I’m determined not to feed his apparent belief that I’m literally feral so I say ‘Morning!’ as chirpily as I can. Then I smile in what I hope is a friendly manner but clearly isn’t because Art looks slightly startled. I wish I could turn around and get back in the lift.
But that’s not an option, so we both start walking towards our office. Neither of us says anything for a moment and then Art says, ‘Did you make a bet on how many colours you could fit into one outfit?’
‘Yes, and I won,’ I say. ‘Did you just enter a French fisherman lookalike competition?’
‘Yes, and I lost,’ says Art. ‘They said I looked far too cool.’
Against my will, I almost laugh but luckily – or not – Bernard suddenly emerges from a door on our left.
‘Ah,MsMcDermott.’ His voice is full of loathing. Well, he’s remembered my name. Or at least my surname. ‘MrSullivan. I hope you’re going to do better work today than you did yesterday.’
And before we can reply, he stalks off.
Art and I exchange a look of what might almost be called complicity and keep walking.
‘I wonder which of us he hates most,’ says Art thoughtfully. ‘I think it might be me.’
‘Well, you did basically call him a piece of shit yesterday,’ I say. ‘So yeah, probably.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ says Art.
‘I wish I’d stood up to him during the meeting,’ I say. ‘I just sat there silently and let him insult everyone. Including me.’
‘Oh, I don’t think you needed to say anything,’ says Art, opening the door of our office. ‘Not the way you were glaring at him.’
Once I’m sitting at my desk I take another deep breath and open my laptop. This is it. My very firstNorthsidescript. And yes, ideally I’d have months to work on it, not three weeks. But still! This is a big deal! Susan explained that we write on an online platform so I log in and find my episode. Technically you can access everyone’s scripts there but it doesn’t feel right to peek at other people’s works in progress. No writer wants anyone looking at their script before it’s ready to be shared.
I’ve decided to tackle my episode storyline by storyline. I swear by the pomodoro technique, where you work in twenty-five-minute bursts and then take a break, so I set a timer on my laptop and turn my attention to Mozzer McCaul’s scenes. I feel a thrill of pure excitement. This is Maureen ‘Mozzer’ McCaul!TheMozzer McCaul! And I’m deciding what she’s going to say!
I have a flashback to watchingNorthsidewhen I was fourteen, seeing Mozzer tear strips off the local kids who were bullying the young Amanda. Those little brats never went near Amanda again after they encountered Mozzer’s wrath. It was one of the most cathartic things I’d ever seen on telly.
Despite everything, I’m so happy I took this job.
Mozzer’s story is about her reconnecting with an old flame. The first scene is set in the shop, and I start it with a thoughtful Mozzer browsing the biscuit aisle. I try to think of a perfect opening line for her conversation with her friend Indira. Maybe something funny about how her old flame Frank used to love custard creams? Or maybe …
The line has almost come to me when Art sighs noisily. I ignore him. No, not custard creams. Something else …
Art sighs again, even louder this time. Then he coughs. Andthat perfect line slips out of my mind. God, how can I get work done with him huffing and puffing away behind me?
‘Are you okay?’ I say, turning around.
He turns and looks back at me, a faintly aggrieved expression on his face. ‘I’m fine! Trying to work.’
‘It’s just you were sighing,’ I say.
‘No I wasn’t,’ says Art.
‘You definitely were,’ I say. ‘It was very loud.’
‘It must have been coming from the office next door,’ he says, which is an outrageous lie, because the soundproofing in the office is impressively good. ‘Anyway, if you’ll excuse me, I need to keep working.’
I turn back to Mozzer and Indira and the biscuits, but suddenly I’m very conscious of Art and his breathing (even his breathing is annoying) and sighing and coughing and, once or twice, swearing softly under his breath. What was I thinking, accepting a job that required me to work in an office? I haven’t worked in a room with other people since my story-room days in London, and I’m not sure I can actually write with someone else there. Especiallyhim.
I take a deep breath. It’s not like it’s a crowded open plan. It’s a small private office. Just me and Art Sullivan in a small, enclosed space.
Oh God, that makes it worse …
Focus on Mozzer, Annie.