Then Art says, ‘I never despisedNorthside, you know. Not really. I mean, yes, I will admit I … dismissed the programme itself. I’ll admit I didn’t respect it as art. And maybe that wasn’t fair.’
‘It wasn’t.’ I think of the way he talked aboutNorthsideon our first day here. ‘You acted like you were slumming it. You literally said I shouldn’t take the work seriously.’
‘I meant you shouldn’t let it get to you,’ says Art. ‘Not personally. I meant you should think of it as your job, not, like, your soul.’
‘You told me I should think of it like working in a factory,’I say. ‘And you literally changed your name so IMDb wouldn’t show you’d worked on it.’
Art sighs again. ‘The name … that’s about my own issues. But the factory thing … yeah,Northside isa bit of a factory. But I don’t despise the labour of people who work in factories. Or the people who do it. I wouldneversneer at that. It’s like Billy Wilder said. You have to get up just as early to make the bad movies. Billy Wilder’s a film director and writer, by the way.’
‘Oh myGod, Art, do you think I don’t know who Billy Wilder is?’ But then I catch his eye and realise he’s taking the piss and I laugh, despite myself.
‘No, McDermott,’ says Art, grinning back at me. ‘I don’t think you don’t know who Billy Wilder is.’
‘Good to hear,’ I say. ‘Though I notice you implied working here was the equivalent of one of the bad movies.’
‘It’s not exactly great right now,’ says Art. ‘You’ve basically admitted that. Especially with Bernard’s antics.’
‘True,’ I concede.
‘Go on,’ he says. ‘Let’s see if Honoria whatshername will meet us.’
‘Honoria Quigley, you philistine.’ I pick up my phone. ‘I’ll text her now.’
‘Maybe you should ring her,’ says Art. ‘She must be almost eighty by now. Texting might be beyond her.’
He can’t help patronisingsomeone. ‘Seventy-somethings can text! Doesn’t your mother forward you memes from her retired teacher friends? Or is that just me?’
Art laughs. ‘No, mine does it too. Fair point. How did you know she’s a retired teacher?’
‘I didn’t,’ I say. ‘But mine is.’ I remember what he said about his dad. ‘So were both your parents actually teachers?’
‘Yeah,’ says Art. ‘Why do you look so surprised?’
Because I’d somehow been thinking of him as a pampered rich kid for years but it turns out he’s basically just a fellow middle-class north Dublin suburbanite whose parents had jobs like my own?
‘I dunno,’ I say. ‘Your massive posh house on Drumcondra Road? The private school?’
‘McDermott,’ says Art, ‘you didn’t see that house when my parents bought it. It was a derelict shell. We lived on one floor for years while they did up the rest of the building themselves. And by “did up” I mean put up new walls with their bare hands. Also my grandparents contributed to the school fees. They had notions. And, yes, I am privileged, I’ll fully admit it.’ He gives me a sidelong glance. ‘But, you know, so are you. I know the leafy suburb where you went to school. I bet you and your sister didn’t have to struggle to get to college. And who paid for your master’s? That wasn’t cheap. Did you get a grant?’
‘My parents paid,’ I admit. ‘Fair point.’
There’s a slightly awkward silence.
‘Anyway,’ says Art, ‘do you want to text Honoria now?’
‘Sure,’ I say.
A few minutes later, after we’ve agreed on the wording, the text is sent.
Hi Honoria, my name is Annie McDermott and I’ve just started writing for Northside. My colleague Art Sullivan and I are having a little trouble with Bernard. Des Smyth suggested we contact you to get some insights. If you were free for a chat, that would be great.
‘Well,’ says Art. ‘At least we’ve donesomething.’
We have. To my surprise, this realisation actually makes me feel better.
We’ve just got back to our little office when my phone rings. I hold it up to show Art the caller ID.
Honoria Quigley. Ringing my phone. Honoria Quigley. What is life?