Chapter Eleven
INT: NORTHSIDE OFFICES / INT: IBC CANTEEN
I feel a little bleary-eyed this morning.
I laboured on my script until after ten last night, and while I know there’s still a lot of work to do, and I’m all too aware that the next few days are going to be gruelling, I feel like I’ve actually made a dent in the second draft.
Thank God for Susan’s notes, guiding me in the right direction.
But when I sit down at my office desk and open my script on the Northside system, all those notes, the notes I need to complete this draft to my bosses’ satisfaction, have disappeared.
At first I think it must be a technical error, easily fixed.
My script is there, including the changes I made yesterday.
It’s just the notes that are missing. Maybe I accidentally clicked on something.
I go through the settings options, but nothing brings back the notes.
My breathing quickens. Where are they? Seriously, where are they?
I can’t finish this second draft without them!
The door opens and Art walks in holding a coffee. ‘Morning.’ He sounds slightly more cheerful than he did yesterday. Then he takes one look at my face and says, ‘Jesus, what’s wrong with you?’
For a second I consider not telling him. I don’t want him to think I’m incompetent. But I don’t really have a choice.
‘Susan’s notes have vanished,’ I say. ‘From my script.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I literally mean they’ve vanished!’ I try and fail to keep the panic out of my voice. We do all our writing directly onto the online system. Which means I don’t have a backed-up version of the script with Susan’s notes.
‘You didn’t delete them?’ says Art.
‘Of course I didn’t!’ A thought strikes me. ‘Hang on, check yours. Maybe there’s an issue with the whole system.’
‘Don’t freak out, I’m sure it’s fine.’ Art’s frustratingly unhurried as he puts down his coffee and gets out his laptop.
‘Well?’ I say.
‘Give me a minute,’ he says. ‘Here we go …’ He opens the script and scrolls down. His brow furrows. ‘Oh.’
‘Oh, what?’
‘The notes on my script are gone too.’ He looks up at me. ‘Shit.’
‘Yes!’ I say. ‘Shit!’
‘Look,’ says Art, ‘if it’s a system issue I’m sure they can fix it. Let’s check with Simon and Nora.’
‘All right?’ Nora smiles when we enter their room. ‘To what do we owe this pleasure?’
She does not look like someone freaking out because her very necessary script notes have just vanished.
‘We’ve got a bit of a technical problem,’ says Art. He explains what’s happened.
‘That’s weird,’ says Nora. She points at the screen of her laptop. ‘My notes from Susan are fine.’
Simon nods. ‘Mine too. Are you sure you didn’t change the settings or something?’
‘Is there a setting that permanently removes notes?’ says Art.
‘Well, you can reject and delete them, of course,’ says Simon. ‘But it would be hard to do that by accident.’
Art and I look at each other.
‘Come on,’ he says. ‘We’d better go and see Susan.’
Susan looks utterly exhausted when we enter her office. It’s clearly not a great time to tell her what’s happened, but what else can we do?
‘I know you’re both new, but I thought the software was pretty straightforward,’ she says, after we’ve explained it all and she’s confirmed that her annotated notes can’t be restored. ‘How could you have deleted them?’
‘We didn’t!’ I say.
‘How else could they have disappeared?’ Susan is clearly annoyed. ‘I certainly didn’t touch them.’
And this is the moment when the door opens and Bernard walks in. Without knocking, of course.
‘Not interrupting, am I?’ he says.
Susan sighs. ‘Annie and Art are having some technical difficulties with the script software.’
‘Well,’ says Bernard, ‘this was inevitable when we started bringing in outsiders at a crucial time for Northside. What’s the problem?’
Susan fills him in. ‘And I’m already behind schedule. Well, we all are, obviously.’
Bernard shakes his head. ‘Dear, oh dear.’
‘Look,’ says Susan, turning to me and Art, ‘I’ll have to rewrite the notes – they won’t be as detailed as the originals, of course, but that can’t be helped.
Seriously, lads, this is not good. You’ve bollocksed up my entire day.
I know it’s a tough week but you’ve really got to be on top of the software. This can’t happen again.’
‘But we—’ begins Art.
I see Bernard’s eyes narrow and I lay a warning hand on Art’s forearm. It’s the first time we’ve touched since Friday – it’s only the third time I’ve touched him, ever – and I am very conscious of the brief weight of my hand on his bare skin.
‘It won’t happen again,’ says Art.
‘I should hope not,’ says Bernard in acid tones. ‘First you didn’t read the updated scene-by-scenes and now this. Tell me, have either of you actually used computers before? What did you write your Hollywood scripts on, Mr Sullivan, a typewriter? Quill and parchment?’
Art doesn’t say anything and Bernard says, ‘Well?’
Christ, he actually wants an answer. Art’s jaw tightens and he says, possibly through gritted teeth, ‘I used a laptop.’
‘Please tell me you at least made a start on your second drafts yesterday,’ says Susan, ‘so I don’t have to redo every single note.’
‘Yes, of course we did.’ I try to keep my voice even, but I’m pretty sure I don’t succeed.
Susan sighs. ‘Okay, the pair of you, go off and do what you can for the rest of the day. Build on whatever changes you’ve already made and try and remember what I sent you yesterday. I’ll let you know when the notes are ready.’
‘Thanks, Susan,’ says Art. ‘And sorry about this.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Thanks and … yes, sorry.’ I can’t believe this is happening. Susan was the only senior staff member who was basically on our side and now …
‘Right.’ Bernard turns to Susan. ‘Before you start fixing their mistakes, I need a word with you about the exterior shoot schedule.’
Why the hell did he have to come in now?
I think as we leave the room. We just gave him yet another reason to hate us.
Well, nearly everyone here hates us apart from Simon and Nora.
I think of that Cian guy giving me filthy looks.
I think of the other writers sniggering during the first meeting when Bernard tore me and Art to shreds.
I bet they’d love this. They all loved seeing me fuck up at the meeting. They—
Oh God.
They wouldn’t. Surely none of them would …
Would they?
We head across to our office, and when the door closes behind us Art says, ‘I suppose that could have been worse.’
‘Art, do you—’ I know what I’m about to say sounds … a little paranoid. Okay, it sounds very paranoid. But I have to say something. ‘Do you think one of the other writers could have deleted our notes?’
‘What?’ says Art.
‘Anyone could have got to the scripts on the system,’ I say.
‘Look,’ he says, ‘we’re both tired and … it’s been a weird seven days. There’s a chance we did make a mistake.’
‘Both of us?’ I say. ‘I know I didn’t delete mine. And I’m pretty sure you didn’t delete yours.’
‘I don’t think I did,’ says Art. ‘But—’
‘So what if someone else did?’ I say. ‘We’re not hugely popular around here. Susan was one of the few people who seemed to tolerate us and now thanks to these missing notes she’s pissed off with us too.’
‘I get that,’ says Art. ‘But seriously, McDermott, sabotage? The two of us making a mistake with unfamiliar software seems more likely. I think you’ve been spending too much time thinking about melodramatic soap plots.’
Ugh, he’s probably right. I hate him being right.
But what if he’s not?
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘But there’s still a chance someone could be sabotaging us. So we should definitely back up everything offline.’
‘Sure.’ Art shrugs. ‘We might as well.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Good.’ I sit down at my desk. ‘I suppose we just try to keep working on our scripts now. Before the saboteur totally deletes them or something.’
I realise how melodramatic I sound, and Art clearly does too because he says, ‘Ah, yes, the saboteur. Or saboteurs, plural. Remember, it could be a giant conspiracy.’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Don’t back up your script and see what happens.’
‘Oh, I’m backing it up,’ he says.
I put on my noise-cancelling headphones and we set to work.
God, how did everything about this job end up being such a mess?
I glance over at Art and see he’s moved to the couch again.
He’s hunched over his laptop, a look of fierce concentration on his face as he stares at the screen.
He bites his lower lip and pushes back his dark hair with both hands and it hits me with a shock that I’ve kissed those lips and I’ve been touched by those hands, and they really are nice hands, elegant, strong, probably quite skilful hands …
I shake the thoughts out of my head and return to my script.
Neither of us says much for the rest of the morning, but when lunchtime comes round Art waves a hand in front of my face. I take off my headphones.
‘Do you want to brave the canteen or do you think you’ll be assassinated by one of your many enemies if you leave this room?’ he says.
‘Our many enemies,’ I say. ‘And stop making me sound like a deranged conspiracy theorist.’
‘If the cap fits …’ says Art. ‘Oh, come on, don’t look at me like that, I’m joking! Anyway, are you coming? If you’re not then please don’t bring an awful machine sandwich into this office.’
After the last few days, one of those sandwiches might tip me over the edge. ‘I’m coming,’ I say.
At least the possibility of mysterious enemies seems to have temporarily distracted us from the post-kiss weirdness.
We take a table in the corner of the canteen (‘Best keep our backs to the wall,’ says Art, ‘so they can’t get us from behind with piano wire’).
The table is actually a good vantage point, and I spot Cian and some of the other writers – including Simon and Nora – lunching at a table on the other side of the room.
‘Look at them all,’ says Art cheerfully. He pops a chip into his mouth. ‘Plotting against us.’
I refuse to rise to his teasing. ‘Don’t talk with your mouth full,’ I say. ‘It’s revolting.’ But as I look across the room a genuinely distressing thought strikes me. ‘If there is something weird going on, you don’t think Simon and Nora could be involved, do you?’
‘What?’ says Art. ‘No, of course not!’
Simon is laughing at something Cian has just said. They’ve been so friendly and welcoming so far. But what if it was a ruse? What if they were lulling us into a false sense of security so we’re not prepared when they take us down?
Jesus, Art’s right. I am getting paranoid.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘This is all a bit … I’ve never worked anywhere so toxic before.’
‘I have,’ says Art. ‘This industry can be brutal. Listen, McDermott, this shit will pass. I really don’t think anyone’s messing with us, but in the unlikely event that they are, they’ll get bored. In a few weeks everyone will be under less pressure.’
‘And in the meantime?’ I say.
‘In the meantime,’ says Art, ‘the pair of us will put our heads down and get the work done. And watch out for snipers, obviously.’
‘Ha ha,’ I say. But I feel weirdly comforted.
Just for a moment, and for the first time ever, I feel Art Sullivan and I are on the same side.