What matters is the work. It’s the script. It’sNorthside.
And that’s what I have to focus on.
‘Morning,’ says Art, rolling his chair around to face me.
I force a smile. ‘Morning!’
‘Sleep okay after that giant feast?’ asks Art.
‘Like a log,’ I lie. I’m not going to tell him I lay in bed for hours, unable to stop my brain racing, analysing everything that passed between me and Art over the last few weeks.
‘Same,’ he says.
Neither of us says anything for a moment. I remember his expression after I suggested he stay over last night and I’m gripped by a horrified fear that heknows. That he figured outexactlywhy I asked him, that he wasn’t fooled when I said he was right not to stay over because I needed to sleep too. That he might actually want totalkabout it …
But then he says, ‘So! I think our official scripts are looking okay.’
I feel a wave of relief. ‘Yeah, we did a good job.’
‘Do you want to have another quick look through your episode before you send it to Susan?’ says Art. ‘I’ll go through mine. Then we can keep going with the’ – he adopts a dramatic tone – ‘top-secret script.’
‘Sure,’ I say.
I don’t look at him as I open my laptop and read through thescript. He’s right, it’s not bad. And despite how weird I feel about the whole Art situation, and indeed the whole work situation, I feel a rush of pride. Is this script perfect? No. I mean, it couldn’t be, under the circumstances. Is it dramatic enough for what’s meant to be the biggestNorthsideepisode in a decade? Also no. And Bernard can blame me for all of it. He can show this episode to his bosses and make me and, by extension, Art look like note-losing, inexperienced blabbermouth fools and say, ‘Thisis what happened when you made me hire newcomers.’
But he won’t be able to say that we gave up. He thought we would. I’m sure he did. And we took everything he threw at us and we kept going. We’ve done our best. If we go down for this, well, we’ll have gone down fighting.
And we found out we can work together. We can work together really well. If I can bear it, that is.
Well, I’ll have to, if I want to have a chance of redeeming the anniversary episode.
Art starts typing something on his laptop.
‘Everything okay with your script?’ I ask.
‘What?’ says Art. ‘Oh, yeah, it’s fine. Just fixing something. Right, let’s mail Susan and Bernard and tell them the scripts are ready. And we should attach the PDFs of the scripts too.’
I’ve barely hit send when a new email arrives in my inbox.
‘Oh wow,’ I say. ‘Our new scene-by-scenes.’ The outlines of our next episodes. The scripts that aren’t due for over two months now. After the recent tight deadlines, having that long to write a script feels like an unimaginable luxury. ‘Do you want to have a quick look at them?’
Art doesn’t answer.
‘Art?’ I say. ‘What do you think?’
‘Um, I dunno,’ says Art. ‘I think looking at our next episodes might be too distracting.’
‘Oh right,’ I say. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Let’s focus on our real work of the day.’ He gestures towards the couch. ‘Shall we?’
We settle down and open my laptop.
‘What if …’ says Art, and we’re off.
I never thought I’d be grateful for having to write under these incredibly stressful conditions, but right now I’m weirdly glad that I have this crucial task to focus on. The most important thing right now isn’t my feelings, it’s trying to saveNorthside. And we’re not just doing this for the sake of the show itself. We’re doing this for Simon and Nora and, fuck it, even Cian Murphy. We’re doing it for all the other people who’ll lose their jobs ifNorthsidegoes under.
And even though I’m right next to Art, concentrating on the work helps me forget about how sad and confused he’s unwittingly making me feel. As long as I’m thinking about how best to capture the spirit of Ma Cusack, I’m not thinking about how I’ve just lost someone I never really had. Still, I’m grateful there’s no romance in this storyline. I simply couldn’t write a love scene with Art right now.