Chapter Five
INT: NORTHSIDE OFFICES / INT: IBC CANTEEN
I’d like to see Art Sullivan accuse me of being a goth in this outfit.
As I enter the IBC Television building I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass sliding doors, a colourful vision in a hot-pink skirt, a top with an orange and electric-blue art deco pattern and a bright-yellow coat.
I hope my vivid clothes will make me feel more energised, because I didn’t sleep well last night.
I woke up at around four and lay awake for hours, my stomach churning, my mind going through all the terrible things that might happen now I have to write a shooting script in no time at all for a boss who clearly hates me.
I kept telling myself that anything you think at four in the morning isn’t real, but the thing is, at four in the morning everything feels real.
Still, surely today can’t possibly be as bad as yesterday. I can avoid Bernard. I can ignore Art Sullivan if he gets too obnoxious. I can make friendly overtures to my new colleagues. It’ll be fine. I’m sure it’ll be fine.
I’m still telling myself this when I step out of the lift and almost bump into Art. He’s carrying a cup of coffee, and his clothes – a cream jumper with navy stripes and rolled-up sleeves paired with navy trousers – couldn’t be more different from my own. All he needs is a beret and a baguette.
‘Morning.’ His tone is wary, as if he’s expecting me to growl at him.
I’m determined not to feed his apparent belief that I’m literally feral so I say ‘Morning!’ as chirpily as I can. Then I smile in what I hope is a friendly manner but clearly isn’t because Art looks slightly startled. I wish I could turn around and get back in the lift.
But that’s not an option, so we both start walking towards our office. Neither of us says anything for a moment and then Art says, ‘Did you make a bet on how many colours you could fit into one outfit?’
‘Yes, and I won,’ I say. ‘Did you just enter a French fisherman lookalike competition?’
‘Yes, and I lost,’ says Art. ‘They said I looked far too cool.’
Against my will, I almost laugh but luckily – or not – Bernard suddenly emerges from a door on our left.
‘Ah, Ms McDermott.’ His voice is full of loathing. Well, he’s remembered my name. Or at least my surname. ‘Mr Sullivan. I hope you’re going to do better work today than you did yesterday.’
And before we can reply, he stalks off.
Art and I exchange a look of what might almost be called complicity and keep walking.
‘I wonder which of us he hates most,’ says Art thoughtfully. ‘I think it might be me.’
‘Well, you did basically call him a piece of shit yesterday,’ I say. ‘So yeah, probably.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ says Art.
‘I wish I’d stood up to him during the meeting,’ I say. ‘I just sat there silently and let him insult everyone. Including me.’
‘Oh, I don’t think you needed to say anything,’ says Art, opening the door of our office. ‘Not the way you were glaring at him.’
Once I’m sitting at my desk I take another deep breath and open my laptop.
This is it. My very first Northside script.
And yes, ideally I’d have months to work on it, not three weeks.
But still! This is a big deal! Susan explained that we write on an online platform so I log in and find my episode.
Technically you can access everyone’s scripts there but it doesn’t feel right to peek at other people’s works in progress.
No writer wants anyone looking at their script before it’s ready to be shared.
I’ve decided to tackle my episode storyline by storyline.
I swear by the pomodoro technique, where you work in twenty-five-minute bursts and then take a break, so I set a timer on my laptop and turn my attention to Mozzer McCaul’s scenes.
I feel a thrill of pure excitement. This is Maureen ‘Mozzer’ McCaul!
The Mozzer McCaul! And I’m deciding what she’s going to say!
I have a flashback to watching Northside when I was fourteen, seeing Mozzer tear strips off the local kids who were bullying the young Amanda. Those little brats never went near Amanda again after they encountered Mozzer’s wrath. It was one of the most cathartic things I’d ever seen on telly.
Despite everything, I’m so happy I took this job.
Mozzer’s story is about her reconnecting with an old flame.
The first scene is set in the shop, and I start it with a thoughtful Mozzer browsing the biscuit aisle.
I try to think of a perfect opening line for her conversation with her friend Indira.
Maybe something funny about how her old flame Frank used to love custard creams? Or maybe …
The line has almost come to me when Art sighs noisily. I ignore him. No, not custard creams. Something else …
Art sighs again, even louder this time. Then he coughs. And that perfect line slips out of my mind. God, how can I get work done with him huffing and puffing away behind me?
‘Are you okay?’ I say, turning around.
He turns and looks back at me, a faintly aggrieved expression on his face. ‘I’m fine! Trying to work.’
‘It’s just you were sighing,’ I say.
‘No I wasn’t,’ says Art.
‘You definitely were,’ I say. ‘It was very loud.’
‘It must have been coming from the office next door,’ he says, which is an outrageous lie, because the soundproofing in the office is impressively good. ‘Anyway, if you’ll excuse me, I need to keep working.’
I turn back to Mozzer and Indira and the biscuits, but suddenly I’m very conscious of Art and his breathing (even his breathing is annoying) and sighing and coughing and, once or twice, swearing softly under his breath.
What was I thinking, accepting a job that required me to work in an office?
I haven’t worked in a room with other people since my story-room days in London, and I’m not sure I can actually write with someone else there. Especially him.
I take a deep breath. It’s not like it’s a crowded open plan. It’s a small private office. Just me and Art Sullivan in a small, enclosed space.
Oh God, that makes it worse …
Focus on Mozzer, Annie.
And that’s what I do. I try my best to tune out Art.
I come up with a decent opening line – not perfect, but it’ll do for now.
I bring out Indira’s warmth and Mozzer’s prickly charm.
And gradually, I put together a very, very rough version of the scene.
I’m so into the job that when my timer goes off it takes me by surprise.
How did twenty-five minutes go by so quickly?
‘What the hell is that noise?’ says Art.
I’d almost forgotten he was there. I’d also forgotten that my pomodoro timer makes a noise like an egg cracking and a chicken chirping when the twenty-five minutes are up.
‘It’s only my timer.’ I stand up and stretch.
‘You’re not going to start doing yoga in here, are you?’ Art says in alarm.
He’s not sitting at his desk anymore but on the couch next to it, hunched over his laptop.
‘No, but you probably should,’ I say. ‘Working like that can’t be good for your back. How are you getting on?’
‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Of course. It’s not exactly rocket science, is it?’
I refrain from rolling my eyes. ‘I’m going to get tea.’ Then my instincts kick in and I ask, ‘Do you want a cup?’
I simply can’t make myself a cup of tea without checking if someone else wants one. Even if that someone is Art Sullivan.
Art looks faintly surprised by the offer. ‘Um, no thanks.’
I’m relieved that no one comes into the kitchen while I’m waiting for the kettle to boil. I’m not sure I’m capable of making small talk with my new colleagues just yet. It’s funny, though, I don’t feel nervous at all around Art. Maybe it’s because I find him so irritating.
When I get back to the office he’s lying on the couch with his eyes closed. Maybe one of his ‘personal reasons’ for coming back to Dublin is that he’s seriously sick. I’ll feel very guilty about being annoyed by his coughs if he’s got TB or something.
‘Art?’
He opens his eyes. ‘What?’
‘Are you all right?’
He sits up. ‘Why do you keep asking me that?’ he says. ‘I’m grand!’
God, I’m sorry I asked. ‘Well, first you sound like you’re having an asthma attack and now I come back from the kitchen and you look like you’ve fainted.’
‘I was just thinking,’ says Art. ‘You should try it instead of constantly interrupting my train of thought.’
‘I wish I had a train of thought!’ I say. ‘It’s been booted off the rails by all the noise you’ve been making.’
I stride back to my desk. I’d better get back into this scene before Art starts doing something noisy.
But he’s pretty quiet for the rest of the morning.
Every twenty-five minutes I take a little break and stretch (Art rolls his eyes) or go to the loo or get some water.
At around half eleven I go to the canteen for an iced chai.
The food there looks pretty decent. I should brave it at lunchtime today.
That vending machine sandwich was pretty grim.
How bad could it be to face my new colleagues? How rude can they possibly be?
But when I get in the lift on the way back, one of the writers from the meeting yesterday walks out and totally blanks me when I raise my hand and say ‘Hi’.
Right. Vending machine it is.
When I return to Mozzer, Art is so engrossed in his work he doesn’t seem to notice I’m there. We ignore each other until one o’clock when Art stands up and says, ‘I think I need to see what the famous canteen has to offer.’
‘The menu actually looked pretty good when I was over there earlier,’ I say.
‘Oh right,’ says Art. ‘So I presume you’ll be sampling its wares too.’
I remember the man who ignored me at the lift. I think his name is Cian.
‘Nah, I don’t think so.’ I avoid Art’s eye. ‘The vending machine is grand.’
I can feel Art looking at me for a long moment.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he says. ‘Are you actually avoiding the canteen because you think everyone hates us?’