‘Um, no,’ I say.
‘You were sent a second mail on Tuesday,’ says Gina tightly.
‘Well, I didn’t get one,’ says Art.
‘Neither did I.’ I may not like Art very much, but on principle I can’t leave him to tackle this on his own.
‘If Gina says she sent you an email,’ says Bernard, ‘you were sent an email.’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t get it,’ says Art. ‘I got one email last Monday with the documents for my episode. An episode that’s meant to be shooting in three months, not three weeks.’
‘Same here,’ I say, hoping my voice sounds steady.
‘There’s obviously been some sort of mix-up,’ says Susan, as if talking down a toddler who’s having a tantrum. ‘I’ll explain everything.’ She turns to me and Art. ‘Yes, you’re right, you and Annie were originally commissioned to write episodes that arebeing shot in August. But last week two of our actors, Paul Sheedy and Carol O’Connor—’
‘Thieving little bastards!’ hisses Bernard.
I know that Paul Sheedy and Carol O’Connor play Joe and Amanda, two of the show’s most popular characters, who are locked in a long-running will-they-won’t-they romance.
It turns out they would and they did.
Susan clears her throat. ‘It seems that Paul and Carol have become a couple off-screen too.’
‘We created a monster,’ mutters one of the writers.
‘Well, yes, it is an unfortunate case of life imitating art,’ says Susan. ‘And to cut a long story short, they’ve left their spouses and, um, emptied Carol and her husband’s joint bank account and … fled the country.’
I stare at Susan. ‘They’vewhat?’
‘They’re on the run!’ cries Bernard. ‘Like a pair of common criminals! They’ve fucked off to Costa Rica a month before they were meant to be shooting the A-story in the fiftieth-anniversary episodes and that, people, is why we are in the shit! As everyone here is well aware, apart from this pair who didn’t bother to check their fucking email!’
I can see Art open his mouth, presumably to remind Bernard again that he didn’t get any mail, but he clearly thinks better of it and shuts it without saying anything.
‘So,’ Bernard continues, ‘as you’ve been told multiple times, you lot have three weeks to write the shooting scripts, and they’d better be good because these are the anniversary episodes we’re talking about.’
I feel a wave of nausea wash over me. Threeweeks? For myfirstNorthsidescript? I was expecting to have three months! That’s how long it usually takes to write the multiple drafts the job requires.
But Bernard hasn’t finished. ‘And you two,’ he points aggressively across the table at me and Art, ‘have the honour of writing the two episodes that will air on the anniversary itself.’
Hang on, what? They’re giving us the biggest episodes of the year?
‘What about … what about the writers who did the original scripts?’ I say. ‘Why aren’t they doing the rewrites?’
Bernard looks at me as if I were a rat that had somehow gained the power of speech.
‘Those writers,’ he says, ‘are currently unavailable. They won’t be joining the new “team”’ – you can hear the inverted commas around these words – ‘for now at least. So instead our little show gets to benefit from your international expertise.’
It’s exactly what he said to me on the phone when he offered me the job. Except now his tone is clearly sarcastic.
A cold shiver goes down my spine as it hits me that maybe he was being sarcastic on that phone call too.
Ohshit.
‘Actually, you might as well introduce yourselves,’ says Bernard. ‘Tell everyone here exactly who they’re lucky to be working with.’ He points at me. ‘You first, Ms whatever your name is.’
God, why does my mouth feel so dry? ‘I’m Annie McDermott.’
‘A bit louder, please!’ says Bernard. ‘And more articulate. Don’t mumble.’