‘No,’ says Art, ‘you were not. I’ve never cheated on anyone, and I certainly wasn’t going to start with—’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I wasn’t going to start in my own office. So to answer your question, I am not seeing anyone.’ He looks at me. ‘Are you? Should I expect to see an angry boyfriend at the gates waiting to punch me in the face?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘No boyfriend.’
‘Great,’ says Art. ‘I could do without having my nose broken again.’
We continue walking in silence. To my massive relief, a bus arrives as we reach the stop, and to my greater relief, it’s crowded so Art and I don’t have to sit together. My stop is before Art’s, and when I pass him on my way off the bus he says, ‘See you tomorrow.’ His expression almost softens. ‘Come on, don’t look so worried. It’ll all be fine.’
‘I know!’ I lie.
When I get home I decide to take advantage of what is, essentially, an unexpected day off by watching some of my favourite comfort shows. As the theme music ofGilmore Girlskicks in, I can feel the tension in my shoulders ease, just a little bit. Yes, now I’m in my thirties I frequently find both heroines, Rory and Lorelai, insufferable, but right now it doesn’t matter, because something about it still makes me feel … safe. It reminds me of watching it with Roo when we were teenagers, finding comfort and escape in the charmingly perfect world of Stars Hollow. Every day at school felt like an obstacle course, but when we were curled up on the couch in Roo’s front room watching Luke and Lorelai bicker in his diner, I didn’t have to think about that. I didn’t have to think about the fact that Lizzie Lattin and her friends stood right in front of my locker every day and pretended they couldn’t hear me when I asked them to move. I didn’t have to think about any of it.
This is what Art has never understood about popular TV. How much it can matter. How much you canneedit.
That’s why I fell in love with television. When I was trying to fall asleep as a teenager, in order to quiet my racing thoughts, I used to imagine all the TV shows I might create when I grew up. I wanted to write forNorthside, but I also wanted to write something for girls like me and Roo, girls who didn’t see ourselves on TV where even outsider girls were hot and fancied by boys. I wanted to write a show about two little weirdos against the world. I’ve never done it. I’ve never even tried. I’ve been a freelance scriptwriter for a decade now, and I’ve never dared take any time to work on my own projects. I’ve always been more concerned with making sure I got commissioned to write another script. I worry I might simply not be able to create something by myself.
But while I might never have written a show about me and Roo, I remind myself I’m writing forNorthsidenow, and that would make my angry little teenage self very happy.
By late afternoon, I’ve watched three episodes ofGilmore Girls, gone for a walk and made myself a nice lunch. I’m feeling a lot better than I did this morning. I feel, in fact, strong enough to be told everything that’s wrong with my script. When a text arrives from Susan telling me her notes are ready, I make a cup of coffee, take a deep breath and open my laptop.
To my huge relief, Susan’s notes are clear and thoughtful and consistent. It’s never exactly fun to have your work criticised, but she’s managed to do it in an encouraging way, adding comments throughout the document highlighting both the things I’ve done well and the stuff that needs more work. A couple of the issues she highlighted are easy fixes, so I tackle them first, and by the time Roo gets home a few hours later, I’ve managed to rewrite acouple of scenes and am taking a break with a freshly brewed cup of Apfelstrudel tisane.
‘Hello!’ I say when Roo enters the room, a vision in black lace. ‘Is that a mantilla?’
Roo pushes the veil away from her face as she joins me on the couch. ‘It was my Spanish grandma’s,’ she says. ‘The guests loved it, I should wear it more often.’ She curls her sheer-stockinged legs beneath her and looks at me thoughtfully. ‘You look surprisingly cheerful.’
‘I think your hopeful tisane might actually be working,’ I say.
‘Of course it’s working,’ says Roo. ‘So how were things with You Know Who?’
‘Not as bad as I feared.’ I tell her about what happened with Art.
‘Ha! I told you so,’ says Roo. ‘Tomorrow the pair of you can make a fresh start. It’s the Tower card all over again! You’ve burned down all the awkwardness. From now on things will be great.’
I’ll need a lot more of her Apfelstrudel tisane to really believe that.
Chapter Eleven
INT:NORTHSIDEOFFICES / INT: IBC CANTEEN
I feel a little bleary-eyed this morning. I laboured on my script until after ten last night, and while I know there’s still a lot of work to do, and I’m all too aware that the next few days are going to be gruelling, I feel like I’ve actually made a dent in the second draft. Thank God for Susan’s notes, guiding me in the right direction.
But when I sit down at my office desk and open my script on theNorthsidesystem, all those notes, the notes I need to complete this draft to my bosses’ satisfaction, have disappeared.
At first I think it must be a technical error, easily fixed. My script is there, including the changes I made yesterday. It’s just the notes that are missing. Maybe I accidentally clicked on something. I go through the settings options, but nothing brings back the notes. My breathing quickens. Where are they? Seriously, where are they? I can’t finish this second draft without them!
The door opens and Art walks in holding a coffee. ‘Morning.’ He sounds slightly more cheerful than he did yesterday. Then he takes one look at my face and says, ‘Jesus, what’s wrong with you?’
For a second I consider not telling him. I don’t want him to think I’m incompetent. But I don’t really have a choice.
‘Susan’s notes have vanished,’ I say. ‘From my script.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I literally mean they’ve vanished!’ I try and fail to keep the panic out of my voice. We do all our writing directly onto the online system. Which means I don’t have a backed-up version of the script with Susan’s notes.
‘You didn’t delete them?’ says Art.
‘Of course I didn’t!’ A thought strikes me. ‘Hang on, check yours. Maybe there’s an issue with the whole system.’