‘We haven’t come out of it looking worse,’ I admit.
Then the door opens and in walks Bernard.
I feel a pang of fear. Is this about me telling Adam about the script?
But it’s not.
‘MsMcDermott,’ he says. ‘Mr Sullivan. There’s an issue with both your scripts.’ He brandishes a stack of printed-out pages with barely disguised glee.
‘Yes,’ says Art, ‘we got your notes.’
‘This is another issue,’ says Bernard. ‘It’s clear from these scripts that the pair of you have been working outside Ireland for too long.’ He flicks through the script printouts and holds up a page. ‘Look at this, Mr Sullivan. Do you really think Mozzer McCaul would say she’s “gotten” older? That’s a blatant Americanism.’
Art draws himself up to his full height. ‘Possibly. Possibly not.’
‘No possibly about it,’ says Bernard. ‘And Ms McDermott, I don’t feel you’ve captured that north Dublin voice. Neither of you has.’
‘But … but we’re bothfromnorth Dublin,’ I say.
‘Youwere,’ says Bernard. ‘Now you clearly need to get out of the office and walk around, listen to people. Get that Dublin dialogue back in your ear.’
‘When should we do that?’ says Art, impressively calmly.
‘Today, obviously,’ says Bernard.
‘What?’ says Art.
‘But our final drafts are due on Friday!’ I say.
‘I’m aware of that,’ says Bernard. ‘All the more reason to get out there now so you don’t embarrass yourselves further.’ He sniffs. ‘I’ve asked British and American scriptwriters to do this before. It’s a necessary part of the process for many new writers.’
I’m about to ask if he ever made them do it four days before a deadline, and also remind him that we are neither British nor American, but before I can say anything Art says, ‘Well, if that’s what you want, then sure.’
I’m not going to give Bernard any excuse to accuse me of not doing my job. I say, ‘Fine.’
Bernard doesn’t even bother to answer. He just nods at us and stalks out.
As soon as the door closes behind him I say, ‘What the fuck was that?’
‘More of his bullshit,’ says Art. ‘But it’s just mind games. I mean, we don’t actually have to go into town. It’s not like Bernard will know.’
He’s right, of course. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘We can just work from home. I mean, it’s not like we reallyneedto do this immersion nonsense.’
We don’t, do we?
But …
Oh God, could Bernard possibly be right? I was only thinking last weekend that I’d never written for Irish characters before. Maybe I’m genuinely not tuned into my home town anymore. Maybe it would actually do me good to get out in Dublin for a few hours. Apart from that night with my college friends, I’ve only been around my family, Roo and my new workmates. I’ve barely been in the city centre.
‘Have you ever written anything set here?’ I say. ‘Since you emigrated, I mean.’
‘No,’ says Art.
‘Same here.’ I put my coat on. ‘Do you think you’ve, like … forgotten how to do it?’
‘What? No!’ he says, a little too emphatically. ‘Of course not. One “gotten” doesn’t mean anything. I’d have noticed it if we hadn’t been working to such an insane deadline.’ He looks at me. ‘You’re not thinking of actually doing this, are you?’
‘But … maybe wedon’treally know the vibe of the cityanymore,’ I say. ‘Northsidewas always so authentically Dublin, and we haven’t lived here in years.’