Chapter Twenty-Two #3
‘Well, says Laura, ‘I need to hear all about meeting Ma Cusack. Don’t worry, I won’t tell a soul about your secret shoot.’
‘Who’s Ma Cusack?’ says Tadhg, joining us at the table with his own beer.
‘Ha!’ Art turns to me. ‘I’m not the only one who’s never heard of her.’
‘Tadhg was far too cool to watch Northside.’ Laura grins at her husband. ‘Weren’t you?’
Tadhg takes a sip of beer. ‘I was not too cool for Northside, Lol. I just never got into it. Anyway, who is she?’
‘She’s the legend who’s hopefully going to save Northside’s anniversary episode,’ says Art. ‘But Annie’s the expert on all that.’
So I fill Tadhg and Laura in on our visit to Honoria’s house. And Art doesn’t jump in and hold forth, the way he used to in college, the way he did, just a bit, in the IBC canteen. He doesn’t show off. Art sits back and lets me talk.
The conversation becomes more general, and by the time dinner is ready, Tadhg and Art have discovered that Tadhg’s cousin was friends with Art in primary school.
‘Ah, the smallness of the north Dublin suburbs!’ says Laura.
‘It always annoyed me in America when people assumed all Irish people knew each other,’ says Art, ‘but it turns out we kind of do.’
‘Did you have to convince people you didn’t grow up on a farm?’ says Tadhg. ‘Because I’ve had to explain that we actually have suburbs.’
Art grins. ‘I sometimes tried to push the stereotype to see how far I could go. I once managed to convince an actor we only got electricity in Dublin in the eighties.’
Tadhg laughs, and for the first time, I’m grateful for Art’s easy charm.
Sometimes people can be odd with Tadhg – and with Laura, now – when they first meet him.
But as Art sits back in his chair, looking totally at home, it hits me that his confidence is something he actually uses to make things easier for other people, not just himself.
I can tell Laura is dying to talk to me about him and after dessert, when we’re all sitting around the table drinking tea and digesting the delicious feast, she turns to Art and says, ‘Would you like to see the studio? It’s at the bottom of the garden.’
‘I’d love to,’ says Art.
‘Can you give him the tour, Tadhg?’ she says. ‘Me and Annie can clean up here. You did most of the cooking after all.’
‘All of the cooking.’ Tadhg throws her a mock-stern look. ‘You just sat there reading the Sunday papers while I laboured away over a hot stove.’
‘I chopped some stuff!’ protests Laura. ‘But yeah, you did most of it. It’s your own fault for doing that fancy cookery course.’
As soon as Art and Tadhg are out the back door, Laura says, ‘Well, he’s lovely.’
I shrug and pick up some plates. ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
‘Come on, Annie. He’s brilliant. Why did you tell me he was a total dickhead?’
‘He’s still a bit of a dickhead,’ I say. ‘Sometimes.’
Laura nods towards the garden, where through the glass doors I can see Art saying something that makes Tadhg crack up. ‘He hasn’t been one tonight.’
I look at Art, who’s now laughing himself as he and Tadhg enter the studio.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I suppose he hasn’t.’
In fact, Art hasn’t really been a proper dickhead for a while.
And now I come to think of it, over the last couple of weeks he’s apologised for quite a lot of his dickish behaviour.
Not in an automatic, meaningless, ‘sorry you were offended’ way.
He’s apologised in ways that suggested he’d actually thought about it.
‘I asked you this before,’ says Laura, ‘and now I’m going to ask you again. Do you like him?’
I’m about to say no, of course not.
But I can’t do that. Not now.
Because of course I like Art. I more than like him.
He’s arrogant and facetious and he still drives me mad sometimes, but he’s funny and he’s hardworking and he’s brave.
He stood up to a famous, powerful bully even though he must have known he’d be punished for it.
And he’s deceptively kind. In fact – I remember my second day at Northside, when I was too freaked to leave the office, and he manoeuvred me to the canteen by banging on about how much he hated the smell of my vending machine sandwich – he’s been kind to me since the beginning.
He’s incredibly good in bed (not that we’ve spent much time in an actual bed).
And he’s hot. I can’t deny it anymore. I’ve fancied him despite myself since the first day we went for lunch together.
And despite all his teasing, despite how much he’s wilfully irritated me, what he said to Lizzie today …
It showed he listens to me. All this time, he’s been listening to me. I thought he didn’t understand me but maybe he does. He might take the piss and tease me but he takes in what I say and he acts on it and he stood up for me today and that moment was, well, it was …
That moment was one of the best things that’s happened to me in a long time.
Art might be one of the best things that’s happened to me in a long time.
I thought I never felt self-conscious around him because I didn’t care.
But maybe I never felt self-conscious around him because …
well, because we suit each other. Despite everything, we suit each other.
I’m always myself when I’m with him. Maybe even better than myself.
He makes me feel less afraid. He reminds me that I can do anything.
Whether it’s facing a work canteen or writing a show-saving script.
‘I like him,’ I admit. ‘Just a bit. Maybe … maybe more than a bit.’
Laura looks at me, her expression surprisingly serious. ‘If that’s true, Annie,’ she says, ‘then you should tell him.’
I bite my lip. ‘I’ll think about it.’
We don’t say much as we load the dishwasher. Then the kitchen door opens and Tadhg and Art come in, still laughing.
‘Did you give Art the full studio tour?’ says Laura.
Tadhg puts his arm around her. ‘I did. And I tried not to bore him with guitar chat.’
Laura laughs up at him. ‘Well done!’
Tadhg kisses her temple and the way he smiles at her, like he’s just so happy to be with her …
Right now I wish someone would smile at me like that.
‘It’s been a really great evening,’ says Art, ‘but I should probably head. Thanks for letting me gatecrash your family dinner.’
‘You weren’t gatecrashing!’ says Laura. ‘You were very much invited.’
‘You were.’ Tadhg’s smile is warm as he turns to Art. ‘It was great to meet you, man.’
‘You too,’ says Art.
‘I should head as well,’ I say. ‘We’ve got a big week ahead of us.’
‘I can call you a taxi,’ says Laura, reaching for her phone. ‘Where are you, Art? I can get one for both of you.’
‘I was going to walk,’ he says. ‘I’m only in Drumcondra.’
And without thinking too much about it, I say, ‘I’ll walk too. If you don’t mind going via Richmond Road,’ I add.
‘Of course I don’t,’ says Art.
Ten minutes later we’ve made our farewells and are walking in the direction of my house.
‘That was really nice,’ says Art. ‘Your family are very sound.’
‘They’re not bad,’ I say. ‘Thanks for not being weird around Tadhg.’
Art looks amused. ‘You’re welcome, McDermott. Good to know I didn’t embarrass you too much.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that! I just meant … people can be funny when they meet him first. But you made him feel comfortable.’
‘Oh right,’ says Art. ‘Well, I’m glad. He’s great. Your sister’s lovely, too. They seem very … normal.’
I laugh. ‘They are normal! I mean, Laura was a copywriter until a few years ago.’
‘Ah, you know what I mean.’ Art stifles a yawn. ‘Shit, sorry. I didn’t realise how tired I was.’
The yawn is infectious. ‘Same here.’ I find myself yawning a second time. ‘God, I’m exhausted.’
The night is balmy as we walk through Fairview. It’s not like the last time he walked me home. The vibe isn’t so electric. We’re both sleepy and full of delicious dinner but it’s … it’s kind of nice. It’s easy. I don’t want the walk to end.
And then my house is in sight, and then we’re outside it, and the walk is over. The night is over.
‘Well,’ I say. ‘Here we are.’
Then I remember what Laura said in the kitchen. About how I should tell him how I feel.
And just for a moment, I imagine what it would be like if the night weren’t over after all.
I imagine him coming into the house and the two of us tumbling, sleepily, into bed.
I imagine curling up next to him and chatting drowsily until we fall asleep.
I imagine waking up tomorrow in the golden light of an early summer morning with his arm around me, his body pressed close against me.
I imagine him running his fingers over my hips, tracing the outline of me with those beautiful, skilled hands.
I imagine rolling around to face him and kissing him.
I imagine him making me come and then making me laugh.
It all sounds pretty good to me. Better than good. Right now it sounds like the thing I want most in the world.
And maybe, just maybe, all I have to do is ask for it.
So I say, ‘Do you … do you want to stay over tonight?’ Art doesn’t answer immediately so I say, ‘I mean, you might as well, now we’re here …’
My voice trails away. Art doesn’t say anything. But his face …
Oh God, his face.
It is not the face of a man who wants to spend the whole night in my arms and then wake up and give me so many orgasms I have to call in sick to Northside.
His face looks … sad. Like he’s wishing I hadn’t just made things weird.
‘It’s a tempting offer,’ he says carefully, ‘but I don’t think it’s a good idea. I should head home. I think we’re both too tired.’
And it’s true. We’re obviously too exhausted for any sexual activity.
Which is, I guess, the only reason he would spend the night with me.
It didn’t cross his mind that I might have been inviting him to just literally sleep with me.
He’s not saying no because he doesn’t have clean clothes or whatever.
It’s just because we’re too tired to fuck.
I mean, why else would he share a bed with me?
Because of course, of course we’re just – what did he call us? Frenemies with benefits. Or rather actual friends with benefits, now. But nothing more.
I’m shocked, genuinely shocked, by how much this hurts me.
‘Oh, yeah!’ I say. ‘You’re right. Yeah, I should go straight to sleep.’
‘We’ve got a busy day tomorrow,’ says Art.
‘We sure do,’ I say brightly. ‘Well, I’d better go and get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘See you then,’ says Art. ‘It’s a big week!’
‘A big week!’ I echo, as he turns and walks towards Drumcondra Road. I watch him disappear into the darkness.
It’s a big week, all right.
A big week to do something stupid and pointless like falling for Art bloody Sullivan.