Chapter Seven
INT. NORTHSIDE OFFICES
I can’t wait for Art to see this outfit.
There’s a spring in my step as I stride into the IBC TV building on Thursday morning.
I’m still on a high from both my encounter with Justin and Roo’s delighted reaction to hearing about it when she got home.
(‘Once, I might have wanted to see him scrabbling around after his games,’ she said, ‘but your re-enactment will live with me forever.’) I’m even more colourful than usual in an orange and hot-pink shirt dress with matching pink tights and my yellow coat.
It’s the tights that will push him over the edge, I think gleefully. He’s going to hate them.
But when I stroll into our office, cup of coffee in hand, and say, ‘Morning!’, Art barely looks up from his desk.
‘Oh right,’ he says. ‘Morning.’
Then he turns back to his laptop and stares at the screen.
For a moment I stand there without moving. I’m shocked at how … deflated I feel. Did I actually want him to insult my tights? Is that why I wore them?
Jesus, that’s worrying.
Well, I can’t think about Art now. I sit down, fire up my laptop, put on my headphones and get to work. I’m determined to work straight through the morning but after an hour I have to get a coffee.
‘Do you want anything from the kitchen?’ I ask Art as I open our office door.
‘No thanks,’ he says, without looking up.
Well, if he doesn’t want to spout his usual nonsense today, that’s fine with me. More than fine, actually. At least I’ll get some peace and quiet.
I’m adding milk to my coffee when a tanned, buff man in his late twenties strolls into the kitchen. It’s Adam Pender, who plays Ritchie. He grins at me.
‘Howiya!’ he says cheerily. ‘Haven’t seen you here before. I’m Adam.’
‘I know.’ I smile back at him. ‘I’m Annie McDermott. I’m one of the new writers.’
‘Welcome to Northside, Annie McDermott,’ says Adam. ‘How are you finding it?’
‘Really good!’ I lie. ‘Though, you know, a bit stressful with the rewrites …’
‘Ah, yeah,’ says Adam. ‘Well, you have my sympathies, but you know, I hear I’ve got the A-story now, so it’s not all bad!’
‘Oh, yeah!’ I say.
‘Yeah, I was just in with Bernard, looking at the scene-by-scenes,’ says Adam.
‘He showed you already?’ I’m surprised. At Our Toon actors were always asking writers about upcoming storylines, but once their availability for a big story had been confirmed, the usual policy was to keep the actual details from them for as long as possible.
‘Ah, you know, it’s an emergency,’ says Adam. ‘Now I’m taking advantage of this office kitchen to get a free coffee.’ He lowers his voice. ‘Don’t tell Bernard.’
I laugh. ‘I won’t.’
Adam gets some coffee down from the press. ‘What episode are you doing again?’
‘One of the big ones,’ I say. ‘The second episode on the anniversary night.’
Adam whistles. ‘They gave you that for your first one? You must be good.’
I’m not going to admit I was as surprised as he clearly is. ‘I don’t know about that.’
‘There’ll be loads of action for me, right?’ says Adam.
I remember what Nora said about his injured knee. ‘Yeah, but don’t worry, the kidnapping scene in the hospital will be totally fine.’
‘What do you mean?’ says Adam.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘we won’t need to actually show you jumping off the fire escape.’
‘Oh right.’ Adam doesn’t look at me as he scoops coffee into the machine. Shit, maybe I shouldn’t have reminded him of his inability to do stunts. The last thing I want is to alienate the cast as well as my fellow writers.
I feel a bit awkward now. ‘So … nice meeting you! And I’ll do my best with the script.’
To my relief, Adam gives me another friendly grin. ‘Great to meet you too.’
After that encounter, my office feels even more sombre when I return. Around one o’clock, Art stands up and puts on his jacket.
‘Right, I’m off,’ he says, and makes for the door.
‘Are you going to the canteen?’ I say.
‘No,’ says Art. ‘See you later.’
The door swings shut behind him. I stare at it for a moment before turning back to my laptop.
If he doesn’t want to have lunch with me, or even tell me where he’s having lunch, then that’s fine too.
I almost get a vending machine sandwich, but now I’ve tasted the canteen’s wares, I simply can’t go back to the machine. So I take a deep breath, go to the canteen alone and grab something to take back to the office. When I return, Art is already at his desk.
‘Hello,’ I say, and he just grunts.
I don’t even get actual words now. Delightful.
I return to the script and start writing a scene with temporary flatmates Sam and Sarah trading barbs in the bistro.
Or rather, I try to start writing it. But somehow it’s not working.
After an hour I give up and move to another storyline, but that’s not coming to life either.
Time is running out. I need to get the first draft of this episode done by half past five tomorrow.
But what if I simply can’t? Oh God, what if I’ve lost my writing mojo forever?
What if I get fired from Northside before I can tell Bernard to shove his job up his arse? What if …?
Shortly before six o’clock I pull off my headphones and let out a growl of frustration. It must have been louder than I intended, because for the first time all day, Art addresses me without being spoken to. ‘What was that weird noise in aid of?’
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Ignore me.’
‘It’s very difficult to ignore sounds like that.’ He closes his laptop. ‘It’s a good thing I’m heading home now. Which you should probably do too.’ He puts the computer in his bag and puts on his jacket.
‘I just want to get this draft finished.’ And then, because I’m tired and stressed and frustrated, I say, ‘It’s a fucking mess.’
‘Don’t be so dramatic,’ says Art. He seems almost amused, which doesn’t help my mood.
‘I’m not being dramatic,’ I say. Or possibly snap. ‘This is my first script for Northside, and it has to be good.’
‘Stop panicking,’ says Art. ‘Your script’s perfectly fine.’
‘How would you know if it’s fine or not?’ I say.
‘I read it,’ says Art.
My mouth literally drops open. ‘You what?’
‘I read your script.’ He doesn’t even sound ashamed of himself. ‘I wanted to make sure my scenes were setting up your episode properly. So I read your script this morning. You know you can read any script when you’re logged in to the system, right?’
I’m so angry I can barely get the words out. ‘I— of course I know you can do that. But you just … you just don’t! Not without asking!’
‘Jesus, McDermott, it’s not as if I read your diary.’ Again, Art seems almost amused by my outrage. ‘Or, like, your passion project. Or your great unpublished novel. Do you have one of those, by the way? You seem like someone who might.’
‘I do not,’ I say through gritted teeth, ‘have a great unpublished novel. I have a Northside script that I am working on, and right now it’s none of your business.’
‘Actually, it’s literally my business.’ Art sits on the edge of his desk.
‘Look, we all know we’re not making art here, right?
This place is a factory, not a writers’ retreat.
We’re all making a product. And we’ve got to be able to look at …
I dunno, look at all the different wrenches and widgets and things in order to make our specific bit of the product. ’
‘Wrenches and widgets?’ It’s clear he’s never worked in a factory. I mean, neither have I, but that all seems wrong. ‘My script is not a widget! None of these scripts are widgets! People care about them! They’re full of human emotion and … and real life!’
‘Ah, yes.’ Art rolls his eyes. ‘Real life. Who among us hasn’t murdered our long-lost half-sister and the father of our secret love child? And then put a man in a coma? Oh, and kidnapped his son?’
‘The situations might be melodramatic but the emotions are real!’ I say. Or possibly shout.
I can’t believe that only last night I was smiling at his fucking baby photo and thinking he was all right really. I should have known Art Sullivan couldn’t last the week without being a total patronising dickhead.
‘Okay, look.’ Art’s tone is genuine. ‘I’m really sorry you’re upset about this.’
‘I’m not upset,’ I say. ‘I’m angry.’
‘I’m not trying to insult you,’ says Art, ‘or your work.’
‘You could have fooled me.’
Art ignores this and says, ‘There’s a lot of good stuff in your script.’
‘Oh, really?’ I say.
‘Yeah.’ Art seems oblivious to my sarcasm.
‘I mean, obviously the pacing could do with some work. Mozzer’s first scene is way too long.
And the scene where Ritchie arrives at the hospital feels a bit flat.
But there are some genuinely great lines, despite all that.
’ He gives me an encouraging little nod that actually looks sincere.
‘And some really nice character moments. You should be proud of yourself.’
‘I— you—’ There are so many things I want to say to this that I simply can’t get the words out. I am paralysed by rage.
Then a thought strikes me.
‘Oh my God, Art,’ I say. ‘Is this your way of trying to charm me?’
I certainly don’t think Art Sullivan likes me very much, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he wanted to disarm the only person in the country who’s apparently immune to him.
‘What?’ Art sounds genuinely appalled.
‘Do you think this is how to win me over?’ I say. ‘Giving me a backhanded compliment that’s basically an insult so I’ll want to impress you?’
‘McDermott,’ says Art, ‘if I wanted to charm you – which I certainly don’t, I might add – I wouldn’t need to resort to weird manipulative tricks.’
‘If you wanted to charm me,’ I say, ‘you’d need to give me a lobotomy.’
‘Very droll,’ says Art. ‘You’ve just never witnessed the famous Sullivan charm in action.’
‘I certainly have not,’ I say with fervour.
His mouth twitches and for a surprising moment I think he’s going to laugh. But then he says, ‘Well, if I ever turned it on, you’d see why I have no need to “neg” anyone like some creepy pick-up artist.’
‘Alright,’ I say. ‘Do it.’
‘Do what?’ he says.
‘Turn it on!’ I say. ‘Your alleged charm!’
‘No,’ says Art. ‘I’m not in the mood.’
And he picks up his laptop bag and strolls out of the room.
How did I think for one single second that he wasn’t so bad after all?