Chapter Six
INT: ANNIE AND ROO’S HOUSE / INT: NORTHSIDE OFFICES
‘I thought you’d be all comfy in your yoga pants by now,’ I say. Roo basically has two fashion modes – retro witchy glamour or comfortable loungewear – and nothing in between. ‘Did the breakfast run very, very late?’
‘I was doing some online readings this afternoon,’ says Roo. ‘I can’t do that in a cardigan. They’d be disappointed.’
‘You look amazing,’ I tell her honestly. ‘How did the event go?’
‘Well, I got a good breakfast,’ says Roo. ‘And then the afternoon clients were all regulars, so that was grand.’
Roo has quite a few regular clients, living all over the world, who consult her for weekly readings. Her mother, who doesn’t approve of Roo’s career, loves to remind her that if she hadn’t dropped out of her postgrad, she could be working as a professional psychologist now.
‘You’re wasting that Trinity psychology degree!’ she wails, to which Roo always replies that she’s making great use of it as a tarot reader and charging her clients almost as much as she would if she’d finished her postgrad.
‘So you didn’t have to give anyone The Talk?’ I say.
‘Not today, thank God,’ says Roo. ‘You know, if you’d told me a few years ago that I’d have to keep telling potential clients I actually believe in vaccines and modern medicine, I’d never have believed you. Anyway, how about you? How was the scary new office?’
‘I had lunch with two of the other writers,’ I say. ‘They were really nice.’
‘So they don’t all hate you,’ says Roo. ‘And how was his highness?’
I think about this for a moment. ‘We didn’t kill each other.’
Actually, the rest of the day went pretty peacefully as far as Art was concerned. Yes, when my timer went off around half past three he growled, ‘McDermott, if that fucking chicken chirps one more time I’ll wring its neck.’ But I couldn’t blame him for that.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m not used to working in a room with other people.’
‘That’s blatantly obvious,’ muttered Art.
Which wasn’t exactly polite but, in retrospect, it was pretty bad of me to let that alarm keep going off all day. I’m impressed he’d lasted until late afternoon before saying something.
Tomorrow, I vow, I will be the ideal officemate.
I feel quite optimistic when I walk into the television building the next day. There are two younger women waiting for the lift; I recognise one of them from the meeting on Monday. She recognises me too, because she says, ‘You’re one of the new writers, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I’m Annie,’ I say cautiously. Is this another person who’s been poisoned against me by Bernard?
But the girl smiles and says, ‘I’m Róisín! I’m the researcher.’
‘Oh yes, of course!’ I remember her explaining that Paddy’s mysterious coma was technically possible from a medical perspective but that we should keep the details vague in the scripts.
‘I’m an expert on brain injuries this week,’ says Róisín. ‘Last month I was an expert on how to get an alcohol licence. And before that it was wills. Did you know that lawyers don’t do that whole “reading of the will” thing in Ireland?’
‘I did not,’ I say. ‘You really do learn something new every day in this job.’ I turn to the other girl. ‘What do you work on?’
‘I’m Lainey,’ says the other girl. ‘I’m a production assistant.’
They both look so young and fresh-faced that I feel a million years old. I feel even older when I hear myself say, ‘How do you like it at Northside?’
Lainey and Róisín look at each other and then Lainey says, ‘Most people here are great.’
‘Yeah,’ says Róisín as the lift doors open.
IBC Radio 2 is playing in the lift and as we walk in the DJ says, ‘He’s just announced his first solo show in two years, next summer in Malahide Castle. This is Dublin’s own megastar Tadhg Hennessy and “Another City”.’
‘I love this song,’ sighs Lainey, as the shimmering opening chords of ‘Another City’ stream from the radio.
‘How old is Tadhg Hennessy now?’ says Róisín.
‘Oh God, he must be at least forty?’ says Lainey. ‘I mean, “Winter Without You” was huge when I was in primary school.’
‘No way, forty?’ says Róisín. ‘Wow. He’s ageing pretty well.’
‘Like a fine wine,’ purrs Lainey.
‘That wife of his is a very lucky woman,’ says Róisín. ‘The things I would do to that man …’
‘I’d climb him like a tree,’ says Lainey.
Shit, I have to say something. Not least because they’ll find out eventually – it always comes out – and it’ll look really weird if they remember that I didn’t say anything now.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘I’m going to have to stop you there.’
Lainey flushes. ‘Shit, sorry, we shouldn’t talk like that in the office. That was really inappropriate.’
‘That’s not it,’ I say. ‘Tadhg Hennessy’s my brother-in-law.’
‘He’s what?’ says Lainey.
I sigh. ‘He’s married to my sister.’
‘Are you serious?’ says Róisín.
They both look so horrified I feel guilty.
‘Totally serious,’ I say apologetically.
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry!’ says Róisín, twirling one of her pink and black braids around her finger. ‘I wouldn’t have said anything if I’d known!’
‘I know you wouldn’t,’ I say. ‘It’s grand.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ says Lainey. Then she adds, ‘Though he has aged like a fine wine.’
I laugh. ‘If you say so.’
The doors of the lift open and we walk out.
‘Oh my God,’ says Róisín. ‘It’s just hit me. Your sister’s Laura McDermott. She’s written songs for, like, everyone!’
‘The first album she did with Tadhg made me cry,’ says Lainey. ‘In a good way,’ she adds hastily. ‘She’s so cool.’
‘Eh, she’s all right.’ I’m actually extremely proud of Laura, but I would never tell anyone that. Including her. ‘And she’s my much, much older sister.’ Then honesty compels me to say, ‘Well, five years older. Almost. Four and three-quarters.’
‘What’s Tadhg Hennessy actually like?’ says Lainey. ‘As a person, I mean. He seems pretty sound in interviews.’
I can’t count how many times I’ve heard this question over the last few years, ever since Laura finally got together with her former college bandmate who happens to be one of the biggest musicians in the world.
People are never satisfied with my usual answer, which is that Tadhg Hennessy is a very nice, tall and, yes, good-looking bloke with glasses who happens to be sickeningly in love with my big sister.
And besides, I always feel weird talking about Laura and her husband with people I don’t know well.
So now I say, perfectly honestly, ‘He is pretty sound.’ Then I decide to change the subject and say, ‘I’m going to get some tea before I tackle that script. Anyone want some?’
When I arrive in our office with my cup of tea, Art is already at his desk, wearing a faded button-down shirt and corduroy trousers. He turns around as I come in.
‘Morning,’ he says, gesturing towards my yellow coat and orange and turquoise dress. ‘I see it’s “dress like a sunset” day today.’
‘It is,’ I say. ‘So why did you come dressed like an eighties geography teacher?’
‘An homage to my dad,’ says Art. ‘He was an eighties geography teacher.’
‘Was he really?’ I say.
‘Well, he was a maths teacher,’ says Art. ‘But, you know. That’s geography adjacent.’
‘Is it?’
‘Anyway,’ says Art, ‘I hope that chicken thing of yours will be on silent today.’
I take a pair of noise-cancelling wireless headphones out of my bag. Roo gave them to me last night. ‘They’re Justin’s,’ she said. ‘But if he wants them, he can come back from Sligo and collect them.’
‘You won’t hear a peep,’ I tell Art.
Maybe it’s because of the headphones blocking out any noise Art might be making, but the morning doesn’t go too badly.
I decide to focus on the storyline about Sarah and Sam, two friends who are forced to become housemates while Sam’s flat is being redecorated, and when my chicken timer pings I take off my headphones and turn to face Art.
‘Did you hear that?’ I say. ‘Of course you didn’t!’
Art sighs. ‘McDermott,’ he says, ‘if you’re going to make an announcement every time your timer thing goes off, that kind of defeats the purpose of the noise-cancelling headphones.’
He has a point there. ‘Fine. I won’t say a word next time.’
He lets out what almost sounds like a snort and turns back to his laptop. I stand up and stretch my arms above my head.
‘Are you going to keep doing yoga all day?’ he says.
‘What difference does it make to you?’ I say indignantly. ‘I’m not making any noise. And you can’t see me unless you turn around!’
‘I’ll know you’re doing it,’ says Art. ‘It’s distracting.’
‘I thought you worked in Hollywood writers’ rooms,’ I say. ‘You should be used to writing in the same space as other people.’
‘Yes, but the other people in those offices were glued to their desks for hours. They didn’t start dancing around every ten minutes.’
‘It’s every twenty-five, and I’m not dancing, I’m stretching!’ I say. ‘You know, it’s very bad for you to sit down for so long.’
I return to work and recheck my episode’s pick-ups, the description of what’s happening in each storyline at the end of the episode before mine.
If – and it’s a big if right now – we can stop rubbing each other up the wrong way, it’ll be quite handy sharing an office with Art when it comes to this sort of thing.
Our episodes will air as a double bill on the evening of the anniversary, with the action taking place over the course of two days on Charlemont Street.
If we want or need to change anything in how his episode ends or mine begins, we can turn around and talk to each other.
The Sam and Sarah story starts out as an odd-couple houseshare but becomes deeper in my episode as Sarah opens up to Sam about her traumatic childhood.
It’s a meaty story and I’m so absorbed in it I’m surprised when my timer goes off at five past one and I realise it’s lunchtime.
To my shame, I feel nervous at the prospect of facing the canteen alone again.