How the hell does he know that? I really am ridiculously transparent.
‘Didn’t you avoid it yesterday?’ I say.
‘I had to go to the post office so I grabbed some food while I was out,’ says Art. ‘Are you seriously going to live on those revolting plastic sandwiches from the machine? Because I’m telling you, you can eat them outside this office if you are. I could still smell whatever the hell you had yesterday when I came in this morning.’
I glower at him. ‘I like those sandwiches.’
‘I refuse to believe that. Look,Ms McDermott,’ he says, in a pitch-perfect impersonation of Bernard.
I shudder. ‘Please don’t do that.’
‘Alright then, look, McDermott,’ says Art in his normal voice. ‘You’re being ridiculous. And very egocentric if you ask me.’
‘You’recallingmeegocentric?’
‘The other writers aren’t as obsessed with you as you clearly think they are! And on the off-chance they are, they’re probably more frightened of you than you are of them.’
‘There’s nothing frightening about me!’
‘I beg to differ,’ says Art. ‘Anyway, if this is the only way I can save you, and more importantly this office, from those appallingsandwiches then I’ll go with you. Come on, let’s go to the canteen right now and get some half-decent food.’
I stare at him. ‘What, like together?’
Art sighs. ‘No, I’m going to shove you through the door and run away. Yes, together!’
I think of the sandwich I had yesterday. The weird chewy bread. The fillings clumped in the middle so the corners were dry as a bone.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Let’s go.’
As we take the lift to the ground floor I glance at Art. His dark hair is tousled and he clearly didn’t shave today and he’s looking off into space, and for a second he doesn’t look like my arrogant old classmate. He doesn’t look cocky or smug or amused. He looks a bit tired and maybe a bit sad and maybe a bit handsome …
What? No! No, no, no, no—
Before I can examine this dreadful thought further Art turns to me and says, ‘What?’
‘Nothing!’ My voice sounds squeaky and weird.
Art looks away as the doors of the lift open. When we walk into the small lobby at the back of the building he says, ‘You have your security pass, right?’ His is hanging around his neck on its hideous green lanyard.
‘It’s in my bag,’ I say. ‘I think.’ Or is it still on my desk? Or in my coat pocket?
Art looks like he’s supressing another of those big sighs. ‘You should wear it. It’s a pain in the arse if you lose these things.’
‘I have actually visited an office before,’ I say. ‘I know how passes work. But it’ll get in the way if it’s hanging off me.’
‘Well, don’t expect me to keep letting you in everywhere if you lose it.’ Art uses his pass to open the door and we walk outside. I have a weird feeling in my stomach as we approach the canteen, the same feeling I had yesterday, only much worse now I’ve spent a day in theNorthsideoffices. That old school feeling. Like twenty years of progress have been erased.
But I got through school, I remind myself. I had Roo. And here I have …
Do I have Art? Surely not.
‘All right,’ says Art, as the canteen doors automatically open before us. ‘Let’s go and face all the people who hate us.’
I freeze on the threshold. ‘I thought you said they didn’t hate us!’
‘I mean, some of them probably do,’ says Art. ‘Anyway, come on! It’ll be fun. Also, I’m starving.’
And before I can object he puts a hand on my back and gently propels me through the doors.