My heart sinks to my socks. What if he’s avoiding me? Nobody would blame him if he were. I practically accused him of belittling me, after all. I am such a div.
I sit on the chair next to the one Joe normally sits on and let my hand rest lightly on the vacant seat. It’s going to take some explaining when I do see him and I still don’t know what to say. But I want to try. I like living here with Joe and I’m excited by the prospect of working with him. I don’t want him treading on eggshells around me in case I take offence.
It’s only then that I notice a sheet of paper propped up against the teapot in the middle of the table. Beside it is a new jar of jam and a grease-spotted white paper bag containing a flaky almond croissant. I reach over and take the note, surprised to find Joe’s handwriting spilling across its surface.
Peace offering.
Sorry I scared you. I didn’t mean to.
All I wanted to say was that I loved your script.
Don’t ever doubt you can do this. Your words are wonderful.
Joe
The curls and loops of his hand shimmer and dance as saltwater floods my vision. These words – I think to myself as I read them again and again – these words will be my focus from now on. If Joe Carver believes in my writing, I should believe in it, too.
Rona is grinning when I hurry into the loft workspace. Two large cups of coffee are already beside her and her brother gives me a cheeky salute as I pass him.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I rush.
‘You’re not. I was early.’ She lowers her voice. ‘I knew I’d have to fend off certain questions before you arrived.’
Her nod towards her brother is anything but covert. I see Jas busy himself at the coffee counter. ‘Subtle.’
‘Little sister perks,’ she chuckles. ‘You have no idea how hard won they are.’
I have no brothers of my own but I’ve known Jarvis and Steve long enough to guess the deal. ‘What questions?’
‘Bribe me with cake and I just might tell you.’
‘I’ll pass for the moment,’ I say, taking my laptop out of my bag. It’s nice to think I was being asked about, regardless of what the questions were, and that together with Joe’s note brings a broad smile to my face.
It helps that I love what we’re writing, too. The characters seem easy to reach and bring to the page and being able to share ideas makes such a difference from writing alone. When Rona suggests a line and it’s perfect, I feel a shot of excitement; when I see a potential twist we clap our hands and giggle like plotting school kids. It feels like a game – and even though our allotted group of scenes have to be ready for when the writers’ room reconvenes next week, it doesn’t scare me as much as I thought it would. By the early afternoon, it’s written. We spend another hour going over it to make small tweaks, but it’s as ready as it can be for everyone else to see it.
Jas ventures over to the table when he sees us packing up.
‘All done?’
I smile at Rona. ‘All done.’
‘Good work. Don’t suppose you fancy a drink to celebrate? I knock off in twenty minutes and there’s a great bar down the street.’ He glares at his sister who is making kissy noises. ‘She’s not invited.’
‘Charming. Wouldn’t want to be a gooseberry anyway,’ Rona snaps, giving my elbow a nudge.
‘I’d love to, but I can’t today. Next week, maybe?’
‘How about Saturday?’ He’s far too cheeky for his own good but I like his style.
‘Saturday would be good.’
‘I’ll pick you up about seven? Rona can get your address for me.’ He grins and heads back to the counter.
‘Oh, so I’m your secretary now, am I?’ she yells after him, grinning back at me. ‘Smooth move, Perry. Or should I call you sis?’
‘Steady on! I’ll see you at Ensign tomorrow, okay?’
‘You certainly will. Great working with you.’
‘You too.’
I stop by the craft bakery on the ground floor and the independent brewery around the corner to pick up supplies, before the slow drive home. I’m praying Joe will be there. I’ve been thinking about him all day, my mind still processing his note. I’ve underestimated him and what he thinks of me.
He’s a hustler. He’d trample you to get where he wants to be…
I evict the rude interruption of Daphne’s words from my thoughts. She’s wrong. Joe Carver is my housemate – and my friend. If he wanted to step over me to get to his goal he wouldn’t have written that note. Daphne Davies knows nothing.
I can hear the low burr of the television as soon as I stand on the porch. Taking a breath, I turn my key in the lock and open the door. Joe looks up from the sofa and gives me a thumbs-up.
‘Hello, stranger.’
‘Joe, I’m so sorry.’
‘Forget it.’ His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, I notice. He looks tired.
‘Thank you for your note. It meant a lot.’ Not sure what else to say, I lift up the bag in my left hand. ‘I come bearing cake. And beer.’
He sits up and pats the sofa cushion next to him. ‘Then you are most welcome.’
And that’s all the discussion we need. I join my surprising, rather lovely housemate on the old sagging sofa and the evening passes in a happy blur of conversation, beer, cake and TV.
Chapter Twelve
JOE
Tonight, Otty has a date.
I mean, I’m not surprised. I haven’t expressly enquired about her love life and neither has she about mine, so we can both assume the other is dating. I just wasn’t expecting to meet her date quite so soon into our house-sharing experience.
‘Hi,’ he smiles from the doorstep. He looks like Dev Patel and the porch light illuminates him like a film star. ‘I’m here for Otty?’
Mustering what manners I still possess, I usher him into the sitting room and walk back into the hall. At the bottom of the stairs, I hesitate. Should I yell up or go and fetch her? If it were Matt up there, I’d yell. But Otty isn’t Matt. And Matt never had dates arrive at the house to pick him up. Thinking better of shouting, I sprint up the stairs and knock on her door.
‘One minute,’ she calls from inside.
So now I’m stranded on the landing carpet, debating what to do with my hands like I’ve just been thrust on stage. I stuff them in my pockets and look up to the ceiling. This is crazy. It’s almost like I’m the one waiting for my date.
And then the door opens. She’s wearing a simple black tunic and skinny jeans with silver flats, her pink-edged hair pulled up into a high ponytail. Tiny curls nestle at the nape of her neck and she wears a seaglass drop hung on a silver chain that rests on the line of her collarbone. She smells good, too…
I cough and take a step back. ‘Your date’s here.’
‘Okay,’ she grins, the slightest patter of pink on her cheeks. ‘Thanks, Joe.’
We do a weirdly awkward do-se-do on the landing, both apologising when we move in the same direction. Laughing, she finally eases past me and skips down the stairs. I hear her voice dancing with her date’s low tone and the click of the door latch being opened. Hurrying down, I reach the door just as it’s closing, Otty’s hazel eyes framed in the gap as I pull it back open.
‘Have a good time,’ I say, lifting my hand and instantly regretting it. Who am I, her dad? What’s next? Have her home by midnight?
Ugh.
She’s still giggling when I close the door and lean against it. I need beer…
I don’t see Otty until next morning, which is largely due to me dashing back up the stairs last night when I heard voices in the porch at midnight. I didn’t want to be sitting in the living room when they walked in. We’re going to have to establish ground rules for dates in future, I think. The last thing either of us needs is to be tiptoeing around the other.
I’m sitting at the kitchen table in my usual spot, wrangling the last part of the scene I’m writing. The first bit flowed like a dream, but then I seemed to
hit a roadblock and now every sentence is like dragging water from granite.
‘Morning.’
‘Hi.’
I watch Otty sashay into the kitchen. There’s a definite spring in her step. Worrying. But she’s fully dressed, so that’s something. Only pouring one mug of coffee. Good sign. But three slices of toast in the toaster? What does that mean?
‘I’m hungry,’ she says, giving me a look like I’m judging her. Which I guess I am, but not in that way. Why is she that hungry, though? Did she not eat enough when she went out last night or did she expend a lot of energy…?
What am I doing?
I flash an apologetic smile at her and make myself stare back at the screen. Otty’s sex life is absolutely none of my business. I am disgusted with myself. Even if I still want to know…
‘How was the date?’ I ask, keeping my eyes on my WIP. Better to just ask it, I reckon, and stop all this second-guessing.
‘Lovely.’
‘Oh. Mmm. Good.’
In my peripheral vision I see her shake her head at me and turn back to the toaster.
So. Lovely as in lovely evening, shame about the date, or lovely as in my date was everything I dreamed he’d be and it was lovely? It’s impossible to tell. I don’t know why it’s getting to me, but it is and I don’t like it. I knew living with a woman would be tricky.
The tap of my laptop keys meets the clunk of the toaster popping up, in the space where words are definitely not welcome. This is bound to get easier, I tell myself, bashing out any old words now just to keep typing and avert the wordless void. She’ll probably experience this strangeness when I next have a date and then we can settle into an easy routine where we never mention it again.
I hit the keys a little harder than necessary.
Otty doesn’t notice.
I never realised buttering toast could be so loud…
I keep typing.
‘Do you want some?’
‘No,’ I reply. ‘I’m good, thanks.’
The fridge door creaks when Otty puts the butter back. The cupboard door bangs closed when she’s got her plate.
‘He didn’t stay, if that’s the question you’re not asking me.’
I look up and she’s got her hands on her hips. I feel judged and seen and if I could shrink small enough to slip behind the loose E key of my laptop right now I would be doing it.
‘I wasn’t…’
‘You were. It was a first date, Joe. So thanks for thinking he might have wanted to stay over, but also I am not like that.’
‘Right.’
‘Next time, just ask. Or don’t. But let’s not do this not asking, okay?’
‘Okay. Sorry.’
She rolls her eyes but at least she’s smiling. ‘Good. He was a great kisser, though…’
And with that bombshell, she leaves me.
We work separately for the rest of the day, which is just as well considering I feel like a worm for how I acted at breakfast. At 7 p.m., I knock on her bedroom door and offer her dinner. Having finally won the battle with my dodgy scene, I am surprisingly hungry and I’m guessing she might be, too.
‘As long as you’re paying,’ she says, shutting her laptop and picking up her jacket.
There’s only one place we can head to. In the steamy warmth of Verne’s Buffet my mate Nish finds us a table near the food stalls (less walking, more eating – he knows me well) and I laugh at how wide Otty’s eyes grow when she sees the buffet run.
‘This place is amazing! How many different types of food are there?’
‘Chinese, Cantonese and Japanese on the middle island, then Jamaican, Thai, Indian and Creole around it.’
‘I don’t even know where to start.’
‘Easy. The table nearest ours is starters of everything.’
We pile our plates high, Otty skipping from one serving platter to the next like a kid in a toyshop, and then we return to our table. I don’t get another word out of my housemate for a full five minutes while she commences the onslaught on her starters. Finally, she looks up and chuckles as she wipes grease from her chin.
‘Sorry. Hungry.’
‘I guess it really was a good date last night then?’
‘Not this again.’
I signal surrender with a spring roll. ‘Sorry.’
‘Can we just not talk about it?’
‘Fine by me.’
‘Because if you’re going to be creepy-weird every time I have a date…’
‘I won’t.’
‘Glad to hear it. So how’s your love life, Joseph?’
I stuff two triangles of prawn toast into my mouth and shrug my apology at her loud protests. But it’s good – this feels good. I like how we’re bouncing back whenever a sticking point arises.
‘Besides, I eat when I’m nervous,’ Otty says, abandoning the subject of dates like the pile of empty pistachio shells on her plate.
Mouth too full to reply, I raise my eyebrows.
‘The writers’ room meeting tomorrow? Russell’s had all weekend to read our scenes and what if he hates them? What if he’s been planning which of our bony bums to kick out tomorrow? I mean, it’s all right for you: you’re Joe Carver and Russell adores you. But this is the first time he’s seen my words on this project, and…’ She finally pauses long enough to draw breath and down a mouthful of beer.
‘You’ll be fine,’ I say, brushing crumbs off my T-shirt. Because she will be. Her writing is awesome, Rona’s writing is great and bound to complement Otty’s, and Russell is secretly a fan already. Although I can’t tell her that. ‘I’m nervous, too.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘I am. Do you think my job is any more secure than yours? Or Russell’s?’
Otty puts down her beer bottle with a clunk. ‘No, you’re not telling me that Russell Styles is struggling.’
‘Not struggling, but not guaranteed success, either. Do you know he had three projects fail to be commissioned before this?’
‘You’re kidding me? But Southside, Servant and Insiders were such colossal hits.’
‘They were, but TV commissioners are fickle. He needs Eye, Spy to be a hit, or future commissions will be harder to get.’
‘Wow.’ Otty falls silent as she takes this in; and in the gap before she next speaks I feel the weight of it, too. Then she slaps her hands on the table and stands up. ‘I’m going to need more food.’
Chapter Thirteen
OTTY
If you can gauge the level of nerves in a room by the proportion of coffee consumed within the first ten minutes, then we are officially at Peak Fear.
Looking at the collection of dark-circled eyes and gaunt faces around the writers’ room, I don’t reckon any of us managed much sleep last night. I hope feedback meetings won’t always be this scary. Even though I’m happy with the scenes Rona and I have written, today feels like we’re about to be judged. What if Russell thinks our scripts stink?
Rona grimaces as she resumes her seat next to me. She’s on her third large eco-mugful of filter coffee already. Joe and Josh/J-Man/Joshy are on their fourth. At this rate, we’ll all be dancing the caffeine jig by lunchtime.
‘Good morning, team!’ Russell sweeps into the room, a stack of papers in his arms.
Everyone tenses.
This is worse than getting essays back at school.
Our leader is oblivious to the held breaths around the room as he perches on the edge of the writers’ table. ‘So, first stabs at the pilot scenes…’
Someone’s stomach gurgles. I see eyes trying not to open too wide.
Russell looks up after a gap so excruciating even Simon Cowell would call time on it. ‘All good.’
Twelve pairs of lungs collectively exhale.
‘I like them all. Some fine tuning here and there – I’ve indicated where this needs to happen on each team’s notes – but overall, good work. I think we’ve nailed the feel of the series and the characters are emerging nicely.’
Ac
ross the table, Joe gives me a covert thumbs-up. I smile back. Next to him, Daphne gives me daggers. It makes me even prouder of our housemate-workmate thing. Daphne clearly hates it, but she doesn’t matter. We are winning.
‘But that’s your last free pass.’
The room pales as one.
‘Time is not on our side. If we’re to get the green light for production after Christmas, we have to deliver this as early as possible. Two months at best, no more than three at worst.’
What? How is that even possible?
Shocked, we watch Russell stand and pace the floor. ‘We can do it with this team. We have enough talent. But there is no room for hangers-on. If you aren’t willing to write your arses off, you won’t stay. I cannot afford for anyone to be taking it easy. So no time off. No slacking. I’ve given each pair a block of scenes to work on this week, deadline Friday. These run across the pilot and next three episodes. We just thump these out, as quickly as we can, regroup and move on to the next batch. So, let’s hunker down now and run through the storyline for the first four eps and then you’re on your own.’
‘So, Rona reckons you’re writing the Next Big Thing in TV,’ Jas says, reaching for the wine bottle and topping up our glasses. The hum of conversation in the soft-lit city-centre restaurant washes against my ears like a warm tide and it’s so soothing I have to keep kicking myself under the table to stop drifting off.
‘I hope so.’
‘Been great for me because she’s too busy to bug me,’ he grins. ‘Although it means I haven’t seen you as much as I wanted.’
If I’m honest, this is more by design than circumstance. I like Jas, I do. It’s just that working with him constantly two steps away is becoming a bit much. I’ve started to feel like I should be apologising for working, and I don’t want that. So for the last week and a half, Rona has been coming to our house to write instead of the hot-desk loft. It works well, too: Joe and Josh/J-Man/Joshy in the kitchen, Rona and me on the sofa in the living room. Which means no admittedly handsome coffee-bar owners peering over my shoulder and trying to steer the conversation in the direction of dates…
Our Story: the new heartwarming and emotional romance fiction book from the Sunday Times bestselling author of Take A Look At Me Now Page 6