Chapter Nine #2
‘Jesus,’ I say. ‘Is he okay? Did she stop?’
‘Eventually,’ says Jim. ‘He’s grand now but he was totally freaked at the time. It was like something out of your soap opera.’
‘There actually is a character in Northside who’s in a wedding band.’ An idea sparks in my mind. It feels a bit tasteless to say it out loud but then Jim says, ‘Ha, if you’re looking for a story for him, stalkers are definitely a hazard of the job.’
‘You know, they haven’t done a stalker story in years,’ I say. ‘I might have to pitch it.’
‘Oh my God,’ says one of the yoga girls, turning towards us. I think her name might be Orla. ‘Are you their friend who writes for Northside?’
‘Um, yeah,’ I say.
‘I’m obsessed with Northside!’ she says. ‘Do you know Adam Pender who plays Ritchie? I love Ritchie!’
‘I’ve only just met him,’ I say.
‘Oh wow, I don’t suppose he needs a yoga teacher, does he? I’d give him a special discount.’
It looks like Northside still has some fans after all. Maybe a little too devoted. Still, I shouldn’t complain about that unless she actually is a real-life stalker. ‘Um, I could always ask.’
‘Oh don’t worry, I was joking. Though I would love to give him a yoga class.’ Orla sighs. ‘I can’t believe you’re writing scripts for Adam Pender. Don’t let anything bad happen to Ritchie, will you?’ She grips my arm. ‘I mean it. We’re friends now, and friends don’t let friends’ crushes die.’
I laugh. ‘It’s a soap opera. I can’t promise anything!’
At the end of the night I bid fond farewells to the rest of the group (‘I’ll be looking out for your name in the Northside credits!
’ says Orla) and get a taxi. I’m almost home when I get an alert on my phone telling me I’ve been added to a group called Frog Boyfriend Gang.
The other members are Claire, áine, Maggie and Sinéad, so it’s obviously the group chat Claire mentioned earlier, but the name of the group means nothing to me. It must be one of their in-jokes.
Still, I’m in the gang now. Soon I’ll get the in-jokes and I’ll find my way back to normal life in Dublin. It’s an adjustment. And I’ll adjust.
Roo is curled up on the couch looking at her phone when I arrive home. She drops it when I walk in.
‘What are you doing?’ I say.
‘Nothing!’ Roo’s tone is uncharacteristically chirpy. ‘How was your night?’
‘Good,’ I say. ‘What are you up to?’ I fix her with a look. ‘I know it’s something.’
Roo sighs and holds up her phone. ‘Fine. I was setting up a dating app profile.’
‘Roo!’ I say. Or possibly squeal. I might be a bit tipsy. ‘What brought this on?’
‘Well,’ says Roo, ‘now the last traces of Justin are gone – for which I am very grateful, by the way—’
‘You’re welcome.’ I do a little curtsey. Okay, I’m definitely tipsy.
‘I think it’s time I started moving on,’ says Roo. She nods determinedly. ‘Yeah. I think it’s time to see what’s out there.’
‘If you think you’re ready, then I say go for it.’ I beam at her. ‘This is so brilliant. Let me help!’
‘No way,’ says Roo. ‘How many drinks have you had?’
‘Hardly any,’ I say. ‘And I had a rice bowl. Come on, show me your profile!’
‘I haven’t finished setting it up yet.’ Roo hands me her phone. ‘I just uploaded some photos.’
‘Whoa, look at this one,’ I say. ‘You look like a 1940s film star. Oh, that one’s lovely too. They’re all lovely! What have you written about yourself?’
‘Hardly anything,’ says Roo. ‘Give me my phone back. I don’t trust you in this state.’
‘Fine.’ I hand it over. ‘But let me help you finish the profile. What’s your bio?’ Roo holds up her phone and I read aloud. ‘“Can’t sing. Can’t act. Can dance a little.”’ I frown at Roo. ‘That seems kind of negative.’
‘It’s what the studio said about Fred Astaire when he did his first screen test,’ says Roo. ‘If anyone gets the reference that’ll be a good sign. Also, I can actually tap dance.’
‘Fair enough,’ I say. ‘But maybe you should actually include something personal. Aren’t there, like, prompts?’
Roo makes a face. ‘There are. But they’re cheesy.’
‘Let me see. I swear I won’t write anything.’ I reach for her phone and look through the list she’s brought up. ‘Okay, how about this one? “My morning routine looks like …”’
‘I have no idea what to say to that,’ says Roo.
‘The truth,’ I say. ‘You drink home-made tea, dress up like a sexy witch and then read tarot cards.’
‘I’m not writing that!’ says Roo. ‘I’d sound unhinged.’
I shrug my shoulders. ‘Fine. Though I think honesty is the best policy. How about …’ I swipe to another section and read the first prompt. ‘“My biggest flaw is …”’
‘Ugh, I don’t know,’ says Roo. ‘I have kind of weird toes?’
‘Do not mention your toes.’ Even in my drunken state I know that’s a bad idea. ‘Say … I know, say you’re terrible at karaoke. Because you really are.’
‘Hey!’ says Roo.
‘I mean, so am I,’ I say. ‘Remember when we did “Dreams” at Laura’s hen party?’
‘Shit, yeah.’ Roo shudders at the memory. ‘We should have apologised to the other guests. And Stevie Nicks. I bet Stevie can sense if someone somewhere is desecrating her song.’
‘What else have we got …’ I scroll down the list. ‘“If loving this is wrong, I don’t want to be right …” Oooh, where do we start?’
‘Okay, much as I appreciate this very sober and sensible advice,’ says Roo, ‘I’m going to do this on my own.’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Fine! I should probably drink some water and go to bed. But I still think you should tell your potential suitors you dress up like a sexy witch.’
‘Absolutely not,’ says Roo.
The following evening I go for dinner at my parents’ house.
They were delighted when they heard about my new job, mostly because I would be moving home to Dublin, but also because I’d have a staff job at IBC.
Until my parents retired they had permanent public sector jobs with incredible pension plans, and the fact that my sister and I both chose to work in relatively unstable industries has always been a source of slight anxiety for them.
Even now that Laura has left the world of advertising and released two platinum-selling albums, I know that a part of them would still like her to get a civil service job.
Well, working for the national broadcaster is the next best thing to the civil service. Of course, I had hoped I’d be able to turn up for dinner this evening full of tales of how wonderful my new job is. But I can keep it vague.
Laura’s already there when I arrive, having cycled up from her Georgian townhouse in Fairview.
‘You look quite sweaty after that cycle,’ I say, when I find her laying out plates in the kitchen. ‘Where’s your handsome angel of a husband?’
This is how our aunt Mary referred to Tadhg the first time she saw Laura after the wedding and I’ve used it to torment Laura ever since.
Laura gives me the finger and says, ‘He’s over in London recording that duet. He’s back tomorrow. I told you this last week.’
‘Oh yeah, you did,’ I say. ‘Sorry, I’ve had a mad few days.’
Laura looks at me. ‘Is everything okay?’
I sigh. ‘Not really.’ But then my mother comes in with a bottle of wine and we both shut up. Laura knows even better than I do how our parents can be when they start worrying about us.
Over dinner Mam and Dad ask loads of questions about what working on Northside is like.
‘Have you met Mozzer McCaul?’ says Dad. ‘I always loved Mozzer.’
‘I haven’t met most of the actors yet.’ I tell them how fun it is to write for Mozzer, which is true.
I don’t tell them about all the other drama – of course, I know they won’t go to the press, and Lord knows they’ve learned to be discreet since Laura and Tadhg got together, but they mightn’t understand how serious this all is and I can’t risk a word about the runaway actors leaking out now.
That would really give Bernard a reason to hate me.
My parents clearly don’t suspect anything is wrong, because at the end of the night, after Laura and I have loaded the dishwasher and are putting on our jackets, my mam says, ‘I’m delighted your new job is going so well.’ Then she hugs me. ‘It’s so good to have you home, Annie.’
There’s a lump in my throat as I hug her back and say, ‘It’s good to be home.’
And in that moment, despite all the stupid work stuff, I mean it.
But as Laura and I leave the house and set off along the road, Laura pushing her bike, she says, ‘So go on. Tell me what’s wrong.’
My sister and I weren’t always close growing up.
By the time she was a teenager, the almost-five-year age gap was too big.
She had no idea what a miserable time I had in school; our paths only crossed there for one year, and I think she assumed my constant bad mood was just me being a typical thirteen-year-old.
I found her patronising and she found me irritating.
Then she went to college and I basically only saw her at weekends.
By the time I was in college myself and doing much better, she’d moved out.
But we’ve got much closer over the years. The age gap is irrelevant now.
So as we walk through the housing estate where we grew up, I tell her pretty much everything.
‘And before you say it,’ I say, ‘I can’t quit. I mean, I know I can, but I don’t want to. This job … this job means something to me. I don’t want to let Bernard drive me out. And’ – it’s only as I’m saying this that I realise how true it is – ‘I want to stay in Dublin.’
‘Really?’ says Laura. ‘I mean, I’m very happy you’re home, but you could go back to London if you don’t want to live in Newcastle.’
‘I know, but …’ I step on some dry leaves with a satisfying crunch. ‘London was great but it never felt like home. I mean, I only moved there in the first place because I did that work placement.’
‘But you had good friends there,’ says Laura. ‘Didn’t you?’
‘Yeah, of course I did.’ A couple of pals had moved over a year before me, so I arrived to find a readymade circle of friends.
I made a proper life there. But three years ago my then-boyfriend was offered a job in Newcastle around the time my lease ended and my flatmate moved in with her girlfriend, and I couldn’t face London flat-hunting again. So I moved with him to Northumberland.
And while I settled in to Newcastle surprisingly well, and made friends there through Our Toon, back in London all my friends kept living their lives.
Some of them had kids, some of them moved out of the city to cool seaside towns, some did both.
The London group chats have been very quiet lately.
It hits me that they’re probably all on their equivalent of the Frog Boyfriend Gang now.
‘I can’t afford to live in London,’ I say.
Which is true. That was why I didn’t move back there after my relationship with my ex fizzled out amicably.
‘And even if I could afford it, I couldn’t pick things up where I left off.
Besides,’ I add, ‘I want to stay here. If I’m going to live in a city where everyone has moved on without me, it might as well be home. ’
It’s becoming more and more clear to me that this is true.
I’m getting older. I want to be near my family.
And I realise how little trace my three years in Newcastle have left on my life.
I’ve barely been in touch with anyone from there since I got back to Dublin.
I don’t want to keep moving around. I want to settle down, in whatever form that takes.
And I want to do that close to my roots.
‘Well, maybe once this script emergency is over and things calm down, Bernard won’t be so bad,’ says Laura.
‘It’s possible,’ I admit.
‘Just promise me you won’t go into hedgehog mode in the office,’ says Laura.
I haven’t heard that irritating phrase in a while. Laura came up with it when we were teenagers (‘You basically curl up inside and get all spiky and prickly!’) and it always drove me mad.
‘I never go into hedgehog mode!’ I say.
‘Really?’ says Laura.
I don’t dignify this with an answer. She can be so aggravating sometimes.
We’ve reached the corner of my road now and Laura says, ‘So. This Northside job. You’re definitely sure you can put up with it?’
‘I’ve got to try,’ I say. ‘It’s just … it’s such a shambles.’
‘Including this Art person?’
‘If the job was going well, I wouldn’t care about Art,’ I say. ‘The Art stuff might even have been funny. Well, maybe not funny. But not such a mess.’
‘Do you like him?’ says Laura.
‘Like who?’ I say. ‘Like Art? You mean, like him, like him?’
‘Yeah, obviously,’ says Laura. ‘You did kiss him, after all.’
I think of how annoying Art is. I think of him patronising me. I think of him reading my script like it was no big deal. I don’t think of him pushing my hair back from my face as he kissed me. I don’t think about what a good kisser he was.
Or if I do, it’s only for a split second.
‘Oh my God, of course I don’t like him!’ I say.
It didn’t cross Roo’s mind yesterday to ask me whether I liked Art – when I told her I’d kissed him, it was in tones of pure horror.
It didn’t even cross my mind to ask myself that question, but now I’ve been asked I know the answer.
‘Ugh, absolutely not. He’s a pain in the arse.
And he certainly doesn’t like me. Besides, for all I know he has a glamorous American girlfriend stashed away in his mam’s house. ’ God, maybe he does.
‘Okay, good,’ says Laura. ‘So there’s no risk of you getting hurt by him.’
‘None,’ I say firmly. ‘Irritated, yes. Heartbroken, absolutely not.’
‘Well then,’ says Laura. She’s doing her ‘wise big sister voice’ but I don’t really mind.
I kind of like her being a wise big sister, though I’d never tell her that in case it went to her head.
I feel it’s my duty to keep her ego in check now she’s famous.
‘It was clearly just a moment of madness. Like Roo said, you’ve released some tension, and now you can move on and focus on getting this script done.
Things will get easier at work after that. ’
Can it really be that simple? As I bid Laura farewell and watch her get on her bike and wobble over the potholes of Richmond Road in the direction of Fairview, I start to hope that maybe it can.
And for the rest of the evening, I don’t think of Art at all.
Well, not much.