And I can’t help feeling touched by this. Even though these scenes might never make it on telly and hence his IMDb page.
But after I send the scenes off, I log in to theNorthsidesystem and find the script Art submitted to Susan and Bernard on Monday. The official script for his episode, the one that will air if our secret scheme fails. The one that, when I first saw it, was credited to Arthur T. Ó Súilleabháin. Except now it’s not.
Now every page of it declares that it was written by Art Sullivan.
The college golden boy, the indie-film award winner, the prestige-TV scriptwriter is now officially, publicly and forever a soap-opera man. He might be leaving us, but he’s not disowning us.
There’s a lump in my throat as I stare at the screen. Oh God, Ihave to talk to him. I have to apologise. How long does it take to get a coffee?
I sit up straighter on the couch. Seriously, how long does it take to get a coffee?
Art’s been gone at least twenty minutes. Even if he stayed to drink his coffee in the canteen, shouldn’t he be back by now?
I feel a prickle of unease as I close my laptop and grab my bag, checking that my hideous security pass is in it. I hurry through the open-plan office and glance into the kitchen, but he isn’t there. When the lift doors open I’m sure he’ll walk out, but he doesn’t. As I walk down the path to the canteen I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, that Art’s probably met Simon or Nora, that I’ll find him holding forth to an admiring throng. But when I enter the canteen and look around, there’s no sign of him.
And I remember that when he left our office, he took his bag and his laptop with him.
Could he have gone home? Could he have … could he have gone for good?
Because, after all, he has no reason to stay here. His script is done. He’s not going to be working here any longer so he has no moreNorthsidescripts to do. He said he’d direct the extra scenes tomorrow, but the assistant director could do that.
Still, he wouldn’t leave me to present those scenes to Triona without him, would he? Is he that angry with me after last night?
I hurry out of the canteen. There’s no sign of Art on the picnic benches. Maybe he’s gone to get his bike. Maybe I can catch him if I hurry. Walking fast now, I make my way to the bike park, but there’s no sign of him and I can’t remember what his bike looks like so I can’t tell whether it’s gone or not. I head back across the campus to the tree where we had lunch on Monday.But he’s not there either. He’s nowhere to be found. My heart is racing. He wouldn’t go without saying goodbye, would he? Not after everything we’ve been through over the last few weeks? But maybe he decided he didn’t want to spend another day with someone who talked to him the way I did last night. I mean, who could blame him? He’d prefer to be at home packing for New York. He could be on his way to do that right now.
And if he really has gone for good, he’s left thinking I despise him. And probably hating me right back.
Okay. Okay. Maybe we missed each other and he’s back in the office. The quickest route there is through theNorthsidelot and they’re shooting in the studio building today, so Charlemont Street will be deserted. I slip around the side of the hospital set and walk onto the street. There’s the McCauls’ house, with its White Lady statue, and Donnelly’s pub and Karyn’s Kafé and …
There’s Art.
He’s standing outside the pub, looking at the fake advertisements for local events stuck up in the window.
‘Art!’
He turns around when he hears his name. He doesn’t look exactly delighted to see me running towards him.
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Hi.’
‘I thought you’d gone.’ I’m out of breath after rushing all over the campus. ‘God, Art, I thought you’d gone for good.’
‘I told you I was just getting coffee,’ says Art.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I know you did. But then you didn’t come back, and I was worried—’
‘Worried?’ says Art.
‘I was worried you’d left IBC without saying goodbye,’ I say.
‘I wouldn’t do that,’ says Art. I can’t tell if he’s hurt or angry. Maybe both. ‘Do you really think I’d do that?’
‘I wouldn’t blame you if you did,’ I say. ‘Not after what I said last night. I’m so sorry, Art. You were right, I wasn’t being fair.’
‘Okay.’ Art’s expression is unreadable. ‘I won’t argue with that.’
‘I still think you should have told me about that film offer,’ I say. ‘But I understand why you didn’t. I know you were just trying to make this job go as smoothly as possible.’
‘Yeah, I was,’ he says.