Chapter Ten
INT: NORTHSIDE OFFICES / EXT: IBC CAMPUS / INT: ANNIE AND ROO’S HOUSE
I feel sick as I enter the IBC Television building on Monday morning.
And for once, it’s not because of the job.
I’m dreading the prospect of a day enclosed in a small room with Art.
It’s a miserable, rainy morning and I arrive half an hour early because I want to be at my desk, settled, calm and collected, before he gets in.
My stomach is churning as I push open the office door.
And there he is, hunched over his laptop. He looks up as I enter and for a moment neither of us says anything.
Then Art clears his throat. ‘Morning.’
‘Morning.’ I hang up my jacket. It’s my turn to clear my throat now. ‘Did you have a good weekend?’
‘Um, fine, thanks.’ He turns back to his laptop. ‘And you?’
‘Also good.’ God, this is so awkward. I sit down at my desk. ‘Did you get your script to Susan on Friday?’
Oh shit, why did I mention Friday? I don’t want either of us thinking about Friday.
‘Of course I did,’ says Art, still looking at his screen.
‘Great!’ I say. ‘So did I.’
I’ve got to pull myself together. I’ve got to focus on work today. But speaking of work …
‘Art?’ I say.
‘Yeah?’ He immediately looks up.
‘What are we meant to do now?’
There’s a deer-in-the-headlights expression on Art’s face as he runs a hand through his dark hair. ‘Um, I thought we both wanted to forget anything happened. But of course if you want to talk about it, we can talk about it—’
‘No!’ I exclaim. ‘Oh God, no. Sorry, I meant … with work. What are we meant to work on today?’
‘Oh right.’ Art looks mortified. ‘Sorry, yeah. Of course that’s what you meant.’
How does this conversation keep getting more awkward? How is that even possible?
‘It’s just … at my interview they told me that while we were waiting for notes on our first draft we’d get started on our next episodes,’ I say. ‘But everything’s a mess now. You didn’t hear anything about our next episodes, did you?’
‘No,’ says Art.
‘So you don’t know what we’re meant to be doing now?’
‘I certainly don’t,’ says Art.
I can’t bear this a moment longer. ‘Okay, I need a decent coffee from the canteen. Do you want anything?’
‘No, thank you,’ says Art, as if he’s talking to a stranger.
Although I had planned to head straight back to the office, cowardice overcomes me and I stay in the canteen, making the coffee last as long as possible. But I can’t put off returning to Art forever. When I finally drag myself back, he’s not alone.
‘Hi, Annie,’ says Susan. ‘I was telling Art what a good job you both did on your first drafts.’
‘Oh!’ I say. ‘Wow, thanks. That’s great to hear.’
‘But obviously there’s a lot more work to do.’
I was expecting this. ‘Obviously.’
‘So,’ says Susan, ‘I’ll add my notes to your script by the end of the day. You’ll have until the end of the week to write your second drafts. Then you’ll get notes on those drafts from Bernard.’
My stomach sinks at the thought of Bernard tearing into my script.
‘Look, I know this isn’t the ideal way to start this job.’ Susan sounds genuinely sympathetic. ‘This isn’t even being dropped in at the deep end – you’ve been dropped in the middle of the ocean. But I trust you can do it.’
‘Thanks, Susan,’ says Art, with all his old confidence. ‘We can.’
‘So what’ll we do for the rest of today?’ I ask. ‘Should we get started on the scripts that were meant to be our first episodes? The ones that are airing in September?’
‘Unfortunately, Amanda and Joe were in a couple of September stories and the story team are still reworking those eps,’ says Susan. ‘So you might as well go home. Unless you’d rather stay here?’
‘No,’ says Art immediately. ‘Home is fine.’
‘Same,’ I say.
‘Thanks, guys,’ says Susan. ‘Sorry you came in for no reason. I promise, we’ll be back to a normal schedule in a few weeks and things will calm down.’
After she leaves, Art and I pack up our laptops in silence. I grab my jacket and say, ‘Well, bye.’
Art doesn’t even look up from putting a notebook in his bag as he says, ‘Bye.’
I need to go to the loo so I stay in the bathroom for a long time to ensure Art has left the building.
But as I emerge from the stairwell into the lobby, the lift door opens and Art walks out.
Can he have been lingering behind to avoid me?
He nods at me, looking as happy to see me as I am to see him, and we walk through the lobby in silence.
At least he’ll be heading towards the car park now so I can escape him.
But when we leave the building he doesn’t turn off towards the car park. He’s walking in the same direction as me, down the path that leads to the main gates. In desperation, I say, ‘Where’s your car?’
‘What car?’ says Art.
‘The car you drove to work in,’ I say.
‘I don’t have a car,’ he says. ‘Why did you think I did?’
Why did I think he did?
‘Um, I’ve never seen you on the bus,’ I say. ‘And you used to live in LA. I thought you’d drive everywhere.’
‘Well, I don’t,’ says Art. ‘I usually cycle here. I got the bus today because of the rain. And besides, I only ever drive if I have no other choice.’
‘Oh right,’ I say.
‘You don’t know me as well as you clearly think you do,’ says Art.
I’m a little jolted by the edge in his voice. ‘Sorry.’
We walk along the path in silence for a moment. God, this bus journey is going to be excruciating.
Then Art sighs, loudly. ‘Okay, McDermott, this is ridiculous.’ He stops in the middle of the path and turns to face me. ‘Clearly ignoring what happened on Friday isn’t working.’
‘Isn’t it?’ I say.
‘Look, last week was weird for both of us,’ Art continues as if I haven’t spoken. ‘Like Susan said, we were basically thrown into the ocean. An ocean full of sharks. It was … it was a lot. After five days of it we clearly weren’t in our right minds.’
‘Agreed,’ I say.
‘So let’s accept that the two of us … doing that was, I don’t know, two people under pressure letting off steam, and move on,’ says Art. ‘We won’t pretend it didn’t happen. It did happen, it was fine, and it was just one of those things. It doesn’t change anything between us.’
It was fine?
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t. It shouldn’t.’
‘It won’t,’ says Art.
‘Okay,’ I say.
‘Good,’ he says. ‘Now we’ve acknowledged it, let’s go and get that bus.’
We walk down the drive in a silence that’s only slightly less painful than it was a few moments earlier. I try to think of something normal to say, something that will show I’m moving on, something that will show my willingness to be a polite but professional colleague.
But instead I hear myself say, ‘Are you seeing anyone at the moment?’
Art turns to me, his face impossible to read. ‘Why do you ask?’
Why did I ask? What is wrong with me today? ‘I just … I hope I didn’t … I mean, I hope I wasn’t an accessory to cheating.’
‘No,’ says Art, ‘you were not. I’ve never cheated on anyone, and I certainly wasn’t going to start with—’ He takes a deep breath.
‘I wasn’t going to start in my own office.
So to answer your question, I am not seeing anyone.
’ He looks at me. ‘Are you? Should I expect to see an angry boyfriend at the gates waiting to punch me in the face?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No boyfriend.’
‘Great,’ says Art. ‘I could do without having my nose broken again.’
We continue walking in silence. To my massive relief, a bus arrives as we reach the stop, and to my greater relief, it’s crowded so Art and I don’t have to sit together.
My stop is before Art’s, and when I pass him on my way off the bus he says, ‘See you tomorrow.’ His expression almost softens.
‘Come on, don’t look so worried. It’ll all be fine. ’
‘I know!’ I lie.
When I get home I decide to take advantage of what is, essentially, an unexpected day off by watching some of my favourite comfort shows.
As the theme music of Gilmore Girls kicks in, I can feel the tension in my shoulders ease, just a little bit.
Yes, now I’m in my thirties I frequently find both heroines, Rory and Lorelai, insufferable, but right now it doesn’t matter, because something about it still makes me feel …
safe. It reminds me of watching it with Roo when we were teenagers, finding comfort and escape in the charmingly perfect world of Stars Hollow.
Every day at school felt like an obstacle course, but when we were curled up on the couch in Roo’s front room watching Luke and Lorelai bicker in his diner, I didn’t have to think about that.
I didn’t have to think about the fact that Lizzie Lattin and her friends stood right in front of my locker every day and pretended they couldn’t hear me when I asked them to move. I didn’t have to think about any of it.
This is what Art has never understood about popular TV. How much it can matter. How much you can need it.
That’s why I fell in love with television.
When I was trying to fall asleep as a teenager, in order to quiet my racing thoughts, I used to imagine all the TV shows I might create when I grew up.
I wanted to write for Northside, but I also wanted to write something for girls like me and Roo, girls who didn’t see ourselves on TV where even outsider girls were hot and fancied by boys.
I wanted to write a show about two little weirdos against the world.
I’ve never done it. I’ve never even tried.
I’ve been a freelance scriptwriter for a decade now, and I’ve never dared take any time to work on my own projects.
I’ve always been more concerned with making sure I got commissioned to write another script.
I worry I might simply not be able to create something by myself.
But while I might never have written a show about me and Roo, I remind myself I’m writing for Northside now, and that would make my angry little teenage self very happy.
By late afternoon, I’ve watched three episodes of Gilmore Girls, gone for a walk and made myself a nice lunch.
I’m feeling a lot better than I did this morning.
I feel, in fact, strong enough to be told everything that’s wrong with my script.
When a text arrives from Susan telling me her notes are ready, I make a cup of coffee, take a deep breath and open my laptop.
To my huge relief, Susan’s notes are clear and thoughtful and consistent.
It’s never exactly fun to have your work criticised, but she’s managed to do it in an encouraging way, adding comments throughout the document highlighting both the things I’ve done well and the stuff that needs more work.
A couple of the issues she highlighted are easy fixes, so I tackle them first, and by the time Roo gets home a few hours later, I’ve managed to rewrite a couple of scenes and am taking a break with a freshly brewed cup of Apfelstrudel tisane.
‘Hello!’ I say when Roo enters the room, a vision in black lace. ‘Is that a mantilla?’
Roo pushes the veil away from her face as she joins me on the couch. ‘It was my Spanish grandma’s,’ she says. ‘The guests loved it, I should wear it more often.’ She curls her sheer-stockinged legs beneath her and looks at me thoughtfully. ‘You look surprisingly cheerful.’
‘I think your hopeful tisane might actually be working,’ I say.
‘Of course it’s working,’ says Roo. ‘So how were things with You Know Who?’
‘Not as bad as I feared.’ I tell her about what happened with Art.
‘Ha! I told you so,’ says Roo. ‘Tomorrow the pair of you can make a fresh start. It’s the Tower card all over again! You’ve burned down all the awkwardness. From now on things will be great.’
I’ll need a lot more of her Apfelstrudel tisane to really believe that.