Chapter Seventeen
INT: NORTHSIDE OFFICES
A million thoughts go through my head as I look across at him.
He can’t be serious. Surely he can’t be serious.
But something about his expression, something about the way he’s looking at me, makes me think he could be serious.
Still, we can’t. Of course we can’t. I’ve never done anything like this in my life.
It’s ridiculous. It’s insane.
It’s exciting.
Fuck, despite myself the thought of it is very exciting.
But what if we get caught? What if we get fired?
And then I think, At this point, what have we got to lose?
The stationery cupboard is situated on the far side of the lifts, at the end of a short, featureless corridor.
It’s not exactly a cupboard at all, but a small, windowless room that’s clearly been used as some sort of meeting room as well as storage for printer paper and Post-its.
There’s a switch in the door handle that locks the door, and once we’re inside Art flips it, walks over to the table and says, ‘Now, Ms McDermott, you’ve been here two weeks and things aren’t going very well so we really need to consider how your attitude will affect this performance review … ’
‘Shut up, Arthur,’ I say, but I’m laughing as he pulls me towards him.
‘Damnit, McDermott,’ says Art. ‘Why do these ridiculous clothes of yours have so many buttons?’
And then …
Well, then we really do have a quick shag in the stationery cupboard.
If I’d ever imagined having sex with Art or even thought about it – which I haven’t, at least not much, at least not until after the other night – anyway, if I’d ever imagined it, I suppose I’d have thought it would be very show-offy and serious and performative.
Or it would be hot, angry hate-sex, screwing each other out of sheer infuriated rage.
I never would have guessed it would be so …
light. So giddy. I would never have predicted the deliciously appreciative way he looks at me as he undoes the last button, I would never have imagined the moment when he’s inside me and we meet each other’s eyes and both kind of laugh, as if we can’t quite believe what we’re doing, as if we can’t quite believe anything could be so hot and so fun at the same time.
I would never, ever have thought that I’d feel so unselfconscious, so …
at ease doing this with someone new for the first time.
But I do. I forget about the script and Bernard and all the stupid things that are bothering me right now and just let myself live in the moment and … take joy in it. In all of it.
In Art.
‘So,’ I say. We’re on the floor, our clothes still in disarray. ‘How did I get on in the performance review?’
I can’t believe I’m making jokes about performance after sex with someone I’ve only known properly for a fortnight.
Usually I would never, in a million years, have risked saying something like this to someone unless I’d been properly going out with them for, like, at least eight months.
Just in case they thought, Hmmm, actually, it wasn’t that great – maybe we should call things off.
I suppose it’s because I obviously don’t care about what Art thinks of me.
I think of relationships that fell apart in the past because I was so worried about messing them up.
Maybe this is the good thing about fooling around with someone you don’t want to have a relationship with.
You can’t mess everything up if there’s nothing to mess.
‘Incredibly well,’ says Art. He kisses me.
‘But you know, if you’re not too tired I think I could help you hit another peak target of your own today.
Just one peak a day doesn’t feel like enough.
I don’t know where I’m going with this metaphor, I didn’t do business studies in school.
Anyway …’ He kisses me again and suddenly I’m not tired at all. ‘What do you say?’
I say yes.
Art’s just started doing something very effective when the doorknob rattles. We both freeze.
‘It’s locked,’ says a voice. It takes a second before I recognise it. It’s Bernard’s assistant Gina.
‘And why is it locked?’ says a voice I recognise immediately.
Bernard.
‘I don’t know,’ says Gina patiently. ‘There was a memo last week about people taking home printer paper, maybe management have locked it. Or maybe there’s a meeting on.’ She knocks on the door and raises her voice. ‘Hello? Is someone in there?’
I think I might be holding my breath. I look at Art, my eyes wide. Neither of us says a word.
Gina knocks again.
‘There’s no one in there, it’s fine,’ says Bernard. ‘This corridor’s private enough. I wanted to make sure you’d talked to Doctor Comerford again.’
‘I have,’ says Gina.
‘And?’ says Bernard impatiently. ‘Is everything all right? I know it was short notice but we have to take advantage of what’s going on here. We have to show Triona Clancy what she’s messing with.’
‘It’s all confirmed,’ says Gina. ‘But … are you sure about this, Bernard?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, these are the anniversary episodes we’re talking about.’ Gina’s voice is sounding a little strained now. ‘I mean, is it worth—?’
‘Gina.’ Bernard’s voice is like steel. ‘We’ve talked about this. They’re all against me. Triona Clancy is trying to push me to take early retirement.’
‘Not that early—’
‘Too early!’ snaps Bernard. ‘I’m only sixty-two!
Well, she’s going to see just how much this show needs me.
They’ll all see what a mistake this ridiculous new regime is.
This “writer’s room”. Do they think a bunch of overpaid hacks are going to know what’s best for their scripts? I know what’s best for their scripts!’
‘Of course you do,’ says Gina.
‘And a two-month hiatus every summer?’ says Bernard.
‘To do what? Who needs two months off work?’ His voice rises.
‘I’ve given my life to Northside for twelve bloody years!
My life!’ His voice cracks and I remember what Simon said about his marriages ending.
About him not being invited to his son’s wedding.
If he weren’t so horrible I might even feel sorry for him.
‘And this is how they repay me? By taking my show away from me? Well, fuck them.’
‘But Bernard …’ says Gina. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about this.’
‘Oh, really?’ Bernard’s tone is pure acid. ‘Go on.’
‘Everything with those new writers,’ says Gina. ‘Are you sure that’s all necessary?’
Art looks at me again, his eyes now as wide as mine. My heart is starting to race.
‘Those new writers,’ says Bernard, ‘are what’s not necessary. I thought I’d made that clear.’
‘Yes, of course, but what you’re doing—’
‘What we’re doing,’ says Bernard.
‘Yes, well, what we’re doing to them, it could … it could seriously damage Northside. I mean, given the current attitudes in management, it might even permanently damage Northside.’
There’s a brief moment of silence before Bernard says flatly, ‘Then it’ll be early retirement for everyone after all. But at least I’ll have been proved right. Northside needs me. And I’d rather see it go quickly than let IBC destroy it slowly.’
‘But—’
‘Look, there’s no way anyone will be able to link anything to me or you,’ says Bernard. ‘Anyway, come on, Susan wants to go through the next block …’
Their voices trail away as they move down the corridor. I finally let out a breath.
‘What the fuck was that?’ says Art.
‘I was right,’ I say. ‘Oh my God, I was actually right. Bernard’s out to get us. He’s the saboteur.’
I thought it would be a relief, having my unhinged suspicions confirmed. But it isn’t.
‘Jesus,’ says Art. ‘He is. He really is.’ He rubs his temples. ‘I can’t believe it. He’s willing to destroy this whole programme and lose his job rather than give up some of his precious power.’
‘And he’s making us the scapegoats.’ I slump back against the shelves.
‘And the doctor stuff,’ says Art. ‘What the hell is that about?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Oh God, Art, you don’t think he could be … I don’t know, trying to poison us or something?’
‘What? No!’ says Art. ‘Jesus, McDermott, how did you jump straight to that? You really do have a melodramatic mind. Anyway, I think Gina might have sounded a little more worried if he was planning a murder.’
God, of course he’s right. But still …
‘This is really bad, though,’ I say.
‘Yup,’ says Art. ‘It’s bad.’
‘He’s trying to wreck Northside. And he’s using us to do it.’ I feel physically sick. ‘He’s using us.’ I can feel the anger start to course through me. It’s like the moment I heard Lizzie taking the piss out of Roo all over again. ‘We can’t let him get away with this.’
‘That’s easier said than done,’ says Art.
‘Well, obviously,’ I say. ‘But we can’t give up on this, Art. We can’t.’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘Whatever I might think of this kip, I’m not going to let him fuck things up for the entire staff.’ The look he gives me makes me feel I can trust him. ‘We’ll figure something out, McDermott. Don’t worry.’
I might have known he’d get in a dig at IBC, but that’s not as important now. Because for the second time ever, I feel like Art Sullivan and I are on the same side.
Once we’re back in our office, we start going through our options.
With no proof, they are, to put it bluntly, limited.
There’s no point in telling Susan or even Simon and Nora.
Even if anyone believed us, what could they do?
Confront Bernard? He’d laugh in their faces.
I kick the edge of my desk in frustration.
‘If only we’d recorded it,’ I say.
‘Well, given the circumstances I didn’t exactly have my phone to hand.’ Art looks at his watch. ‘Fuck it, we might as well get lunch.’
Simon and Nora are just ahead of us in the salad-bar queue when we get to the canteen. Nora raises a hand in greeting and then scratches her wrist.
‘How’s the rash?’ I say.
‘Spreading to my other arm,’ says Nora. ‘Oh, hey, Cian!’
Cian Murphy is walking past the queue, coffee in hand. He grins at Nora. ‘Don’t think I’ve forgiven you for beating me on Saturday! I’ll have my revenge at the next one.’
Nora laughs after him as he walks on. ‘Sure you will.’
‘What did you beat him at?’ I say, when Cian is out of earshot.
‘Oh, it’s just a poker night in my house,’ says Simon.
‘We do it every month or so,’ says Nora. ‘A bunch of the regular writers. Well, most of us are staff writers now.’
There’s a squirmy feeling in my stomach, a feeling that reminds me of Monday mornings in school, hearing everyone talking about birthday parties and nights out that Roo and I would never be invited to.
It’s not like I’m dying to play poker. I’m terrible at poker.
But I’m very conscious that no one mentioned this gathering to me and Art when we were all in the pub on Thursday night.
It’s a reminder that the Northside veterans are a gang and we’re not in it yet, if we ever will be.
And it’s a reminder that we definitely can’t confide in anyone about Bernard. We’re still the outsiders.
But still, when Art and I find a table, Simon and Nora immediately join us.
‘God, I’m starving,’ says Nora.
‘We need calories to fuel all this intensive scriptwriting,’ says Simon. He yawns. ‘Sorry, I didn’t sleep well last night. I had a nightmare that we had to do a live episode for the anniversary.’
‘Speaking of the anniversary, did you all see that “fifty years of Northside” spread in the paper at the weekend?’ says Nora. ‘I heard Bernard was pissed off they went with a big picture of Ma Cusack.’
‘Well,’ says Art, ‘she was an incredible character.’
I give him a look. ‘Oh, you really think so?’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I do. I watched some of her scenes on YouTube over the weekend.’
‘Seriously?’ I say. ‘You watched a Ma Cusack supercut?’
‘Don’t look so surprised,’ says Art. ‘I thought I should see what all the fuss was about. It was a story about her being held hostage in the pub. Do you remember that?’
Of course he’d never heard of the famous home-invaders story before.
‘Strangely enough I do,’ I say. ‘And?’
‘And like I said, she was incredible,’ he says. ‘Camp but grounded and, well, the word iconic is overused these days if you ask me, but she deserved it. And the script …’ He trails off, as if he can’t quite believe he’s saying such nice things about Northside. ‘Well, it was brilliant.’
‘You know that Netflix black comedy about the grieving widower who travels through time?’ says Nora. ‘The guy who created it wrote the big showdown episode of the home-invaders storyline.’
‘No better scriptwriting bootcamp than a soap,’ says Simon with a grin.
‘You can say that again,’ says Art.
If Simon and Nora weren’t here, I might remind him of what he said in college when I sang the praises of that very storyline. But somehow it doesn’t feel right showing him up in front of them.
And besides, I’m weirdly moved that he not only watched some vintage Northside, but also admitted he liked it.
‘Maybe,’ says Roo, ‘Bernard wants this doctor to declare you and Art unfit for work. Is that possible?’
I got home from work an hour ago and, over steaming cups of her new citrus tisane, Roo and I have been discussing Bernard’s evil scheme.
‘I don’t think so,’ I say. ‘I mean, surely they can’t, like, force us to take a medical exam. Not for an office job.’ I sigh. ‘I have no idea what he’s got planned.’
We sip our tisanes in silence for a moment and then Roo says, ‘You know, I think I deserve a lot of credit for being so restrained about the whole “having sex at work” aspect of this story.’
‘Hang on,’ I say, ‘you said you thought this whole … frenemies-with-benefits arrangement was a good thing!’
‘True.’ Roo raises her eyebrows. ‘But I didn’t know you were going to be reaping the benefits in the office …’
‘The office is where I see him!’ I cry. ‘And it wasn’t like we did it on a desk in the middle of the open plan!’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ says Roo. ‘I was just surprised, that’s all. No judgement, only awe!’
I put down my teacup. ‘It’s all right,’ I say. ‘I mean, I know it was a bit much. And very out of character. Well, for me. I don’t know about him. For all I know he was shagging colleagues on his desk every day in America.’ I feel a twinge of discomfort at the thought.
‘Okay,’ says Roo. ‘Let’s forget about your hot cupboard sex—’
‘It was more of a windowless room, really …’
‘If you don’t think the writers will believe you,’ says Roo, ‘what about some of the crew? Have you met any of them yet?’
‘Hmmm,’ I say. ‘I haven’t. But now you mention it, last week one of the researchers told me the crew all hated Bernard. They were really shocked when he fired Ma Cusack.’
‘Well.’ Roo gives me a sidelong look over the rim of her teacup. ‘Perhaps it’s time you started doing some conspiring of your own.’