‘Still asleep,’ I say, putting the kettle on. ‘I think it was a late one last night. Thanks for the headphones tip.’
‘You’re welcome,’ says Art.
It’s a gorgeous sunny day and as we settle down to work I can’thelp glancing wistfully out the window into the little courtyard garden. I tell myself that in a week or two I’ll actually have free weekends again. If Bernard fires us I might have a lot more free time than I want.
After a hungover Roo goes to her parents’ house for Sunday lunch, wearing one of her few non-black garments (it’s navy, the equivalent of hot pink for Roo), Art and I move to the kitchen table and keep working, moving between the official and the secret scripts. It’s pretty intense and, even with a quick break for lunch, after a few hours I’m feeling the strain. I stand up and stretch my arms over my head.
‘I don’t know what hurts most,’ I say. ‘My back or my brain.’
‘I know what we should do,’ says Art. ‘We should go for a walk.’
I must admit I thought he was going to suggest something else, but we’ve been stuck inside for so long that the thought of some fresh air and sunlight is irresistible.
‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’
Half an hour later, we’re strolling past the vivid flower beds in Griffith Park. There’s a light, warm breeze and as we head towards the far end of the park I can feel some of the tension slip away. We don’t say much as we walk along, but I don’t mind. I never feel the urge to fill a silence with babbling when I’m with Art.
‘This walk was another good idea,’ I say.
‘I’m known for them,’ says Art.
I laugh despite myself. ‘I must admit you’ve had some good ones recently. God, this weather is incredible.’
We’re passing a bench and Art says, ‘Let’s sit down for a minute. We should soak up some vitamin D before we head back to the writing cave.’
‘My house is not a cave, thank you,’ I say. ‘But yeah, let’s take a break.’
After we sit down I close my eyes and let the warmth of the sun sink into my bones. Neither of us says anything for a moment.
‘I think I could actually fall asleep here right now,’ says Art and I’m about to agree when a voice I haven’t heard in a long time, a voice that brings back a million memories, all of them bad, says, ‘Oh my God, Art Sullivan!’
I freeze as Art turns his head and, in a voice devoid of all enthusiasm, says, ‘Lizzie?’
And there, standing next to the bench, in my presence for the first time in almost two decades, is Lizzie Lattin.
‘Yes!’ she says. ‘Wow, look at you! Donnacha heard through the grapevine that you were back in Dublin! What are you up to?’
‘Same as ever,’ says Art. He stands up to face her and I automatically stand up too. ‘Writing scripts.’
I can’t believe this is happening. I’d wondered if she knew him but I never thought I’d actually find out. If he turns the Sullivan charm on Lizzie I won’t be able to bear it. I’ll just have to walk away. Which I’d like to do now only I feel like my feet have frozen to the pavement.
‘Oh wow!’ says Lizzie. ‘Such a cool job. You haven’t changed a bit! Same old Art.’
She looks … I wouldn’t say she looks exactly the same, because she doesn’t. Her hair is the same chestnut brown as ever, but it’s in flowing waves now instead of pressed straight. Her subtlemake-up looks like it was done by a professional. She’s clad in suburban sportswear chic, lavender Sweaty Betty yoga pants and a marl grey T-shirt. Roo has the same yoga pants in black, and the thought that she and Lizzie Lattin now own the same item of clothing is so ridiculous it almost makes me laugh. Lizzie claps her hands together and I see a massive diamond and platinum band on the ring finger of her left hand.
She hasn’t paid me an iota of attention. She’s barely looked at me. But then she suddenly seems to realise that Art isn’t alone because she gasps theatrically and says, ‘Sorry, where are my manners? I’m Lizzie. I’m an old friend of Art’s. We were friends, weren’t we?’ She gives him a revoltingly roguish look and he looks slightly confused. ‘Actually, my husband was in his class at Belvo.’
‘I’m Annie McDermott,’ I say. A part of my stunned brain absently wonders if her husband was the boy who barked at me and Roo. ‘We’ve met.’
‘Have we?’ Lizzie’s brow furrows – as much as it can furrow these days – in confusion. And then her eyes widen in recognition and for a split second I see an expression I can only describe as ‘what the fuck?’ cross her face before she says, ‘Annie from school? Laura McDermott’s sister? Oh my God,Annie! It’s been so long!’
For a horrible moment I’m afraid she’s going to hug me and I brace myself to push her away, but instead she turns to Art with a beaming smile. ‘Annie was in my class!’
‘I sure was,’ I say. Something of what I’m feeling must be showing in my voice, at least to Art, because he glances at me, his expression concerned. Lizzie doesn’t seem to notice, though.
‘You look sodifferent,’ she says. ‘You look great!’ She sounds insultingly surprised. ‘I hardly recognised you.’
‘Oh, I recognised you.’ It’s like a horrible dream. Lizzie popped up in my bad dreams for a long time.