And that’s the only spark this powder keg needs.
‘Get stuffed.’
Joe’s eyebrows make a bid for the ceiling. ‘It was a joke?’
Ignoring him, I switch on the kettle and chuck a teabag into a mug. After the day I’ve had, I need tea and then bed, not Joe Carver being a dick.
‘Otts?’
‘I don’t feel like smiling, okay?’
‘You should. There’s plenty to be optimistic about. We’re still on the team and Russell wants us working together. And the hipster beard and hair-flick ratios have significantly lowered in the writers’ room.’
I stare at him. ‘You are unbelievable.’
‘Okay, do you have a problem with me?’
‘Yes, I have a problem. Your writing partner just lost his job – along with several of our colleagues – and you’re cracking jokes?’
‘Oh, come on, Otts, that’s not fair. You laugh or you die, that’s how you survive this. How we survive this.’
‘You worked with Josh. You wrote part of the Eye, Spy pilot with him. Did you even send a text to offer your condolences or thank him for the work he did?’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘Because it’s decent, Joe! Because it’s human.’
‘It’s the business we’re in. Yes, it sucks, but it could just as easily be us next time.’
‘And that makes it all okay?’
His groan echoes around the kitchen. ‘I didn’t say that. There’s just no point in getting comfortable with anyone in that room because nothing lasts.’
‘So I guess you and I shouldn’t be friends then?’
I know I’ve pushed the point too far, but I’m horrified by Joe’s attitude. As soon as the words leave me I can see I’ve lost the advantage.
‘No, I think we should, Otty. But hey, if you reckon it would be a liability being friends with a heartless android like me, maybe we shouldn’t bother.’
I grip the back of the chair and stare at the old grain in the kitchen table. I hope Joe will walk out but he doesn’t move.
‘And how do you know how Josh is, anyway? He might be fine. Furious with Russell, probably. But already applying for new writer jobs if he has any sense. It’s what you do in this business.’
‘He’s devastated.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he was waiting by my car tonight.’
He stares at me. ‘Oh, Otts, you didn’t talk to him…’
‘What else was I supposed to do? He’s just lost his job and he is crushed by it. Panicking about how he’ll pay his rent this month. Thinking his career is over. This isn’t the first writing job he’s been axed from. But I’m guessing you didn’t know that because you don’t believe in getting too attached…’
Joe snorts. ‘Well, at least it saves me from kissing him better.’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘Work it out.’
‘I didn’t kiss him better. I listened to him, like the rest of you should have done. It was the decent thing to do.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he just lost his job!’
‘That wasn’t your fault.’
‘I know that. But nobody else appears to be bothered by it. We’ve just spent weeks working with him – I couldn’t pretend that hadn’t happened.’
‘And why should you feel responsible? You didn’t make the decision.’
‘No, but he thinks you did.’ That does it. I shouldn’t have said it, but I am far too angry to back away.
‘What?’
‘He thinks you’re in league with Russell. That you planned the whole thing.’
‘How can he…?’ Joe’s expression stills. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘You go off with Russell all the time. He seems to consult you on everything else, so why not this?’
‘Yes, he talks to me. Because I’ve known him the longest. But we don’t discuss who he’s going to fire. And if you think that about me, then I don’t see how we can move forward.’
‘I don’t know what to think.’
We stare each other down. I can feel my anger ebbing and the approach of tears but I’m not letting Joe off the hook.
‘Russell made the wrong decision, Joe.’
‘Maybe he did. But that’s his business. And if Josh wants to survive this gig, he’s got to accept this stuff happens. No amount of sympathy is going to change that.’
‘I did the right thing talking to Josh.’
‘Fine.’ He folds his arms. ‘So, did it make you feel any better?’
I can’t lie, even though every cell in my body wants me to. ‘No.’
‘Bloody hell, Otty.’ He rubs the back of his neck. ‘Do you need a drink?’
I shake my head.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
I don’t, but then the words won’t stop. ‘It was horrible, Joe. Gut-wrenchingly horrible. How can Russell do that to someone and feel no remorse?’
‘It’s the business…’
‘No, it isn’t. And if it is, maybe I don’t want to be a part of it.’
I see his eye-roll and wonder if he’s ever gone through this. Has he always been so detached from his work? ‘Otts, you can’t save everyone. It’s not your responsibility. Don’t let this distract you from the brilliant job you’re doing.’
‘It doesn’t sit right with me.’
‘I know. But what matters is what you make of it. Words are all we ever have any power over. Everything else is bollocks.’ He catches the smile that sneaks onto my lips before I can stop it. ‘I have beer in the fridge. We can find a really bad TV movie to slag off?’
It’s a lame offer and the weakest excuse for a white flag, but the blandness appeals.
I’m still not okay about this. I won’t ever think Joe’s approach was right. It’s an uneasy truce, but we need to move on. Because tomorrow, we become writing partners – and we have to make it work.
Chapter Sixteen
JOE
Convincing Russell to let me write with Otty was the easy bit. Now I have to do it.
I woke up far too early this morning and abandoned any attempt to go back to sleep. There was no point. My head is like New Street Station at rush hour and rest is out of the question.
So I’ve been drinking coffee since six and there’s still no sign of Otty. I was going to suggest we went out for breakfast before we begin, to ease ourselves in a bit, but first I need to check she’s still speaking to me.
It doesn’t help that we argued last night. Otty’s a div for indulging Josh, but I can’t fault her reasons. I just don’t like her suggestion that I don’t care enough – or that I was involved in the decision. I was as shocked as anyone when Russell sacked those writers. Maybe I should have called Josh, but what would I have said? So sorry you lost your job, mate, but at least I still have mine? There’s no way that call would have appeared to be anything other than faux sympathy from a patronising git. Better to say nothing than insult him further.
All the same, I feel bad about it.
It’s not a blinding start for our writing partnership. But I’ll have to pick up the slack and run with it. We don’t have time for arguments.
It’s almost 8.30 a.m. when Otty appears and every muscle in my body is twitching from caffeine overload. My attempt at a friendly smile goes unnoticed as she heads for the coffee jug. I take a breath; steady myself.
‘Morning.’
‘Mm.’
That opening line needs work. ‘Ready to write for your life?’
She turns slowly, dark-rimmed eyes accusing. ‘Perhaps not the best choice of words.’
‘And that’s why we are going to make a great team. Me spouting banalities and you correcting them.’
It’s the smallest smile in the history of positive facial expressions. But I can work with it.
‘Idiot.’
‘You’re welcome. Fancy breakfast out first?’
Otty sighs and the frown e
ases. ‘I thought you were never going to ask.’
Of course, we don’t discuss the script when we’re eating breakfast in the small independent Jewellery Quarter coffee shop. This is partly because the coffee and Harissa-spiced baked beans on sourdough toast are too good to interrupt with serious conversation, but mostly because the whole ‘writing together’ deal suddenly feels so real. And, frankly, terrifying. I hadn’t expected that. One thing we’ve quickly established since Otty moved in is a delicious rhythm of banter that weaves through our conversations. It’s as easy as breathing. Even when we argue, there’s an energy I haven’t experienced with anyone else. I just assumed that it would instantly transfer to our writing partnership. But it’s startlingly absent. I wish I knew why.
‘These beans are incredible.’
‘Told you.’
‘And you were right.’ She observes me over her next forkful. ‘Even if we are paying eight quid for basically beans on toast.’
‘Epic beans on toast.’
Otty laughs. ‘I never had you pegged as a hipster.’
‘Ah, don’t be fooled by my clean-cut, nerdy exterior. My heart has a beard and cut-off chinos.’
‘I hope our words fly onto the page as easily as this.’ I watch her smile fade as she lifts her large artisan coffee cup and takes a sip so long I wonder if she’s trying to hide herself inside it.
‘They will,’ I say.
I hope they will. They have to.
Maybe it will be better when we get home…
FADE IN:
INT. THE KITCHEN OF A SURBURBAN EDWARDIAN TERRACED HOUSE
Two screenwriters sit beside one another at a kitchen table. Both have laptops. Both are staring at blank pages on their screens. JOE looks at OTTY. She is frowning at her screen, biting her thumbnail.
JOE
Why is this so flippin’ difficult?
I nudge Otty and slide my laptop over the kitchen table to face her. She reads what I’ve just typed and groans. Then she reaches across and types a reply:
OTTY
Because we are clearly LOONS.
I feel the tension shift between us. It’s a relief. We’ve been stuck like this for almost an hour since we came home and something has to give. I know I’m procrastinating, but the game calls to me and I can’t resist. I type back:
JOE
Speak for yourself. I’m amazing.
She snorts and the game is on.
OTTY
You write the damn script then, Captain Amazing.
I make sure she sees my melodramatic eyes-to-heaven move, and then type:
JOE
I would, but my cape keeps snagging on the keys.
Her laughter is a gift.
OTTY
Title of your autobiography.
JOE
Sounds filthy.
OTTY
Everything sounds filthy to you.
JOE
Title of your angsty 90s album.
OTTY
We need to focus. Seriously.
JOE
This is much more fun.
OTTY
It is. But unless Laura from Eye, Spy is likely to pose as a time-wasting screenwriter, I don’t think Russell will rate this script.
She’s right, of course. Bloody annoying, too.
‘Fair enough,’ I say. ‘Although I reckon Russell would love to know our real-life story. The true struggles of a house-sharing writing team – it screams chart-topping Netflix documentary series, doesn’t it?’
‘We’d need significantly more car chases and explosions in it to interest Russell Styles.’
I laugh and accept defeat. ‘Probably.’ I slide my laptop back to my side of the table and resist the urge to add…
JOE
You’d be surprised.
… to the end of it before I delete all the text. Nerves roll in my stomach. What would Otty say if she knew I’m updating Russell on her progress? She’d be livid. Anyone would. I watch the words disappear from the screen, the brief after-image causing a shot of fear before they fade from my sight.
The action we’re writing today is intercut between two scenes: one where Laura – the protagonist and spy of the title – is meeting with her boss to fight for her position, and the other where she is in a secret therapy session, revealing to her counsellor exactly how close to breaking point she is. But so far we’ve tried three different entry points and none of them work.
‘Laura wouldn’t start by confessing all to her therapist,’ Otty says, twisting the pencil she doesn’t need on the pad she doesn’t need either. Tiny dots of graphite dust have been stabbed into the top page, miniature explosions of grey pushed into pristine white.
‘I thought that’s what therapists are for.’
‘They are, but you don’t just walk in and blurt it all out.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘How do you know?’
Her eyes flick to her screen. ‘I – don’t. I’m just saying that’s not how it works.’
I don’t believe her. Her reaction is too odd to ignore. But I can’t push her on it because it’s almost midday and we’ve written exactly nothing. I store it away for another time. ‘So, where do we start?’
‘Laura walks into both rooms. Symmetry from the beginning.’
‘Nnnnuurr! Wrong answer.’
‘What was that supposed to be?’
‘Cliché buzzer. Seen it in every script since the dawn of time.’
‘Nnnnuurr! Hyperbole alarm.’
She’s too quick. Shame we aren’t writing a comedy. ‘Too much build-up. Russell would hack that to bits.’
‘Not if we justify it in the script.’
I get where she’s coming from, but I know Russell. I know what he likes. Straight to the action, no messing about on the way. I don’t want to hold it over Otty because this is her script as much as it’s mine, but we can’t afford to muck up where Russell’s concerned. Individuality is for spec scripts and solo projects, not collaborative screenplays.
‘Trust me, Otty…’ I begin, cringing at my own condescension.
‘No, you know what, Joe? I’m in that room because Russell trusts my instincts. He loved the scenes I wrote with Rona, so he’ll love the ones I’ll write with you.’
‘Not if we can’t even agree how to start them.’
A scrape that sets my teeth on edge sounds as Otty pushes back her chair, snatching her laptop from the table. ‘Fine.’
‘What…? Where are you going?’
‘To the other room,’ she snaps, stuffing her notebook and pencil under one arm. ‘I’ll write the therapist scene, you write the MI6 meeting.’
Mouth agape, I watch her leave.
Chapter Seventeen
OTTY
Okay. So maybe storming out like that wasn’t the best response.
Or the most professional.
But neither was Joe ‘I’m chums with Russell Styles, dontcha know’ Carver’s. Trust me, Otty – like he was patting me on the head.
This isn’t about Joe. He just pushed the wrong buttons at the worst time. Truth is, I’ve been a wreck since last night. First all the stuff with Josh, then my fight with Joe and then a night of broken sleep while my brain decided to stay up and replay it all. Stupid brain.
And also because, with that one sentence, Joe managed to morph into my dad.
Trust me, Otty…
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard that tone whenever my father decides to offer his wisdom. The condescension – always the weapon of choice for a man who wants to win an argument. I know Joe isn’t Dad, but it felt the same as every conversation I’ve had with my father over the past year. Like they know what’s best for you; like your own mind isn’t strong enough to make the right decisions. Dad-chats are just not simple anymore: there’s always an unspoken edge to every conversation we have. A silent elephant stubbornly wedged into the space between us. A Chris-shaped impasse. It’s another com
plication in an already weird situation.
There have been no more texts from my ex but I’ve become wary of checking messages all the same. I’m hoping it’s a one-off. I don’t have the mental capacity to deal with that on top of writing.
And I’m not having my housemate think he can talk to me like Dad and Chris have.
I stretch my legs out along the small sofa in the living room until my heels meet the cushions on the far end of it. Every muscle feels one wrong move away from cramp. I know I hold my body in tension when I’m nervous but today the knots refuse to budge.
At least there are words on my screen now – real words this time, not fake script games with Joe. They need finessing, but the bones are there:
DR MONTGOMERY
What would you like to talk about today?
LAURA
I don’t know.
DR MONTGOMERY
What made you decide to see me?
LAURA
Do I need a reason?
DR MONTGOMERY
Do you think you need one?
LAURA
Do you always talk in riddles?
DR MONTGOMERY
Do you always evade questions?
LAURA
(beat)
I think my boss wants to fire me.
DR MONTGOMERY
What makes you think that?
LAURA
He’s been watching me. Talking about me.
DR MONTGOMERY
Isn’t that his job?
LAURA
It’s more than that. I catch him staring at me across the room. Like he’s waiting for me to trip up.
DR MONTGOMERY
Trip up? In what way?
LAURA
Make a mistake. Say something out of turn. Cry when I shouldn’t.
DR MONTGOMERY
Do you cry often?
LAURA
Sometimes I’m scared I’ll never stop.
I look back at my screen, take a breath and type words to fit the rhythm in my head. Little by little, Laura opens up, her therapist teasing each bit of information from her. The pace quickens, the verbal sparring turns into heartfelt honesty, and by the end of the scene the therapist is completely in Laura’s confidence – something she will later regret…
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