‘It’s every twenty-five, and I’m not dancing, I’m stretching!’ I say. ‘You know, it’s very bad for you to sit down for so long.’
I return to work and recheck my episode’s pick-ups, the description of what’s happening in each storyline at the end of the episode before mine. If – and it’s a big if right now – we can stop rubbing each other up the wrong way, it’ll be quite handy sharing an office with Art when it comes to this sort of thing. Our episodes will air as a double bill on the evening of the anniversary, with the action taking place over the course of two days on Charlemont Street. If we want or need to change anything in how his episode ends or mine begins, we can turn around and talk to each other.
The Sam and Sarah story starts out as an odd-couple houseshare but becomes deeper in my episode as Sarah opens up to Sam about her traumatic childhood. It’s a meaty story and I’m so absorbed in it I’m surprised when my timer goes off at five past one and I realise it’s lunchtime. To my shame, I feel nervous at the prospect of facing the canteen alone again.
But then Art stands up and says, ‘Right, McDermott, let’s get you some lunch that doesn’t rob us both of the will to live,’ and I find myself putting on my coat and following him out of our office.
‘How’s your script coming along?’ I ask, as we make our way down the stairs.
‘Fine, of course,’ says Art.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. ‘Of course.’
‘You really take everything too seriously, McDermott,’ says Art.
‘One of us has to,’ I say, ‘given that we’re actually at, you know, work.’
We’ve reached the small lobby at the back of the TV building and Art glances at me as we approach the doors. ‘Where’s your pass?’
‘In here somewhere,’ I say and start rummaging around in my bag. ‘I think.’
Art rolls his eyes and holds his own security pass up to the door-release panel. He waves it in my face. ‘Just wear it around your neck!’
His pass photo, I notice, is a lot more flattering than mine. It doesn’t look like a mugshot, at least. As I glance at his name, a thought strikes me.
‘Why are you called Art, by the way?’ I say, as we walk towards the canteen. ‘Did your parents think it would push you towards a creative career?’
‘No,’ says Art. ‘They named me after my grandad. Art’s short for Arthur.’ He looks at me as if this fact should have been blindingly obvious, and in fairness, he’s not entirely wrong.
‘Oh right,’ I say. ‘It’s just that I thought all Arthurs were either, like, a hundred years old or twelve. I mean, I can’t imagine a baby in the late eighties being named Arthur.’
‘Well I was, obviously,’ says Art.
And then, because I’m flustered by my ridiculous assumption about his name, I blurt out the first thing that comes into my head. ‘I can’t picture you as a baby.’
Art looks surprised to hear this, not unreasonably. ‘I’ll have you know I was a lovely baby. Enormous cheeks. Anyway, what about you, little orphan Annie? I bet Annie’s not the name on your birth cert. What’s it short for? Or long for?’
‘Anne,’ I say. ‘Nothing exciting.’
‘Did you ever think of calling yourself Anastasia or Annabel or something instead?’ says Art. ‘Annie isn’t a very goth name.’
‘I wasn’t a—’ I stop myself getting dragged into that one again. ‘I’ve always just been Annie.’
‘Hmmm,’ he says. ‘It suits you, I suppose.’
I’m weirdly taken aback by this, but luckily I don’t have to answer him because we’ve reached the canteen and, to my relief, Simon gives us a friendly wave from the table where he’s sitting with Nora. Once we get our food, Art and I join them.
‘By the way, Art,’ says Simon, after we’ve sat down, ‘I watched your film last night! It was deadly. I actually cried at the end.’
Nora grins at him. ‘Of course you did, you big softie.’
‘Oh, cheers,’ says Art. ‘Which one did you watch?’
‘Um,Grand Music?’ says Simon, naming Art’s award-winning feature. ‘Is there another one?’
If Art’s disappointed to hear this, he hides it.
‘Yeah, I wrote another movie after I worked onSlow News Day,’ says Art. ‘It didn’t exactly set the world on fire. But I’m proud of it.’