‘I’d never judge you,’ says Roo. ‘Not really. Except for wearing that skirt. It’sverybright, even by your standards.’ She sits down on the couch and starts to take off her shoes. ‘How was work?’
‘Oh, same as usual.’ I take a bite of spicy potato and swallow it. ‘Apart from the fact that I was invited to lunch byHonoria Quigley…’
Roo drops a velvet platform heel. ‘Youwhat?’
By the time Roo has recovered from the shock and excitement of hearing all about my chat with Ma Cusack, I’ve eaten most of the spice bag.
‘I don’t suppose you could bring me along?’ she says. ‘I could take notes.’
I laugh. ‘I’m afraid not. And not only because I’d have to introduce you to Art.’
‘I’d be very nice to him,’ says Roo. ‘As long as I’m sure he’s not messing you around. I don’t want you getting your heart broken.’
‘There’s definitely no chance of me getting my heart broken by Art Sullivan,’ I say. ‘Northside, maybe, but not Art.
‘Are you messinghimaround?’
I think about this for a moment.
‘Also no,’ I say. ‘I don’t think he’s … messable with.’
‘Good,’ says Roo.
‘How are you getting on?’ says Art.
It’s eleven on Thursday morning and Art has returned from a canteen coffee run.
I grimace. ‘As well as can be expected, I suppose. Thanks for this.’ I take a sip of coffee. I didn’t sleep well again last night.
‘You feeling okay about the check-in meeting?’ Art looks at his watch.
‘God, I’ve been trying not to think about it.’ I slump back in my chair. ‘How can we look Bernard in the face now we know what he’s up to?’
‘Look, I’ve been thinking about this, and we’re doing everything we can.’ Art sits down at his desk. ‘You’ve got to remind yourself that this sabotage bullshit is probably his last stand. Plus Susan’snot pissed off with us anymore, and that means something. By the end of next week, the anniversary episodes will be shot and this drama will all be over. If we can take everything Bernard throws at us and get through this fortnight, it has to get better.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ I say. But it’s cold comfort.
‘It’s kind of liberating, you know,’ says Art thoughtfully. ‘That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway. Like, we know we’re not being paranoid. He reallyisout to get us. It’s not even personal, we just happen to be the easiest scapegoats. We’re not failing as writers. We’re just … unlucky. And we’re doing everything we can. So why worry?’
I almost laugh. ‘Art, I can’t remember a single day since I was twelve that I haven’t been worried about something.’
‘Seriously?’ Art looks genuinely surprised to hear this. ‘Wow.Everyday?’
‘Yeah,’ I say.
‘You know there’s no point in worrying about things like this, right?’ says Art. ‘It won’t change anything.’
As if that has never occurred to me before. It’s pointless trying to explain how my brain works to someone who has clearly never felt like this in his life. It’s just a reminder of how different he and I are. Of how he can never reallygetme.
‘I know that,’ I say. ‘But my nervous system doesn’t. It wants me on high alert at all times.’ He still looks surprised. ‘Come on, Art, you’ve at leastheardof anxiety, right?’
‘Of course I have,’ says Art. ‘I just … I just wouldn’t have thought you had it. I mean, I understand you’re worried now about work, given what a shitshow it’s been. But I didn’t think you felt like that all the time.’
I remember what he said to me when I assumed he drove towork every day. I shrug. ‘I suppose you don’t know me as well as you think you do.’
But as I set to work on my script, still trying to find my way through Bernard’s deranged notes, I attempt to channel Art’s attitude. He’s right: this ridiculous situation is out of our control. All I can control is my breathing, one breath at a time, in and out and in and out …
Then there’s a tap on my shoulder, and when I take off my headphones Art says, ‘It’s time for that meeting.’