Chapter Twenty-Five #2
A little glow of optimism flickers inside me after I give Rachel my number and head to the loo on the far side of the bar.
However things work out with Northside, I know I can make a good life for myself in Dublin.
I’d wanted to come back here for a while, close to my family and my old friends.
Now I know for sure I made the right decision.
I’m rebuilding my old friendships. And I know I can make new friends too.
Art may be a secret-keeping arsehole but he was right about one thing: I’m tougher than I thought I was.
But then, just after I emerge from the bathroom, I glance across the room and there he is.
Oh my God. I completely forgot about Roo inviting him to her party.
I’ve spent so much energy over the last three days trying to be normal around Art.
Trying not to show how I feel about him.
Trying not to show anything, even after discovering his plans to leave, the plans he never mentioned to me.
I’ve tried so hard. And now, when I have an evening off, when I can finally stop making an effort, when I’m trying to celebrate my best friend’s birthday, here he is. Art bloody Sullivan.
For fuck’s sake, can I not get away from him for five sodding minutes?
I’m so, so tired of this. I can’t, I just can’t put up a front with him right now. I’ve just decided that my only option is to head back to the loo and hide until he gives up on finding me and leaves when he spots me, smiles and makes his way across the room.
‘Hey!’ he says. ‘What are you drinking? I’m going to the bar.’
I don’t say anything. I can’t figure out a way to politely tell him to go away.
‘McDermott?’ he says. ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘No thanks,’ I say.
‘Are you sure?’ he says. ‘I can get you a fizzy water or—’
‘I said I didn’t want anything!’
‘Okay,’ he says, looking a little taken aback. ‘Well, I’m getting myself something. Stay here, I’ll be back in a minute.’
I sigh, more loudly than I intended. ‘Why are you here, Art?’
Okay. So I suppose I’m not going to do this politely.
‘What do you mean, why am I here?’ says Art. ‘You were there when Roo asked me!’
‘Yeah, but … why did you come?’ I say.
Art raises his eyebrows. ‘I came,’ he says, ‘because even though you pretty much vanished without warning earlier and then didn’t answer my text, we’ve just finished an incredibly tough job and I wanted to hang out and celebrate it with you.’
I fold my arms and glare at him. ‘Oh, you did, did you?’
‘Yes, I did!’ says Art.
I make a noise that sounds a bit like a snort.
‘Jesus, what is up with you, McDermott?’ Art’s expression is a mixture of confusion and annoyance. ‘Why are you being so weird?’
‘Nothing!’ I say. ‘Nothing’s up!’
‘Then why are you acting like me being here is such a mad idea?’ says Art. ‘I was invited! And we’re friends. At least I thought we were until about two minutes ago.’
‘Well, if we’re such friends,’ I snap, ‘why didn’t you tell me about your New York job offer?’
As the words come out of my mouth I realise a part of me has been hoping it’s all a misunderstanding, that I’d got things wrong, that there is no New York job. But Art stares at me and then says, ‘How do you know about that?’
So it’s true.
‘A message came up on your phone yesterday when you were at the shops,’ I say.
‘You said you didn’t see who was calling me yesterday,’ says Art.
‘I lied,’ I say. ‘Just like you’ve been lying to me.’
‘I haven’t been lying to you!’ he says. ‘I just didn’t tell you about this job.’
‘Well, go on,’ I say. ‘Tell me now. What is it?’
Art runs his hand through his hair. ‘It’s a script supervisor job. On an American film.’
‘How long have you known about it?’ I say.
Art looks uncomfortable. ‘Since … since the first night I was in your house.’
‘What?’
‘Do you remember my phone rang?’ he says.
‘Well, yeah, Art,’ I say. ‘Strangely enough I do remember, seeing as it rang when we were about to have sex.’
Art closes his eyes for a moment as if he can’t even bear to look at me and says, ‘That call was my agent. I mean, my ex-agent. I hadn’t talked to her since last year and I knew if she was calling it must be important. That’s why I left that night. I had to call her back.’
‘And?’ I try to keep my voice calm. ‘Was she welcoming you back with open arms?’
‘Not exactly,’ says Art. ‘But …’ He’s looking down at the floor now.
‘But what?’ I snap.
‘But I guess she still feels bad about dumping me,’ he says. ‘One of her producer friends was looking for someone to do this stint on a film and she mentioned my name, not in an official agent capacity. And it turned out he was a fan of my first film so … they offered me the job.’
‘Did you tell them you couldn’t do it because you had a job already?’
‘We’re still officially on trial,’ he says.
‘That’s not the point, Art!’ I say. ‘I thought you’d … I thought you were committed to Northside!’
‘I told you I was committed to getting these anniversary episodes done,’ says Art. ‘But this is a film, Annie! You know I couldn’t dismiss working on a film again.’
‘Is it a good film?’
‘The script won the Promises Award,’ says Art.
It takes a moment before I remember that’s the prize his Grand Music script won before it sold to a producer.
‘Oh well, then it has to be good,’ I say.
‘It’s got potential,’ says Art. ‘It’s … interesting.’
‘So why didn’t you tell me about it?’ I say. ‘If it’s so interesting?’
‘Why do you think?’ he says.
‘I don’t know, Art!’ I say. ‘That’s why I’m asking.’
‘Jesus, Annie, we’ve been in crisis mode all month!’ says Art. ‘It’s been one disaster after another. I didn’t want to add another issue into the mix. And most importantly, I didn’t even know if I was going to take the job.’
‘Well, you were hardly going to say no, were you?’ I say. ‘Not to a film. Not after you’ve been slumming it at Northside for three whole weeks. They should give you another award just for putting up with us plebs.’
Art folds his arms. ‘You’re not being fair.’
‘I’m not being fair?’ All our squabbling up until now has been like a pillow fight in comparison to this.
The irritation I felt when he read my script or when I discovered he was too embarrassed to use his real name is nothing to the rage I’m feeling now.
I’ve been bottling up my emotions all week and I can’t stop them coming out.
‘I’m not the one who was banging on about what brilliant work we’ve been doing and how great Northside could be, while all the time you were planning to fuck off to America without saying a word!
You found out about this offer nearly two weeks ago, Art.
Two weeks! You couldn’t have found an opportunity to tell me over the last two weeks?
’ I suddenly remember something. ‘You were reading it in the office on Friday morning, weren’t you?
I saw you reading a script and you slammed your laptop shut. You could have said something then!’
Art doesn’t deny it. ‘You don’t understand,’ he says. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘No, I understand perfectly,’ I say. ‘You never wanted to work at Northside. You were so ashamed of it you didn’t use your own name. Well, now you’re free. You can be the pretentious, arrogant old Art Sullivan all the time now. Good for you.’
‘Yeah, good for me,’ says Art. ‘Do you really think this is an easy decision?’
‘Of course I do!’ I say. ‘Were you even going to tell me about it, by the way? Or was I just going to show up for work one day and realise you were never coming back?’
‘Jesus, of course I was going to tell you! What do you take me for?’
‘I dunno,’ I say. ‘I’m starting to think I was right about you all along. Back when I used to call you Director Dickhead.’ I practically snarl the last two words.
Art’s eyes widen. ‘When did you do that?’
‘In college,’ I say. ‘When you literally laughed in my face for wanting to write for soaps. I thought you’d changed since then. But clearly not.’
I’m so angry I realise my hands are clenched into fists.
‘Right.’ Art looks back at me, his jaw set. ‘Any more insults?’
I furrow my brow in mock thoughtfulness. ‘Nah,’ I say. ‘That’s about it.’
‘Great,’ says Art. ‘Then I’m going home.’
‘Good idea,’ I say. ‘Unless there’s anything else you’ve been keeping from me?’
Art takes a deep breath and for a minute I think he’s going to fire some barbs back at me but he says, ‘No. There isn’t. We can talk again when you’ve cooled down.’
‘Wow, you really can’t stop patronising me, can you?’ I say.
Art doesn’t say another word. He just turns and stalks out of the pub. I stare after him, my heart racing, adrenalin pumping through my veins. How dare he tell me I wasn’t being fair? I was being perfectly fair!
Wasn’t I?
No, I was. Of course I was. Anyway, I’ve got it all off my chest. I should feel liberated. At least I won’t have to hide my feelings anymore. And it’s not like we have to keep writing together now. Art will be gone from Northside soon.
This is good. This is all good.
So why do I feel even worse?
I plump myself down on a nearby banquette and stare across the room. Rafa and Rachel are laughing at something Francesca’s showing them on her phone. Roo is opening a present from one of her tarot-reader friends. Everyone’s having a good time. Apart from me.
Fucking Art Sullivan. He’s spoiled this night too. He’s spoiled everything.
Well, I’m not going to put a damper on Roo’s birthday bash. I’m not going to tell her what just happened. That can wait. I’ll tell her I’ve crashed and have to go to bed. I only hope she didn’t spot Art coming in.
I pull myself together and head back to her table. When she sees me approaching she says something to her tarot friend and walks over to me.
‘Hey!’ she says. ‘Did you see Art? He gave me a birthday card and went off to find you.’
So she did see him.
Also, he brought her a card?
‘He’s gone home,’ I say. ‘He only dropped in to say hi – he lives just across the bridge. He needed an early night.’ I manage an impressively convincing yawn. ‘We’ve got an early start tomorrow.’
‘Everything all right between you two?’ says Roo. ‘I mean, as much as it can be?’
‘Ah, you know,’ I say. ‘It’s a mess. But he’ll be gone soon. And he’s right about one thing.’ I yawn again, a real one this time. ‘We do have an early start.’
Maybe it’s the effect of the amazing witchy headpiece, but it’s like Roo can see right through me. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
I force a smile. ‘I just need a good night’s sleep.’
I walk home from the bar. It’s barely dark, and it’s only a twenty-minute walk. I want to clear my head. And most of all, I want to burn off some of this anger.
Except it’s not just anger.
It’s misery. It’s mostly misery.
And also, if I’m being totally honest, guilt.
Because, as I stride across the bridge, I can’t help thinking there might be a chance, just a little chance, that Art was right when he said I wasn’t being fair to him.
Yes, he kept something from me. Something huge.
But if he’d told me, would it have made the last week easier?
Would it have helped us do everything we’ve had to do?
Wasn’t he actually right when he said it would have added an unnecessary complication to an already insanely stressful time?
And as angry as I might be about him abandoning Northside, can I really blame him?
He never wanted to write for television.
He wanted to make films. But his dream of being a film-maker didn’t work out.
And now he has a chance to work on a film again, an American film with an award-winning script, albeit in a less creative role than the positions he’s held in the past. He could make good contacts there.
It could be a way back to that world. Was it fair to yell at him for wanting to do that?
I know it wasn’t.
And in my heart I know that if I didn’t have these stupid feelings for him, if we were just friends, with benefits or otherwise, I would never have ranted at him the way I just did.
Yes, I would have been pissed off that he hadn’t told me about the job offer.
And rightly so. But I would almost certainly have brought it up straight away, as soon as he came back from running the errand for his mother.
I wouldn’t have bottled it up for over twenty-four hours and then called him …
oh God. I called him some terrible things.
I remember thinking that I couldn’t be angry with him because I’d changed the rules of our arrangement without telling him. But this … this gave me an excuse to be angry.
I realise I’m just about to walk past Art’s house and I hastily cross the road, where he won’t spot me if he happens to be looking out the window.
I force myself not to glance across at his family home.
How long will it take him to forget about me when he’s in New York?
How long before he’s working the Sullivan charm on some glamorous American girl, someone who won’t snarl at him the way I just did?
I push that thought out of my mind and keep walking.
I remember Art saying that the job hasn’t been an easy decision.
Maybe he was even telling the truth. If he was, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t think it’s a difficult decision now.
He’s probably counting the seconds until he can get on that plane to New York.
And I’ll probably feel a whole lot better when he’s gone. So I know I should be counting them too.