‘I should hope not,’ says Bernard in acid tones. ‘First you didn’t read the updated scene-by-scenes and now this. Tell me, have either of you actually used computers before? What did you write your Hollywood scripts on, Mr Sullivan, a typewriter? Quill and parchment?’
Art doesn’t say anything and Bernard says, ‘Well?’
Christ, he actually wants an answer. Art’s jaw tightens and he says, possibly through gritted teeth, ‘I used a laptop.’
‘Please tell me you at least made a start on your second drafts yesterday,’ says Susan, ‘so I don’t have to redo every single note.’
‘Yes, of course we did.’ I try to keep my voice even, but I’m pretty sure I don’t succeed.
Susan sighs. ‘Okay, the pair of you, go off and do what you can for the rest of the day. Build on whatever changes you’ve already made and try and remember what I sent you yesterday. I’ll let you know when the notes are ready.’
‘Thanks, Susan,’ says Art. ‘And sorry about this.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Thanks and … yes, sorry.’ I can’t believe this is happening. Susan was the only senior staff member who was basically on our side andnow…
‘Right.’ Bernard turns to Susan. ‘Before you start fixing their mistakes, I need a word with you about the exterior shoot schedule.’
Why the hell did he have to come in now?I think as we leave the room. We just gave him yet another reason to hate us. Well, nearly everyone here hates us apart from Simon and Nora. I think of that Cian guy giving me filthy looks. I think of the other writers sniggering during the first meeting when Bernard tore me and Art to shreds. I bet they’d love this. They all loved seeing me fuck up at the meeting. They—
Oh God.
They wouldn’t. Surely none of them would …
Would they?
We head across to our office, and when the door closes behind us Art says, ‘I suppose that could have been worse.’
‘Art, do you—’ I know what I’m about to say sounds … a little paranoid. Okay, it sounds very paranoid. But I have to say something. ‘Do you think one of the other writers could have deleted our notes?’
‘What?’ says Art.
‘Anyone could have got to the scripts on the system,’ I say.
‘Look,’ he says, ‘we’re both tired and … it’s been a weird seven days. There’s a chance we did make a mistake.’
‘Both of us?’ I say. ‘I know I didn’t delete mine. And I’m pretty sure you didn’t delete yours.’
‘I don’tthinkI did,’ says Art. ‘But—’
‘So what if someone else did?’ I say. ‘We’re not hugely popular around here. Susan was one of the few people who seemed to tolerate us and now thanks to these missing notes she’s pissed off with us too.’
‘I get that,’ says Art. ‘But seriously, McDermott, sabotage? The two of us making a mistake with unfamiliar software seems more likely. I think you’ve been spending too much time thinking about melodramatic soap plots.’
Ugh, he’s probably right. I hate him being right.
But what if he’s not?
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘But there’s still a chance someone could be sabotaging us. So we should definitely back up everything offline.’
‘Sure.’ Art shrugs. ‘We might as well.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘Good.’ I sit down at my desk. ‘I suppose we just try to keep working on our scripts now. Before the saboteur totally deletes them or something.’
I realise how melodramatic I sound, and Art clearly does too because he says, ‘Ah, yes, the saboteur. Or saboteurs, plural. Remember, it could be a giant conspiracy.’
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Don’t back up your script and see what happens.’
‘Oh, I’m backing it up,’ he says.