I think Laura and I would have interesting notes to share.
I’m reading the latest segment of their story now, sitting in the West One café, under the watchful eye of Rona. She’s squirming a little as I read and I know exactly what she’s going through.
‘Relax,’ I say over the top of the pages.
‘I am relaxed.’
I have to smile. ‘You’re not. This is great.’
She frowns. ‘But?’
‘No but. It’s brilliant. My guess is that Gus is going to be a viewer favourite in season one, so this tips everything on its head.’
‘Especially with the actor playing him,’ Rona grins. ‘Bloody gorgeous. Scottish, too…’ Her eyes grow wide. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean…’
‘No, I agree with you. He’s perfect. Not all Scotsmen are prickly thistles.’
I realise what I’ve said as soon as the words leave me. Rona descends into giggles, taking me with her. ‘Stick that on a fridge magnet, someone!’
‘Whole new line of Eye, Spy merchandise, right there. We’ll be quids in.’
My friend sits back in the armchair. ‘Man, this place looks like Liberace threw up.’
I follow the line of her gaze to the ceiling, which is currently groaning under the weight of the tinsel and fairy lights attached to it.
Christmas is three weeks away. The famous Frankfurt Christmas Market in the centre of Birmingham is already in full swing and festive lights illuminate every street. I love this season in my city but this year I’m removed from it. The Christmas Market will be packed with couples and families, the streets and cafés full of friends kicking back and enjoying the spectacle. I don’t fit there.
‘It’s festive,’ I offer.
‘There’s festive and there’s serious tinsel addiction. Even Hallmark movies would call this overkill.’ She looks at me. ‘So, how are you doing? And don’t give me that manic pixie I’m fine routine. It might work upstairs for everyone else, but it doesn’t work for me.’
I love her for not letting me off the hook. ‘Nothing to report. It’s as horrible as ever.’
‘Are you still thinking about moving out?’
I smooth the edge of the script where the pages have folded over the staple. ‘Not sure.’
‘You love that house.’
‘I do. But it’s not the same on my own.’
‘But Joe’s there… ah.’
‘Exactly.’
Rona claps her hands. ‘Let’s change the subject. Have you started writing your spec script yet?’
‘I’ve made some notes, done a bit of planning. You?’
My friend gives a wry smile. ‘Might have written a first draft already.’
‘You’re amazing. Scarily fast and prodigiously talented, though. Are you sure you’re human?’
Rona adopts a glassy-eyed look. ‘My creator informs me this is so.’
At least I have Rona. In all the mess she’s been stubbornly reliable, taking me out when she can, instigating cinema trips to The Electric or meals out and only ever referring to Fraser or Joe if I mention them first. It helps that she knows the truth. Not having to explain it every time is a relief.
‘We should do the Christmas Market on Friday.’
‘I don’t think…’
‘Er, I’m sorry, Otty, did you think you had a choice in that statement? No, you don’t. You’ve been cooped up writing for too long. You need ridiculously long hotdogs and Glühwein in those tiny cups, and carousel rides and clapping your chops round Knobby-Brot,’ she grins at her comical mispronunciation of Knoblauchbrot, the German for garlic bread. ‘Come on, Otts, you need some fun.’
Put like that, it’s difficult to refuse.
When I get home, the house is empty. It’s a relief. Any amount of time not having to avoid Joe is a gift right now. I overheard Jake and Tom talking about taking him out for beers earlier, so I hope that’s where he is. Being taken care of, like Rona has been doing for me.
I put the Diamond Balti takeaway bag on the coffee table and head into the kitchen for a plate and cutlery. As I’m turning to go back, I see the photograph stuck to the fridge. Me and Joe at Purnell’s. We look like different people. Suddenly, the loss of it hits me. All the fun, all the bright hope and potential those two fledgling friends had, lost to a stupid mistake and a great big lie. What a waste.
I leave the happy Otty and Joe grinning away in the kitchen and return to my waiting dinner. Beside the bag, my laptop glows. I click a file icon and my spec script opens.
FADE IN:
EXT. A CITY PARK
LIZZIE sits on a bench, alone. She holds a photograph.
LIZZIE
This is where we met. Do you remember? Your shoelace broke. If it hadn’t, you would have run straight past me. I think about that sometimes. Where we would be if one thing had been different. We met because something failed.
LIZZIE closes her eyes. There is the sound of running feet. DAN runs along the path, appears to trip and comes to a halt. He looks down, picks up the broken shoelace, looks around for somewhere to go, heads for the bench.
DAN
Bloody typical.
LIZZIE
Sorry?
DAN
You would think, with all the advances in scientific innovation, that somebody would have invented a shoelace that doesn’t break.
DAN sees LIZZIE, who is watching him with sweet sadness.
DAN
Was that what I said?
LIZZIE
I think there were more ‘F’ words. DAN sits.
DAN
Yeah, probably.
(beat)
Hi, you.
LIZZIE
Hi, lovely you.
DAN reaches his hand across the bench. LIZZIE does the same. Their fingers don’t quite meet.
LIZZIE
I was just remembering.
DAN
Is that why I’m back?
LIZZIE
Of course. Always…
(beat)
No. I need you to do something.
DAN
Anything for my Lizzie.
LIZZIE
I need you to help me find the man who murdered you.
I stare at the screen. It’s a good start. But it’s taken me for ever to get this far. I don’t know if a supernatural crime-thriller is even in Ensign-Tempest’s wish list. Russell might laugh me out of town. But this is the idea that won’t go away, so I’m going to give it my best shot. At the very least, it will prove I’m capable of thinking outside the box.
I’m not going to write any more tonight. I need to eat and rest and hope Joe doesn’t come home yet. I save the file, shut down my laptop, serve the Jaipuri chicken and rice and help myself to a chunk of giant Peshwari naan. Finding a box set of Detectorists on Netflix, I settle down to the sweet bumbling familiarity of Lance and Andy, searching for dubious treasure in their perennially golden Essex landscape. The words soothe me; the sweeping countryside vistas calm my burning eyes. I kick off my shoes, pile two cushions to rest my head on and curl up on the sofa.
As sleep calls me the sounds and sights on the screen mingle with the memory of stolen kisses where I now lie, and two friends becoming something new. Broken things changing the world by chance…
We met because something failed…
Chapter Forty-Eight
JOE
She’s fast asleep when I find her. Curled up on the sofa, shifting blue and gold lights from the TV dancing across her face and body. Every line smoothed, every tension gone. She’s beautiful when she sleeps.
Like the night she slept next to me.
I stand in the doorway and I can hardly breathe.
Oh, Otty. How did we end up here?
She still won’t tell me if she’s going to move out. Kind of hard to do when she isn’t talking to me. I should ask, but I don’t want to push her to make a decision in case it’s the worst one. I don’t want to lose her. But it feels like I lost her a week ago.
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It hurts to be so close to her. It would end me to be further away.
If this were a script we were writing, I would take the blanket that Movie-Otty-and-Joe inexplicably keep draped over the back of the couch for such occasions, and lovingly cover her as she sleeps. But the only thing currently draped over the back of our sofa is a tea towel Otty must have used to protect her hands when she opened the metal foil trays for her dinner. No point using that to cover her, however lovingly it may be.
I should leave her. I should go to bed and pretend I didn’t know she was here. That would be the wise choice. Enjoy this moment, and leave.
But maybe I should turn the television off first.
As softly as I can, I edge into the room. The remote control rests on the arm of the sofa nearest her head. I consider my options: take the route in front of the sofa but risk the very small gap between Otty’s makeshift bed and the coffee table piled with potential foil missiles I might knock over, or go around the back of the sofa. I opt for the latter. I can’t help my gaze moving slowly along her curled body as I pass. First obstacle shakily navigated, I drop to my knees beside the arm of the sofa and carefully liberate the remote from its resting place.
I hear the soft tide of her breath as I point the remote at the television, tensing when the sound and picture click to silence and darkness. I turn back to push myself upright but my fingers touch strands of Otty’s hair that have fallen across the arm of the sofa where it meets the cushions. The sensation stops me in my tracks.
Her skin is within reach. Cool as silk, soft as satin. And before I know it, my fingers are gliding across her forehead, pushing the wayward pink strands to join the rest across the cushion.
What am I doing?
My hand jolts back as if bitten by electricity.
Otty sleeps on, oblivious to me.
And everything becomes clear. I’ve failed her, as a friend, as a lover, as anything else I hoped I could be. If I don’t do something, I could lose her for good.
I have to repair the damage I caused with Fraser.
It means telling one more lie.
And it will break my heart.
‘Christmas market, this Friday after work,’ Rona says, handing me a takeaway coffee cup covered with polar bears and scarf-wrapped penguins.
‘What about it?’
‘You’re coming.’
‘Not really my scene, sorry.’
Rona is undeterred. ‘I wasn’t asking. Everyone is going to be there. Reece, Tom, Jake, Otty. Fraser, too.’
I wish I hadn’t made that decision last night but now I’m bound to it. If Fraser’s going, maybe I can get him alone long enough to talk. I meet Rona’s stare.
‘Okay, then.’
She grins. ‘Excellent! Glad you’re as much of a pushover as everyone else, Carver. I don’t know how I’d cope if anyone actually said no.’
I have a feeling I’ve just been played. I turn back to my laptop, at the frustratingly blank screen that’s supposed to be my winning spec script. So far I’ve abandoned three attempts of varying length. Until I put things right with Otty, it’s pointless trying. We’ve all been offered a single, one-hour consultation with Russell, to be taken at a time of our choosing, during the writing process. Reece and Jake have had theirs already; Tom is waiting until the script is written. I was going to wait, too, but maybe I should see him now. It might kick-start my script.
I leave the writers’ room, careful to avoid Otty’s glances. She made her own way in this morning and has maintained her silence most of the day. Quickly, I walk to Russell’s office.
‘Joseph! To what do I owe this honour?’ He’s in a fine mood behind his desk.
‘I was thinking I’d book my spec script consultation with you.’
Russell raises an eyebrow. ‘You have a draft already?’
‘Not exactly.’ When he waits for more, I add, ‘Not yet.’
When he’s calm enough, Russell has a way of looking at you, like he’s seeing reams of backstory you’ve carefully edited from yourself. As if he can see the tracked changes, the discarded lines, the compromises. ‘Sit, Joe.’
‘Thanks.’ I take a seat.
‘Talk me through where you’re at,’ Russell says.
Not sure I can, but here goes… ‘I have a sense of the story, but I can’t find a way in.’
‘Genre?’
‘Human interest.’
‘Vague. Narrow it down for me.’
‘Lies. Words we use to protect ourselves that can become weapons.’
‘Good. Go on.’
‘I feel there are stakes, pace, some kind of peril, but at the heart it’s a story of how we justify actions that make us feel safe.’
‘Aaand back to vague.’
Was it? I thought that sounded good… ‘Oh. Um…’
‘Lies is a good theme. Who’s telling them? Who are they? Why do they need the lie? What are they running from? Does someone else know the lie is there? What damage could the truth do?’
And that’s why he’s where he is. As soon as he says it, I kick myself for not identifying those questions. They are so simple, but I’ve missed them for days. ‘See, that’s why I need the consultation now.’
Russell shakes his head. ‘No.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I want to see a draft before I give you your hour. You don’t need me to hold your hand, Joseph. You are beyond that.’
How is that helpful? I stuff my irritation behind my smile. ‘Right.’
‘I believe in you. Look at what you’ve achieved with Eye, Spy. Look at Otty.’
Thrown by this, I stare back.
‘She had raw talent when she arrived here, but you moulded her into a serious contender. Your influence, Joe. Your inspiration.’
‘Otty was always a contender. She just didn’t realise it.’
‘Exactly. You made that happen.’
He isn’t going to change his mind, is he? There’s no point arguing. Otty’s work speaks for itself – he’ll discover that when he reads her script, when the words are hers alone and couldn’t possibly be influenced by me.
‘So, I guess I’d better start writing.’
‘Yes. Go and write, Mr Carver.’
I smile my weary thanks and start to leave.
‘Joe?’
‘Yes?’
‘Word of advice. Find a story worth telling. One that’s worth your time. Too good an opportunity to miss.’
Is that a vote of confidence in my favour? It’s only when I’m back in the writers’ room that it occurs to me that this conversation could count as a consultation but Russell is offering me more later. Does he think I’m a contender?
Friday begins with me biting the bullet with Daphne.
She’s been talking about a weekend away and so far I’ve managed to dodge her suggestions, but I can’t fob her off for ever. I can’t date her, however much fun it could have been. There’s no point: my heart’s not in it.
‘I can’t do this, Daphne.’
‘The weekend?’
‘Us.’
‘Oh.’ She raises her eyebrows. ‘Can’t say I didn’t see that coming.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m just not in the right place for it. Totally my issue.’
‘Of course it is. I was amazing – I always am.’ She sighs. ‘You were boring me anyway, Joe. Plenty of real men out there ripe for the picking.’ She turns on her brightest smile as Jake passes, making a point of leaning around me to watch his backside disappear into the writers’ room.
I wonder if I should warn him he might be next on Daphne’s list…
Otty is still avoiding me, but knowing I have a plan to fix that makes it easier to bear. When we finish work at 6 p.m., we climb into the minibus taxi Rona has booked and head through the heavy traffic into the city centre. There’s a definite schools-out/weekend vibe in the taxi. The laughter is raucous, the jokes close to the bone. Fraser sits up front with the driver, Otty on the back seat behind me, the only pass
engers not vociferously entering into the party spirit.
Birmingham’s Frankfurt Christmas Market is heaving when we arrive, the bars packed with city workers, the food stalls swarmed around by hungry crowds. I might have told Rona earlier this wasn’t my thing, but actually I love its noise and colour and life that batter you into festive submission. It’s familiar and warm. I need that for what I’ve planned to do.
‘Beer!’ Rona yells and we trail after her, dodging bodies and sharp-edged shopping bags. The bar we choose is next to the council offices in Victoria Square. A large wooden angel chime rotates on its roof, ice maidens, angels and Weihnachtsmann figures dancing beneath the large propeller. We’re served half pints of strong German beer and small gaudily decorated mugs of spicy sweet Glühwein as we huddle on thin wooden benches.
I see Fraser gazing over at Otty when he thinks she isn’t looking. He looks about as terrible as I feel. I’m not proud of that.
Fraser made me feel loved. Wanted.
Otty’s pain when she told me that. It was horrific. I never wanted to make her feel that way.
The beers flow and an hour later our merry band moves to a single table where we can finally yell conversations above the Christmas Market din. I see Fraser on the periphery, checking his watch. Now’s my opportunity.
Leaving Jake and Tom singing dodgy versions of Christmas songs, I slip from the table and skirt the surrounding groups of drinkers to reach Fraser. He’s surprised when I clap a hand to his back, his expression instantly darkening when he sees me.
‘I need a word,’ I say, loud as I dare to make him hear me.
He stares back and for a horrible moment I think he’ll tell me to sod off. But he relents and nods in the direction of the side of the Council House. We walk a small way from the group, who thankfully don’t notice us leave, towards the Starbucks branch and the small alley that separates it from the grand council building. There’s a pocket of space here untouched by festive garishness. It’s the perfect place to do this.
‘What do you want?’
‘A moment of your time.’
‘Yeah? What for?’
‘To apologise – for being a heartless bastard.’
That almost raises a smile. ‘Go on.’
I take a breath, focus on what I’ll lose if I stuff this up. ‘What I said, about Otty and me, it wasn’t true.’
Our Story: the new heartwarming and emotional romance fiction book from the Sunday Times bestselling author of Take A Look At Me Now Page 25