Chapter Twenty-Seven
INT: ANNIE AND ROO’S HOUSE / EXT: THE NORTHSIDE LOT
He really does have nice hands.
That’s what I find myself thinking on Friday morning, when I wake up with Art’s arm around me. Sunlight is streaming through my too-thin curtains, but I’m pretty sure he’s still asleep as I take his strong, tanned, beautiful hand in mine and think of everything he did with it yesterday.
By the time we arrived here yesterday morning and slammed the front door behind us, after a taxi ride during which Art sent me into a feverish state of anticipation just by gently stroking the inside of my thigh, we were both ready to tear each other’s clothes off.
My underwear was gone before we made it to my bed.
As I pushed him down onto the sheets he brought his fingers to my lips, and when his eyes met mine something lit up inside me and I found myself biting him again.
‘Jesus,’ said Art, his breathing ragged, ‘I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want to fuck you right now.’
He flipped me onto my back and I looked up at him, every part of me wanting him, needing him.
‘This time,’ I said, ‘I won’t be quiet.’
Now I’m content to just lie here, holding his hand, feeling the heat of him pressed up against me. Then I realise something is stirring and roll over to see Art open his eyes.
‘Morning,’ I say.
He smiles at me, and my heart melts.
‘Good morning, McDermott.’
He kisses me then, his morning stubble prickling against my chin, his erection pressing against my thigh. I feel him grow harder and he pulls back for a second and says, ‘Just ignore that if you’re not—’
‘I don’t want to ignore it,’ I say, and kiss him again.
‘Good,’ says Art.
The first time we did this was giddy and joyful. All the times we did it yesterday were intense and urgent and incredible.
And this … this is slow and sweet and happy. This is hazy summer sunshine and the faint sound of music floating through the window from a neighbour’s garden. I lose myself in it, the sunlight and the movement and the weight of Art above me.
Art pushes my curls out of my face and kisses me. ‘You’re so beautiful,’ he says, and he says it with such tenderness, such sincerity, I feel utterly undone. There’s no joking about it, no banter. I love the Art that teases me and bickers with me, but I love this Art too.
I suppose I just love Art.
Afterwards, when I’m lying in his arms, I say, ‘This is what I was hoping for, you know. On Sunday night, when I asked you to stay over. I wanted a morning like this.’
‘If I’d known that,’ says Art, planting a kiss on my neck, ‘I’d have said yes.’
‘Why did you say no?’ I say. ‘I thought it was because you were too tired to have sex with me and that’s all you wanted.’
‘God, no,’ says Art. ‘It was the opposite. I didn’t stay over because it made me feel … kind of sad.’
I laugh. ‘Jesus, Art, you’re not making me feel any better!’
‘It made me feel sad because it felt so coupley,’ says Art.
‘And I already knew my feelings for you were starting to get too … well, they were feelings. I could handle those feelings when we were just doing the whole friends-with-benefits thing. But crossing the line into staying over … it would have messed with my head, especially when I hadn’t made up my mind about New York yet.
I didn’t want to start acting like we were in a relationship when as far as I knew you had no interest in anything like that. ’
‘I think I only realised I did that day,’ I admit. ‘Though … maybe I only admitted it to myself then. I think I had feelings for you for a while.’
‘Well,’ says Art, ‘I did tell you the Sullivan charm was irresistible. Wait, stop! Come back to bed! I was joking!’
I’m laughing again as I lean over and kiss him. ‘I know. But I have to get up. So do you. You’ve got to direct our Honoria scenes today, remember? We should probably be around IBC all day in case Des needs us to prep anything. Also I definitely need a shower now.’
‘Hmmm,’ says Art. ‘Can I come too?’
An image flashes into my mind. Me and Art in the shower. Hot water. Art’s hands sliding slick over my breasts, soap on my skin and tiles against my back.
I reach out my hand and he takes it.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You can come.’
An hour and a half later, after the best shower of my life, we’re walking up the drive of the IBC campus.
Art took my hand as soon as we got off the bus.
It’s not the first time we’ve walked along holding hands, of course, but this is different.
This isn’t just about sex. This is also closeness.
Just … being with each other. A part of me wonders what people will think if they see me and Art are together and then I realise I genuinely don’t care. I’m simply too happy.
We make it to our office without any public displays of affection (kissing in the lift doesn’t count, though I have to adjust my clothes as the doors open). It’s less than twenty-four hours since I was last here but it feels like everything has changed.
Although one thing hasn’t. We still have work to do.
‘Much as I would like to spend today defiling that couch,’ I say, ‘we should probably start the scripts for the next episodes.’ A pang of worry pierces my happy bubble. ‘If we’re still employed by then.’
‘Well,’ says Art, ‘if we pull this off, I really do want to keep writing with you. I meant it when I said we make a good team.’
‘Oh, so you weren’t just saying that to get into my pants?’
‘I was already very familiar with your pants by then.’ Art grins at me. ‘Seriously, I do think we’re a good team. How do you feel about going through our new scene-by-scenes together?’
And that’s what we do.
We take a break for coffee, and when we’re sitting on a picnic bench behind the canteen Art says, ‘You know, I’m really sorry about not telling you about the job offer.
If it’s any consolation, I felt terrible about it.
After I saw that text on Tuesday, I was trying so hard to be normal I was sure you’d guess there was something up. ’
‘If anything,’ I say, ‘I thought you were more cheerful than usual.’
‘Huh,’ says Art. ‘Maybe I’m a decent actor after all.’
His phone beeps and when he reads the message he laughs and holds up the screen. It’s from Honoria and begins with the words ‘Operation Breaking Bernard is afoot!’
‘She’s having her hair and make-up done at home and getting a taxi directly onto the lot for six o’clock,’ he says. ‘She should be able to get there without anyone seeing her.’
‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’ I say. ‘If we get away with it …’
‘We will,’ says Art, with all his old confidence. ‘And after we do … you know, we can start looking to the future. Have you thought about what you’re going to do next year, when the show is on its new summer hiatus?’
‘Wow, I’d forgotten all about that.’ Two whole months off Northside. And no need to scrabble around looking for more work.
‘I’m not saying you should do this,’ says Art, ‘but have you ever thought of doing any other writing outside the soap stuff?’
‘Not for ages,’ I say. ‘I never had time. But …’ I tell him about my long-ago dream of a show about girls like me and Roo. ‘I know the odds of getting it made would be tiny. But yeah. That’s the one that got away.’
‘Well,’ says Art, ‘you’ll have the time next summer. You could always try writing it then.’
And as we walk back to the office I have a glimpse of what our future might be like, mine and Art’s. Writing television scripts together and writing them apart. Writing lots of things.
Making up a whole new story for ourselves.
But that’s all in the potential future. And at six this afternoon, what matters is the present. The hospital set is at the back of the lot, and Des spots us straight away when we walk inside. He claps his hands for attention.
‘All right, lads!’ he says. ‘This is Annie and Art. The pair of them wrote the scenes and Art’s going to direct them. Art, come here for a minute.’
I don’t want to get in the way and I’ve been on plenty of soap sets before so I don’t feel self-conscious as I take a seat at the side of the room. I watch Art talk to various crew members and see one of them laugh at something he says. A few minutes later he and Des walk over to me.
‘Everything okay?’ I say.
‘Everything’s great,’ says Des. ‘As soon as Honoria arrives we can get going.’
Then a familiar voice, a voice forged by John Player Blue cigarettes and G&Ts, a voice that’s been burned into my brain since childhood, scratchy and warm and full of mischief, says, ‘Howiya, lads!’
And there, standing in the doorway in all her zebra-print glory, bathed in a golden spotlight, her blonde wig teased to the skies, her smile radiant, is not Honoria Quigley but the one, the only, Ma Cusack.
‘I told you the lighting lads loved her,’ says Des fondly.
Everything goes smoothly after that. Art carefully sets up the shots with Honoria, the cameraman and the assistant director, and I realise he’s really good at this.
He’s calm and warm and he listens to people respectfully, and I see how well they respond to him, how he brings everyone together.
Soon they’re ready to shoot the first scene.
This is it. Ma Cusack is going to say the lines we wrote.
And Art must remember how much this means to me because he glances over and beckons me to his side. He squeezes my hand as Honoria gets ready for her entrance.
‘Hiya, Paddy,’ she says. ‘I’m back.’ And we’re off.
By the time they’ve finished shooting the first scene, I know this is going to work. Honoria delivers the lines so perfectly it’s like Ma Cusack has never been away. I can feel the excitement among the crew, like we all know we’re part of something good.
‘Right!’ says Art. ‘Amazing work, everyone. Honoria, do you want to take a seat on that side of the bed while we set up the next scene?’
‘Of course,’ says Honoria.
Art talks to some of the lighting crew, who make adjustments to the light above Paddy’s hospital bed. And then I hear something that makes my blood run cold.