Chapter Three #2
‘We need to get more emotion out of this!’ he cries. ‘This is a huge deal! Ritchie is terrified his dad is going to die!’
And then a thought strikes me. Quite a good thought, if I say so myself.
‘What if,’ I say, ‘Ritchie imagines what Paddy’s mother would say if she were there?
What if we let him channel Ma Cusack? It would be a great way to, you know, pay homage to one of Northside’s most iconic figures on the anniversary and remind people that, even though she was driven into exile in Lanzarote by those gangsters eight years ago, Ma Cusack always has a place on Charlemont Street … ’
I can feel the energy at the table change. I catch Susan’s eye and she shakes her head, almost imperceptibly. My voice trails off.
‘It’s only an idea,’ I say.
‘Angela, or whatever your name is.’ Bernard’s voice is pure ice. ‘This anniversary should be about looking to the future. Not dragging up old characters from the past.’
‘I understand,’ I say. ‘But, you know, I don’t think it’s regressive to celebrate the show’s history on its anniversary, is it?’
Susan is definitely shaking her head now. Simon looks concerned. At the far end of the table, someone stifles a snigger.
‘I’m sure you think you know everything, coming from your big English show,’ says Bernard.
‘But you clearly have no understanding of this series. So let me make it clear to you. Northside doesn’t need Ma Cusack.
Northside needs a decent script for the actors we’re actually employing right now.
Can you remember that, Ms …’ He looks at my episode’s scene-by-scene document because obviously he genuinely can’t remember my name.
‘Ms McDermott?’ His voice drips with contempt.
‘Or is it too much for you and your over-inflated ego?’
I try not to glower at him but I can’t help it. It’s like my fourteen-year-old self has possessed my body. ‘I can remember.’
I try not to snarl at him too, but I’m not sure I quite succeed.
I don’t even bother suggesting any changes to the rest of my episode’s scenes.
Eventually, to my great relief, Bernard says, ‘Right, there’s no point in keeping this going any longer.
We’ll have a check-in meeting on Friday morning and you’d all better have your first drafts to your editors by the end of that day. ’
He slams his laptop shut and marches out, followed by Gina.
I stay seated as everyone starts to leave. I’m worried that if I pick up my laptop my hands will start shaking. Simon clearly notices something’s wrong because he pats my arm gently as he passes.
But before I have a chance to reply, he’s left the room. Maybe he doesn’t want any of his colleagues to see me talking to him.
Susan stops and says, ‘Can I have a quick word?’
Everyone else is gone now and my stomach twists as she sits down next to me. ‘Sure.’
‘I’m sorry, I know you were promised a more … collaborative writers’ room,’ she says. ‘But that’s all on hold until these anniversary scripts are done.’
‘I get it.’ And I do. But still …
‘Look,’ says Susan, ‘I know Bernard had a go at you there.’
‘Not only me,’ I said. ‘He had a go at everyone.’
‘He’s just a bit … highly strung,’ says Susan. ‘Especially at the moment. Don’t take it personally.’
‘I’ll try,’ I say. But I’m already wondering if I’ll last this trial period. I’m wondering if moving home was a huge mistake.
When I open the door of office number one, Art is sitting with his elbows on his desk and his head bowed, massaging his temples. But he sits up straight and turns to face me when I come in.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘that was fun!’
‘I can think of another few words for it.’ I put my laptop and notebook into my bag.
‘I don’t know why you’re so freaked out,’ says Art. ‘It’s only a tight deadline. You must have faced them before.’
‘It’s not just the tight deadline,’ I say. ‘It’s Bernard!’
‘I’ve met worse than Bernard,’ says Art. ‘I can handle him.’
‘Good for you,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure I can.
And didn’t you notice the other writers smirking whenever we fucked up?
They hate us for taking jobs that could have gone to their friends.
’ I hold up my phone. ‘Susan just added us both to a group chat for the entire team. I bet they’re going to send us hate mail. Or hate texts. Whatever.’
Art shrugs, seemingly unmoved. ‘We can’t do anything about that. But you know, if you can’t handle all the pressure, maybe this isn’t the job for you …’
‘Oh, don’t worry about me!’ I say. ‘I can handle the pressure. Three weeks for a final draft is absolutely nothing. I had to rewrite some of the Tony Barton murder episode of Our Toon the day it was shot!’
‘The what of our what?’ says Art.
‘It was the most-watched half hour of television in the UK last month,’ I say through gritted teeth.
But of course Art isn’t impressed.
‘Really? Good for you,’ he says, as if I’d just revealed I’d won first prize in a junior infants drawing competition.
‘So,’ I say, ‘I’m fine with the pressure. I’m not fine with, I don’t know, the vibe.’
‘Who cares about the vibe?’ says Art.
‘I do,’ I say. ‘Clearly.’
‘Look, Susan said we’ll be working in here most of the time,’ says Art. ‘Bernard will be tucked away in his own office. We won’t have to see him much outside of meetings. Just don’t bite him or anything at the next one. You looked like you might sink your teeth into his leg today.’
‘There will be no biting!’ I say. ‘Do you think I’m an actual animal?’
‘As for the other writers, they’ll come around,’ Art continues. ‘It’s not like we crossed a picket line or anything. And it’s not like any of them turned down the job so one of their mates could take it.’
Hmmm. That’s actually a good point.
‘We’ve been given these jobs because people at IBC think we’re good, right?’ says Art.
‘Bernard doesn’t seem to think we’re much good,’ I say. ‘Why the hell did he even hire us?’
‘You must have read about how much pressure they’re under to justify Northside,’ says Art. ‘IBC probably made him hire new writers to show their critics they’re turning over a new leaf.’
‘And that doesn’t bother you?’ I’m not going to admit how much being employed as a sop to IBC’s critics bothers me.
Art shrugs. ‘Why should it? I’m doing this job for the money, not artistic integrity. And IBC clearly needs to give the show a kick up the arse. So we all win.’
How is he so blasé about this?
‘Well, I hope we win,’ I say. ‘We need Northside to be a hit again. We need it to survive. It’s so important for Irish telly.’
‘No one can predict what’ll be a hit or not,’ says Art. ‘Nobody knows anything. William Goldman said that. The screenwriter,’ he adds, as if talking to a small child. ‘He wrote The Princess Bride.’
God, he really can’t help himself, can he?
‘I know who William Goldman is,’ I say. ‘I was in your film studies class. Though apparently I didn’t make much of an impression, seeing as you clearly don’t remember me.’
‘I know you were in my class,’ says Art, to my surprise.
‘Oh you do, do you?’ I say. ‘Well, this morning you acted like you’d never met me before.’
‘You did the same thing,’ he points out. ‘If you didn’t remember me I wasn’t going to make things awkward. Anyway, of course I remember you. You were the angry goth.’
I stare at him in outrage. ‘I wasn’t a goth!’
‘Are you sure? You looked like a goth.’
‘I definitely wasn’t a goth,’ I say. ‘I was witchy. There’s a big difference.’
‘If you say so,’ says Art. ‘Well, whatever you were I see you’re making up for it now.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You’re very colourful these days.’ He points at my incredibly chic outfit. ‘Look at those pantaloons.’
I gasp in genuine horror. ‘They’re not pantaloons! They’re sapphire-blue needlecord culottes.’
‘Well, they’re not very goth.’
‘Yes, because I’m not a goth and I never have been,’ I snap.
‘Anyway,’ he says, as if I were the one who had started this stupid conversation, ‘I remember us having a big argument in Fintan Donohue’s class about …’
Then his expression changes.
I feel a smile creep across my own face. ‘About what, exactly?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Art. ‘Some nonsense.’
‘I actually remember that argument very well,’ I say.
‘It was about soaps. I said they could be art, and if I recall correctly, you said they were … oh, what was it? Trash for idiots? Anti-culture? Something like that. And only people who couldn’t make proper films would end up working on them.
’ I fix him with a dazzling smile. ‘How do you feel about that now?’
I expect him to make a dismissive remark or even get all angry and defensive, but instead he looks so genuinely embarrassed I almost feel guilty as I grab my jacket and walk out of the office.
Almost.
But not quite.