‘So do you think thisNorthsidejob is worth it?’ says Roo. ‘I mean, you’re still in the trial period. It’s a trial for them as well as for you. You can quit and go back to writing forOur Toon.’
She’s right. I could always tell them I was available again.
But I won’t. Not now. I can’t quit after one day, even if Art is really irritating, even if Bernard is a psychopath. Maybe things will get better. Maybe Roo’s tisane is actually working on me.
‘No,’ I tell Roo. ‘I have to give it a chance. And besides,’ I add, ‘I like being back in Dublin. And here with you.’
Roo isn’t one for effusive declarations of emotion but she says, ‘Well. Good.’
We order a takeaway, and while we’re waiting for it to arrive, I put the telly on to watch tonight’s episode ofNorthside. I’d rather forget all about its existence for a while, but I wouldn’t put it past Bernard to spring a test on me tomorrow about the latest on-screen developments.
The episode begins outside the shop, and the first thing I see are the words ‘Written by Simon Adebayo’.
‘That’s the Simon I told you about!’ I say, pointing at the screen. ‘The one writer who was actually nice to me.’
‘So it’s all right to say if I like the episode?’ says Roo.
‘Definitely,’ I say.
When the final credits roll thirty minutes later and Bernard’sname appears on screen Roo looks at me, flexes her fingers in the air and says, ‘Should I do some cursing?’
I sigh. ‘No. He’s not worth it.’
Roo and I were always fantasising about cursing people when we were in school but we never had the heart to actually do it. It was mostly because we’d watchedThe Craftand feared our cursing coming back to us threefold or whatever (we clearly had a huge amount of faith in our latent magical powers). But it was also because we knew we’d feel genuinely guilty if, for example, we cursed our classmate Lizzie Lattin because she’d said Roo’s name like a cow going ‘moo’ and then she came down with a horrible skin disease or something.
Of course, if we didn’t curse Lizzie and shehappenedto come down with a horrible skin disease, well, we wouldn’t have beensadabout it …
Anyway, there will be no cursing Bernard, no matter how much he might deserve it. And no cursing Art, no matter how patronising and annoying he is. There will be no cursing at all.
I try to relax for the rest of the evening. As Roo and I watch a Korean series about a high school overrun by zombies, I think about how lucky I am to be living here. Even with my decent new salary, I couldn’t afford anywhere on my own with the housing situation the way it is. Moving in with my parents was not an option – I love them and everything, but I’d probably murder them if I had to live with them for longer than a week. My sister and her husband offered me a room in their house, but much as I appreciated the offer, and I’d have taken them up on it if I’d really had to, it wouldn’t have been ideal. There’s no way they’d charge me rent, but I’d feel like I was sponging off them. Which I have vowed never to do.
And I’m lucky that living with Roo is working so well, even though we haven’t lived in the same country for more than a decade. Our friendship might have been conducted mostly via constant texting since I moved to England, we might not be the co-dependent little duo we were at school and we might have plenty of other friends now, but we still have a bond I’ll never have with anyone else.
Roo goes to bed early because she’s doing readings at a beauty-brand breakfast tomorrow morning and has to get up at the crack of dawn. After she heads upstairs I pick up my phone and reply to messages from my friends Áine and Claire asking how my first day at my new job went (I keep it vague and optimistic). I text Sinéad and tell her I’m sharing an office with her brother’s mate Art (but don’t mention how aggravating I still find him). I get a message from my sister asking me to dinner at her house on Sunday week (I say yes) and then, well, then …
Okay, I’ll admit it. I google Art Sullivan.
The first thing that comes up is his imdb.com page, so of course I click on that. It shows his screenwriting credits in reverse order, so the latest projects appear first. The most recent is a popular but extremely cheesy American show set in a hospital, for which Art is credited with multiple scripts. I’m guessing he must have been in the writers’ room but his last credited script is from well over a year ago. Before that there’s a film I’ve never heard of, starring one actor I vaguely remember from a noughties teen drama and lots of unfamiliar names. Next on the list is a generic cop show, for which Art apparently wrote for several years and also directed quite a few episodes. Before that, he wrote many episodes of aprestigious drama set in a 1970s newspaper office over the course of its entire run. He wasn’t nominated for an Emmy, but several of his colleagues were, and the show won several. At the bottom of the list is his first film, the one that won two awards.
It’s a long way down from indie glory to writing on a deeply uncool medical drama, let alone writing forNorthside.
Well, well, well, I think.Look how the mighty have fallen.
But somehow the thought doesn’t make me feel as smug as I thought it might.
Chapter Five
INT:NORTHSIDEOFFICES / INT: IBC CANTEEN
I’d like to see Art Sullivan accuse me of being a goth inthisoutfit.
As I enter the IBC Television building I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass sliding doors, a colourful vision in a hot-pink skirt, a top with an orange and electric-blue art deco pattern and a bright-yellow coat. I hope my vivid clothes will make me feel more energised, because I didn’t sleep well last night. I woke up at around four and lay awake for hours, my stomach churning, my mind going through all the terrible things that might happen now I have to write a shooting script in no time at all for a boss who clearly hates me. I kept telling myself that anything you think at four in the morning isn’t real, but the thing is, at four in the morning everythingfeelsreal.
Still, surely today can’t possibly be as bad as yesterday. I can avoid Bernard. I can ignore Art Sullivan if he gets too obnoxious. I can make friendly overtures to my new colleagues. It’ll be fine. I’m sure it’ll be fine.
I’m still telling myself this when I step out of the lift and almost bump into Art. He’s carrying a cup of coffee, and his clothes – a cream jumper with navy stripes and rolled-up sleeves paired with navy trousers – couldn’t be more different from my own. All he needs is a beret and a baguette.
‘Morning.’ His tone is wary, as if he’s expecting me to growl at him.