Chapter Nineteen
INT: ANNIE AND ROO’S HOUSE / INT: NORTHSIDE OFFICES
It’s a very weird feeling, working hard on something while knowing you’re being set up for a fall.
Art and I have resolved to give the Northside team no reason to criticise us.
We will work on these scripts to the best of our ability.
It’s impossible to follow all of Bernard’s notes, and we know this is intentional on his part, so all we can do as we go through each note is ask ourselves if it makes any sense, and if it doesn’t (and most don’t), we just try to make our scripts better anyway.
But the whole process feels a little soul-destroying.
So by the time I get home on Wednesday evening, I feel utterly drained. When Roo comes in from an afternoon reading cards at a boutique festival launch, I’m on the couch eating a spice bag.
‘Don’t judge me,’ I say, pointing at the bag. ‘It’s a tough week.’
‘I’d never judge you,’ says Roo. ‘Not really. Except for wearing that skirt. It’s very bright, even by your standards.’ She sits down on the couch and starts to take off her shoes. ‘How was work?’
‘Oh, same as usual.’ I take a bite of spicy potato and swallow it. ‘Apart from the fact that I was invited to lunch by Honoria Quigley …’
Roo drops a velvet platform heel. ‘You what?’
By the time Roo has recovered from the shock and excitement of hearing all about my chat with Ma Cusack, I’ve eaten most of the spice bag.
‘I don’t suppose you could bring me along?’ she says. ‘I could take notes.’
I laugh. ‘I’m afraid not. And not only because I’d have to introduce you to Art.’
‘I’d be very nice to him,’ says Roo. ‘As long as I’m sure he’s not messing you around. I don’t want you getting your heart broken.’
‘There’s definitely no chance of me getting my heart broken by Art Sullivan,’ I say. ‘Northside, maybe, but not Art.
‘Are you messing him around?’
I think about this for a moment.
‘Also no,’ I say. ‘I don’t think he’s … messable with.’
‘Good,’ says Roo.
‘How are you getting on?’ says Art.
It’s eleven on Thursday morning and Art has returned from a canteen coffee run.
I grimace. ‘As well as can be expected, I suppose. Thanks for this.’ I take a sip of coffee. I didn’t sleep well again last night.
‘You feeling okay about the check-in meeting?’ Art looks at his watch.
‘God, I’ve been trying not to think about it.’ I slump back in my chair. ‘How can we look Bernard in the face now we know what he’s up to?’
‘Look, I’ve been thinking about this, and we’re doing everything we can.
’ Art sits down at his desk. ‘You’ve got to remind yourself that this sabotage bullshit is probably his last stand.
Plus Susan’s not pissed off with us anymore, and that means something.
By the end of next week, the anniversary episodes will be shot and this drama will all be over.
If we can take everything Bernard throws at us and get through this fortnight, it has to get better. ’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ I say. But it’s cold comfort.
‘It’s kind of liberating, you know,’ says Art thoughtfully.
‘That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.
Like, we know we’re not being paranoid. He really is out to get us.
It’s not even personal, we just happen to be the easiest scapegoats.
We’re not failing as writers. We’re just …
unlucky. And we’re doing everything we can. So why worry?’
I almost laugh. ‘Art, I can’t remember a single day since I was twelve that I haven’t been worried about something.’
‘Seriously?’ Art looks genuinely surprised to hear this. ‘Wow. Every day?’
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘You know there’s no point in worrying about things like this, right?’ says Art. ‘It won’t change anything.’
As if that has never occurred to me before. It’s pointless trying to explain how my brain works to someone who has clearly never felt like this in his life. It’s just a reminder of how different he and I are. Of how he can never really get me.
‘I know that,’ I say. ‘But my nervous system doesn’t. It wants me on high alert at all times.’ He still looks surprised. ‘Come on, Art, you’ve at least heard of anxiety, right?’
‘Of course I have,’ says Art. ‘I just … I just wouldn’t have thought you had it. I mean, I understand you’re worried now about work, given what a shitshow it’s been. But I didn’t think you felt like that all the time.’
I remember what he said to me when I assumed he drove to work every day. I shrug. ‘I suppose you don’t know me as well as you think you do.’
But as I set to work on my script, still trying to find my way through Bernard’s deranged notes, I attempt to channel Art’s attitude. He’s right: this ridiculous situation is out of our control. All I can control is my breathing, one breath at a time, in and out and in and out …
Then there’s a tap on my shoulder, and when I take off my headphones Art says, ‘It’s time for that meeting.’
And as I take a seat next to him at the oval table, I find myself thinking, Fuck it.
Art’s right. We’re doing our best and Susan must see that.
Bernard isn’t going to be here forever. We’ve heard nothing more about this doctor business.
Maybe what we overheard between Bernard and Gina was just paranoid raving.
And most importantly, next week this anniversary drama will all be over and things will start to change around here.
So when Bernard stalks into the room I tune out his usual bullshit.
When he says, ‘How’s your script coming along, Ms McDermott?
’ I stare right back at him and say, ‘Fine, thanks to all your notes.’ I let his snide comments slide off my back because I know there’s no point in engaging with him now.
I ask Susan a few questions about small issues in the script and she gives helpful answers.
It all goes … actually, it all goes pretty well.
I can get through this. Wow, maybe I can actually get through this.
I mean, I’ve somehow convinced Art I’m not a constantly simmering ball of neurosis. Maybe I can do anything.
By the time the meeting ends I feel I have electricity running through my veins.
It could be because I survived the meeting without snarling at Bernard, it could be because this script is almost finished and this crisis is nearly over, but I feel weirdly liberated.
I want to throw caution to the wind. I’m full of adrenalin and excitement, like I could go for a run or go to the gym or do one of those other things I never do to let off steam.
When we get up from the table, Art leans towards me and says, ‘That went well.’
‘Very well,’ I say, as we walk out the door.
‘Oh, bollocks,’ says Art. ‘I forgot my notebook. I’ll follow you on.’
And as I make my way to our little office and close the door behind me, I think, Well, there’s definitely one thing we can do together to let off steam.
After all, our office is pretty much soundproof. And I know from Tuesday that he’ll have a condom in his wallet.
I was always nervous about initiating sex with new boyfriends, but Art isn’t a new boyfriend. He’s not a boyfriend at all. I’m not trying to impress him. Which means none of this really matters. Which means I can do whatever I feel like doing.
I slip off my navy cotton knickers and stuff them in my bag just before Art comes into the room.
‘Lock the door,’ I say.
The way he looks at me as he clicks the lock shut makes me know I’m doing the right thing. Or the wrong thing. Whatever. I’m glad I’m doing it.
‘You look very, very good in that eye-watering dress,’ he says.
I reach out my hand and he takes it.
It goes against all logic, against all reason, that I’m doing this, that I’m kissing him in our office, with people in the open-plan space outside, that I’m leading him over to the couch where he writes his scripts, that I’m pushing him down onto it so he’s leaning back against the cushions.
We keep kissing and now I’m straddling him, rubbing myself lightly over the hard-on that’s visibly straining against his trousers.
‘Christ, McDermott.’ His voice is hoarse. ‘What are you doing to me?’
I feel my lips curl upwards in a smile. I can’t remember the last time I smiled at someone like this.
‘I’m not wearing any underwear,’ I whisper in his ear and he says, ‘Oh fuck’ and pulls me closer.
I kiss him, hard, and then unzip his fly before lowering myself a fraction lower, letting his erection brush against my clit.
I gasp. There’s nothing but the cotton of his underwear between us.
I rub myself against him again and he lets out a breath.
I meet his gaze.
Neither of us says anything.
And then there’s a knock on the office door and Susan’s voice says, ‘Hello? Can we come in?’
I almost fall off the couch as I scramble to my feet. Art is frantically doing up his trousers. I tug down my dress, glance at Art to make sure he’s decent (the answer is just about, now he’s grabbed a script and put it on his lap) and say, ‘Sure!’
My voice does not sound normal. Oh God, could she possibly guess what we were just doing? Surely not. Technically we haven’t really done anything, technically we were just kissing, he was still wearing his boxers, technically we barely touched each other …
But that’s not what it feels like when I unlock the door and Susan comes into the room followed by – oh Jesus – Bernard.
The office suddenly feels like a place where two people have been doing all sorts of depraved things.
Maybe I am depraved. I’ve been driven unhinged by this place and by Art.
How did I possibly think this was a good way to get rid of nervous tension?
I am very, very conscious that I’m not wearing any knickers.
Oh God, where are they? They’re not sticking out of my bag, are they?
I feel queasy with horror at the thought.
‘Everything okay?’ says Susan.
‘Everything’s great!’ says Art. His voice doesn’t sound normal either. ‘What can we do for you?’