightly more attractive top, but let’s be honest, there isn’t really any point trying to look better than Daphne. Her genes are way more powerful than any amount of mascara I can apply.

I walk out towards the lifts, feeling annoyed at myself. Why do I even care so much about this? I’m sick of feeling so torn when it comes to Charlie Francombe. He’s slowly revealing himself to be so unlike the douchey, stuck-up nepo baby I originally pegged him for.

And there’s other stuff too. The fact that I can’t stop thinking about the moment when his T-shirt rode up in the props cupboard. That image flashes into my brain pretty regularly late at night, or in the shower in the morning. Along with images of his dimply grin and the way he blows his sandy hair out of his face whenever a lock of it flops in front of his eyes.

But then there’s also what Talia said yesterday. The writers’ assistant opening. No question about it – that is my absolute Dream Job. And if Charlie Francombe hadn’t been parachuted into this internship by his dad, it would almost certainly be mine.

I’ve spent two weeks on this show now, and I’m more convinced than ever that this is what I want to do with my life. Those rare occasions when I actually get a decent length of time in the writers’ room are beyond incredible. Suggesting jokes and hearing them all fall about laughing – it’s like an addiction; I want that feeling over and over again. And then actually seeing my scooter sketch performed live – it honestly made my head spin. It was so powerful. I want to stay at Punching Up more than I’ve wanted anything in my whole life. And Charlie Francombe is the person blocking my way.

But maybe he doesn’t even want the job. I have literally no idea. I’m beginning to realise that I don’t really know anything about him, apart from what I overheard him say to my brother. I spilled my guts to him about all sorts of things in the props cupboard, but he’s still kind of a mystery to me. He definitely doesn’t seem particularly interested in comedy or writing. Maybe I’m fretting over nothing. Maybe even if Nate does offer him the assistant job, he’ll turn it down.

Or . . . maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll do what any sane person would do if offered an incredible opportunity to work on one of the country’s most popular TV shows and grab it with both hands. Without giving me a second thought.

When all’s said and done, the simple facts are: I like Charlie Francombe and I really want this job. Those two things may end up being directly at odds with one another, but unfortunately, they’re also both true. And right now, I don’t even want to think about all the ways in which they might overlap. I just want to have my cake and eat it. And not consider the mess that might make.

I wish I could just come out and ask Charlie what he wants. But Talia’s right: in the end, the best thing I can do is keep plugging away. Keep ‘smashing it’ with ideas and sketches and whatever else Bishi gets me to do.

Like this Kay DeBlue interview tomorrow morning. I seriously need to knock that out of the park. Which, hopefully, won’t be a problem since I can recite most of her stand-up bits from memory. I spent all this afternoon compiling more research on her, tweaking my questions to get what I hope will be the funniest possible answers. I have to show Nate and Bishi and everyone else how much I want this. How much I deserve it.

Charlie is already down in the lobby as I step out of the lift. He has on a red-and-white gingham shirt and black jeans. He’s smoothing down the back of his choppy hair. He seems to have permanent bed-head – he’s constantly scuffling at it to try to tame it into place. It’s maddeningly attractive.

He turns his dimpled grin on full power as he sees me coming. ‘Hey!’

‘Hey!’ His smile melts me, and in that moment I think: Screw it. Forget about the job for tonight. Just see if anything could happen with Charlie.

But then the other lift opens behind me, and Daphne and her whole gang come spilling out.

On the short walk across the courtyard to the bar, it’s basically impossible to get near Charlie.

As soon as she comes out of the lift, Daphne marches straight towards him, and the two of them fall in step as they leave the building. As we enter the pub, I see her usher him into the booth first and then squeeze straight in next to him. I’m left perching on the edge of the booth, stuck between Lily and Sophie, the two marketing interns I walked over with.

A waiter comes and we all order drinks, and even as he walks away I’m regretting ordering a ‘large’ glass of Chardonnay – because these are very clearly not my people. They are all very loud and very posh. I even hear one of the guys – upturned collar on his Ralph Lauren polo shirt – ask Charlie where he’d ‘schooled’. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard ‘school’ used as a verb outside of period dramas. On hearing the answer, the guy slaps Charlie on the back and barks, ‘Oh, mate – did you know Claude Dempsey? Dempers is an utter legend!’

I silently thank the universe that neither Lily nor Sophie apparently has any interest in where I went to school. It’s highly unlikely either of them will have heard of Tealby Comprehensive, let alone be on nickname terms with any of the utter legends who might have gone there. Instead, I just sit here between them, nodding politely as they dissect some strategy meeting they sat in on earlier. I ask the occasional question, which they politely answer, but I still get the feeling they would prefer this to be a two-person conversation.

And the whole time I’m nodding and asking questions, I’m also stealing glances at Charlie and Daphne. They’re talking to two other guys – Ralph Lauren polo shirt and his mate – but Daphne only has eyes for Charlie. Even when speaking to the others, her legs are crossed towards him, and her shoulder is pressed against his. I even notice her grab his forearm whenever she laughs at something he says. Which is often. I mean, Charlie is funny. But he isn’t that funny. Nobody is. You don’t have to be a body-language expert to see that they’re both gagging to jump each other’s bones.

Oh well. The disappointment hits with a dull thud. But I wanted to know – and now I know. My intelligence-gathering mission is complete. There’s no reason for me to stick around like a sore thumb.

I gulp nearly half my Chardonnay down in one go and grab my bag. ‘So sorry, guys, but I’m going to have to head,’ I tell Sophie and Lily. ‘Got to be up super-early tomorrow morning.’ That is at least true: I need to be fresh for Kay DeBlue. I have to be at her publisher’s in Brixton at 8 a.m. sharp.

‘Cool, so nice talking to you,’ says Lily, shuffling closer to Sophie and continuing her conversation. ‘So, anyway, like I was saying, Paul was supposed to have sorted the PowerPoint . . .’

I step out of the booth, giving Charlie a little wave goodbye as I go, but he’s busy having his forearm gripped by a giggling Daphne.

I walk out of the bar into the fading evening light. I can feel regret nagging at me, but I refuse to let it get its claws in. After all, I’m going home to have dinner with my two best mates, and then getting up early to interview my literal hero. Really, what is there to complain about?

I set off towards the Tube, trying to summon some positivity. But within a minute or so, I hear footsteps slapping the ground behind me.

‘Hey! You’re leaving?’

Charlie is standing there, a little out of breath. My pulse stutters as I try not to smile too widely.

‘Yeah. Sorry – not really my scene in the end.’

‘Oh.’ He shuffles awkwardly on the spot. ‘Well, what are you up to now? Did you want to do something?’

I laugh. ‘Don’t worry, Francombe, you don’t have to leave just because I am.’

‘No, I know,’ he says quickly. ‘It’s not really my scene in there either to be honest.’

I raise my eyebrows. ‘Uh-huh. It looked like you were having fun.’

That came out cattier than I intended, but Charlie just shrugs and gives an awkward laugh. ‘There’s only so much ranting about Daphne’s boss I can handle . . .’

‘Ha, right.’ I feel my cheeks flush. ‘Well, erm . . . we could get a drink, or something?’