Chapter Twenty-Four
INT: NORTHSIDE OFFICES
This is bigger than your stupid hurt feelings, Annie.
That’s what I keep telling myself all through Tuesday morning, as Art and I continue to work on the top-secret script.
And my self-talk must be working because, as the day goes on and I lose myself in Ma Cusack’s voice, I stop thinking of Art as the man I’ve caught feelings for and just think of him as my writing partner.
The work is intense and sometimes frustrating but we’re getting it done.
We’re actually getting it done! The initially messy monologues have become more polished.
They’re funny and moving and exactly what I would love to get from Ma Cusack’s return as a Northside viewer.
Even if these six scenes never get broadcast, I’m so glad I got to write them.
And I have to admit, they wouldn’t have been as good if I hadn’t been writing them with Art.
By the afternoon I start to believe we might actually give Northside an episode worthy of its anniversary.
I feel a real thrill at the thought of the viewers watching Ma Cusack’s classic soap return to the street – the close-up of a zebra-print heel emerging from a taxi, the camera panning up to that sky-high blonde bouffant.
We end up working through lunch and around three o’clock Art’s phone beeps with a text. He picks it up and groans.
‘Anything wrong?’ I say.
‘Only the joys of living with my mother,’ says Art.
‘She wants me to pick up something in the supermarket in the Omni Centre. She’s off walking around a reservoir with her bridge-club mates.
’ He gives me an apologetic look. ‘Do you mind if I head down? I’ll be twenty minutes tops.
I’d go on my way home but I don’t know how late we’ll be here this evening. ’
‘It’s fine,’ I say. I could do with some time away from him.
‘Cheers.’ Art picks up his phone. ‘Shit, this is about to die. I’d better plug it in.’ He smiles at me. ‘If a helicopter hits Charlemont Street while I’m gone, the news can wait until I get back.’
I make myself smile back at him. ‘Of course it can.’
As soon as he leaves the room some of the tension leaves my body.
I should probably go out for some fresh air, but where did I put my jacket?
I spot it on the back of the couch and as I go over to pick it up I think of the card Roo drew for me last night and tell myself things could be worse.
Art and I are friends. We’re getting along, which at least means the work is going okay.
I can do this. I can get through this. I can—
Art’s phone starts ringing.
It’s right next to me so I can’t help glancing at it. I wonder if it’s his mother calling with another shopping request but the caller ID says Erin. I let it ring out and head towards the door but it immediately rings again.
Shit, what if this is a real emergency?
I go back to the couch and see it’s the same caller just as the phone stops ringing. I know I’ve heard the name Erin sometime over the last few days, but I can’t remember where.
And then, while I’m still looking at the screen, a text arrives.
Just talked to producers – they want you to start prepping for the New York job in two weeks max. You need to arrange your contract ASAP. Call me!
The screen goes black, but I keep staring at the phone. I click the button on the side and read the text preview again. I can’t move.
A contract.
A New York job.
Two weeks max.
Now I remember where I heard the name Erin. It’s Art’s agent who dumped him.
Well, looks like he’s not as dumped as he said he was. Because he’s starting a new job in New York in a fortnight.
And he hasn’t said a word, not a single word, to me about it.
I look at the text again. This job didn’t just manifest today.
Art must have known about it for a while.
At the very least he must have known about it all weekend, when we worked so closely together, when he met my family.
He must have known about it when he told me we were a good team.
He must have known about it yesterday when he told me this place wasn’t all bad, when he acted like he cared about this job.
All that time, he must have fucking known.
And he kept it from me. He kept it all from me.
How could he? How could he?
I feel tears of rage come to my eyes and rub them away with my fists.
I am not going to cry over Art Sullivan.
I want to yell at him instead. I want to kick something.
But I can’t. At least, I shouldn’t. So I take deep breaths.
I get up and pace from the desk to the couch and back again. I try to calm myself down.
Breathe in, breathe out.
I keep pacing back and forth, back and forth.
I tell myself Art doesn’t owe me anything, not really.
He never said he’d stay here forever. In fact, when I accused him of abandoning the show after we got Bernard’s awful notes, he only said he’d definitely stay until this anniversary-script drama was over.
Well, at the end of this week it’ll be over. And then he’ll be gone.
Out of this office, out of my life. For good.
I take another deep breath. Maybe … maybe that’s for the best. Maybe that’s what I need right now.
Because if I’m being honest with myself, I don’t actually want to stay friends with him.
I can’t be friends with him, not when I feel like this, not when I can remember the way he looked at me before he first made me come, the way he pressed me against the door when we first kissed.
The thought of never seeing him again is awful, but the thought of feeling this way about him while he only wants to fuck me is worse.
So, yeah, this is probably for the best. I know it has to be for the best. I can get over him. I can get over anything.
But still, but still … He didn’t tell me. Which means maybe we weren’t even friends after all. And that’s what hurts the most.
Well, I’m not going to let him know how much pain he’s causing me.
I’m not going to show him how angry and miserable I am.
I won’t say a word about it. I can’t trust myself to keep my cool if I confront him and I can’t lose my cool right now.
We’ve got to work together for three more days, then the anniversary-episode shoot will be over and I can say goodbye to him forever.
He can fuck off to America and his stupid job and his stupid old life and I’ll never see him again.
I’ll never see Art Sullivan’s stupid, smug, annoying face again as long as I live.
And that’s when my own face crumples and I burst into tears.
I sit on the couch and put my head in my hands and I cry. I cry because he’s leaving me. I cry because the prospect of being here without him feels totally unbearable. I cry because by keeping this secret from me, on top of everything else, he has definitely, utterly, broken my heart.
God, what a way to find out I really am in love with him after all.
It’s only been a few weeks. How can it hurt so much if it’s only been a few weeks? But it does. Fuck, it does.
Eventually I pull myself together and scrabble around my bag for a tissue. I blow my nose and drink some water. There’s a compact in my bag, and I manage to make myself look slightly less tear-stained. I’m fairly sure my face has gone back to normal when the door opens and Art comes in.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘I got the last fresh loaf in the place. I hope she’s grateful.’
‘Your phone rang a few times.’ I point towards it.
‘Oh God,’ says Art. ‘Was it my mum again?’
‘I don’t know,’ I lie. ‘I wasn’t going to answer it.’
He walks over to the couch and suddenly I know I can’t bear to hear him lie to me again.
‘I’m going to the loo,’ I say, and leave before he picks up the phone.
I stay in the bathroom for a long time, then I go to the kitchen and make myself a cup of coffee. I can’t bring myself to make one for Art. While the machine is whirring, a message arrives from Dad to the family group chat, with a photo of him and Mam beaming into the camera. She’s holding a medal.
Your mother’s choir won an award at the festival in Germany!
I really didn’t need to worry about them. I always spend so much time and effort worrying about shit that never happens. And then I get whacked by something I never even thought of.
‘There you are!’ says Art, when I finally return to the office. ‘I was going to send out a search party.’
He looks exactly the same as he did earlier. In fact, he might even look more cheerful. You’d never know he was secretly planning to leave in a few weeks.
‘There was a queue for the coffee machine,’ I say.
‘Oh right.’ Art looks at me closely. ‘Are you okay?’
Of course I’m not okay. I can’t believe I have to be normal around him. I just want to curl up in a ball until he goes away.
Like a hedgehog.
‘I’m fine,’ I say sharply. ‘Just stressed. Why are you always asking if I’m okay?’
‘I’m not!’ says Art. ‘Or if I am, it’s because I actually want to know.’
‘Well, now you do.’
‘Okay,’ says Art. ‘Um, Des rang when you were out. He wants me down at the lot at six on Friday for the secret shoot. We’ll have to get going as soon as the official shoot ends.’
‘You’re still okay to direct the scenes, aren’t you?’
‘’Course I am,’ he says. ‘Directing this episode?’ He smiles at me like someone who hasn’t just taken a new job behind my back. ‘It’ll be an honour.’
‘We’d better make sure there’ll be finished scripts, then,’ I say, as casually as I can.
‘We’re on the home stretch now,’ says Art. ‘This’ll all be over soon.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I know.’
Art’s mood remains upbeat as we set to work.
I suppose he’s all excited now he’s got a fixed date for his fancy new job.
And as the afternoon goes on, I try to remember what Art said – God, how was it only two days ago?
– about me being brave. Maybe he’s right.
If I’ve learned anything over the last few weeks, it’s that I can deal with a lot more shit than I thought I could.
I can survive this thing with Art. After all, in a few weeks he’ll be in New York.
Until then, I can make sure he has no idea I care about him or anything he does.
I can make sure he has no idea how much he’s hurt me.
Fake it till you make it, right? I might actually be able to do that until he leaves. I just wish I didn’t have to.
But I should have known I wouldn’t be good at faking it for long.