And that’s what I do. I try my best to tune out Art. I come up with a decent opening line – not perfect, but it’ll do for now. I bring out Indira’s warmth and Mozzer’s prickly charm. And gradually, I put together a very, very rough version of the scene. I’m so intothe job that when my timer goes off it takes me by surprise. How did twenty-five minutes go by so quickly?
‘What the hell is that noise?’ says Art.
I’d almost forgotten he was there. I’d also forgotten that my pomodoro timer makes a noise like an egg cracking and a chicken chirping when the twenty-five minutes are up.
‘It’s only my timer.’ I stand up and stretch.
‘You’re not going to start doing yoga in here, are you?’ Art says in alarm.
He’s not sitting at his desk anymore but on the couch next to it, hunched over his laptop.
‘No, but you probably should,’ I say. ‘Working like that can’t be good for your back. How are you getting on?’
‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Of course. It’s not exactly rocket science, is it?’
I refrain from rolling my eyes. ‘I’m going to get tea.’ Then my instincts kick in and I ask, ‘Do you want a cup?’
I simply can’t make myself a cup of tea without checking if someone else wants one. Even if that someone is Art Sullivan.
Art looks faintly surprised by the offer. ‘Um, no thanks.’
I’m relieved that no one comes into the kitchen while I’m waiting for the kettle to boil. I’m not sure I’m capable of making small talk with my new colleagues just yet. It’s funny, though, I don’t feel nervous at all around Art. Maybe it’s because I find him so irritating.
When I get back to the office he’s lying on the couch with his eyes closed. Maybe one of his ‘personal reasons’ for coming back to Dublin is that he’s seriously sick. I’ll feel very guilty about being annoyed by his coughs if he’s got TB or something.
‘Art?’
He opens his eyes. ‘What?’
‘Are you all right?’
He sits up. ‘Why do you keep asking me that?’ he says. ‘I’m grand!’
God, I’m sorry I asked. ‘Well, first you sound like you’re having an asthma attack and now I come back from the kitchen and you look like you’ve fainted.’
‘I was just thinking,’ says Art. ‘You should try it instead of constantly interrupting my train of thought.’
‘I wish Ihada train of thought!’ I say. ‘It’s been booted off the rails by all the noise you’ve been making.’
I stride back to my desk. I’d better get back into this scene before Art starts doing something noisy. But he’s pretty quiet for the rest of the morning. Every twenty-five minutes I take a little break and stretch (Art rolls his eyes) or go to the loo or get some water. At around half eleven I go to the canteen for an iced chai. The food there looks pretty decent. I should brave it at lunchtime today. That vending machine sandwich was pretty grim. How bad could it be to face my new colleagues? How rude can they possibly be?
But when I get in the lift on the way back, one of the writers from the meeting yesterday walks out and totally blanks me when I raise my hand and say ‘Hi’.
Right. Vending machine it is.
When I return to Mozzer, Art is so engrossed in his work he doesn’t seem to notice I’m there. We ignore each other until one o’clock when Art stands up and says, ‘I think I need to see what the famous canteen has to offer.’
‘The menu actually looked pretty good when I was over there earlier,’ I say.
‘Oh right,’ says Art. ‘So I presume you’ll be sampling its wares too.’
I remember the man who ignored me at the lift. I think his name is Cian.
‘Nah, I don’t think so.’ I avoid Art’s eye. ‘The vending machine is grand.’
I can feel Art looking at me for a long moment.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he says. ‘Are you actually avoiding the canteen because you think everyone hates us?’