And then Susan says, ‘Well, we only have it because they moved IBC Digital to the shiny new building by the gates, so Triona let us have their old floor.’
Okay, maybe Triona Clancy doesn’t have a lot of faith inNorthside. Maybe she’s just throwing the show one last bone before pulling the plug.
‘You got your story and scene-by-scene documents, right?’ says Susan. ‘I’m sorry everything’s so rushed in this block. It’s not ideal for your first script. I know it’s a lot to take in, but I’m sure you can handle it.’
‘Yeah, I got everything,’ I say. ‘And it’s fine, I’m used to the whole process. It was basically the same inOur Toon.’
Until I started working on soaps, I didn’t know that the scriptwriters don’t make up the stories; they’re created by a separate team who plan out each storyline in fortnightly blocks. The story team create the ‘beats’ of the stories – the plot points and character developments that must be depicted in the scripts. A beat can be something as dramatic as a character finding out they’re dying or as ordinary as them telling a friend they’re starting a new dance class (Tony Barton learning to salsa had been a very popular story inOur Toon). Last week I was sent my first episode’s scene-by-scene document, which is pretty much what the name suggests – a description of every scene, in the order in which they’ll appear on screen. Though, as I know from experience, alotcan change between the scene-by-scene and the script that makes it onto the TV.
A few people look up curiously from their desks as we walk by and I try to look professional, friendly and confident, whichis a tall order first thing in the morning. Along one side of the room is a long row of double-glazed smoked-glass doors with gold numbers on them.
‘Those are the staff writers’ offices,’ says Susan. ‘You and your officemate are in number one. The corner office!’
‘Fancy!’ I say.
‘I’m not sure if he’s in yet,’ says Susan as she opens the door and reveals a small, drab room with two desks, a couch and a large plastic pot plant in one corner. ‘Ah, he is! Art, this is Annie! You’re going to be roommates.’
Oh God. It can’t be. Can it? Oh for fuck’s sake, it actually is …
My heart sinks.
Because sitting on one of the desks – the one closest to the windows, I notice – and looking up from his phone is a man around my age wearing a navy shirt. A familiar man. Possibly the most annoying man I’ve ever met in my entire life.
Art bloody Sullivan.
Chapter Two
INT: UNIVERSITY COLLEGE DUBLIN / INT: NORTHSIDE OFFICES
First things first: I did not fancy Art Sullivan back in the day.
I mean, I suppose I might have if he hadn’t been such a pain in the arse. Technically, there was nothing wrong with him. He looked fine. Dark hair. Kind-of-big nose. Average height. Like, objectively I could see he was quite good-looking. Lots of people in the class fancied him. But as far as I was concerned, his incredibly obnoxious personality cancelled out any physical charm he might have possessed.
We met, if you could call it meeting when he barely acknowledged my existence for most of the year, when I was doing a film studies master’s in UCD. I had come straight from studying communications at DCU; Art had studied English in Trinity where, if he were to be believed (and I had my doubts about that from the start), he had apparently run the college film society single-handed. He’d already written and directed a short film that won a prize at the Galway Film Fleadh, and to say that this success had gone to his head was a dramatic understatement.
Art Sullivan thought he was brilliant. And, enragingly, so did everyone else. He was the golden boy of the course. The lecturers loved him. Most of our classmates were charmed by him. He soonhad a little coterie of admirers hanging on his every word. He was going out with a very attractive actress, but that didn’t seem to stop him flirting with anyone who let him. He dressed like an old-school American writer, like he should be behind a typewriter with a glass of whiskey and a cigarette, all button-down shirts with rolled-up sleeves, never T-shirts and hoodies like the other boys in the class. It was all I could do to stop myself rolling my eyes and sighing whenever he opened his mouth in class to hold forth. He was so … sure of himself. So irritatingly cocky and smug.
And the short film that won the Fleadh prize wasn’t even that good.
It wasn’t until the last term of the year that I finally cracked. I was sitting next to him in a screenwriting class being taught by Fintan Donohue, an Irish writer who had written one film about fifteen years previously and had been teaching ever since. Fintan had, he informed us, been watching television recently. And to his amazement, it wasn’t all bad!
‘I’ve watched all ofThe West Wing,’ he said. ‘Absolutely fascinating stuff. And such powerful writing!’ Several of my classmates nodded. ‘Writers like Sorkin and David Chase have changed the medium. There was no point in even owning a television until around 1999.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I don’t think that’s true.’
I didn’t speak up very often in class, which might be why Fintan Donohue turned and stared at me as if I’d grown an extra head. As did Art Sullivan.
‘There’s always been great writing on TV,’ I said.
‘You’re right, of course,’ said Fintan graciously. ‘Obviously if we look at thePlay for Todaywork of Mike Leigh or—’
‘No, I don’t just mean stuff like that,’ I said. ‘Great as it is.No, I mean, there’s always been brilliant writing on mainstream programmes. Like sitcoms. And soap operas.’
Art laughed. He literally laughed in my face.
‘Come on, you can’t be serious,’ he said.
‘Of course I’m serious,’ I said. ‘The scene inCoronation Streetwhere the Barlows go to an AA meeting? That was incredible writing!’