And I’ve got to admit his YouTube binges have been paying off. ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this,’ I say, after he comes up with a brilliantly funny line for Ma’s first scene at Paddy’s bedside, ‘but you write her really well.’
Art looks amused. ‘I told you, I’ve been doing my homework. But,’ he adds, ‘I couldn’t write her without you.’ He leans back into the couch cushions. ‘We make a good team.’
I keep my eyes fixed firmly on the laptop screen so I don’t have to meet his eye.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘We actually do.’
‘Have you ever written with someone before?’ asks Art.
‘Um, no, not really.’ I think about it for a moment. ‘Actually, not ever. I’ve worked with editors, obviously, but I’ve never, like, sat down and written a script from scratch with another person. How about you?’
‘Same,’ says Art. ‘But maybe I could get used to it.’
‘Whenever you need a Ma Cusack expert, I suppose.’
‘No, McDermott, not just then.Noneof my episode rewrites would have been as good without you.’ He looks at me and this time I meet his eye. ‘I suppose what I’m trying to say is … thank you. For helping me.’
I could never, ever have imagined the old Art saying these words. There’s a lump in my throat as I say, ‘You’re welcome. You helped me too.’
‘Writing together …’ says Art, ‘it’s been fun. And to be honest, I haven’t found writing fun in a long time.’
‘Oh right,’ I say. ‘Well, I’m glad.’
A part of me wonders why exactly he finds writing with me fun, but I try my hardest to crush those thoughts. Is this what it’s going to be like from now on? Me analysing Art’s every word? Hoping he’s developing feelings for me?
He looks at his watch. ‘It’s practically lunchtime. Do you want to take a break? I need to get out of this office.’
‘Sure.’ I don’t know if I fancy spending lunch with him with no script to distract us, but I can’t think of a decent excuse. And I need to get off this couch and stretch at the very least. My pomodororoutine has gone out the window. ‘I don’t know if I can face seeing people in the canteen, though.’
‘Then,’ says Art, ‘we’ll dine al fresco.’
One brief stop in the canteen later, we’re sitting beneath a vast old oak tree behind theNorthsidelot on the far side of the IBC campus, leaning back against its giant trunk.
‘Right,’ says Art, ‘while we eat our lunch we’re not going to think about Ma Cusack or Ritchie or scripts or anything else.’
This would be a great idea if it weren’t for the fact that the only other thing on my mind right now is how I feel about him.
Focus on something else, Annie. Ground yourself.
I try the old therapy technique. What can I taste? I can taste this chicken wrap. What can I feel? I can feel the tree against my back, the grass against my bare legs. What can I see?
I can see Art.
I can see Art’s long legs in his navy trousers, stretched out next to mine. If I turn my head slightly I can see his profile, his dark curly hair, his kind-of-big nose. His smile as he catches my eye.
God, how could I have ever thought I didn’t fancy him?
I put down my wrap. We’re sitting so close that I could lean my head on his shoulder. If we were together, properly together, I’d do it. He stops talking and now his left hand is resting on his thigh, just centimetres from my right hand. If we were properly together, I’d take his hand right now.
And then he takes mine and squeezes it gently.
‘We’ll get through this,’ he says. ‘You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, but I’m not sure I will. Everything’s such a mess. The job. The fact I unwittingly played into Bernard’s hands. Mystupid, self-sabotaging feelings for Art, which have surfaced at the worst possible time. I know I shouldn’t torture myself by letting him touch me. I know I should pull my hand away.
And I will, of course I will. In a few seconds. In a minute.
But not yet.