‘I’m going to look at my script now,’ I say.
‘Good idea,’ says Art.
I sit down at my desk and open my laptop. I still have to submit this script in a few hours. I’ve just opened the file when Art says, ‘McDermott?’
‘Yeah?’ I say.
‘Is there actually a stationery cupboard?’
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ I say loftily. ‘Go and work on your script.’
I wasn’t wrong yesterday when I thought I’d done a decent job on this draft, but after a good night’s sleep I can see where I can make each scene tighter and smoother. The emotional scenes with Ritchie by Paddy’s bedside in the hospital and then his dramatic kidnapping by Louisa are meant to be the climax of the entire block of six episodes so they have to be absolutely perfect. I spend the next couple of hours working, not thinking about Art at all. Whenever I take my five-minute break I see him looking at his own screen, an expression of fierce concentration on his face. But somehow he’s not as distracting as he was earlier in the week. It’s like we really have released some tension, both by what we did last night and by today’s acknowledgement that we might do it again if we feel like it, and this release has made it easier to get some work done.
At half past eleven I take my headphones off, stretch and say, ‘I think I might be done with this.’
Art looks up from his screen. He looks highly amused. ‘Does that mean the free theatre show is over? That’s a shame.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I think you performed most of your big scene with Mozzer and her old pal,’ says Art. ‘It was very compelling.’
I may not be embarrassed by what happened last night, but this makes me cringe. I’ve long been in the habit of reading bits of my scripts out loud to myself just before I file them, to really make sure the dialogue sounds natural. And I had somehow forgotten that, while my noise-cancelling headphones mean I couldn’t hear Art, he could hear me.
But I’m not going to show my embarrassment in front of him. Not when we’re just finding this new equilibrium between us.
So I simply say, ‘Thanks very much.’
‘Have you done any acting?’ says Art. ‘Were you, like, the star of your school shows?’
‘God, no.’ I don’t tell him I would have loved to take part in the school musicals, but there was no way I was ever going to audition for them and give Lizzie Lattin and her friends another reason to snigger at me. I don’t want him to know what a pathetic loser I was in secondary school. I know from Sinéad that Art was very popular in his own schooldays. He always had a girlfriend. I didn’t even kiss anyone until I got to college – another reason he would definitely think I’m pathetic. Was pathetic. Whatever.
I bet back then Art went out with girls like Lizzie and her friends, glossy girls with subtle spray tans and shiny hair. God, he might even have gone out with Lizzie herself. She definitely knew Belvedere boys. One day when we were sixteen Roo and I went to town after school and saw Lizzie with a boy in a Belvedere uniform. I remember this because she pointed at us and said something to him and they both laughed. And when we passed them, he made barking noises at us, which made them laugh even more.
Though in fairness, I can’t imagine Art ever doing the old ‘you’re a dog’ schtick. He never seemed likethatsort of dickhead.
‘What about you?’ I say. ‘Did you ever dream of being in front of the camera instead of behind it?’
For a moment Art doesn’t answer and then he says, ‘Yeah, I did, actually.’
‘Really?’ Surely if Art Sullivan wanted to act, he would have done so by now. ‘So what happened?’
‘It turned out I was really bad at it,’ he says.
Such modesty isn’t like Art, or at least the Art I’ve been hanging out with against my will for the last fortnight.
‘You?Bad at something?’ I say. ‘Surely not.’
Art’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Let’s just say any delusions I might have had in that area were stripped away after I moved to LA.’
‘Oh right.’ I think this might be the first time I’ve ever seen him show any vulnerability when it comes to his career. It’s weird. A part of me wishes I had been equally honest and admitted why I never auditioned for the school musicals. But I can’t be that honest. Not about that. Not with someone like him. It’s time to change the subject.
‘Speaking of delusions,’ I say, ‘I think my second draft might be okay. I’m going to send it in now. How are you doing?’
‘Oh, I sent mine in five minutes ago,’ says Art.
Of course he did.
I email Bernard and Susan and tell them my second draft is ready, attaching a PDF of the script in case any potential saboteur gets to it in the system before they do.