Chapter Sixteen
INT: NORTHSIDE OFFICES / EXT: DUBLIN STREETS
‘Are your notes as bad as mine?’ I say, as I close the door of our office behind me on Monday morning.
Art is sitting on the couch, looking as cheerful as I feel.
‘Did yours make no sense and also say you basically had to rewrite the entire fucking thing?’ he says. ‘Because if so, then yes.’
‘Yeah, they did.’ I’m on the verge of tears.
I’ve been on the verge of tears since yesterday morning, when I opened my newly annotated script.
I was meant to be going to Laura’s house for dinner last night, but I had to postpone until next weekend.
We have to submit the third and final drafts on Friday, and I knew there’d be more work to do on my script, of course I did, but not like this. Nothing like this.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘I mean, obviously I expected criticism and I didn’t expect him to give it nicely, but he’s totally contradicting everything Susan asked me to do in my last draft.
And he contradicts himself! Like, in one line he says Mozzer should be happier about meeting her old friend, and then in the next line he says she should be deeply sad about the passing of time.
None of his notes make sense! It’s like he doesn’t want the script to be good. ’
‘Same here,’ says Art.
‘I texted Nora on my way in,’ I say, ‘just to see if her notes were like mine. And they’re not. She said they were blunt but not, like, incoherent. I bet you and me are the only ones who got notes like this.’
‘This feels personal,’ says Art. ‘I think it might actually be personal. Both our episodes are shooting next week. It makes absolutely no sense to give contradictory notes at this stage.’
‘It has to be personal,’ I say. ‘Remember we were the only ones who didn’t get the email about the emergency schedule changes? I bet that was Bernard too. There’s no way all this is a coincidence. He’s messing with us. He’s the saboteur.’
‘Christ.’ Art runs both hands through his dark curls. ‘He really could be messing with us. For whatever fucked-up reason.’
Shit, if Art’s starting to believe me, this really must be as bad as I fear. ‘Maybe … maybe we could tell Susan,’ I say.
‘She won’t take us seriously,’ says Art.
‘She already thinks we’re flakes after the disappearing-notes bullshit.
We’re the difficult newcomers now. And even if we weren’t, it’s not like she’s shown any signs of standing up to Bernard over the last two weeks.
She’s been working here too long. She’s got fucking Stockholm syndrome. They all do around here.’
I’m pretty sure Stockholm syndrome, like human pheromones, has been debunked but now’s not the time to debate it.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘So we can’t go to Susan. Maybe we could go to HR.’
‘Not with no proof,’ says Art. ‘They won’t do anything based on missing emails and bad notes.
And maybe they’d be right. We don’t actually know he’s sabotaging us.
I mean, why would he?’ He lets out a growl of frustration.
‘Jesus, I can’t believe I ever thought this stupid job would be straightforward. ’
My heart is starting to beat faster but I take a deep breath, and then another. Ground yourself, Annie. I can get through this.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Okay. I suppose all we can do is keep working on the scripts and … do our best.’
‘Our best?’ I’ve never seen him look so pissed off. ‘Our best? I’m not wasting my best on this shite, McDermott.’
Now I’m the one who feels like growling. ‘This shite is paying our wages.’
‘Yeah, well,’ says Art. ‘I’m genuinely starting to think it’s not worth it.’
‘Last week you were telling me this would pass and things would get better!’
‘I don’t think there is any better in this madhouse now,’ says Art.
‘You said working in America was just as bad,’ I say.
‘That was bad in a different way!’ he says. ‘God, at least over there the bullshit made sense. Fuck this place, seriously. They don’t deserve either of us. We’re meant to be on a trial. Well, as far as I’m concerned that trial goes both ways.’
Oh my God, could he actually be serious about quitting? I feel panicky at the thought. This situation was bad enough when there were two of us in it. The thought of facing it on my own, the thought of facing it without Art …
‘Art,’ I say, ‘you can’t run away.’
‘Leaving this place wouldn’t be running away,’ says Art. ‘It would be walking away from a ridiculously toxic situation. And I think you should consider it too.’
‘I’m not leaving Northside after just two weeks!’ I say. ‘And you’d be breaking your contract if you go without finishing a script! I don’t think you’d even get paid.’
‘Some things are more important than money,’ says Art.
Easy for him to say, I’ve seen his family’s enormous house. Oh my God, he’s actually putting his jacket on now. He’s doing it. He’s really doing it. Typical spoiled private-school boy, running away when things don’t work perfectly for him.
And then something hits me that makes me even angrier.
‘You do realise, don’t you,’ I snap self-righteously, ‘that if you walk out now someone else is going to have to take over your script on top of their own? And that someone will probably be me.’
Art closes his eyes and rubs the space between his eyebrows.
‘Look, I’m not seriously going to leave right now,’ he says.
‘I wouldn’t do that to— I wouldn’t do that.
This shower of dickheads might be ridiculously unprofessional but I’m not.
I’m going to finish this script. I was just letting off steam. ’
‘Well, why are you putting your jacket on then?’ I realise I sound like a child.
‘I’m going to the canteen to get a coffee,’ says Art. ‘I can get you one if you promise not to throw it at me.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Um, yeah, thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ he says. And he leaves.
I slump face down on the couch and silently scream into the cushions.
When Art comes back ten minutes later I’m sitting on the floor with my computer on my lap. I’ve been trying and failing to think of solutions to some of Bernard’s notes. Four days. I’ve got to submit a final draft in four days. And I have no idea where to even begin.
‘Everything all right down there?’ says Art.
‘Not really,’ I say.
Art sits down next to me and hands me a cup of coffee. ‘Maybe this will help.’
‘Thanks.’ I sip the coffee and we sit for a moment in surprisingly companionable silence.
‘So …’ he says, and then there’s a knock on the door and, without waiting for an answer, Susan comes in.
‘Oh!’ she says, staring down at us. ‘Am I interrupting anything?’
I can feel my face grow hot even though we were only innocently drinking coffee but Art seems utterly unperturbed. He puts down his drink and stands up easily. ‘Of course not. Just discussing our next drafts.’
I scramble awkwardly to my feet and say, ‘Yes. We got our notes, obviously …’
Susan clears her throat. ‘About that,’ she says. ‘I know Bernard was a little … intense.’
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ I say.
‘But if he’s hard on you,’ says Susan, ‘it’s because he knows you can handle it.’
I almost laugh out loud. Bloody hell, does she actually believe this? Maybe Art’s right about the Stockholm syndrome.
But even though he was threatening to walk out of this job just ten minutes ago, Art smiles at her and says, ‘That’s really good to hear. Isn’t it, Annie?’
I force a smile of my own. ‘Yeah, it’s great.’
Susan looks relieved. ‘I’m glad you can see it that way. Look, your second drafts were in very good shape, both of them. But Bernard … well, we’re going through a transitionary period at the moment which is very stressful, and these anniversary episodes are a big deal.’
If that’s the case, I think, then why did he give them to me and Art? But I say, ‘I understand.’
‘We need to be sensitive,’ says Susan. ‘Everything will settle down when we’re over this hump.’
‘No need to explain anything,’ says Art smoothly. ‘We totally get it, it can’t be helped. And you’re in a very difficult position.’
God, he can be so … smarmy. But still, it clearly works because Susan says, ‘Great. I’m glad you understand. We’ll have another check-in meeting on Thursday.’
After Susan leaves Art says, ‘Well, I think she’s less annoyed with us than she was last Monday.’ He turns to me. ‘You’re welcome, by the way. Jesus, I thought you were going to have a go at her when she first came in.’
I sigh. ‘Sorry I couldn’t just slap on a fake smile.’
‘You could have tried,’ says Art. ‘I was pissed off too, but I managed it.’
Of course he did. But fuck it, it worked. I can’t pretend it didn’t. ‘I know,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
‘Look,’ says Art, ‘what’s important is that we’re no longer the messy note-losers as far as Susan’s concerned. We’re the understanding new writers who are able to deal with Bernard’s nonsense. She’s basically admitted it’s nonsense. We’ve come out of this looking good. Haven’t we?’
‘We haven’t come out of it looking worse,’ I admit.
Then the door opens and in walks Bernard.
I feel a pang of fear. Is this about me telling Adam about the script?
But it’s not.
‘Ms McDermott,’ he says. ‘Mr Sullivan. There’s an issue with both your scripts.’ He brandishes a stack of printed-out pages with barely disguised glee.
‘Yes,’ says Art, ‘we got your notes.’
‘This is another issue,’ says Bernard. ‘It’s clear from these scripts that the pair of you have been working outside Ireland for too long.
’ He flicks through the script printouts and holds up a page.
‘Look at this, Mr Sullivan. Do you really think Mozzer McCaul would say she’s “gotten” older? That’s a blatant Americanism.’
Art draws himself up to his full height. ‘Possibly. Possibly not.’
‘No possibly about it,’ says Bernard. ‘And Ms McDermott, I don’t feel you’ve captured that north Dublin voice. Neither of you has.’
‘But … but we’re both from north Dublin,’ I say.