Our Story

by Miranda Dickinson

Oh great.

  ‘How do you take your tea?’ I squeak.

  ‘Milk and one sugar, thanks.’ He slides a chair out from the table and sits. Watching me. Wordlessly. With his Brummie death-stare…

  I make tea and hand him a mug. ‘Hope it’s okay.’

  He observes me from under thickset brows. ‘Tay’s tay, lad.’

  ‘Sure. Right.’ I drop to a chair opposite his and now we’re sitting like two rather genteel cowboys taking tea before High Noon. ‘So – er – what did you want to talk about?’

  ‘You. And our Otts.’

  ‘What about us? I mean, her. And me?’

  ‘She likes you. Trusts you. Told me you were great friends.’

  ‘We are, I think.’

  ‘But nothing else?’

  A brief image of Otty hugging me after Creepy-Chrisgate flashes into my mind and for a horrible moment I’m scared her dad sees it. ‘No. Nothing else. Apart from writing together. Which we are. And she’s brilliant, Mr Perry, honestly. Gifted.’

  ‘Call me Mike,’ he says, unsmiling. ‘And I appreciate the compliment. Otty’s always worked hard for everything. She tells me this is her dream job.’

  I nod and take a gulp of far-too-hot tea, styling out the pain as my tongue melts behind my tight-lipped smile. ‘Her writing is excellent and I can tell how much she invests in it…’

  ‘I want you to take care of her,’ Mike says, so suddenly it winds me.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Look after her. Look out for her. She’ll never tell you, but that girl of mine’s had more than her fair share of crap to deal with over the years. I don’t want her to get hurt. Understand?’

  ‘Of course.’ I’m not sure I do. What exactly is he asking me to do? Does he really think Otty can’t take care of herself? But then Mike’s stare softens a little. A smile is still a stranger to his face, but I see the dad not the judge. I rest my mug on the table and look at him. ‘Sir, your daughter is wonderful. She’s become a real friend since she moved in and I would do anything to protect that. I promise I’ll look out for her.’

  He surveys me for a moment, then gives a small nod. ‘Appreciate that, ta. So tell me about this writers’ room: what goes on in there?’

  ‘Hasn’t Otty told you…?’

  ‘You tell me, son.’

  I explain how the team was set up and what Russell’s plans are for us. Mike takes it all in, pausing occasionally to sip his tea. As I talk I feel the tension ease between us and it’s only when Otty’s father drains the last of his mug and stands that I realise we’ve talked for half an hour.

  ‘Right, I should be going. Cheers for the tay and the chat, Joe. I appreciate the—’

  ‘Dad? What are you doing here?’

  Otty is standing in the kitchen doorway, her pink-tipped hair tied in a messy knot on the top of her head. She has a brown paper bag in one hand and a cup-carrier holding two takeaway coffees in the other. And she looks horrified.

  ‘I nipped over but you weren’t in,’ Mike says and for the first time I see what a smile does to his stern features. ‘So Joseph here kindly let me in and made us a brew. And now I’m off, or else Jarvis and Steve will be shivering on the doorstep.’

  ‘Okay…’ Otty is still taking this in when Mike plants a kiss on her cheek.

  ‘I’ll see you soon, bab.’ He turns back. ‘And you should come up the cricket with us, Joe.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You’d love it. You can meet everyone – put a face to the name and that.’

  ‘I – er…’ I begin, looking for confirmation from Otty, who appears to be seeking it from me. ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘Next weekend, then. Otts knows the time and the place. Take care, both. I’ll see myself out.’

  We watch him go and stare after him until the front door slams.

  ‘What happened?’ Otty asks, agog.

  ‘He was just sitting outside in his van when I got back from my run. Where have you been?’

  She raises the cups and bag. ‘Getting these. I thought we deserved a breakfast at home, free of indigestion, rather than trying to eat at Ensign in all the pressure.’

  ‘That’s very kind.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ She smiles – and instantly my friend is back.

  Whatever was on her mind last night is clearly not now – and that’s a relief. Work might be crazy, I might have just had the scariest encounter of my life with her father, but Otty is here and she’s smiling and we have breakfast together before we face the madness of the writers’ room.

  Also, I need her to give me a crash course in cricket…

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  OTTY

  It’s done.

  The postcard lines on the board each have Russell’s sign-off signature. Six episodes, including a pilot, complete.

  We’re reading through the final scene that Joe and I finished writing yesterday, every line of dialogue and direction spoken aloud by Russell. I have to sit on my hands to keep my nerves and excitement under control. The twist revealed in the very last scene was my idea – an initial red herring that began with Laura’s voicemail messages she leaves for her dead mother and, when she tearfully confesses it to one key character, ended up changing the whole focus of Laura Eye’s story, leaving the door wide open for a second series. I’ve seen how all of us have taken it and woven it into our own sections of the story. It’s seamless and feels completely organic.

  And it was my idea.

  I don’t think I’ll ever get over that.

  ‘Here we go, folks,’ Russell beams, all trace of his week-long thunderous mood vanished. ‘The final gut-punch.’ He reads:

  GUS

  You did all you could, Laura. It’s over.

  The door opens and WILSON strides in.

  WILSON

  It’s far from over.

  LAURA and GUS turn, shocked. WILSON is grim-faced.

  WILSON

  The operative you apprehended was not Kingpin.

  LAURA

  What? How do you…? Did he…?

  WILSON

  Richardson was a foot soldier, not a general. Just following orders.

  We see this shock sink in as WILSON continues.

  WILSON

  He is refusing to give specifics, but he’s told us enough. A second agent ran the operation. A person who significantly outranks him.

  GUS

  He could be lying. Saving his skin.

  WILSON

  We don’t think so. What he told us was enough to identify a potential suspect.

  GUS looks at LAURA. She turns to WILSON.

  WILSON

  We know little about her, or her recent activities. But we believe her to be a skilled deep-cover agent. A clear and very present danger.

  WILSON clicks a remote and a passport picture appears on screen. It is DR MONTGOMERY. We see LAURA’S shock. The camera remains on her throughout.

  WILSON (O.S.)

  Her name is Anya Soren. Recent aliases include Elizabeth Price, Amy Parks and Maura Campbell. Has anybody seen this woman?

  LAURA shakes her head, but we can see she is lying.

  WILSON (O.S.)

  Last confirmed sighting was a month ago, at a medical conference in Oxford. After that, nothing. But Richardson suggests she is in possession of intelligence that could compromise everything we have worked to gain.

  LAURA’S breath is visibly harder. She is battling fear.

  WILSON (O.S.)

  She could be anywhere. And whatever she knows, she’s taken it with her.

  The camera moves closer until LAURA’S terrified eyes fill the shot. All other sound becomes muted as her intense breathing grows louder and louder. At the crescendo, the screen suddenly…

  FADES TO BLACK.

  END OF SEASON ONE.

  A beat after the last line, the writers’ room erupts in applause. It’s elation, extreme fatigue, relief and pride all jumbled together and I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like i
t in my life. Russell applauds us, for the first time real emotion breaking out. In that moment, I understand what it means to him. Why he’s been so awful during the past week. This is his reputation, his future commissions, his career balanced on the potential of this series.

  He basks in the celebration for a while, before raising his hands for order. As we settle back down, Joe’s hand squeezes mine.

  ‘We did it,’ he whispers.

  I mirror his daft grin.

  ‘Okay, guys, listen – amazing work. Truly. I look at how far we’ve come in, let’s face it, an obscenely short amount of time…’ he greets our rueful laughter with a salute, ‘for which I will not apologise. But we did it. From here, Eye, Spy goes to the commissioners. Provided they give the green light, it’s then the tangled business of securing a production company – all of which, you will be glad to know, is my headache, not yours.’

  I can’t even begin to imagine what it would be like to see actors on screen speaking my words. But I know this series could be amazing. We just have to believe it’s possible.

  ‘And now, we celebrate. Whatever the fate of our beautiful show, we’ve created something incredible. So I have booked us into Purnell’s tomorrow for lunch on me. We’ll meet here at ten and then head over. For now, get out of my writers’ room and go home!’

  Chairs are pushed back, laptops and notebooks scooped up and the Ensign writers’ room team bustle out into the fresher air of reception.

  Joe hugs me first, then goes over to Russell who embraces him like a prodigal son. Rona appears and we hug, too.

  ‘Can’t believe it’s over,’ she says. ‘I thought that last week would finish us.’

  ‘I know. Are you doing anything tonight? You’re welcome at ours if you fancy pizza and beer.’

  She grins. ‘Love to, but the only date I’m after this evening involves a long hot bath, a bottle of wine and crashing out in front of Netflix.’

  ‘Sounds perfect to me.’

  ‘But how about tomorrow? After Purnell’s? We could go for a drink or something?’

  ‘Let’s do it.’ I smile at my friend, remembering how much she terrified me when I first met her and how I’d worried about offending her when I dumped her brother – needlessly, as it turned out. So much has changed and I like it all.

  I scan the room to find Joe – only to see him and Daphne embracing in practically a carbon copy of what I saw the other night.

  Well, maybe I don’t like every change…

  ‘A toast!’ Russell yells over the clamour of the restaurant. ‘To us!’

  Joe and I raise our glasses. ‘To us!’

  The writing team laughs and clinks glasses, all of us a little brighter-eyed than yesterday, thanks to many hours of sleep. Almost everyone did what I did, it seems, even those who’d talked about heading straight to the pub or hitting the town when Russell dismissed us. I reckon none of us were awake past 5 p.m.

  Purnell’s is like a restaurant from a Hollywood movie, all polished glasses, precise service and food so beautifully presented we don’t know whether to eat it or photograph it as art. Joe is in his element here: it’s his favourite place even though he’s rarely afforded to eat here. Today we have the most expensive meal on the menu – the Purnell’s Journey – a five-course culinary spectacular. It’s amazing and completely not what any of us are used to. There’s champagne, too.

  ‘I hope someone commissions the show,’ Rona says. ‘Imagine how foul Russell’s mood will be if he’s blown all this money on us and the show doesn’t sell.’

  Joe leans over, grinning like the kid that got all the birthday cake. ‘Business expense,’ he says. ‘Won’t cost him a thing.’

  ‘We need photos!’ Rona yells, brandishing her mobile. ‘Everyone hutch in!’

  We squeeze together, a giggling, undignified huddle, as Rona takes the picture. Then more phones appear and suddenly we’re posing in every direction.

  When our spontaneous photoshoot is over, we flop back into our seats at the large circular table and a delighted Russell orders more champagne.

  Joe digs his spoon into the meadowsweet ice cream and almond dessert that has just arrived and closes his eyes in reverent awe as he savours it. ‘This is heaven, Otts.’

  ‘Pudding’s okay, is it?’

  ‘I would marry it if I could.’ He leans down to his plate. ‘Are you single?’ He pretends to listen, then slaps a hand to his heart. ‘She says she’s not the marrying kind but she’s up for a torrid affair.’

  ‘Better not tell Daphne that,’ I say, champagne bubbles summoning the words before I can stop them.

  He frowns. ‘Why?’

  ‘Come on, Team O-Joe,’ Rona says, leaning in between us. ‘I want a photo of the two of you.’ When we protest, she pushes us together. Joe looks at me for a moment, then smiles for the camera.

  ‘Rubbish. You look like you’re side by side in church. Put some passion into it, Carver!’

  Joe groans and flings his arms around me and I grab him back, our cheeks pressed against one another as we diva-grin for the camera.

  ‘That’s more like it!’ Rona reviews the image and beams. ‘Look at that!’ When she turns the screen to us, we laugh. We look hilarious. But we look happy.

  ‘That’s so cool,’ Joe laughs. ‘And will probably be mortifying when the champagne wears off.’

  ‘It’s a moment in time. We’ll need to remember this when we get back to work. I’ll print a load out tonight and give you copies if you like?’

  I smile. ‘That’d be great, thanks.’

  ‘Order! Order!’ Russell is tapping a champagne flute with a fork.

  The chatter subsides as we look at our leader.

  ‘I just want to say thank you. For your commitment and brilliance and skill. And for not shopping me to the press for being a grumpy sod! I think we’ve built a great team here and I don’t want to lose momentum. I want to keep the writing partnerships we’ve established because I know they work. And when – note, when, not if – the show gets green-lit, we’ll write another team show, just like we’ve done with Eye, Spy. Consider yourselves hired for the long term.’

  I’m in shock. Surprised, delighted, and completely gobsmacked. We’d been told our contracts were on a project-by-project basis, but Russell’s announcement means this is now, as Dad would say, a proper job.

  And tomorrow at the cricket match, I’ll tell him.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  JOE

  I will never understand cricket.

  Thankfully, Otty does and she’s told me enough to help me wing it today.

  From what I can make out, it’s a big deal to score an invite to a Perry family-and-friends Edgbaston meet. So I can’t stuff this up. I don’t want to stuff this up, partly because Mike Perry could burn out my eyeballs with his death-stare if I did. But mostly because I don’t want to let Otty down.

  She’s been on a sleepy-eyed high since Russell formally employed us. Today, she’s sparkling as much as someone catching up on a three-month sleep deficit can.

  ‘Here we go, Joe!’ she yells as she and her dad jump up. I follow them and the rest of the crowd around us. Something exciting seems to be happening on the – pitch? green? field? I can’t remember which – and lots of players are running towards one corner. After quite a long time of not much going on, this is a nice change. But then there’s a groan and everyone sits down again, followed by a patter of applause that sounds like rain bouncing off leaves.

  Of course, I’m last to sit down, a little bewildered but grateful I haven’t offended anybody.

  Otty slips her arm through mine and gives it a squeeze. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it soon.’

  ‘Hope so.’ I’m not convinced. Thirty-four years of existence haven’t unveiled the mysteries of this game to me so I don’t see how a couple of hours in an overcast cricket – stadium? ground? – will do the job. Nevertheless, I’m glad I came. It means a lot to Otty and, actually, it means a lot to me. Mike d
idn’t have to invite me. This is A Significant Event, and I’m going to be the best clueless cricket student I can possibly be.

  ‘Not a fan, I take it?’ Mike almost manages a smile.

  If I were writing a script set at a cricket – tournament, maybe? – I would have a cheat sheet of terms beside me so I could always refer to it. I can’t do that here, though. Maybe I could jot them down on my palm with a biro when Mike’s not looking…

  ‘Relax,’ Otty whispers to me.

  ‘Yeah. Sorry.’

  ‘Hey Dad, Joe and I get to write something new next week.’

  Her dad keeps his eyes on the match but his eyebrows rise. ‘Oh yeah? What?’

  ‘We find out on Monday,’ I say.

  ‘Exciting, then.’

  ‘It will be. And a relief that Russell’s keeping us on.’

  Mike turns. ‘How long for?’

  I love the way Otty blossoms when she’s happy about something. I swear she grows an inch taller. ‘For the long-term. Permanent positions, he said. So it’s now a proper job.’

  I don’t know what Mike was expecting to hear about Otty’s writing career, but I’m pretty sure this wasn’t it. For a moment he doesn’t seem able to reply, his mouth gaping a little. Otty keeps on beaming between us.

  ‘Well. That’s good.’ Mike nods, his attention drifting back to the cricket players.

  Something strange hangs over the resulting pause. In my peripheral vision, Otty’s shoulders drop.

  ‘Is your mum coming today?’ I ask, keen to plug the awkwardness with words and sound. Otty’s spoken of her family quite a bit but she’s never been very specific about her mother.

  I see Otty and Mike tense in tandem.

  ‘Not on the scene.’

  I could kick myself. Why did I think now was a good time to ask?

  ‘Oh. Sorry…’

  The warmth of Otty’s smile is welcome. ‘Don’t worry, she’s not dead. She moved to Spain years ago. We don’t talk but it’s okay.’

  Mike shakes his head. ‘Got enough from the rest of our lot to keep us busy, eh bab?’

  From what Otty’s mentioned about her family before – and the extended network of non-related aunties, uncles and friends she counts amongst them – she’s from a different world to me. They are her roots: where she comes from and where she returns to reconnect. My family are supportive from a distance. I know they love me, they know I love them, but we don’t need to be together to prove it. They’re happy in Oxford, and Mum occasionally drops in if she’s guest-lecturing at Birmingham University. And that’s fine by me.