‘Anything wrong?’ I say.
‘Only the joys of living with my mother,’ says Art. ‘She wants me to pick up something in the supermarket in the Omni Centre. She’s off walking around a reservoir with her bridge-club mates.’ He gives me an apologetic look. ‘Do you mind if I head down? I’ll be twenty minutes tops. I’d go on my way home but I don’t know how late we’ll be here this evening.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say. I could do with some time away from him.
‘Cheers.’ Art picks up his phone. ‘Shit, this is about to die. I’d better plug it in.’ He smiles at me. ‘If a helicopter hits Charlemont Street while I’m gone, the news can wait until I get back.’
I make myself smile back at him. ‘Of course it can.’
As soon as he leaves the room some of the tension leaves my body. I should probably go out for some fresh air, but where did I put my jacket? I spot it on the back of the couch and as I go over to pick it up I think of the card Roo drew for me last night and tell myself things could be worse. Art and I are friends. We’re getting along, which at least means the work is going okay. I can do this. I can get through this. I can—
Art’s phone starts ringing.
It’s right next to me so I can’t help glancing at it. I wonder if it’s his mother calling with another shopping request but the caller ID says Erin. I let it ring out and head towards the door but it immediately rings again.
Shit, what if this is a real emergency?
I go back to the couch and see it’s the same caller just as the phone stops ringing. I know I’ve heard the name Erin sometime over the last few days, but I can’t remember where.
And then, while I’m still looking at the screen, a text arrives.
Just talked to producers – they want you to start prepping for the New York job in two weeks max. You need to arrange your contract ASAP. Call me!
The screen goes black, but I keep staring at the phone. I click the button on the side and read the text preview again. I can’t move.
A contract.
A New York job.
Two weeks max.
Now I remember where I heard the name Erin. It’s Art’s agent who dumped him.
Well, looks like he’s not as dumped as he said he was. Because he’s starting a new job in New York in a fortnight.
And he hasn’t said a word, not a single word, to me about it.
I look at the text again. This job didn’t just manifest today. Art must have known about it for a while. At the very least he must have known about it all weekend, when we worked so closely together, when he met myfamily. He must have known about it when he told me we were a good team. He must have known about it yesterday when he told me this place wasn’t all bad, when he acted like he cared about this job. All that time, he must have fucking known. And he kept it from me. He kept it all from me.
How could he? Howcouldhe?
I feel tears of rage come to my eyes and rub them away with my fists. I am not going to cry over Art Sullivan. I want to yell at him instead. I want to kick something. But I can’t. At least, I shouldn’t. So I take deep breaths. I get up and pace from the desk to the couch and back again. I try to calm myself down.
Breathe in, breathe out.
I keep pacing back and forth, back and forth. I tell myself Artdoesn’t owe me anything, not really. He never said he’d stay here forever. In fact, when I accused him of abandoning the show after we got Bernard’s awful notes, he only said he’d definitely stay until this anniversary-script drama was over.
Well, at the end of this week it’ll be over. And then he’ll be gone.
Out of this office, out of my life. For good.
I take another deep breath. Maybe … maybe that’s for the best. Maybe that’s what I need right now. Because if I’m being honest with myself, I don’t actually want to stay friends with him. Ican’tbe friends with him, not when I feel like this, not when I can remember the way he looked at me before he first made me come, the way he pressed me against the door when we first kissed. The thought of never seeing him again is awful, but the thought of feeling this way about him while he only wants to fuck me is worse. So, yeah, this is probably for the best. I know ithasto be for the best. I can get over him. I can get over anything.
But still, but still … He didn’ttellme. Which means maybe we weren’t even friends after all. And that’s what hurts the most.
Well, I’m not going to let him know how much pain he’s causing me. I’m not going to show him how angry and miserable I am. I won’t say a word about it. I can’t trust myself to keep my cool if I confront him and I can’t lose my cool right now. We’ve got to work together for three more days, then the anniversary-episode shoot will be over and I can say goodbye to him forever. He can fuck off to America and his stupid job and his stupid old life and I’ll never see him again. I’ll never see Art Sullivan’s stupid, smug, annoying face again as long as I live.
And that’s when my own face crumples and I burst into tears.