Chapter Fourteen #2
‘Speaking of delusions,’ I say, ‘I think my second draft might be okay. I’m going to send it in now. How are you doing?’
‘Oh, I sent mine in five minutes ago,’ says Art.
Of course he did.
I email Bernard and Susan and tell them my second draft is ready, attaching a PDF of the script in case any potential saboteur gets to it in the system before they do.
That’s it. I did it. My second draft in two weeks. And I know it’s good.
I just hope Bernard feels the same way.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘I suppose that’s us finished until Bernard’s notes arrive on Sunday.’ I lean back in my chair and sigh. ‘God, I could do with a whole weekend off. I’ll be on edge the whole time now, waiting for them to turn up.’
‘Working weekends happened all the time in LA,’ says Art, ‘and not just during emergencies. You were kind of expected to give your life to the job.’
‘I don’t think I could handle that.’ I shudder. ‘Normal soap hours can be tough enough.’
‘Yeah, I don’t miss the work schedule,’ he says, putting his laptop in his bag. ‘I miss the people, though. I worked with good teams. Mostly.’
As we head out of the office, it hits me that Art is the only person I know who’s also readjusting to being back home after a long time living abroad. I can’t help wondering if it’s as weird for him as it is for me.
‘How are you finding it being back here?’ I say.
‘Well, the weather’s shit,’ says Art. ‘But I spent the first two decades of my life dealing with the constant damp, so I can handle that.’
‘I didn’t mean the weather,’ I say. ‘I mean, like, settling back in to a country you haven’t lived in for ages. With friends and family and stuff.’
Art shrugs. ‘I mean, it’s an adjustment. But I suppose it’s fine.’ He looks at me. ‘How long were you in Newcastle?’
‘Just a few years,’ I say. ‘But I was in London before that. This is the first time I’ve lived in Dublin in over a decade. It’s … I’m still getting used to it. Like, it’s fine with my parents and my sister, but I don’t think I’ve quite found my rhythm with all my friends yet.’
‘Oh right.’ Art scratches his head. ‘Yeah, it’s strange settling back in after a gap like that.
You think you can pick things up where you left off, but you can’t.
Not when you’ve only seen people, like, once a year for over a decade.
It’s not that you don’t get on with them, it’s just that you’re not all in the same routine anymore. ’
‘I know what you mean,’ I say.
Are we actually having a proper normal civilised conversation? I think we might be.
We arrive at the lift and the doors open as soon as Art presses the button, because of course they do.
‘So are you still friends with people from school and college?’ he says, as we descend to the ground floor.
‘Yeah, I’m living with my best friend from school,’ I say. ‘Are you … are you still living with your folks?’
‘It’s just my mum and yeah, I’m there for now,’ he says. ‘I was a bit worried about her when I moved back here. But it turns out there was no need.’
The lift doors open and we walk out into the lobby.
‘Why were you worried?’ I say. ‘If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘I don’t,’ says Art. ‘My dad died … God, nearly two years ago now. It was very sudden.’
‘Oh, Art.’ I think of what it must have been like for him, far from Dublin, getting that news from home. My own nightmare come true. ‘I’m so sorry.’
Art nods in acknowledgement. ‘Thanks. I thought my mum might be finding it really difficult being on her own, because my brother’s in Galway and he sees her as much as he can but, you know.
He’s far away. And of course she’s finding it hard, but actually she’s …
well, I wouldn’t say she’s better than ever but she’s doing really well.
Anyway.’ He opens the door with his pass, which is of course on a lanyard around his neck.
‘How are you getting on living with your old pal?’
‘Great.’ I’m not going to push him to talk about his loss if he wants to change the subject. We’re outside now, bathed in the early summer sunshine. ‘Actually, I’m helping her out with her job tomorrow. She’s part of some fancy beauty launch.’
‘Oh right,’ says Art. ‘Does she work in PR?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘She’s reading tarot cards.’
‘She’s what?’ says Art.
‘That’s her job,’ I say. ‘She’s a tarot reader.’
‘You live with a fortune teller?’
‘She’s not a fortune teller! She draws tarot cards for people to help them find new ways of looking at their lives. She’s got a degree in psychology!’
‘From where, the University of Magical Bullshit?’ says Art.
‘From Trinity!’ I say triumphantly. ‘Same as you. So yes, the University of Magical Bullshit.’
‘She did psychology? Really?’ Art ignores my dig at his alma mater, but he looks insultingly surprised to learn that my tarot-reading friend has a degree from the place. ‘I had a few friends in psychology. Would I have known her? Was she a goth too?’
I glower at him. ‘Neither of us were goths, and no, you didn’t know her. I asked if she remembered you and she had absolutely no idea who you were.’ So there, golden boy! Not everyone knew your name.
‘Huh,’ says Art. ‘So do you believe in all that tarot nonsense?’
‘I believe it can give you really useful insights,’ I say. ‘It can offer you a fresh perspective on whatever’s bothering you. So yes, I do believe in it.’ I really don’t like him mocking another thing that means a lot to me, to say nothing of mocking Roo’s successful career.
Art shakes his head. ‘Wow. I’m surprised.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t be,’ I say. ‘I literally told you I was witchy in college. It’s not my fault you’re obsessed with thinking I was a goth.’
‘I’m not—’ says Art. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult your friend’s job.’
‘Yeah, the magical bullshit thing wasn’t insulting at all,’ I say dryly.
‘I just wasn’t expecting to hear your friend was a psychologist turned tarot reader!’ says Art. ‘It’s not exactly a regular job. So how are you helping her at this launch yoke?’
‘I’m not going to tell you,’ I say. ‘You’ll only take the piss out of it.’
‘I won’t,’ says Art. ‘Well, not much.’
‘If you must know,’ I say, ‘I’m going to be her assistant.’
‘Like a magician’s assistant?’ Art looks intrigued. ‘Very glamorous.’
I give him a severe look. ‘Stop imagining whatever you’re imagining.’ Thankfully, we’ve reached the point where Art should be turning off in the direction of the IBC bicycle sheds. ‘I’m not telling you any more about it. Go and get your bike. I’ll see you on Monday.’
As I turn away from him and start walking towards the gates, I hear him call after me, ‘Don’t drop any crystal balls!’