Chapter Fourteen
INT: ANNIE AND ROO’S HOUSE / INT: NORTHSIDE OFFICES
‘Pheromones,’ says Roo, a workday vision in black chiffon and red lipstick, as she places a large cup of coffee in front of me. Roo may love her witchy tisanes, but she knows that sometimes only a strongly caffeinated drink will do. ‘It must be pheromones.’
‘Hasn’t that human pheromone stuff been debunked?’ I say. ‘I think it might have been debunked.’
‘Well, then it’s clearly something biological,’ says Roo. ‘I mean, you claim you’re not into him—’
‘I’m not!’ I say. And I mean it. ‘Seriously, Roo, everything about him rubs me up the wrong way …’
‘Sounds like he was rubbing you up the right way last night,’ says Roo.
‘Shut up!’
‘Well, do you regret it?’ she says. ‘The—’
‘Don’t say rubbing again,’ I say.
I’ve had a good few hours to think about this question now.
And miraculously, the answer is no. Logically, I know I should.
Logically, I should be dreading the thought of seeing Art again.
God knows I felt hideously awkward after our first kiss.
But now … now I feel different. I don’t feel any regret or shame.
Maybe Roo’s right. Maybe this was just some biological thing, some animal thing, and we can accept it as such.
It had nothing to do with me and him as people, two people who clearly clash with each other.
It was just … nature. A natural phenomenon. Like … like the weather.
‘I don’t regret it,’ I say.
I still don’t regret it when I walk into our office an hour and a half later and Art turns around in his seat and meets my eyes.
For a moment neither of us says anything and then, all of a sudden, I’m filled with fear.
I can’t tell what he’s thinking and somehow it’s only hitting me now that maybe, despite everything he said last night, Art is regretting what happened.
My blasé attitude only works if both of us feel the same way.
If he’s dying of embarrassment, then this is going to get very, very awkward indeed.
Then Art breaks the silence. ‘Morning,’ he says.
The expression on his face as he looks at me suggests he is not dying of embarrassment. He looks like he’s trying not to smile at me.
‘Morning,’ I say.
‘Sleep well?’ says Art.
‘Very.’ Then I remember the reason that our encounter was cut short the night before. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Um, I’m fine,’ says Art. ‘Of course! Are you okay?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It’s just the phone call last night …’
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Yeah. That was … that was nothing bad. Just … sorting out some life stuff.’
Another unwelcome thought hits me. ‘You were telling the truth when you said you weren’t seeing anyone, weren’t you?’ I say. ‘Because if you are then I wouldn’t have—’
‘I was telling the truth!’ says Art indignantly. ‘And look, speaking of last night …’
Here we go. I brace myself. If he’s going to tell me he’s so horrified by what we did he can’t bear to look at me, we might as well get it over with so we can stop being officemates and then never talk again.
‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ he says in a matter-of-fact way. ‘And once is a moment of madness. But twice is something else. There’s clearly this … this thing between us. Whether we like it or not.’
I’m insulted by the implication that he’s drawn to me against his better judgement, but in fairness, it’s pretty much how I feel about him. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘You’re right. Whether we like it or not.’
‘It’s clearly just … pheromones or something,’ says Art.
First Roo, now Art. I’m about to tell him that the power of human pheromones has never been proved but this probably isn’t the best time to have an argument about science, something I suspect neither of us knows much about. So I say, ‘Something like that. It’s biological.’
‘Exactly!’ says Art. ‘Okay. So if this … thing between us is going to be there anyway, why don’t we accept it for what it is?’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘You mean … stop fighting it?’
‘Well, yeah,’ says Art. ‘Just … letting what happens happen. If it happens. I mean, maybe it won’t. Maybe we’ve got it out of our systems now. But if we haven’t, let it be a sort of friends-with-benefits thing. No expectations, no strings attached.’
I think of him reading my script, insulting my dream job. ‘I wouldn’t call us friends exactly.’
Art rolls his eyes. ‘Fine. Enemies with benefits, then.’
I wrinkle my nose. ‘That sounds a bit harsh.’
‘Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re seriously arguing about the terminology,’ says Art. ‘Frenemies with benefits. Whatever. Look, McDermott, what happened last night – I enjoyed it, you certainly seemed to enjoy it …’
‘Oh, I enjoyed it.’ I feel anyone who’s that good at giving me an orgasm needs to be encouraged to keep doing what he’s doing. For the sake of everyone with a clitoris.
‘Well then!’ says Art. ‘Let’s keep … doing it. As long as there’s this, I dunno, vibe between us. This tension. Whatever this is.’ He looks at me. I get a sudden memory of the way he looked at me last night when I was lying on the couch.
‘Sure,’ I say, as lightly if he’d just suggested getting a coffee.
Now we’ve made this sensible decision, it’s clear neither of us knows what to do next. I feel I should lighten the mood.
‘So,’ I say, ‘will we pencil in a quick shag in the stationery cupboard for this afternoon?’
Art blinks. ‘Sorry?’
I instantly regret saying anything. ‘Oh God, that was meant to be a joke! We don’t have to, like, do anything for the sake of it.’
‘Agreed,’ he says. ‘That would be ridiculous.’
‘I’m going to look at my script now,’ I say.
‘Good idea,’ says Art.
I sit down at my desk and open my laptop. I still have to submit this script in a few hours. I’ve just opened the file when Art says, ‘McDermott?’
‘Yeah?’ I say.
‘Is there actually a stationery cupboard?’
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ I say loftily. ‘Go and work on your script.’
I wasn’t wrong yesterday when I thought I’d done a decent job on this draft, but after a good night’s sleep I can see where I can make each scene tighter and smoother.
The emotional scenes with Ritchie by Paddy’s bedside in the hospital and then his dramatic kidnapping by Louisa are meant to be the climax of the entire block of six episodes so they have to be absolutely perfect.
I spend the next couple of hours working, not thinking about Art at all.
Whenever I take my five-minute break I see him looking at his own screen, an expression of fierce concentration on his face.
But somehow he’s not as distracting as he was earlier in the week.
It’s like we really have released some tension, both by what we did last night and by today’s acknowledgement that we might do it again if we feel like it, and this release has made it easier to get some work done.
At half past eleven I take my headphones off, stretch and say, ‘I think I might be done with this.’
Art looks up from his screen. He looks highly amused. ‘Does that mean the free theatre show is over? That’s a shame.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I think you performed most of your big scene with Mozzer and her old pal,’ says Art. ‘It was very compelling.’
I may not be embarrassed by what happened last night, but this makes me cringe.
I’ve long been in the habit of reading bits of my scripts out loud to myself just before I file them, to really make sure the dialogue sounds natural.
And I had somehow forgotten that, while my noise-cancelling headphones mean I couldn’t hear Art, he could hear me.
But I’m not going to show my embarrassment in front of him. Not when we’re just finding this new equilibrium between us.
So I simply say, ‘Thanks very much.’
‘Have you done any acting?’ says Art. ‘Were you, like, the star of your school shows?’
‘God, no.’ I don’t tell him I would have loved to take part in the school musicals, but there was no way I was ever going to audition for them and give Lizzie Lattin and her friends another reason to snigger at me.
I don’t want him to know what a pathetic loser I was in secondary school.
I know from Sinéad that Art was very popular in his own schooldays.
He always had a girlfriend. I didn’t even kiss anyone until I got to college – another reason he would definitely think I’m pathetic. Was pathetic. Whatever.
I bet back then Art went out with girls like Lizzie and her friends, glossy girls with subtle spray tans and shiny hair.
God, he might even have gone out with Lizzie herself.
She definitely knew Belvedere boys. One day when we were sixteen Roo and I went to town after school and saw Lizzie with a boy in a Belvedere uniform.
I remember this because she pointed at us and said something to him and they both laughed.
And when we passed them, he made barking noises at us, which made them laugh even more.
Though in fairness, I can’t imagine Art ever doing the old ‘you’re a dog’ schtick. He never seemed like that sort of dickhead.
‘What about you?’ I say. ‘Did you ever dream of being in front of the camera instead of behind it?’
For a moment Art doesn’t answer and then he says, ‘Yeah, I did, actually.’
‘Really?’ Surely if Art Sullivan wanted to act, he would have done so by now. ‘So what happened?’
‘It turned out I was really bad at it,’ he says.
Such modesty isn’t like Art, or at least the Art I’ve been hanging out with against my will for the last fortnight.
‘You? Bad at something?’ I say. ‘Surely not.’
Art’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Let’s just say any delusions I might have had in that area were stripped away after I moved to LA.’
‘Oh right.’ I think this might be the first time I’ve ever seen him show any vulnerability when it comes to his career.
It’s weird. A part of me wishes I had been equally honest and admitted why I never auditioned for the school musicals.
But I can’t be that honest. Not about that.
Not with someone like him. It’s time to change the subject.