Chapter Eight
INT: NORTHSIDE OFFICES
I’m still fuming when I arrive at work the next day.
Cian Murphy gives me a filthy look as I pass him in the TV building lobby and I snap, ‘Oh grow up!’ and keep walking.
I couldn’t get to sleep for ages last night because I kept thinking of everything I should have said to Art yesterday, witty zingers that would have shut him up and made him realise what a shitty, unprofessional thing he’d done.
I hadn’t come so close to actually cursing someone since … well, since school.
How dare he read my script and act like that was no big deal? How dare he? And claiming he could charm me. Ha!
I stomp up the stairs, march through the open-plan space and fling open the door of our office, ready to pointedly ignore Art Sullivan.
But he’s not there.
Fine. Great. Brilliant. I’ll get more work done if he’s not lying around here moaning and groaning away.
I’m not totally happy with that Sam and Sarah scene and Ritchie’s big speech to his dad in the hospital and I have to get them right.
We’ve got a brief check-in meeting with Bernard at eleven to discuss any issues that have surfaced while we’ve been writing our scripts and any small changes we might want to make to the story beats going forward, and even though the deadline isn’t until the end of the day, I want to be able to honestly tell him that I’ve basically got a complete first draft.
I don’t want to look like an incompetent beginner in front of everyone.
Besides, Bernard might be a monster, but he’s my boss.
And I really have to make up for that awful meeting on Monday.
Miraculously, it’s like the fiery rage has burned away the fog that was clouding my thinking the day before, and I find myself furiously typing as the hospital scene finally starts to come together.
It’s working, at last it’s working, I just need to think of a great last line for Ritchie’s emotional speech, and I’ve got it, I’ve almost got it, it’s on the tip of my tongue, or rather the tips of my fingers—
Then the door of the office slams loudly enough to penetrate through my allegedly noise-cancelling headphones. The moment is ruined.
I pull off my headphones and turn around to see Art holding a cup of coffee from the canteen in each hand. He’s clearly just kicked the door shut behind him.
‘Morning!’ he says cheerfully.
All the cutting remarks I thought of last night fly straight out of my head and I cry, ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’
‘I think what you meant to say,’ says Art, ‘is “thank you for getting me a coffee, Arthur”.’
‘I hope what you meant to say,’ I say, ‘is “I’m so sorry for reading your script yesterday, Annie”.’
‘Fine, if it means that much to you …’ Art sighs. ‘I’m so sorry for reading your script, Annie.’
‘Great,’ I say. ‘What a lovely, sincere apology.’
‘It was sincere!’ protests Art. ‘I am sorry! That’s why I brought you this.’ He puts a cup on my desk.
‘If you say so,’ I say. ‘Now, can I get back to work? I want to get this done before the meeting.’
‘Don’t let me keep you from the factory floor,’ says Art, infuriatingly. ‘Enjoy your latte.’
I glower at him and turn back to my laptop.
I’m tempted to ignore the coffee but it smells too good.
And when I take a sip it tastes so delicious I almost feel bad for snarling at him.
Miraculously, and possibly fuelled by caffeine, I manage to get the draft finished just before the meeting.
I close my laptop in triumph and turn around to Art.
‘Done!’ I say. ‘How are your widgets coming along?’
‘Fully welded,’ says Art. It’s clear by now that neither of us actually knows what a widget is. ‘You can have a look if you like. I don’t care if you read my script.’
I ignore him and pick up my laptop. I’m buzzing with the sense of achievement. I got my draft done! And it’s not that bad. In fact, I think it might even be good, for a first draft anyway. I can spend the rest of the day polishing it but it’s in decent shape. This meeting might actually go well.
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘We don’t want to keep Bernard waiting.’
Ten minutes later, I’m wishing we had kept Bernard waiting.
I’m wishing I hadn’t turned up at all. Because as soon as he walks into the meeting room Bernard gives a particularly unpleasant smile and says, ‘So I hear we have a celebrity in our midst here in the …’ he pauses and says, with heavy sarcasm, ‘… “writers’ room”. ’
We do? I instinctively look around. Everyone else looks equally curious and confused.
‘I suppose it’s all good publicity for Northside,’ Bernard continues, ‘having someone here who’s related to rock royalty.’
My stomach twists.
‘In case there’s anyone she hasn’t told,’ says Bernard, ‘Ms McDermott here is Tadhg Hennessy’s sister-in-law. Her sister’s a … pop star too, I believe. Isn’t that right, Ms McDermott?’
I don’t say anything.
‘Isn’t it?’ says Bernard.
‘She’s a musician.’ I feel so sick and angry I can barely get the words out.
The entire room is staring at me. All except the young researcher Róisín. She can’t meet my eyes.
‘So, Ms McDermott,’ says Bernard, smiling at me maliciously, ‘even if your scripts are useless, you can get your superstar relations to publicly support the show. At least then you’ll earn your keep around here.’ Someone at the other end of the table sniggers.
Is Bernard suggesting I only got the job because of my famous sister?
Oh my God, did I only get the job because of my famous sister?
‘Now, Bernard,’ says Susan, ‘Annie is a valued member of the team.’
Bernard sniffs and Susan gives me a concerned look, but I avoid her gaze. I don’t know whether I want to roar with rage or burst into tears. Probably both.
The meeting begins and I try to pull myself together.
I am not going to give Bernard any excuse to disparage me again.
I’m going to excel at this job, if only out of spite.
I try not to let that spite show on my face, though.
I want to look cool, calm and collected.
But it’s hard when Bernard is being his usual obnoxious self.
While Susan congratulates everyone on their achievements, Bernard barely grunts.
He simply can’t bring himself to utter a word of praise.
And when he gets to Art and me he rises to a whole new level of pettiness. He’s not as openly rude as he was the last time, but he picks holes and shuts down every suggestion.
‘I’d like to move Mozzer’s phone call with her ex from the shop to the bistro in the next draft,’ says Art. ‘It’d mean she could talk about him with Sarah afterwards.’
I have to admit it’s a really good idea. Mozzer and Sarah have a nice bond, and Sarah’s brisk vibe contrasts nicely with Mozzer’s comic energy.
But Bernard looks Art dead in the eye and says, ‘That’s not happening.’
‘Actually, Bernard,’ says Susan, ‘I think that would work. And it suits the actors’ shooting schedule—’
‘It’s important that Mozzer is out shopping,’ says Bernard. ‘We need to show her life going on as usual.’
Which is absolute bullshit, and everyone at the table must know it. What on earth is he playing at?
Susan says, ‘But Bernard—’
‘I said we’re not moving it,’ he snaps.
Then it’s my turn.
‘Right, Ms McDermott,’ says Bernard. ‘What pointless changes would you like to propose?’
As Bernard dismisses all the small tweaks I suggest and ignores my questions, I find myself biting my lip to stop myself telling him how I actually feel.
I remember what Art said about me glowering my way through the first meeting and I don’t want to do that again, but the harder I try to keep my expression neutral, the more self-conscious I get.
When the meeting finally ends, Art and I walk back to our office in silence. I close the door behind us, lean against it and let out a growl of frustration.
‘Oh, come on.’ Art turns to face me and hangs up his bag on the hook by the door. ‘You’re all right. No need for that.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I thought I was allowed to express my feelings for a split second.’
‘You never stop expressing your feelings.’ Art sounds annoyingly amused. ‘In your own way. You were making some very interesting faces during that meeting.’
‘No I wasn’t!’ So much for keeping my expression neutral. ‘And anyway, you should have been focusing on Bernard and Susan, not looking at me.’
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ says Art indignantly. ‘It was hard to concentrate with you gurning away like that.’
‘I wasn’t gurning,’ I protest. ‘In fact, I was trying very hard not to gurn! I’m sorry I wasn’t successful.’
‘You certainly weren’t,’ says Art. ‘That was some grimacing you were doing.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, I can’t help it, that’s just my face!’ I clench my fists in frustration. ‘I’m sorry you think my face is so … so hideous!’
‘God, will you stop apologising?’ says Art. ‘I know you don’t mean it. And of course I don’t think your face is hideous! I like your face!’
There’s a split second of silence in which we both realise what he’s just said.
‘I mean …’ Art’s expression is horrified.
And I should be horrified too. I kind of am. I almost am. But instead …
Oh God.
Instead I stare back at him and see something in his eyes that I know is in my own. And then …
I kiss him.
And he immediately kisses me back.
He seriously kisses me back.
What am I doing? screams a voice in my head. Oh my God what am I doing …?
But when we move away from each other, just a little bit, I find myself drawing him back towards me, and now he’s kissing me harder, now he’s pressing me up against the wall and my leg is wrapping around his and I can’t stop, I don’t want to stop, but I should want to stop, I know I should, because this is Art whose hand is in my hair, this is Art whose tongue is in my mouth, this is Art whose leg is pressed firmly between my thighs, this is Art fucking Sullivan …
We finally pull away from each other.
‘I …’ I begin, but I can’t say anymore.
‘Fuck,’ says Art. I’ve never seen him look flustered before. ‘I’m sorry, McDermott, I—’ He grabs his bag and his jacket. ‘I’ll see you on Monday. Sorry. I’m really sorry.’
And then he’s gone.