Chapter Twenty-Five
INT: ANNIE AND ROO’S HOUSE / INT: NORTHSIDE OFFICES / INT: DORSET STREET BAR
‘You know,’ says Roo on Wednesday morning, after I’ve presented her with her card and a beautiful French tarot book, ‘you don’t have to come tonight if you don’t feel up to it. It’s not a big birthday or anything.’
‘What?’ I say. ‘Of course I’m coming!’ I might be exhausted and heartbroken, but there is absolutely no way I’m missing Roo’s birthday bash. ‘I haven’t been here for your birthday for years! I won’t be able to stay late, but I’ll be there.’ I pick up my laptop bag. ‘Anway, I’d better go to work.’
‘Maybe you should just ask Art about this job stuff today,’ says Roo.
I shake my head. I’ve thought about this a lot since yesterday. ‘I can’t. Not until this week is over. I just … I’m barely holding it together as it is. I can’t have a bust-up with Art on top of everything else.’
‘Fair enough,’ says Roo. She reaches for her tarot deck and sighs. ‘I suppose I got it wrong with that Two of Cups BFF stuff about you and him the other day.’
‘It made me feel better at the time,’ I say. ‘Go on, draw me a new card.’
Roo shuffles the deck and pulls out a familiar card. The Two of Cups again. We both stare at it.
‘Huh.’ I point at the tarot deck. ‘Maybe it’s broken.’
‘Or maybe,’ says Roo, ‘it’s reminding you to focus on your other friends and not on Art.’
‘Yeah.’ I think of how nice it’s been living with Roo.
I think of the Frog Boyfriend group chat and how I really do feel part of the gang again.
We’re planning a big night out next week and Claire told me my return has given everyone more reasons to meet up.
‘That must be it. Right, I’m off. How do I look? ’
I suddenly have a memory of asking her that on my first day at Northside, three weeks and a whole lifetime ago, when I had no idea what I was walking into.
Roo studies my turquoise and pink dress.
‘Like someone,’ she says, ‘who doesn’t give a shit about Art Sullivan.’
Just one more day of writing together. That’s what I remind myself as Art and I sit down on the couch and start polishing the top-secret script.
After we send Des and Honoria the finished scenes tomorrow morning, that’ll be it.
Yes, there’s the shoot on Friday, but Art will be busy directing so I won’t have to talk to him much.
And then … well, then I suppose he’ll be quitting Northside straight away.
I don’t think he’s unprofessional enough to start his next script and then abandon it. Although who knows?
He was right. I don’t know him as well as I thought I did.
Anyway. I can’t think about that now. I’ve got to finish what might be the most important script of my life.
‘You know what?’ says Art, when we make a quick canteen run to grab some takeaway lunch. ‘I’m going to miss Ma Cusack when we’re finished this script.’
I suspect he’ll forget her the minute he’s on the plane to New York, but he actually sounds like he means it.
‘At least we got to write for her,’ I say. ‘I never thought I’d be able to do that.’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘let’s enjoy it while it lasts.’
I wish I could. But it’s like my capacity for enjoyment has been worn out by the last week.
And I can’t help wondering when exactly Art is going to tell me about the American job.
It takes all my will power to focus on the script and I manage to do it, but it’s hard.
God, it’s all so, so hard. I feel totally on edge.
And Art can tell because at around three o’clock he says, ‘I think we need to take a break. Your shoulders are practically touching your ears.’
I can’t pretend this isn’t true. ‘I need to do more yoga.’
‘Well,’ says Art, ‘if you really want to relieve some tension I’m pretty sure we won’t be interrupted by Susan today …’
He looks at me with that now-familiar glint in his eyes and against my will I feel a rush of desire. For a moment I’m tempted to give in to it. For a moment there’s nothing I want more than to give in to it. Just one more time with him. Just once before he goes away forever.
To this mysterious new job that he didn’t bother telling me about.
‘Can we focus on the actual work?’ I say.
Laura warned me against going into hedgehog mode. But if there were ever a time and place to be spiky and self-protective, it’s right now.
‘Yeah, of course,’ says Art. ‘Sorry, I just thought—’
‘Let’s just think about getting this finished,’ I say.
‘Sure,’ says Art. ‘Whatever you want.’
‘It’s not about what I want, Art,’ I say. ‘It’s what we have to do right now.’
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘We’ll keep working.’
So we do. We tweak and we cut and we find perfect little fixes and at around half seven Art fixes one last typo and says, ‘That’s it.’
We sit back and look at each other. That really is it. Our writing partnership is over. And I know I wanted it to end, I know this morning I was counting the hours, but now it’s finally happening I feel sad.
I feel really, really sad.
Even if we thwart Bernard and he retires in a sulk, even if I get to be part of a new era at Northside, it won’t be the same without Art. I couldn’t have got through the last few weeks without him. He’s made everything so much better here.
Even when he was annoying me.
God, I’ll miss him annoying me so much.
‘Maybe we should give it a few more tweaks …’ I say.
‘No,’ says Art. ‘No more tweaks. It’s done. Let’s sleep on it and have one last look tomorrow morning.’
‘Fine,’ I say.
Art stands up and stretches. ‘God, I think I might need to do some of your yoga, my back’s banjaxed.’
Two weeks ago these words would have made me crow in triumph. I told him he’d destroy his back working on this couch. But I don’t bother saying anything now. I feel flat and empty.
‘I also,’ continues Art, ‘really need the bathroom. Back in a minute.’
My back and shoulders are in bits as well.
I’m about to do some stretching when it hits me that I don’t have to hang around here for a minute longer.
I quickly stuff my laptop into my bag and grab my jacket.
I know he’ll think it’s weird that I’ve vanished without a word but I simply don’t care.
I’ll text him later. I slip out of the room and when the lift doors close behind me I breathe a sigh of relief.
I’ll get a taxi home and then I’ll just about have time to get changed and go to Roo’s birthday party.
At nine o’clock I’m dressed in a glittering gold vintage frock and matching ankle boots as I arrive at the bar where Roo’s celebrations are taking place.
The venue is crowded but I spot her as soon as I walk in, chatting to her brother Rafa near the bar.
She’s wearing her lace maxi dress and an amazing black feathered headpiece, and she beams as soon as she sees me.
‘You made it!’ she cries. ‘Did you get the script finished?’
I can’t help beaming back. ‘Pretty much. Hey, Rafa.’
‘Welcome home!’ Rafa pulls me in for a hug. ‘Let me get you a drink.’
When he’s at the bar, Roo says, ‘Thanks for coming. I know this week is … a lot for you. With Northside and Art.’
‘You,’ I say, ‘are more important than both those things. Stupid jobs and terrible men may come and go, but you and me are forever.’
I look at her, so glamorous now but still the same girl who stared up at me through the coats when we were twelve.
Over the years we’ve always expressed how we felt about each other indirectly.
Rainbow opals. Pep talks. Tarot cards. Yelling at mean girls.
Making hopeful teas. Throwing out board games.
Maybe it’s finally time we just said it out loud.
‘You know I actually love you, don’t you?’ I say.
Roo makes a face. ‘Ugh, stop being so sappy. If you make me cry I’ll rub my eyes and wreck my make-up.’ Then she smiles at me, a witchy little goddess in her feathered headpiece. ‘But I actually love you too.’
It’s clear neither of us knows what to say after this. But it’s not awkward. It’s never awkward with Roo.
Then she exclaims, ‘Oh my God!’
‘What’s wrong?’ I say.
‘See that couple?’ Roo points through the wide doorway of the function room and into the main bar, where a man and woman are sitting at a table. ‘It’s Clown Egg!’
‘What?’
‘The guy I went on a date with!’ says Roo.
We both stare at Clown Egg and his date. She looks like she’s listening intently as he talks.
‘She looks very taken with him,’ I say. ‘Do you think he’s told her about the egg yet?’
‘Maybe she’s into it,’ says Roo.
The woman is now talking earnestly to Clown Egg.
‘Maybe she’s saying, “Yes, I’ll sleep with you,”’ I say. ‘“But only if the clown egg can watch.”’
‘“And only,”’ says Roo, ‘“if you dress as a clown.” Oh well, good for him, I suppose! He was nice apart from the egg thing.’
‘And good for her,’ I say, ‘if that’s what she likes. Each to their own.’ If clown afficionados can find each other, there’s hope for all of us.
‘And of course,’ says Roo, ‘good for the egg. Sitting there by the bed in its special cup, taking it all in …’
We’re still laughing when a familiar voice says ‘Annie!’ and I turn to find Roo’s friend Rachel, her arms outstretched. ‘Long time no see!’
An hour later I’m in the middle of a group of Roo’s college pals.
I haven’t seen any of them for ages but I’ve always got on well with them whenever we’ve hung out together.
I’m deep in a conversation about how TV programmes depict single thirty-somethings, and for a while I don’t think about work or Art at all.
As I finish my glass of wine, it hits me that if I’d stayed in Ireland all these years, these nice people would be my friends too, not just Roo’s.
‘You know, my practice is down the road from the IBC campus,’ says Rachel. ‘We should get lunch when your work’s a bit less chaotic.’
‘That’d be great,’ I say.
Maybe it’s not too late. These people might still become my friends now.