‘No,’ says Art. ‘She was a vet.’
I’m so surprised I laugh. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, really! What’s so funny about that?’
‘I dunno,’ I say. ‘I presumed you went out with actresses and models in LA.’ I look at him. ‘Did she have a cute Instagram account full of baby animals?’
‘No, actually,’ he says. ‘She worked with cows. And, um, sheep.’
‘Lots of cows and sheep in LA, are there?’ I say.
‘Fine, fine, her account was called Sonia the Puppy Vet,’ says Art. ‘But she was cool. And smart. She got me to go to therapy after my career went up in smoke.’
‘So what happened?’ I ask, though I’m not sure I want to know. I don’t want to hear he’s still in love with her.
Art shrugs. ‘The fact that she ultimately thought I should have kept my head down with Scott Stagg, I suppose. I think we both disappointed each other.’
‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Did the therapy help?’
‘It did, actually,’ says Art. ‘I should probably have seen a professional years earlier. It wasn’t like this was my first career setback.’ He leans back against the tree again and clasps his hands behind his head. ‘Things in America didn’t work out exactly how I’d hoped they would.’
I remember his IMDb page, the journey from acclaimed indie films and Emmy-winning TV to cheesy medical dramas. I think how fantastic theGrand Musicscript was, how annoyingly talented he clearly is.
‘Did something like the Scott Stagg thing happen before?’ I say.
Art raises his eyebrows. ‘Do you think I have a habit of getting into fights with angry megastars twice my size?’
‘No! I just meant … did you get on someone’s bad side before? Is that why things didn’t work out the way you hoped?’
Art plucks a tuft of grass. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I didn’t make anyenemies. I didn’t do anything disastrous. I just … didn’t make it big.’ He lets the grass scatter in the light breeze. ‘AfterGrand MusicI got theSlow News Dayjob and I thought I was sorted. I thought I’d work there for a while, maybe get an executive producer credit, and then write another film. But it turned out I was a small fish in a big pond in that room. Everyone else there was brilliant. More brilliant than me. That’s why my colleagues won Emmys and I didn’t. And then the show ended.’
‘What happened after that?’ I say.
‘I wrote a pilot that didn’t get made. I wrote a film script everyone loved but said would be too expensive. I spent a lot of time working on stuff that almost happened but didn’t. I wrote a film that actually got made and then tanked. I got my hopes up a million times about things that looked like my big break until eventually I made myself stop hoping. It’s the hope that kills you, McDermott.’ He gives me a wry smile. ‘Anyway, I had to take whatever writing jobs I could get. It could have been alotworse. I can’t complain. Erin – that’s my agent – was great, until she was told to dump me. I had a well-paid writing career over there, until I didn’t. I was doing fine, even if I didn’t always feel that way. It just wasn’t what I’d dreamed of, that’s all.’ He looks at me and shrugs. ‘There was no conspiracy. There was no big adversary fucking me over – well, until Scott Stagg. The big career break just … didn’t happen for me.’
‘But …’ The me of three weeks ago would be astounded to hear me say, honestly, ‘You’re a good writer!’
He put the work in. He put himself out there. Isn’t that meant to be rewarded? Especially if you’re actually talented? Look at my sister. She got there in the end.
‘I know I’m a good writer,’ says Art, with a hint of that old shamelessness. ‘But there are better writers than me who never got near the jobs I got. Talent isn’t enough. And if I’ve learned anything over the last few years, it’s that you can’t always get what you want.’
He sounds a bit sad, but to my surprise there’s no real bitterness in his voice. Or even grim resignation. There’s just … acceptance.
‘Wow,’ I say. ‘Your therapist must have been really great.’
Art laughs. ‘Yeah, she was pretty good.’
‘I suppose you need all her wisdom now,’ I say, ‘stuck in this total mess.’
‘Ah, you know,’ says Art. ‘This mess isn’t all bad. Anyway. We’d better get back to it.’
So we do. We get an email from Susan thanking us for the rewritten Ritchie scenes, which is a relief because at least it means we’re finished these episodes as far as she’s concerned. The top-secret scenes are coming together now, building up to the emotional pay-off where Ma Cusack tells Paddy how proud she is of her son, how much she loves him. And I discover I can work through the dull ache in my chest, the queasy tightness in my stomach. Even though they never go away. When Art turns to me after I come up with a great line for Ma Cusack’s last monologue and says, ‘You’re really fucking good at this, McDermott,’ I make myself smile back at him and say, ‘I suppose you’re nottotallyterrible yourself,’ but it’s exhausting. It’s all so exhausting.
I wish I could be angry with Art – it would be so much easier if I could tell myself he fucked me around – but I can’t. I’m the onewho changed the rules of the game without telling him. And now I feel like I’ve been dumped by someone who doesn’t even know he’s done it.
But Ihaven’tbeen dumped. I haven’t been humiliated. As far as Art’s concerned nothing has changed. I can live with this. It’ll be fine.
So I keep going. I keep writing. I don’t have much in common with Taylor Swift but it turns out that, like her, I can do it with a broken heart. Or at least a badly bruised heart. It can’t have been broken, right? Not by Art Sullivan. It’s not like I’m actually in love with him or anything. I just have … feelings for him. I can work through them.