Chapter One
INT: ANNIE AND ROO’S HOUSE / INT: NORTHSIDE OFFICES
I’m sitting at the kitchen table the next morning when Roo tells me that my whole world is about to come crashing down.
‘It’s not necessarily a bad thing,’ she says.
‘How,’ I say, ‘is this not a bad thing?’
I point at the tarot card Roo has drawn for me. It shows a square tower being blasted by lightning. A woman is tumbling head first towards some jagged rocks. Another woman has already been impaled by a rock. It looks, I have to say, pretty bad.
‘Have you forgotten everything we learned together?’ Roo shakes her head. ‘You’re so rusty, Annie. I’m appalled.’
Roo is doing tarot readings at a lifestyle brand launch in a few hours and she’s already in full glam. She slept in heatless silk rollers last night so her hair is in tumbling waves, and she’s wearing a translucent black dress with a full skirt and fitted waist.
‘Go on then,’ I say. ‘Remind me.’
‘Don’t you remember the Tower can mean creative destruction?’ says Roo. ‘Rip it up and start again, and all that?’
‘Oh yeah,’ I say. ‘Sorry. You’re right, I am a bit rusty.’
When we were in school, Roo and I were both obsessed with tarot and all things witchy, but I can’t remember when I last used my tarot deck.
Roo, however, to everyone’s surprise (including her own), has gone on to make a successful career with hers.
You might even have seen one of her TikTok or Instagram videos.
‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘your world is already crashing down. You don’t live in England anymore. You don’t write for Our Toon anymore. Your old life has been hit by lightning!’
‘So I’m the lightning in this situation?’
‘You’re the one shaking things up,’ says Roo. ‘And now you’re going to do the same at Northside. You’re starting a whole new adventure!’
‘I suppose I am,’ I admit. ‘Right.’ I drain the last of my coffee. ‘I guess I’d better go and start building my new tower. How do I look?’
I want to start this job in the most ‘me’ outfit possible, which means I’m wearing a pink and orange blouse with vivid blue wide-legged trousers.
My dark brown hair is a mass of thick, bouncy curls.
My witchy little teenage self, who straightened her hair and only wore black, would have hated this look.
‘You’ll dazzle everyone in IBC,’ says Roo. ‘And I really do mean dazzle. That shirt is searing my retinas.’
‘At least I’m not dressed like a haunted Victorian doll,’ I say.
‘I’ve never dressed like a haunted Victorian doll in my life,’ says Roo, which is a total lie. ‘And I’ll have you know this is an exact copy of an outfit Veronica Lake wears in I Married a Witch.’
‘I know that,’ I say. ‘And I love it. I haven’t totally gone to the dark side, you know.
I mean, the bright side.’ I take a deep breath.
I’ve been on a Northside high ever since I accepted the job offer, but now that the day has actually come, I’m starting to feel nervous.
‘It’ll be fine, won’t it? Working with a new team?
I mean, I’m sure they’ll be nice. Susan seemed pretty cool. ’
‘They’ll be brilliant,’ says Roo. ‘And you know what we’ll do if they’re not?’
‘Curse ’em?’ I say.
‘Curse ’em,’ says Roo. And regardless of her perfectly arranged hair and make-up and exquisite dress, she pulls me to her and hugs me fiercely.
I walk towards Drumcondra Road where the bus will take me straight out to the IBC campus in Santry.
I’m relieved that the commute isn’t too awful.
I’m even more relieved that I’ve been able to move in with Roo.
I was delighted when she suggested it. Although I feel a bit guilty being so happy, seeing as the reason she was able to make the offer is that she and her boyfriend Justin broke up three months ago and I took the room in their tiny house that was previously used to store his board-game collection.
When they moved in together Justin insisted he needed a whole room for all his games so they got a two-bedroom place.
Roo was worried about the cost but he told her she was being selfish.
Then a year later he left her for a woman from Sligo he met at some games convention.
Really, it’s a mystery how Roo stayed with that man for as long as she did.
It’s nice being back in Dublin again, I think as I get on the bus.
Nice, but weird. When I last lived here full-time I was doing my master’s.
I was living with my parents, with no money or proper responsibilities.
I haven’t quite figured out how I’m going to live here as a working adult yet.
But after all, I’ve only been back for a week. I’ve got plenty of time for all that.
The traffic isn’t too bad for rush hour and half an hour later I’m getting off the bus outside the IBC campus. This is it, I think as I approach the gates. It’s actually real. My new job.
My new life.
And suddenly I’m twelve years old again, walking through the school gates during my first few weeks of secondary school before I became friends with Roo, aware that I’ll be spending lunchtime on my own, sitting out by the playing fields because I don’t have anyone to sit with in my class.
Suddenly I’m afraid I’ll be like I was back then.
I won’t know how to be myself with my new workmates, so either I won’t say anything at all or else I’ll say the wrong thing and whatever I do, people will think I’m weird …
A knot is forming in my stomach. My chest feels tight and my breathing starts to quicken. Everything around me looks slightly off …
No. No, I am not going to let my stupid brain spoil the first day of my dream job.
I force myself to breathe deeply. I keep walking up the drive and try to remember the grounding techniques I learned from my therapist years ago.
Name three things I can hear. Three physical sensations. Three things I can smell.
I take another deep breath, and another, and gradually I start to feel better.
Secondary school was a long, long time ago.
It was awful but I got through it – thanks to Roo.
And when I got to college, things got a lot better.
I made friends. I finally felt able to be myself with people besides Roo and my immediate family.
But still, but still. Whenever I start a new project at a new place, those old feelings come creeping back.
Well, I’m not going to let them creep any further.
This is my dream job! It’s going to be great!
I puff up my curls to make them even bigger and stride confidently through the automatic doors of the IBC Television production building.
A few moments after I give my name to the receptionist and sign the register, an internal door slides open and Susan Halloran walks out.
‘Annie!’ she says. ‘Welcome to Northside! Come this way.’
I’m expecting to be brought to my new office, but Susan leads me straight through the building, past what’s clearly the canteen and out to the lot, where the exterior shots of Northside are filmed.
‘Here we are,’ she says. ‘Charlemont Street.’
For a moment I can’t say anything.
I might have spent years working on soaps, I might have visited the sets of several television shows, but being on Charlemont Street itself …
this is different. The houses and the shops and the pub and the café feel as familiar to me as the streets where I grew up.
There’s Donnelly’s pub, where the iconic matriarch Ma Cusack famously outwitted the organised crime gang who took her hostage.
There’s the lamppost outside the pub, the spot where Ma Cusack’s beloved husband was murdered, and where her granddaughter Rosie was born.
There’s Karyn’s Kafé, and Mozzer McCaul’s house with its White Lady ornament in the window, and there’s the fancy bistro (that wasn’t there in the old days) and the music shop and—
‘Annie?’ says Susan, and I realise she’s been talking to me.
I pull myself together. ‘Sorry! It’s just … I grew up watching Northside so it’s kind of mad being here.’
‘It hits a lot of people the same way,’ Susan says with a smile.
As we turn to go back to the IBC Television building, I spot a thin blonde woman in her forties lighting a cigarette on the edge of the lot. She takes a long drag and I can see her shoulders relax.
‘Hi, Gina!’ says Susan. ‘I didn’t know you smoked.’
The blonde woman starts and turns to face us. ‘Just occasionally.’ She looks embarrassed.
‘Gina’s Bernard’s assistant,’ Susan says. ‘Gina, this is Annie, one of our new hires. I was showing her the lot.’
‘Hello,’ says Gina.
‘Hi!’ I smile in what I hope is a friendly fashion. ‘I’m so excited about the new job.’
‘Well, it’s a big responsibility, writing for Northside,’ says Gina. She nods towards the lot. ‘A very big responsibility. This place means a lot to the whole team. Especially Bernard.’
I’m touched by her serious tone. ‘It means a lot to me too.’
‘Right!’ says Susan. ‘I’d better show Annie her office.’
The IBC Television building is a sprawling 1970s affair, and I follow Susan up a flight of stairs, down a corridor and through a huge open-plan office. It’s as grimly industrial as the offices of Our Toon.
‘We used to be in a smaller space downstairs but we’ve got this whole floor now,’ says Susan. ‘So we have room for the staff writers’ offices.’
‘Wow!’ I say. ‘IBC must really believe in Northside.’
I’ve been reading up about IBC’s new head of drama, Triona Clancy – or Triona ‘The Scythe’ Clancy to give her her full name.
It’s common knowledge that, like many soaps, Northside has been in trouble for a while.
The days of entire families gathering around the telly three nights a week to watch the residents of a fictional Dublin street are long gone, and there’s been a lot of grumbling in the Irish media from commentators and even cabinet politicians about how much the public broadcaster spends on the show.
But IBC, or at least Triona Clancy, must have some faith in it if they’re creating this new writers’ room and giving us this big office.
And then Susan says, ‘Well, we only have it because they moved IBC Digital to the shiny new building by the gates, so Triona let us have their old floor.’
Okay, maybe Triona Clancy doesn’t have a lot of faith in Northside. Maybe she’s just throwing the show one last bone before pulling the plug.
‘You got your story and scene-by-scene documents, right?’ says Susan. ‘I’m sorry everything’s so rushed in this block. It’s not ideal for your first script. I know it’s a lot to take in, but I’m sure you can handle it.’
‘Yeah, I got everything,’ I say. ‘And it’s fine, I’m used to the whole process. It was basically the same in Our Toon.’
Until I started working on soaps, I didn’t know that the scriptwriters don’t make up the stories; they’re created by a separate team who plan out each storyline in fortnightly blocks.
The story team create the ‘beats’ of the stories – the plot points and character developments that must be depicted in the scripts.
A beat can be something as dramatic as a character finding out they’re dying or as ordinary as them telling a friend they’re starting a new dance class (Tony Barton learning to salsa had been a very popular story in Our Toon).
Last week I was sent my first episode’s scene-by-scene document, which is pretty much what the name suggests – a description of every scene, in the order in which they’ll appear on screen.
Though, as I know from experience, a lot can change between the scene-by-scene and the script that makes it onto the TV.
A few people look up curiously from their desks as we walk by and I try to look professional, friendly and confident, which is a tall order first thing in the morning. Along one side of the room is a long row of double-glazed smoked-glass doors with gold numbers on them.
‘Those are the staff writers’ offices,’ says Susan. ‘You and your officemate are in number one. The corner office!’
‘Fancy!’ I say.
‘I’m not sure if he’s in yet,’ says Susan as she opens the door and reveals a small, drab room with two desks, a couch and a large plastic pot plant in one corner. ‘Ah, he is! Art, this is Annie! You’re going to be roommates.’
Oh God. It can’t be. Can it? Oh for fuck’s sake, it actually is …
My heart sinks.
Because sitting on one of the desks – the one closest to the windows, I notice – and looking up from his phone is a man around my age wearing a navy shirt. A familiar man. Possibly the most annoying man I’ve ever met in my entire life.
Art bloody Sullivan.