Chapter Five #2
How the hell does he know that? I really am ridiculously transparent.
‘Didn’t you avoid it yesterday?’ I say.
‘I had to go to the post office so I grabbed some food while I was out,’ says Art.
‘Are you seriously going to live on those revolting plastic sandwiches from the machine? Because I’m telling you, you can eat them outside this office if you are.
I could still smell whatever the hell you had yesterday when I came in this morning. ’
I glower at him. ‘I like those sandwiches.’
‘I refuse to believe that. Look, Ms McDermott,’ he says, in a pitch-perfect impersonation of Bernard.
I shudder. ‘Please don’t do that.’
‘Alright then, look, McDermott,’ says Art in his normal voice. ‘You’re being ridiculous. And very egocentric if you ask me.’
‘You’re calling me egocentric?’
‘The other writers aren’t as obsessed with you as you clearly think they are! And on the off-chance they are, they’re probably more frightened of you than you are of them.’
‘There’s nothing frightening about me!’
‘I beg to differ,’ says Art. ‘Anyway, if this is the only way I can save you, and more importantly this office, from those appalling sandwiches then I’ll go with you. Come on, let’s go to the canteen right now and get some half-decent food.’
I stare at him. ‘What, like together?’
Art sighs. ‘No, I’m going to shove you through the door and run away. Yes, together!’
I think of the sandwich I had yesterday. The weird chewy bread. The fillings clumped in the middle so the corners were dry as a bone.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’
As we take the lift to the ground floor I glance at Art.
His dark hair is tousled and he clearly didn’t shave today and he’s looking off into space, and for a second he doesn’t look like my arrogant old classmate.
He doesn’t look cocky or smug or amused.
He looks a bit tired and maybe a bit sad and maybe a bit handsome …
What? No! No, no, no, no—
Before I can examine this dreadful thought further Art turns to me and says, ‘What?’
‘Nothing!’ My voice sounds squeaky and weird.
Art looks away as the doors of the lift open. When we walk into the small lobby at the back of the building he says, ‘You have your security pass, right?’ His is hanging around his neck on its hideous green lanyard.
‘It’s in my bag,’ I say. ‘I think.’ Or is it still on my desk? Or in my coat pocket?
Art looks like he’s supressing another of those big sighs. ‘You should wear it. It’s a pain in the arse if you lose these things.’
‘I have actually visited an office before,’ I say. ‘I know how passes work. But it’ll get in the way if it’s hanging off me.’
‘Well, don’t expect me to keep letting you in everywhere if you lose it.
’ Art uses his pass to open the door and we walk outside.
I have a weird feeling in my stomach as we approach the canteen, the same feeling I had yesterday, only much worse now I’ve spent a day in the Northside offices.
That old school feeling. Like twenty years of progress have been erased.
But I got through school, I remind myself. I had Roo. And here I have …
Do I have Art? Surely not.
‘All right,’ says Art, as the canteen doors automatically open before us. ‘Let’s go and face all the people who hate us.’
I freeze on the threshold. ‘I thought you said they didn’t hate us!’
‘I mean, some of them probably do,’ says Art. ‘Anyway, come on! It’ll be fun. Also, I’m starving.’
And before I can object he puts a hand on my back and gently propels me through the doors.
‘Right, I’m getting something at that sandwich bar,’ he says. ‘Coming?’
I don’t want to follow him around the canteen like a puppy but I really do want a sandwich so I say, ‘Sure.’
Once we’ve got our food I realise someone is waving at us from a table by the window. It’s Simon and the woman who made some good suggestions about my episode yesterday. What was her name? Nora, that was it.
‘Well,’ says Art, ‘it looks like some people don’t hate us after all.’
We take our trays over to the table.
‘Hello!’ says Simon. His manner is friendly and a bit shy. ‘Do you want to join us?’
‘That’d be great,’ says Art. He smiles at Simon. He has a surprisingly nice, warm smile when he’s not smirking. ‘Simon and Nora, right?’
‘That’s right,’ says Nora, pushing her pale-pink glasses up her nose. ‘And you’re Annie and Art?’
‘We are.’ Art looks at me like he’s expecting me to say something. I know I should say something. But my mind is blank and I can’t think of anything normal to say. God, what is it about this place? Why is it turning me into my twelve-year-old self?
I need to pull myself together.
‘These salads look good!’ I say brightly. Maybe too brightly?
‘They’re better than they used to be,’ says Nora. ‘They change the catering company every few years and the last one was terrible.’
‘I got food poisoning.’ Simon shudders. ‘Twice.’
‘Yikes,’ I say. ‘The vending machine sandwiches are looking pretty good right now.’
‘Never,’ says Nora dramatically, ‘eat the vending machine sandwiches.’
‘Too late,’ I say. ‘I had one yesterday.’
This is fine. I’m being normal. I’m acting like a normal, well-adjusted adult. Amn’t I?
‘So.’ Simon smiles at me. ‘How are you finding it all so far?’
‘An interesting change, thanks,’ says Art.
‘You were working over in LA, right?’ says Nora.
Is it my imagination, or does something flicker over Art’s face? But when he speaks, he sounds perfectly cheerful.
‘I was,’ he says. ‘I was living over there for, wow, almost thirteen years? Since I left college. I loved it there. I’m trying to brace myself for my first full Irish winter in years.’
‘What about you, Annie?’ says Simon.
‘Well, I’ve been in Newcastle for the last few years,’ I say, ‘and London before that. So the weather is pretty much the same. But I’m really thrilled to be writing for Northside. I was a big fan growing up.’
‘Same,’ says Simon.
‘Me too,’ says Nora.
I glance at Art to see if he’ll make his feelings about soaps clear. He coughs and doesn’t meet my eye.
‘Yup, Northside’s an Irish institution,’ he says.
Very diplomatic. He clearly learned all about flattering people over in California.
‘So,’ says Simon, ‘about the meeting yesterday. There’s something you should know.’
Now Art does meet my eyes for a moment. He turns back to Simon.
‘Oh yeah?’ he says.
‘Bernard’s a prick,’ says Nora.
I laugh. ‘I kind of got that.’
‘No,’ says Nora, ‘I mean, he’s seriously a prick. Even Simon thinks so and he likes everyone.’
‘He is a prick,’ admits Simon.
‘He’s always been bad,’ says Nora. ‘I had to go to the doctor last year because I came out in a rash, and she said it was stress related but really it was Bernard related.’
‘But he’s got much worse recently.’ Simon fiddles with a paper napkin.
‘Triona’s out for blood, and Northside’s the obvious target.
I’m sure you know the ratings haven’t been great.
Bernard feels he’s being blamed – and maybe he should be, or maybe it’s simply ’cause audiences have evolved. But he won’t accept any changes.’
‘He really, really didn’t want them to bring in a writers’ room,’ says Nora.
‘I kind of got that too,’ I say.
‘Well, yeah, he’s not exactly hiding it,’ says Nora. ‘But you should probably understand why.’
‘Okay,’ says Art.
‘The thing about Bernard,’ says Simon, ‘is that he’s always loved being in charge.’
‘And when we were all freelance, he had way more power over us,’ says Nora. ‘Even senior staff like Susan – their contracts used to be temporary. Bernard could decide whether any of us ever got hired again.’
‘He literally decided whether people could pay their rent or not,’ says Simon. ‘And he made us very, very aware of that.’
‘He fucking loved it.’ Nora scratches at her arm. ‘God, I think my rash is coming back.’
‘You need to get more of that ointment,’ says Simon.
‘But with this new regime,’ says Nora, ‘we know we’re not going to lose all future work just because Bernard’s taken against us for some random reason.
Plus senior staff like Susan will have a lot more say in how things are run.
And there’s the other stuff, like the show going on hiatus every summer from next year.
Like, obviously they’re just doing it to save IBC money, but it’ll make sure we don’t get burned out. ’
‘Right,’ says Art. ‘But that’s all good.’ He looks from Nora to Simon. ‘Isn’t it?’
Simon’s expression makes my heart sink.
‘It is,’ says Simon. ‘I mean, it could be. But Bernard’s been … well, he’s been …’ He’s ripping up the napkin now.
‘Stirring shit,’ says Nora bluntly. ‘A lot. You’ve probably guessed he wasn’t happy with the show hiring … outsiders.’
‘She means you two,’ says Simon. ‘Sorry. It’s what Bernard’s been calling you.’
‘It is,’ says Nora. ‘A few months ago he started calling the regular writers into the office and basically told us there was going to be a lot of competition for these staff jobs and we’d better show how devoted we were.’
I feel queasy. ‘You don’t mean … like, sexually, do you?’
‘God no!’ says Nora.
‘More like making us deliver multiple drafts early so he could tear them to shreds,’ says Simon. ‘Last-minute meetings.’
‘His usual manipulative bullshit,’ says Nora.
‘Then after we’d all jumped through his hoops and IBC made the job offers, he told the people who didn’t get in that of course he had wanted to hire them as staff writers but some arrogant international writers had approached the show and were insisting they get the top jobs. ’
‘But we didn’t!’ I say. ‘He rang me! I didn’t even know Northside was looking for new writers.’
‘Same here,’ says Art.
‘I did suspect Bernard was talking bollocks,’ says Nora. ‘But you can see why feelings have been running a little high.’
‘Cian Murphy’s wife didn’t make the cut,’ says Simon. ‘So he’s particularly upset.’
Well, that explains Cian blanking me this morning.
‘And Bernard’s been bitching about you newcomers in group emails for weeks now,’ says Nora. ‘Obviously, everyone knows he’s awful but, you know, their friends have lost a regular job and some of them want someone to blame. And for once they can’t blame Bernard, and he knows it.’
My heart sinks at all these revelations.
‘Morale has been in the toilet around here,’ says Simon. ‘Most of us know it’s not your fault. But you can see why you’ve become the scapegoats.’
‘Well,’ says Art, ‘thanks for the heads-up.’
‘The others will come round, you know,’ says Simon. ‘They’re a nice gang, really. We could have a word with them if you like.’
‘I think it might be best to let it all blow over,’ says Art. He looks at me. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think …’ What do I think? That I want to go back to Our Toon. That I don’t want to draw any more attention to myself here at Northside. That I’m seriously considering going home this evening and cursing Bernard.
‘I think you’re right.’ I finally take a bite of my sandwich, which has been sitting untouched on my plate throughout all this. It’s really good. I can never eat another vending machine monstrosity again.
‘And now,’ says Nora, ‘let’s talk about something that isn’t Bernard.’
‘Yes, please,’ says Simon.
‘So,’ I say, ‘how long have you both written for Northside?’
Art seems genuinely interested when Simon and Nora tell him about their writing backgrounds.
But he’s quite vague when they ask him about his recent experiences in America.
When Simon asks about the last show he worked on in LA, he says, ‘Terrible hours. This is much more civilised,’ and changes the subject.
I’ve almost finished my lunch when I spot a familiar face on the other side of the canteen and without thinking I gasp. ‘Oh my God. There’s Mozzer!’
Nora laughs. ‘The cast always sit in that section during shoot days. The rest of IBC call it Charlemont Avenue.’
I try not to gawp, but I can’t help peeking over at the table again. ‘Who’s that next to her? Is it … Ritchie?’
Simon and Nora exchange a look. ‘Yep, that’s Adam Pender,’ says Nora.
‘I take it you’re not big fans?’ says Art.
‘Ah, Adam’s grand, really,’ says Simon. ‘He’s why Ritchie’s such a popular character. And he’s a lovely guy …’
‘You’re being too nice, Adebayo,’ says Nora. ‘As usual. Adam’s a loose cannon.’
‘Nothing too terrible,’ says Simon. ‘He just doesn’t think things through.’
‘I’ll say he doesn’t,’ says Nora. ‘He can be a right little bollocks. Remember he got that huge tattoo on his arm when they were shooting his affair with Sarah and he had to wear long-sleeved shirts in bed with her for continuity?’
‘God, yeah,’ says Simon. ‘Didn’t cross his mind it could affect the shoot. That was a real pain.’
‘Plus he thinks he’s a real daredevil.’ Nora rolls her eyes. ‘TikTok has a lot to answer for.’
‘How so?’ I’m enjoying getting all this gossip.
‘He’s obsessed with stunts,’ says Nora, ‘even though he’s been told a million times that he can’t do his own in the show. The man has absolutely no balance. Or spatial awareness.’
‘Oh my God, remember when we did the story about the gym being robbed?’ says Simon.
‘How could I forget?’ Nora sighs dramatically. ‘Adam wanted to prove he could do the stunt, just to make a point.’
‘He swung himself right off the pull-up bars,’ says Simon. ‘And of course he crashed into the bench press and totally messed up his knee.’
‘He still has trouble with it now,’ says Nora. ‘Fucking eejit.’
‘But on the plus side,’ says Simon with a wry smile, ‘at least he didn’t empty his wife’s bank account and run off to Costa Rica.’
‘How was it finding somewhere to live?’ says Nora, when we’ve finished eating and started clearing our trays away. ‘You’re not renting someone’s shed, are you? Or a studio covered in mould?’
‘I was pretty lucky,’ I say. I tell her about Roo’s spare room and its many board-game shelving units.
‘What about you?’ Nora asks Art.
‘I’m staying with my mum in Drumcondra for the moment,’ he says, ‘which is handy for getting here.’
I haven’t seen him on the bus, but then he probably drives.
Buses are probably beneath him after his Hollywood years.
I do feel a surprising pang of sympathy for him, though.
Moving back in with your mother in your thirties isn’t exactly ideal.
Although maybe he’s less easily irritated by his parents than I am.
We all head back towards the television building. As we approach the door, I say, ‘I’ll get it!’ and reach into my bag for my pass.
It’s not there. Or in my pockets.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Someone else will have to let us in.’
Art gives me a meaningful look as he places his pass against the sensor and opens the door.
‘Just this once, McDermott,’ he says, after Nora and Simon have walked through ahead of us. ‘I’ll be nice to you just this once.’