Miraculously, it’s like the fiery rage has burned away the fog that was clouding my thinking the day before, and I find myself furiously typing as the hospital scene finally starts to come together. It’s working,at lastit’s working, I just need to think of a great last line for Ritchie’s emotional speech, and I’ve got it, I’ve almost got it, it’s on the tip of my tongue, or rather the tips of my fingers—
Then the door of the office slams loudly enough to penetrate through my allegedly noise-cancelling headphones. The moment is ruined.
I pull off my headphones and turn around to see Art holding a cup of coffee from the canteen in each hand. He’s clearly just kicked the door shut behind him.
‘Morning!’ he says cheerfully.
All the cutting remarks I thought of last night fly straight out of my head and I cry, ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’
‘I think what you meant to say,’ says Art, ‘is “thank you for getting me a coffee, Arthur”.’
‘I hope whatyoumeant to say,’ I say, ‘is “I’m so sorry for reading your script yesterday, Annie”.’
‘Fine, if it means that much to you …’ Art sighs. ‘I’m so sorry for reading your script, Annie.’
‘Great,’ I say. ‘What a lovely, sincere apology.’
‘Itwassincere!’ protests Art. ‘Iamsorry! That’s why I brought you this.’ He puts a cup on my desk.
‘If you say so,’ I say. ‘Now, can I get back to work? I want to get this done before the meeting.’
‘Don’t let me keep you from the factory floor,’ says Art, infuriatingly. ‘Enjoy your latte.’
I glower at him and turn back to my laptop. I’m tempted to ignore the coffee but it smells too good. And when I take a sip it tastes so delicious I almost feel bad for snarling at him. Miraculously, and possibly fuelled by caffeine, I manage to get the draft finished just before the meeting. I close my laptop in triumph and turn around to Art.
‘Done!’ I say. ‘How are your widgets coming along?’
‘Fully welded,’ says Art. It’s clear by now that neither of us actually knows what a widget is. ‘You can have a look if you like. I don’t care if you read my script.’
I ignore him and pick up my laptop. I’m buzzing with the sense of achievement. I got my draft done! And it’s not that bad. In fact, I think it might even be good, for a first draft anyway. I can spend the rest of the day polishing it but it’s in decent shape. This meeting might actually go well.
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘We don’t want to keep Bernard waiting.’
Ten minutes later, I’m wishing wehadkept Bernard waiting. I’m wishing I hadn’t turned up at all. Because as soon as he walks into the meeting room Bernard gives a particularly unpleasant smile and says, ‘So I hear we have a celebrity in our midst here in the …’ he pauses and says, with heavy sarcasm, ‘… “writers’ room”.’
We do? I instinctively look around. Everyone else looks equally curious and confused.
‘I suppose it’s all good publicity forNorthside,’ Bernard continues, ‘having someone here who’s related to rock royalty.’
My stomach twists.
‘In case there’s anyone she hasn’t told,’ says Bernard, ‘Ms McDermott here is Tadhg Hennessy’s sister-in-law. Her sister’s a … pop star too, I believe. Isn’t that right, Ms McDermott?’
I don’t say anything.
‘Isn’t it?’ says Bernard.
‘She’s a musician.’ I feel so sick and angry I can barely get the words out.
The entire room is staring at me. All except the young researcher Róisín. She can’t meet my eyes.
‘So, Ms McDermott,’ says Bernard, smiling at me maliciously, ‘even if your scripts are useless, you can get your superstar relations to publicly support the show. At least then you’ll earn your keep around here.’ Someone at the other end of the table sniggers.
Is Bernard suggesting I only got the job because of my famous sister?
Oh my God,didI only get the job because of my famous sister?
‘Now, Bernard,’ says Susan, ‘Annie is a valued member of the team.’