Chapter Twelve #3
‘Those were all Hollywood shows,’ says Art. ‘Big shows, with serious money behind them. Serious shows. Even LA Medic.’
‘And what’s this?’ I say. ‘If it isn’t a serious show?’
‘This is …’ he says. ‘Well, you know. It’s Irish television. It’s … it’s Northside!’
And that’s when I realise why his use of a nom de plume is bothering me so much.
I know it’s ridiculous but I feel … hurt.
Hurt by the fact that what had long been my dream job is so incredibly embarrassing to him.
More embarrassing than writing for a medical drama in which a character once had to perform brain surgery in the presence of his dead wife’s ghost. So embarrassing he’s made an effort to ensure he can never be publicly associated with it.
So embarrassing he’s basically hiding it from the rest of the world.
‘Yes,’ I say, as briskly as I can manage. Which isn’t very brisk. ‘It sure is.’
‘Look,’ says Art, ‘it’s not a big deal.’
‘Not to you, clearly,’ I say. ‘You’ve only changed your name.’
‘I haven’t changed my name! I’m just using the Irish version of it for a job.’ Art sighs. ‘I can’t believe I’m arguing about this. I don’t know why you’re taking it so personally.’
‘Who says I’m taking it personally?’ I say.
‘Your face, for one—’ begins Art. I immediately remember the last time he talked about my face and I suspect he might remember it too because he stops himself and says, ‘I mean, you look pissed off.’
‘I’m not.’ Which is true. I’m insulted. I’m upset. I’m embarrassed about feeling both of those things. But I’m not angry. Not really.
‘You know, I really think you’d find this job easier if you just accepted it’s like a factory,’ says Art.
This again. Okay, now I’m a bit angry.
‘Yeah, I’m quite sure I would,’ I say. ‘I know that’s how you think of it. But unlike some people, I actually respect my work.’
Ugh, I sound so self-righteous. But I can’t help it. I can’t spend five minutes talking to this man without wanting to snarl at him.
At least I think that’s what I want to do to him.
‘Northside isn’t at its peak now,’ I say.
‘I won’t pretend it is. But it’s been great before and it could be great again.
It really could. And the fact that this has never even crossed your mind—’ To my horror I feel angry tears spring to my eyes.
Okay. Okay, this is going too far. I need to drop it.
‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘I’m going to get some lunch. ’
And before he can say anything else, I pick up my bag and walk out.
After I come back from the canteen Art and I barely speak for the rest of the day. And my mood isn’t helped by my awareness that Bernard might appear in the office at any minute and accuse me of causing Ritchie’s injury.
But I pull myself together when I get home.
Right now the focus has to be on Roo as she gets ready for her first post-Justin date – although there’s not a huge difference between her date clothes and her work attire.
She calls me up to her room where I find her adjusting the neckline of a black lace seventies maxi dress.
‘Is this too much for a first date?’ She turns to face me. ‘I think all my clothes might be too much for a first date.’
‘They’re not too much,’ I say firmly. ‘They’re pure you. And you are brilliant.’
‘I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.
’ Roo’s eyes are sparkling as she fastens the buckles on her silver platform shoes, and it’s not only because of her glittery eyeliner.
‘The last time I went out on a first date was four years ago. And that was watching Justin’s friend’s band in a pub in the North Strand, not drinking cocktails in a fancy bar. ’
‘This is definitely an upgrade,’ I say. ‘In every sense.’
Roo’s phone beeps with an alert from the taxi app and I follow her down to the hall where she puts on her coat.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘This is it. Oh God, what if his photo is twenty years old? What if he’s a creep? What if I, oh, I dunno, what if I spill a drink all over him or—?’
‘Stop this!’ I say. ‘You’re sounding like me. You’re going to drink a fancy cocktail. You’re going to hang out with a cute theatre guy. He’ll be lovely. And you know what we’ll do if he’s not?’
‘Curse him?’ says Roo.
‘Curse him,’ I say. ‘Oh, and I’ll also send you a text at eight so you have an excuse to escape.’
After I wave Roo off I get back to my script. I’ve just sat down at my desk when I get a text from my friend Sinéad.
Annie McDermott, this is ridiculous. You’ve been home three whole weeks and we haven’t seen each other! We need to do something about this ASAP.
After Roo, Sinéad was the friend I missed most when I moved to England.
We’d met in my first week of college, when I was still all prickly (but not like a hedgehog), not knowing what to do with myself without Roo by my side.
I had hoped college would be a fresh start, but I worried that maybe it wouldn’t be.
Maybe my whole life was going to be like school.
I was hunched down in my seat in a lecture theatre, wearing a black sixties dress with a white lace collar that I’d borrowed from Laura and never returned.
And then Sinéad, with her pink-tipped black hair and black-and-white striped T-shirt, sat next to me.
‘Oh my God,’ she said, ‘I love your dress!’
And I realised college wasn’t going to be like school at all.
Now I reply to her text and suggest going out on Saturday but Sinéad isn’t free.
‘It’s my mother-in-law’s birthday so I’ll be in their giant gaff in Monkstown all day,’ she texts. ‘Defending all my life choices. And showing off my lovely baby, the only thing in my life they approve of. How about Friday week?’
By next Friday my final draft will be in. I can’t think of a better way to celebrate than dinner with Sinéad.
‘Excellent,’ she replies. ‘See you then. Unless I’m in jail for murdering Harry’s mum. Is Roo still witchy? I don’t suppose she does curses or voodoo dolls?’
At eight o’clock, as promised, I text Roo and get an ‘All good, going for food’ message in response, which bodes well. So when I hear the door open at half ten, I immediately stick my head out of my room. I don’t want to rush out in case Roo isn’t alone.
But she is.
‘Hey.’ She doesn’t look or sound like someone who’s floating on air after a dreamy first date.
‘How did it go?’ I say. ‘Tell me everything!’
‘He was nice,’ says Roo, without great enthusiasm.
‘Nice is good.’ I follow her into the sitting room and we sit on the couch. ‘Isn’t it? Did he look like his photo?’
‘He did,’ says Roo.
‘But …?’
‘It was all grand at the start,’ says Roo. ‘You know, he was smart and friendly and I didn’t not fancy him, so when he suggested grabbing some food I thought sure, why not.’ She sighs. ‘And then … then I discovered he’s a clown.’
My heart sinks, just a tiny bit. It’s not like I thought Roo was necessarily going to meet the love of her life tonight, but I’d hoped for a better verdict than ‘clown’.
‘Oh, Roo, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘In what way?’
‘I mean he’s literally a clown,’ says Roo.
‘What do you mean?’ I say. ‘I thought he worked in the theatre.’
‘He is,’ says Roo. ‘But he went to clown college.’ She looks at me. ‘Do not make a joke about Trinity right now.’
‘I wasn’t going to!’ I protest, although I actually was.
‘It’s some fancy physical-theatre academy in Paris,’ says Roo. ‘Steve takes clowning very seriously.’
‘Did he use the verb “clowning”?’ I say.
‘He did,’ says Roo.
‘Oh dear.’ I try to be positive. ‘But I mean, is that really a dealbreaker? After all, we knew he worked in the theatre …’
‘Well, he kept talking about the beautiful physicality of clowning, and I suppose I could have dealt with that,’ says Roo. ‘But then … then he told me he’d developed unique clown make-up for his clown persona …’
‘Oh no,’ I say.
‘And,’ says Roo, ‘he said that when you create your own unique clown face you send a photo of it to a clown foundation in London. And they paint it onto an egg.’
I stare at her. ‘They what?’
‘They paint your clown face onto an egg and put it in a horrible egg archive.’ She swallows. ‘They give you an egg of your own too. Steve showed me a photo of his. It was … it was dreadful. There are hearts on the cheeks.’
‘Oh no!’
‘And I realised I simply can’t be with someone who has their clown face painted onto an egg,’ says Roo. ‘I know that sounds really superficial—’
‘It absolutely does not,’ I say. ‘No matter how nice he is, you’d keep thinking about the egg.’
‘Exactly!’ says Roo. ‘And he was so proud of it too.’ She shudders. ‘It turns out I do have a dealbreaker. And that dealbreaker is clown eggs.’
‘Oh God,’ I say, ‘that sounds like the clowns lay them …’
Roo stares at me in genuine horror and then we both start laughing.
‘Imagine being in bed with him,’ I say, wheezing with mirth, ‘and then you look over and his egg is sitting on the bedside table, staring at you with its little clown eyes—’
‘Stop, stop,’ wails Roo. ‘I’ll have nightmares.’
‘I bet the clown eggs in the archive come to life at night,’ I say. ‘Just picture them all, chortling away in the dark. Urgh, I’m freaking myself out now.’
But when our laughter subsides, Roo gives a big sigh and says, ‘Anyway. I won’t be doing that again any time soon.’
‘Doing what?’ I say. ‘Dating clowns? Well, fair enough.’
‘No,’ says Roo. ‘Dating in general. I was all excited about tonight. My first first-date in four years! And look how it turned out.’ She flops back against the couch cushions. ‘I think this is the universe telling me I’m not ready to move on.’
‘Come on, Roo,’ I say. ‘One creepy clown egg isn’t a message from the universe.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Roo turns to face me. ‘Think about it. I was in love with Justin but now he’s living happily ever after with his board-game woman.
The woman he chose over me. And the first time I go out with another man, he turns out to be a literal clown.
’ She hugs a cushion to her chest, looking forlorn.
‘Maybe I was stupid to think I could find someone else. Maybe I need to accept I’ll never find love again. ’
‘Roo, you’re not a hundred years old!’ I say. ‘If you’re doomed to be loveless forever because you’re single right now, then so am I.’
‘You’re hooking up with Art Sullivan,’ says Roo.
‘I kissed him once,’ I say, ‘in a moment of madness.’ I put my arm around her.
‘Look, you don’t need to date, of course you don’t.
We both know you don’t need a partner. But if you want one, please don’t give up looking just because of one clown.
You deserve to be happy. You will be happy, whatever happens. And I know it’s easy for me to say—’
‘Especially now you’ve got off with your hot officemate,’ says Roo.
‘How do you know whether he’s hot or not?’
‘I googled him, obviously,’ says Roo.
‘Well, forget about me and him,’ I say. ‘Even if tonight’s date was a bust, this isn’t the end.
You can try dating again when you feel up to it, but only if you want to.
You can just have fun with it. And your life is still so much better than Justin’s right now, whether you’re with someone else or not.
Yes, he might have his board-game woman, but he’s living in the arse end of nowhere doing an IT job he hates.
And you’re in a city you love doing a job you adore.
Plus it’s your birthday in two weeks and you’re going to celebrate it with loads of people who love you. Isn’t this true?’
‘It is,’ admits Roo.
‘Well, I know it’s easier said than done, but keep reminding yourself of that,’ I say. ‘And look, I know I’ve been caught up in my own nonsense recently. I’m sorry if I’ve been banging on about work and Art all the time.’
‘It’s fine,’ says Roo. ‘Bang away.’ She gives me a meaningful look.
‘Do your clients know you’ve got a mind like a sewer?’ I say.
‘No,’ says Roo. ‘They think I’m above such things.’
‘Seriously, Roo,’ I say, ‘I just hope you know … I hope you know that whatever nonsense I’ve got going on in my life, I’m always here for you.
Whether you want to vent, or you want a pep talk, or someone to bitch about Justin or discuss clown dates with or whatever.
If you’d rather I shut up and stop spouting shite, I’ll shut up.
And if you just want to sit here for a while and watch a Korean zombie show, that’s fine too. ’
Roo doesn’t say anything for a moment. She looks down at her lap, blinks and rubs her eyes. Then she reaches across the couch, picks up the remote control, turns on the TV and, without looking at me, says, ‘I’m glad you’ve come home.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Me too.’