Chapter Thirteen #2
We get takeaway sandwiches and eat them at our desks without talking.
For the rest of the afternoon we both keep our heads down and work.
And work. I don’t think I’ve ever worked so intensely on any script in my life.
And as the hours go by I realise it’s actually coming together, this second draft.
At around nine o’clock – sooner than I expected, to be honest – I reach the end of a scene and realise I’ve done it.
I’ve written a second draft. I want to sleep on it and go through it tomorrow, but it’s good and it’s done.
I stare at my laptop screen for a moment, feeling strangely emotional. Then I take my headphones off just as Art closes his laptop with a smack.
‘Are you okay?’ I say. But when I turn around he’s almost smiling.
‘I’m grand,’ he says. ‘I’ve finished my draft.’
‘Oh right,’ I say. ‘Me too.’
For a moment we look at each other in silence. It feels weirdly anticlimactic. We should be celebrating, shouldn’t we? We did it! We met our deadline under incredibly stressful circumstances!
There’s a knock on our office door and my first reaction is stomach-churning fear that something new has gone wrong. But when Art calls ‘Come in’, the door opens and there’s Nora.
‘How are you holding up?’ she says.
‘Good, I think!’ I say. ‘We’ve both just got the second drafts finished.’
‘Excellent,’ says Nora. ‘Same here. How do you feel about going for a celebratory pint and some food with me and Simon and Sorcha – have you met Sorcha?’
‘Not properly.’ I remember her from the meetings, though, a dark-haired woman in her forties. I don’t think she laughed at any of Bernard’s digs at me and Art. Or did she? I’m on the verge of overthinking this invitation.
‘We’re going down to the Cat and Cage in Drumcondra,’ says Nora. ‘Fancy joining us?’
I hesitate. My head’s wrecked with tiredness and Art weirdness and possible sabotage.
‘I’m up for it.’ Art looks at me. ‘Annie?’
Fuck it, I was just thinking I wanted to celebrate. Also, I’ve realised how starving I am.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Sounds good.’
‘Great!’ says Nora. ‘I’ll see you down in the lobby.’
Art packs up his things and follows her out the door. But he turns back at the doorway.
‘Keep your enemies closer, McDermott,’ he says in a stage whisper. And winks.
Half an hour later, we’re sitting in the pub drinking pints and eating pizza.
Sorcha seems lovely, not least because her whole family are fans of Our Toon (‘My kids were so impressed when they heard I’m working with the woman who killed Tony Barton!
’) and I wish I could relax but I’m wondering if that will ever be possible for me again.
I want to be funny and charming and friendly (but not too friendly, not, like, weirdly friendly).
I want Simon and Nora and Sorcha to like me.
But I feel overwhelmed. Whenever I start talking I worry that I’m talking too much, so I shut up and then I worry that I’ve been silent for a freakishly long time. It’s like the stress of this job has made me regress twenty years. I never feel comfortable.
‘You know Bernard’s married?’ Simon tells me. ‘Second wife, too. I can’t even get a man to go on a second date with me, and Bernard’s found two women willing to marry him!’
‘Well,’ says Nora, ‘he might not be married for much longer. I know I shouldn’t gossip—’
‘But you will,’ says Simon, winking at me.
‘I heard Nadine has left him,’ says Nora.
Simon gasps. ‘Seriously?’ He shakes his head. ‘Wow, Northside really is all he has these days. The poor thing.’
‘I can’t believe you feel sorry for Bernard, Adebayo!’ says Nora. ‘Does my rash mean nothing to you?’
‘I care very deeply about your rash, and I’m not saying I feel sorry for Bernard, but you’ve got to admit he’s pretty tragic these days.
’ Simon turns to me. ‘You know his Northside obsession is why his first marriage broke up? He was never home. It basically destroyed his family life. His son got married last year and didn’t even invite him to his wedding. ’
‘Serves him right,’ says Nora.
I’d love to join in the bitching but I can’t let myself. What if they repeat something I say back to him? They mightn’t even do it on purpose – it might be like Róisín telling him about Laura …
Art, of course, is in his element. You’d never know there had been any stress or awkwardness in his life this week. He sits back in his chair, totally at ease, talking just the right amount, making the others laugh. It’s infuriating. How does he do it?
And why can’t I do it too?
But I can’t, so I sit there and eat my pizza and I’m quite relieved when, after one drink, Sorcha says, ‘Right, everyone, I think I’d better call it a night.’
‘Good idea,’ says Art.
Sorcha, Nora and Simon are getting home by bus and taxi but Art and I both live within walking distance, so after we’ve left Simon at his bus stop Art and I walk down Drumcondra Road together.
‘Still think they’re our enemies?’ says Art.
‘No,’ I say. ‘And I never did, not really. I was just worried.’
‘I know,’ says Art.
We walk past the Tesco in silence and reach the junction of Richmond Road. I stop at the corner and take my keys out of my bag. I want to keep them in my hand as I walk home.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘I’m down there.’
‘How far down?’ says Art.
‘Um, it’s a cul-de-sac just past Grace Park Road,’ I say.
Art looks down the dark, twisty street. ‘I can walk you home,’ he says. And then he adds, ‘If you want, of course.’
I wouldn’t have wanted to ask Art for a favour, but I’m relieved he’s offered. I slip the keys into my jacket pocket.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
We set off in silence. The path isn’t very wide and after a few minutes my right hand brushes against Art’s left, just for a moment. The contact feels like the striking of a match.
I pull away, and he does the same.
But then our hands touch again. And this time I don’t draw away from him.
And he doesn’t draw away from me.
This time his fingers linger on mine a fraction of a second longer.
Our hands part but when they brush against each other again Art intertwines his fingers, just briefly, with mine.
He pulls his hand away and then draws his fingers along the inside of my wrist and back again, and when his palm meets my palm I curl my fingers tightly around his for a moment before our hands part and then come together again.
It’s not like holding hands. We’re not holding hands. It’s like we both want, we both need to touch each other and this is as far as we will let ourselves go.
I don’t look at him. And he doesn’t look at me.
We keep walking.
‘What’s happening, McDermott?’ he says softly.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. But I still don’t draw away. I want him to keep touching my hand. I want him to keep touching me.
But now we’re approaching my front door. There’s no light shining in the hall, which means Roo must be still out at her work dinner thing.
‘This is my house.’ I stop and turn to face him. He’s still touching me. I don’t pull away.
‘Oh right,’ he says.
‘Thanks for walking me home.’ I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s looking straight back at me. The yellow glow of the streetlight accentuates the shadows under his eyes, under his cheekbones.
‘No problem,’ he says. ‘It’s not far out of my way.’
‘Great,’ I say.
‘And we haven’t stayed out too late,’ says Art. ‘We’ll be fine for work tomorrow.’
He still hasn’t let go of my hand. Or I haven’t let go of his. We haven’t let go of each other. I’m not really taking in a word he says. I’m just looking at his mouth moving, but he could be saying anything. I don’t think he’s really listening to what he’s saying either.
‘Well, goodnight,’ I say.
I finally release his hand. But then Art lifts it to my face and softly, barely touching me, draws the back of his index finger across my lips. Without thinking about what I’m doing I open my mouth and, for a split second, I bite down, very gently, on his knuckle.
What have I done? Jesus, he was right that first day when he thought I was going to bite. Maybe I am just an animal. My face grows hot with embarrassment as I turn away, grab my keys out of my pocket and open the door.
‘So I’ll see you tomorrow,’ I say.
‘McDermott,’ says Art. I turn back to face him as the door swings open.
And that’s when he kisses me.
Suddenly the languid tentativeness of the handholding has gone and something frantic and almost feral takes its place.
I back into the hall of the house, pulling Art inside by the front of his jacket, and he kicks the door shut behind him as he pulls me closer to him, kissing me harder.
His hands are on me and mine are on him and right now I don’t care how annoying and snobby he can be, right now I don’t care how jealous I am of his confidence and ease, all I care about is how much I want him to fuck me right now, in this hall, against the wall, on the stairs, on the floor, I don’t care. I just want him.
And he wants me too, because, still kissing me, he’s guiding me through the open door to the sitting room until we’re both on the couch, until I’m lying back on the cushions and he’s on top of me.
Now I’m helping him draw my top over my head, now I’m unbuttoning his shirt as he pushes up my skirt and runs his hands along the inside of my thighs, now I’m raising my hips so he can pull down my underwear.
As he touches me he says, in a tone I’ve never heard him use before, ‘Should I stop?’
‘Don’t stop.’ I meet his gaze, his pupils huge against the blue of his irises. ‘Don’t stop. Please.’
He lets out a short breath and starts to move his fingers against me, sliding up and down and round and round, and I feel my back arch and my hips rise to meet his touch as he teases me, as he strokes me faster and lighter and then harder again, as he pushes my hair back from my face and kisses my mouth, my throat, my breasts.
He does what I asked: he doesn’t stop.
Art Sullivan doesn’t stop until he makes me come with such intensity, I swear to God, I think I literally see stars.
When I float back to earth, when my breathing returns to something closer to normal, I open my eyes and see Art looking at me in a way that could almost be read as smug. It could also be read as happy. And to be honest, if it is smug, it’s entirely deserved.
‘Do you need a rest?’ he says. ‘Or do you want to keep going?’
In the past, when I’ve come like that, I’ve been so spent afterwards that I’ve wanted, needed a rest, just for a moment. But now, I realise I don’t want that at all. I don’t want to break whatever weird spell has been cast here.
I don’t want to stop either.
I don’t say anything. I reach up, draw him towards me and kiss him again. He stops kissing me for a moment and says, ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
‘It’s a yes,’ I say, my voice raw.
‘Good,’ says Art. And undoes his belt.
I’m about to suggest that we move to my room – I’m pretty sure I’ve got a couple of hopefully not-expired condoms somewhere in my desk drawer, and I think we’ve already gone more than far enough on Roo’s nice Ikea couch – when there’s a buzzing and vibrating from Art’s pocket.
He ignores it and I try to ignore it too, but no sooner has his phone stopped buzzing than it starts again. Whoever’s called him isn’t giving up.
‘Fuck,’ says Art. ‘I’d better … sorry, it could be an emergency.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Yeah, of course.’
He takes out his phone just as it stops buzzing again, and when he looks at it his face changes. He stares at the screen for a second and then looks down at me as he puts it back in his pocket.
‘You okay?’ I say.
‘I can’t believe I’m saying this,’ says Art, ‘because I really, really don’t want to leave you right now, but I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.’ He starts to buckle his belt. ‘And believe me, it’s nothing to do with you. I wouldn’t leave if it weren’t important.’
I remember him telling Bernard he came home to Dublin for personal reasons. Maybe there’s some serious family issue. Whatever it is, there’s something in his voice that makes me believe him when he says he doesn’t want to leave.
I push my hair back from my face. ‘It’s okay, Art,’ I say.
‘Really.’ And I mean it. I’m still floating on the rush of that orgasm and I don’t feel rejected or humiliated.
Yes, I’m sorry we can’t keep going but I’m already very, very satisfied.
I grab my strawberry top and slip it back over my head before I stand up, pulling down my skirt.
Art buttons up his shirt and looks around for his laptop bag, which got chucked on the floor somewhere between the front door and the couch.
He spots it just inside the sitting-room door and picks it up.
‘So … goodnight,’ he says. ‘And sorry again about rushing off.’
‘See you tomorrow,’ I say.
‘See you— oh, fuck it,’ says Art. He strides back across the room and pulls me in for one last kiss. I feel myself rising up on my toes to meet his lips, then he dips me backwards – seriously, he dips me, like someone out of an old film – and for a moment it’s like time stands still again.
Art gently lifts me to my feet. ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Okay, I’m really leaving now.’
And then he’s gone.
I’m still in a daze as I pick up my knickers – which Art had apparently flung halfway across the room and which I find hanging off the back of a chair – and get ready for bed.
I’m waiting for the reality of what I’ve done to hit me.
I’m waiting to be horrified by the fact that Art Sullivan has seen me half naked, that he knows what my face looks like when I come.
But it doesn’t happen. The horror never arrives.
And when I finally go to bed, I sleep better than I have in weeks.