Chapter Twenty-Six
INT: NORTHSIDE OFFICES / EXT: CHARLEMONT STREET
I don’t sleep well that night. I keep thinking of Art’s face after I told him what I used to call him. It wasn’t just what I said, it was that I said it like I hated him. And he didn’t look cocky or confident when he heard it. He looked hurt. Really hurt.
I hurt him.
I wake up feeling almost more tired than I did when I went to bed. I heard Roo come in at around two, and although a part of me longs to wake her up now and talk through the mess I’ve made of everything, I can’t do that to her today.
And besides, this is something I’ve got to sort out on my own.
By the time I arrive at the IBC campus, I know what I’ve got to do.
I’ve got to apologise to Art. I’ve got to give him my blessing to go to America, not that he needs it.
Or will want it. I just have to make sure I stay calm when I do it.
If I’m going to say goodbye to him forever, I want to keep my dignity.
I want to keep my feelings in check. Hedgehog mode without the prickles.
As usual, he’s in the office before me, sitting on the couch with his laptop. And like me, he doesn’t look like he’s slept particularly well. He’s wearing the navy shirt he was wearing on our first day here and there are shadows under his eyes. Neither of us says anything.
I clear my throat. ‘Hey.’
He looks up at me. ‘Hey.’
‘Look,’ I say. ‘About last night, I need to—’
‘Can we talk about that later?’ says Art. ‘I want to get this script sent off.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Sure. Yeah. Of course. Um, how’s it looking to you?’
‘Good,’ he says. ‘There’s just one line I think needs tweaking.’
I gingerly sit on the couch, keeping as much distance between us as possible, and look at the screen.
‘That bit where she mentions Ritchie,’ says Art, pointing towards a line. ‘Should it be “favourite grandson” instead of “favourite grandchild”?’
‘Oh yeah,’ I say. ‘That’s better. Um, I think I should read the whole thing myself one last time before we send it.’
Art snaps his laptop shut and stands up. ‘Fine. Can you send it to Des and Honoria when you’re done? I’m going to get a coffee.’
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘But … do you not want to stay here? In case I spot something?’
‘There’s no need,’ says Art. ‘I trust your judgement.’
And before I can say anything to that, he’s picked up his bag and walked out, shutting the door behind him.
I stare after him for a moment and then take out my own laptop and open the shared script document.
I can’t think about me and Art right now.
I can apologise when he comes back. I need to get this script sent to Des and Honoria.
I read through it and to my relief it really is as good as I’d hoped it was yesterday.
It’s one of the best things I’ve ever worked on.
Art and I made something really good together.
Well, we won’t be doing that again.
But that’s not the most important thing right now.
The important thing is that we’ve done our best to write something that will, if it airs, make Northside a talking point again, for all the right reasons.
And if Triona refuses to air the Ma Cusack scenes, if we lose our jobs, well, Art’s leaving anyway.
And I’ll be able to walk away knowing that at least I tried to stop Bernard sabotaging my beloved Northside.
Yes, it would be the end of my dream job.
But that job is never going to be a dream as long as Bernard is in total control.
I’m hitting save on the script when I scroll back to the title page to check for any typos and that’s when I notice something.
I can’t remember the last time I looked at the title page of the secret script. Did I ever look at it? Maybe I didn’t.
Because I’m pretty sure I’d have noticed that it’s not credited to Annie McDermott and Arthur T. ó Súilleabháin, the name Art’s been writing under here at Northside.
It’s credited to Annie McDermott and Art Sullivan.
He’s written under his own name at last.
And I can’t help feeling touched by this. Even though these scenes might never make it on telly and hence his IMDb page.
But after I send the scenes off, I log in to the Northside system and find the script Art submitted to Susan and Bernard on Monday.
The official script for his episode, the one that will air if our secret scheme fails.
The one that, when I first saw it, was credited to Arthur T. ó Súilleabháin. Except now it’s not.
Now every page of it declares that it was written by Art Sullivan.
The college golden boy, the indie-film award winner, the prestige-TV scriptwriter is now officially, publicly and forever a soap-opera man. He might be leaving us, but he’s not disowning us.
There’s a lump in my throat as I stare at the screen. Oh God, I have to talk to him. I have to apologise. How long does it take to get a coffee?
I sit up straighter on the couch. Seriously, how long does it take to get a coffee?
Art’s been gone at least twenty minutes. Even if he stayed to drink his coffee in the canteen, shouldn’t he be back by now?
I feel a prickle of unease as I close my laptop and grab my bag, checking that my hideous security pass is in it.
I hurry through the open-plan office and glance into the kitchen, but he isn’t there.
When the lift doors open I’m sure he’ll walk out, but he doesn’t.
As I walk down the path to the canteen I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, that Art’s probably met Simon or Nora, that I’ll find him holding forth to an admiring throng.
But when I enter the canteen and look around, there’s no sign of him.
And I remember that when he left our office, he took his bag and his laptop with him.
Could he have gone home? Could he have … could he have gone for good?
Because, after all, he has no reason to stay here. His script is done. He’s not going to be working here any longer so he has no more Northside scripts to do. He said he’d direct the extra scenes tomorrow, but the assistant director could do that.
Still, he wouldn’t leave me to present those scenes to Triona without him, would he? Is he that angry with me after last night?
I hurry out of the canteen. There’s no sign of Art on the picnic benches.
Maybe he’s gone to get his bike. Maybe I can catch him if I hurry.
Walking fast now, I make my way to the bike park, but there’s no sign of him and I can’t remember what his bike looks like so I can’t tell whether it’s gone or not.
I head back across the campus to the tree where we had lunch on Monday.
But he’s not there either. He’s nowhere to be found.
My heart is racing. He wouldn’t go without saying goodbye, would he?
Not after everything we’ve been through over the last few weeks?
But maybe he decided he didn’t want to spend another day with someone who talked to him the way I did last night.
I mean, who could blame him? He’d prefer to be at home packing for New York.
He could be on his way to do that right now.
And if he really has gone for good, he’s left thinking I despise him. And probably hating me right back.
Okay. Okay. Maybe we missed each other and he’s back in the office.
The quickest route there is through the Northside lot and they’re shooting in the studio building today, so Charlemont Street will be deserted.
I slip around the side of the hospital set and walk onto the street.
There’s the McCauls’ house, with its White Lady statue, and Donnelly’s pub and Karyn’s Kafé and …
There’s Art.
He’s standing outside the pub, looking at the fake advertisements for local events stuck up in the window.
‘Art!’
He turns around when he hears his name. He doesn’t look exactly delighted to see me running towards him.
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Hi.’
‘I thought you’d gone.’ I’m out of breath after rushing all over the campus. ‘God, Art, I thought you’d gone for good.’
‘I told you I was just getting coffee,’ says Art.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I know you did. But then you didn’t come back, and I was worried—’
‘Worried?’ says Art.
‘I was worried you’d left IBC without saying goodbye,’ I say.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ says Art. I can’t tell if he’s hurt or angry. Maybe both. ‘Do you really think I’d do that?’
‘I wouldn’t blame you if you did,’ I say. ‘Not after what I said last night. I’m so sorry, Art. You were right, I wasn’t being fair.’
‘Okay.’ Art’s expression is unreadable. ‘I won’t argue with that.’
‘I still think you should have told me about that film offer,’ I say. ‘But I understand why you didn’t. I know you were just trying to make this job go as smoothly as possible.’
‘Yeah, I was,’ he says.
Am I imagining it or does his expression soften, just a little?
‘And I should never have talked to you the way I did last night,’ I say.
‘There’s no excuse for it. I’m sorry I ever called you— I’m sorry for all of it.
And of course I understand why you’re taking the job.
I think you’re right to take the job. You should go, of course you should go, if that’s what you want.
You deserve another chance at a film career. I was just being selfish because …’
Fuck it. Fuck it, he’s leaving. I remember how unselfconscious I felt around him before I realised I’d fallen for him. How direct I allowed myself to be with him. There was no overthinking, there was no game-playing.
I can be direct with him one last time.
I can be as brave as he thinks I am.
I take a deep breath. ‘I was being selfish because I just got to know you, and now you’re going and I hate the thought of being here without you. I’ll miss you so much, Art. So much. And right now I don’t care if you know that. I don’t want to be a hedgehog—’
‘A what?’ says Art.