‘Look,’ says Susan, ‘I know Bernard had a go at you there.’
‘Not only me,’ I said. ‘He had a go at everyone.’
‘He’s just a bit … highly strung,’ says Susan. ‘Especially at the moment. Don’t take it personally.’
‘I’ll try,’ I say. But I’m already wondering if I’ll last this trial period. I’m wondering if moving home was a huge mistake.
When I open the door of office number one, Art is sitting with his elbows on his desk and his head bowed, massaging his temples. But he sits up straight and turns to face me when I come in.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘that was fun!’
‘I can think of another few words for it.’ I put my laptop and notebook into my bag.
‘I don’t know why you’re so freaked out,’ says Art. ‘It’s only a tight deadline. You must have faced them before.’
‘It’s not just the tight deadline,’ I say. ‘It’s Bernard!’
‘I’ve met worse than Bernard,’ says Art. ‘I can handle him.’
‘Good for you,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure I can. And didn’t you notice the other writers smirking whenever we fucked up? They hate us for taking jobs that could have gone to their friends.’ I hold up my phone. ‘Susan just added us both to a group chat for the entire team. I bet they’re going to send us hate mail. Or hate texts. Whatever.’
Art shrugs, seemingly unmoved. ‘We can’t do anything about that. But you know, if you can’t handle all the pressure, maybe this isn’t the job for you …’
‘Oh, don’t worry about me!’ I say. ‘I can handle the pressure. Three weeks for a final draft is absolutely nothing. I had to rewrite some of the Tony Barton murder episode ofOur Toonthe day it was shot!’
‘The what of our what?’ says Art.
‘It was the most-watched half hour of television in the UK last month,’ I say through gritted teeth.
But of course Art isn’t impressed.
‘Really? Good for you,’ he says, as if I’d just revealed I’d won first prize in a junior infants drawing competition.
‘So,’ I say, ‘I’m fine with the pressure. I’m not fine with, I don’t know, the vibe.’
‘Who cares about the vibe?’ says Art.
‘I do,’ I say. ‘Clearly.’
‘Look, Susan said we’ll be working in here most of the time,’ says Art. ‘Bernard will be tucked away in his own office. We won’t have to see him much outside of meetings. Just don’t bite him or anything at the next one. You looked like you might sink your teeth into his leg today.’
‘There will be no biting!’ I say. ‘Do you think I’m an actualanimal?’
‘As for the other writers, they’ll come around,’ Art continues. ‘It’s not like we crossed a picket line or anything. And it’s not like any ofthemturned down the job so one of their mates could take it.’
Hmmm. That’s actually a good point.
‘We’ve been given these jobs because people at IBC think we’re good, right?’ says Art.
‘Bernard doesn’t seem to think we’re much good,’ I say. ‘Why the hell did he even hire us?’
‘You must have read about how much pressure they’re under to justifyNorthside,’ says Art. ‘IBC probablymadehim hire new writers to show their critics they’re turning over a new leaf.’
‘And that doesn’t bother you?’ I’m not going to admit how much being employed as a sop to IBC’s critics bothersme.
Art shrugs. ‘Why should it? I’m doing this job for the money, not artistic integrity. And IBC clearly needs to give the show a kick up the arse. So we all win.’
How is he so blasé about this?