‘Well, Ihopewe win,’ I say. ‘We needNorthsideto be a hit again. We need it to survive. It’s so important for Irish telly.’
‘No one can predict what’ll be a hit or not,’ says Art. ‘Nobody knows anything. William Goldman said that. The screenwriter,’ he adds, as if talking to a small child. ‘He wroteThe Princess Bride.’
God, he really can’t help himself, can he?
‘I know who William Goldman is,’ I say. ‘I was in your film studies class. Though apparently I didn’t make much of an impression, seeing as you clearly don’t remember me.’
‘I know you were in my class,’ says Art, to my surprise.
‘Oh you do, do you?’ I say. ‘Well, this morning you acted like you’d never met me before.’
‘You did the same thing,’ he points out. ‘If you didn’t remember me I wasn’t going to make things awkward. Anyway, of course I remember you. You were the angry goth.’
I stare at him in outrage. ‘I wasn’t a goth!’
‘Are you sure? You looked like a goth.’
‘I definitely wasn’t a goth,’ I say. ‘I was witchy. There’s a big difference.’
‘If you say so,’ says Art. ‘Well, whatever you were I see you’re making up for it now.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You’re very colourful these days.’ He points at my incredibly chic outfit. ‘Look at those pantaloons.’
I gasp in genuine horror. ‘They’re not pantaloons! They’re sapphire-blue needlecord culottes.’
‘Well, they’re not very goth.’
‘Yes, because I’m not a goth and I never have been,’ I snap.
‘Anyway,’ he says, as if I were the one who had started this stupid conversation, ‘I remember us having a big argument in Fintan Donohue’s class about …’
Then his expression changes.
I feel a smile creep across my own face. ‘About what, exactly?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Art. ‘Some nonsense.’
‘I actually remember that argument very well,’ I say. ‘It was about soaps. I said they could be art, and if I recall correctly, you said they were … oh, what was it? Trash for idiots? Anti-culture? Something like that. And only people who couldn’t make proper films would end up working on them.’ I fix him with a dazzling smile. ‘How do you feel about that now?’
I expect him to make a dismissive remark or even get all angry and defensive, but instead he looks so genuinely embarrassed I almost feel guilty as I grab my jacket and walk out of the office.
Almost.
But not quite.
Chapter Four
INT: SCHOOL CLOAKROOM / INT: ANNIE AND ROO’S HOUSE
My triumphant mood lasts roughly ninety seconds after I leave the room.
I stride through the open-plan office towards the lift, where I spot two of the other writers waiting for it to arrive. The lift doors open, and as my new colleagues walk in I hurry towards them and they must have seen me (theymust, right?), but one of them hits the button. I can hear someone laugh as the doors slide shut.
And as I hurry down the stairs, because I want to get out of this building as quickly as possible before anyone else can patronise or ignore or snigger at me, the high of my last interaction with Art fades away and suddenly I feel very … alone.
I feel the way I felt before I met Roo.