‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Art, sharing an amused glance with Fintan.
I wanted to slap both of them. I turned in my seat to face Art.
‘I presume you haven’t watched it, then?’ I said.
‘Of course I haven’t,’ said Art. ‘I’m not an actual idiot.’
‘Well, that’s your loss,’ I said.
‘Really?’ Art raised his eyebrows. He had very expressive eyebrows.
‘Really!’ I was aware my voice was getting louder but I didn’t care. ‘Soaps are part of a long cultural tradition. Blanche causing chaos at Peter Barlow’s AA meeting inCorrie? That’s pure Dickens!’ More iconic soap moments filled my mind and I kept going, even though most of my classmates were staring at me blankly. ‘Zoe Slater screaming “You ain’t my mother” and Kat shouting “Yes I am!” inEastenders? That’s Greek tragedy! Ma Cusack outwitting the home invaders inNorthside? That’s … I don’t know … Chaucerian! This is art!’
‘First of all, I don’t know who any of those people are, and second of all these shows are literally the opposite of art,’ said Art. ‘They’re anti-culture. They’re the circuses part of bread and circuses. They encourage the viewers to mindlessly accept a status quo.’
‘How would you know?’ I said. ‘You’ve never even watched any of them!’
‘I don’t need to.’ His voice was infuriatingly calm. ‘Seriously, do you think anyone goes into screenwriting wanting to write soap operas?’
‘Yes!’ I said.
Art looked at me pityingly. ‘True screenwriters want to write films. Or maybe a prestige TV drama. Not soap operas. Soaps are where people go when they’ve failed to make proper art.’
‘Alright, alright,’ said Fintan, perhaps remembering that he himself hadn’t made any art for quite some time. ‘Let’s move on.’
We did. Art sat there looking smug as usual and I sat next to him, fizzing with rage. He didn’t say a word to me when the seminar ended, and we barely spoke for the rest of the term, apart from the odd in-class argument. Along with the entire class, I was invited to the massive party he threw at the end of the year in his parents’ gaff (it turned out he was from Drumcondra like me, but while I grew up in a three-bedroom 1970s semi, his family home was a huge Victorian red-brick next to the Bishop’s Palace). I think the only time I spoke to him was towards the end of the night. I was on my way back from the loo when I passed him in the hall, one arm around his gorgeous girlfriend. He was quite drunk.
‘She’ll know,’ he said to his girlfriend. He turned to me. ‘Settle an argument. Why are soap operas called soap operas?’
‘Because the first ones were sponsored by soap companies,’ I said.
‘I was right.’ Art smirked at his girlfriend.
She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m getting a drink.’ She walked into thekitchen, leaving me alone with Art. I was about to go back to my friends when he turned back to me.
‘So, McDermott,’ he said, as if we were mates, ‘what are you doing now we’ve finished with academia?’
‘I’m doing a work placement in London.’ I was about to tell him the name of the show I would be working on but I knew he’d never have heard of it. ‘On a soap.’
‘Well,’ said Art, ‘I suppose that’s your sort of thing.’ He smiled. ‘I’ve got an internship at a big production company in LA.’
God, he wasinsufferable.
‘Art!’ called his girlfriend. ‘Where’s the corkscrew?’
‘See you.’ He winked at me, annoyingly, and sauntered into the kitchen.
But we didn’t see each other after that. He didn’t even turn up for our graduation ceremony because he was already in LA and, well, the rest is history. After his internship he won a big prize for unproduced scripts called the Promises Award, and then that script got made into a film and he won the best original screenplay prize at a prestigious film festival. Then he got a writers’ room job on a hugely acclaimed American TV show, and that’s when I stopped checking up on Art Sullivan’s career. Because why would I care what that patronising snob was up to?
As I look at him now, I think I see a flicker of recognition on Art’s face. For a moment neither of us says anything, and I almost tell Susan we were in college together. But when Art extends his hand towards me he just smiles and says, ‘Art Sullivan. Great to meet you.’
I automatically take his hand and am faintly surprised to findthat he has a nice handshake. If I’d thought about it – which obviously I never did – I’d have assumed he’d be an obnoxious hand-crusher. You know, showing how forceful and powerful he was by smashing your hand in his mitts. But it’s a perfect handshake, firm but not too intense, and actually he has rather nice hands, strong and sensitive-looking and slightly tanned from what I presume is the LA sun and—
What the hell am I thinking?
I pull myself together. The last time we were anywhere near each other, this man either ignored me or insulted me. And now he’s pretending he’s never met me! Or he’s genuinely forgotten me. The former’s worse, obviously, but the latter isn’t great either.
‘Annie McDermott,’ I say, because if he’s going to act like we’ve never met, then so will I.