After that encounter, my office feels even more sombre when I return. Around one o’clock, Art stands up and puts on his jacket.
‘Right, I’m off,’ he says, and makes for the door.
‘Are you going to the canteen?’ I say.
‘No,’ says Art. ‘See you later.’
The door swings shut behind him. I stare at it for a moment before turning back to my laptop.
If he doesn’t want to have lunch with me, or even tell me where he’s having lunch, then that’s fine too.
I almost get a vending machine sandwich, but now I’ve tasted the canteen’s wares, I simply can’t go back to the machine. So I take a deep breath, go to the canteen alone and grab something to take back to the office. When I return, Art is already at his desk.
‘Hello,’ I say, and he just grunts.
I don’t even get actual words now. Delightful.
I return to the script and start writing a scene with temporary flatmates Sam and Sarah trading barbs in the bistro. Or rather, I try to start writing it. But somehow it’s not working. After an hour I give up and move to another storyline, but that’s not coming to life either. Time is running out. I need to get the first draft of this episode done by half past five tomorrow. But what if I simply can’t? Oh God, what if I’ve lost my writing mojo forever? What if I get fired fromNorthsidebefore I can tell Bernard to shove his job up his arse? What if …?
Shortly before six o’clock I pull off my headphones and let out a growl of frustration. It must have been louder than I intended, because for the first time all day, Art addresses me without being spoken to. ‘What was that weird noise in aid of?’
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Ignore me.’
‘It’s very difficult to ignore sounds like that.’ He closes his laptop. ‘It’s a good thing I’m heading home now. Which you should probably do too.’ He puts the computer in his bag and puts on his jacket.
‘I just want to get this draft finished.’ And then, because I’m tired and stressed and frustrated, I say, ‘It’s a fucking mess.’
‘Don’t be so dramatic,’ says Art. He seems almost amused, which doesn’t help my mood.
‘I’m not being dramatic,’ I say. Or possibly snap. ‘This is my first script forNorthside, and it has to be good.’
‘Stop panicking,’ says Art. ‘Your script’s perfectly fine.’
‘How would you know if it’s fine or not?’ I say.
‘I read it,’ says Art.
My mouth literally drops open. ‘Youwhat?’
‘I read your script.’ He doesn’t even sound ashamed of himself. ‘I wanted to make sure my scenes were setting up your episode properly. So I read your script this morning. You know you can read any script when you’re logged in to the system, right?’
I’m so angry I can barely get the words out. ‘I— of course I know youcando that. But you just … you justdon’t! Not without asking!’
‘Jesus, McDermott, it’s not as if I read your diary.’ Again, Art seems almost amused by my outrage. ‘Or, like, your passion project. Or your great unpublished novel. Do you have one of those, by the way? You seem like someone who might.’
‘I do not,’ I say through gritted teeth, ‘have a great unpublished novel. I have aNorthsidescript that I am working on, and right now it’s none of your business.’
‘Actually, it’s literally my business.’ Art sits on the edge of his desk. ‘Look, we all know we’re not making art here, right? This place is a factory, not a writers’ retreat. We’re all making a product. And we’ve got to be able to look at … I dunno, look at all the different wrenches and widgets and things in order to make our specific bit of the product.’
‘Wrenches andwidgets?’ It’s clear he’s never worked in a factory. I mean, neither have I, but that all seems wrong. ‘My script is not a widget! None of these scripts are widgets! People care about them! They’re full of human emotion and … and real life!’
‘Ah, yes.’ Art rolls his eyes. ‘Real life. Who among us hasn’t murdered our long-lost half-sister and the father of our secret love child? And then put a man in a coma? Oh, and kidnapped his son?’
‘The situations might be melodramatic but the emotions are real!’ I say. Or possibly shout.
I can’t believe that only last night I was smiling at his fucking baby photo and thinking he was all right really. I should have known Art Sullivan couldn’t last the week without being a total patronising dickhead.
‘Okay, look.’ Art’s tone is genuine. ‘I’m really sorry you’re upset about this.’