Chapter Twenty-Three
INT: NORTHSIDE OFFICES / EXT: IBC CAMPUS / INT: ANNIE AND ROO’S HOUSE
It doesn’t matter. That’s what I tell myself. It doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t matter that we’ve had this weird friends-with-benefits thing going on for the last two weeks – God, how is it only two weeks?
It doesn’t matter that two days ago I had to bite my fist to stop myself crying out while he was kneeling between my thighs.
He’s made me come multiple times and, thanks to interruptions, I’ve only made him come once.
I suppose I owe him some orgasms. But he never made me feel like I owed him anything.
Being with him might have been purely about pheromones or biology or chemistry or whatever, but it never felt …
transactional. It always felt like whatever we were doing, we were both having fun.
But that’s over now.
Because when I enter the office early on Monday morning and he looks up from his desk and smiles at me, it hits me with a shock that whatever’s been happening between us has to stop right now.
I can’t, I simply can’t be with him if we don’t feel the same way about each other.
I can’t do it if I want a relationship and he just thinks of me as his fuck buddy.
So that’s it. I was stupid enough to catch feelings for that arrogant pain in the arse, and that means I can never kiss him again.
I can’t hear him laugh as he pulls me towards him again.
I can’t flirt with him again – because of course we’ve been flirting this whole time, I can see that now.
But never again. I can’t do any of it again.
Still, as I keep telling myself, it doesn’t matter. None of that matters right now.
What matters is the work. It’s the script. It’s Northside.
And that’s what I have to focus on.
‘Morning,’ says Art, rolling his chair around to face me.
I force a smile. ‘Morning!’
‘Sleep okay after that giant feast?’ asks Art.
‘Like a log,’ I lie. I’m not going to tell him I lay in bed for hours, unable to stop my brain racing, analysing everything that passed between me and Art over the last few weeks.
‘Same,’ he says.
Neither of us says anything for a moment.
I remember his expression after I suggested he stay over last night and I’m gripped by a horrified fear that he knows.
That he figured out exactly why I asked him, that he wasn’t fooled when I said he was right not to stay over because I needed to sleep too.
That he might actually want to talk about it …
But then he says, ‘So! I think our official scripts are looking okay.’
I feel a wave of relief. ‘Yeah, we did a good job.’
‘Do you want to have another quick look through your episode before you send it to Susan?’ says Art. ‘I’ll go through mine. Then we can keep going with the’ – he adopts a dramatic tone – ‘top-secret script.’
‘Sure,’ I say.
I don’t look at him as I open my laptop and read through the script.
He’s right, it’s not bad. And despite how weird I feel about the whole Art situation, and indeed the whole work situation, I feel a rush of pride.
Is this script perfect? No. I mean, it couldn’t be, under the circumstances.
Is it dramatic enough for what’s meant to be the biggest Northside episode in a decade?
Also no. And Bernard can blame me for all of it.
He can show this episode to his bosses and make me and, by extension, Art look like note-losing, inexperienced blabbermouth fools and say, ‘This is what happened when you made me hire newcomers.’
But he won’t be able to say that we gave up. He thought we would. I’m sure he did. And we took everything he threw at us and we kept going. We’ve done our best. If we go down for this, well, we’ll have gone down fighting.
And we found out we can work together. We can work together really well. If I can bear it, that is.
Well, I’ll have to, if I want to have a chance of redeeming the anniversary episode.
Art starts typing something on his laptop.
‘Everything okay with your script?’ I ask.
‘What?’ says Art. ‘Oh, yeah, it’s fine. Just fixing something. Right, let’s mail Susan and Bernard and tell them the scripts are ready. And we should attach the PDFs of the scripts too.’
I’ve barely hit send when a new email arrives in my inbox.
‘Oh wow,’ I say. ‘Our new scene-by-scenes.’ The outlines of our next episodes. The scripts that aren’t due for over two months now. After the recent tight deadlines, having that long to write a script feels like an unimaginable luxury. ‘Do you want to have a quick look at them?’
Art doesn’t answer.
‘Art?’ I say. ‘What do you think?’
‘Um, I dunno,’ says Art. ‘I think looking at our next episodes might be too distracting.’
‘Oh right,’ I say. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Let’s focus on our real work of the day.’ He gestures towards the couch. ‘Shall we?’
We settle down and open my laptop.
‘What if …’ says Art, and we’re off.
I never thought I’d be grateful for having to write under these incredibly stressful conditions, but right now I’m weirdly glad that I have this crucial task to focus on.
The most important thing right now isn’t my feelings, it’s trying to save Northside.
And we’re not just doing this for the sake of the show itself.
We’re doing this for Simon and Nora and, fuck it, even Cian Murphy.
We’re doing it for all the other people who’ll lose their jobs if Northside goes under.
And even though I’m right next to Art, concentrating on the work helps me forget about how sad and confused he’s unwittingly making me feel.
As long as I’m thinking about how best to capture the spirit of Ma Cusack, I’m not thinking about how I’ve just lost someone I never really had.
Still, I’m grateful there’s no romance in this storyline.
I simply couldn’t write a love scene with Art right now.
And I’ve got to admit his YouTube binges have been paying off. ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this,’ I say, after he comes up with a brilliantly funny line for Ma’s first scene at Paddy’s bedside, ‘but you write her really well.’
Art looks amused. ‘I told you, I’ve been doing my homework. But,’ he adds, ‘I couldn’t write her without you.’ He leans back into the couch cushions. ‘We make a good team.’
I keep my eyes fixed firmly on the laptop screen so I don’t have to meet his eye.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘We actually do.’
‘Have you ever written with someone before?’ asks Art.
‘Um, no, not really.’ I think about it for a moment. ‘Actually, not ever. I’ve worked with editors, obviously, but I’ve never, like, sat down and written a script from scratch with another person. How about you?’
‘Same,’ says Art. ‘But maybe I could get used to it.’
‘Whenever you need a Ma Cusack expert, I suppose.’
‘No, McDermott, not just then. None of my episode rewrites would have been as good without you.’ He looks at me and this time I meet his eye. ‘I suppose what I’m trying to say is … thank you. For helping me.’
I could never, ever have imagined the old Art saying these words. There’s a lump in my throat as I say, ‘You’re welcome. You helped me too.’
‘Writing together …’ says Art, ‘it’s been fun. And to be honest, I haven’t found writing fun in a long time.’
‘Oh right,’ I say. ‘Well, I’m glad.’
A part of me wonders why exactly he finds writing with me fun, but I try my hardest to crush those thoughts. Is this what it’s going to be like from now on? Me analysing Art’s every word? Hoping he’s developing feelings for me?
He looks at his watch. ‘It’s practically lunchtime. Do you want to take a break? I need to get out of this office.’
‘Sure.’ I don’t know if I fancy spending lunch with him with no script to distract us, but I can’t think of a decent excuse.
And I need to get off this couch and stretch at the very least. My pomodoro routine has gone out the window.
‘I don’t know if I can face seeing people in the canteen, though. ’
‘Then,’ says Art, ‘we’ll dine al fresco.’
One brief stop in the canteen later, we’re sitting beneath a vast old oak tree behind the Northside lot on the far side of the IBC campus, leaning back against its giant trunk.
‘Right,’ says Art, ‘while we eat our lunch we’re not going to think about Ma Cusack or Ritchie or scripts or anything else.’
This would be a great idea if it weren’t for the fact that the only other thing on my mind right now is how I feel about him.
Focus on something else, Annie. Ground yourself.
I try the old therapy technique. What can I taste? I can taste this chicken wrap. What can I feel? I can feel the tree against my back, the grass against my bare legs. What can I see?
I can see Art.
I can see Art’s long legs in his navy trousers, stretched out next to mine. If I turn my head slightly I can see his profile, his dark curly hair, his kind-of-big nose. His smile as he catches my eye.
God, how could I have ever thought I didn’t fancy him?
I put down my wrap. We’re sitting so close that I could lean my head on his shoulder. If we were together, properly together, I’d do it. He stops talking and now his left hand is resting on his thigh, just centimetres from my right hand. If we were properly together, I’d take his hand right now.
And then he takes mine and squeezes it gently.
‘We’ll get through this,’ he says. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, but I’m not sure I will. Everything’s such a mess.
The job. The fact I unwittingly played into Bernard’s hands.
My stupid, self-sabotaging feelings for Art, which have surfaced at the worst possible time.
I know I shouldn’t torture myself by letting him touch me. I know I should pull my hand away.
And I will, of course I will. In a few seconds. In a minute.
But not yet.
Fuck, not just yet.
Then I realise I’m about to absently stroke his hand with my thumb, and I snatch my hand away so quickly Art starts in surprise.
‘Sorry!’ I rub my nose. ‘I thought I was going to sneeze.’