‘A split season might be a headache for commissioning more,’ Fraser argues.
‘It might. Or it might encourage commissioners to invest.’ When they all look at me, I press on. ‘First half, Laura is reeling. She’s in a dark place and torn between her emotional need for Soren and keeping her head above water in the organisation. But then Soren and her operatives start to target members of Laura’s family. Soren is goading Laura to come after her. The stakes rise. So the midpoint is when Laura makes the switch. She has no choice but to protect the people and organisation she loves – risking everything in the process. If we only get two seasons, there’s a satisfying conclusion when Laura kills Soren in a fight to the death. If we get three, we develop it further with Laura uncovering more, at a higher level within the organisation, making her a double agent within her own jurisdiction.’
‘Yes!’ Russell slaps the table. ‘Bloody yes! We go with that.’ He beams at me. ‘Brilliant, Otty.’
I did it! I’m going to take this and run with it. Joe and I will make the best version of the story we can. And then, who knows what we could write?
Three hours later, exhausted but happy, I collect my things as we stand to leave.
‘Great work, guys,’ Russell says. ‘We’ll meet in a week with Otty and Joe’s initial pitch and take it from there. Now, go home!’
‘Heading back to ours?’ I ask Joe as Russell leaves.
I notice his eyes flick to Fraser before he answers. ‘Yep. We need beer and balti and bollocks on TV.’
Fraser weaves between us, his warm arm sliding easily around my shoulders. ‘Actually, I was kind of hoping I could cook you dinner tonight. At mine?’
Joe looks away.
‘Well, I…’
‘Good – well, have fun,’ Joe says, and he’s out of the room before I can stop him.
Fraser kicks the door closed with his foot as he pulls me into his arms. ‘See? All sorted. Now, where were we…?’
They’ve both been ridiculous this afternoon. But Fraser’s kiss is sweet and his body warm and, right now, that’s all I want to think about.
Chapter Forty
JOE
FADE IN:
EXT. A NARROW CITY ALLEY, LATE AT NIGHT A man edges along the wall. He is sweating, terrified. As he reaches the dead-end of the alley, a figure steps into the streetlight beam at the entrance. A shadow looms long down the alley. The identity of the figure is concealed, until she speaks:
WOMAN
Why are you running?
The MAN scrabbles against the wall. He is trapped.
WOMAN
You can’t run from this.
MAN
Tell me what I’ve done!
WOMAN
You were a smarmy git. You thought you’d won. But now, Fraser, you will pay…
The WOMAN signals to her right. The whites of The MAN’s eyes catch the light and his screams fill the alley as a giant index card falls and crushes him…
FADE OUT.
‘Joe.’
I snap my laptop shut. ‘What?’
Daphne folds her arms. ‘I thought you and Otty wrote together.’
‘We do.’
‘So what are you writing there?’
I lay a protective hand on the aluminium lid. ‘Just sketching out ideas. For our episode.’
That hit its target. Daphne shuffles the papers in the crook of her arm and pulls one out. ‘What a good boy. Russell will be delighted. Not sure Fraser will be as impressed, but then his attention is rather fully focussed elsewhere…’
I guess I deserved that.
It still stings, though.
I didn’t think Otty and Fraser would last this long. Okay, I hoped they wouldn’t. But it’s been a month and they are as loved-up as ever. And fighting him all the time is exhausting. Not that I have any plans to stop, of course.
‘Anyway, this just came through. I thought you might like to see it before everyone else.’
She hands me the sheet of paper. It’s a press release:
BBC Studios announces cast and broadcast details for EYE, SPY
Eye, Spy, a six-part, one-hour drama set around the world of corporate corruption is currently in production for BBC Studios in association with Tempest Pictures and Ensign Media. Maya Marple (Insiders) leads the cast as industrial spy Laura Eye, joined by Mac Finan (Empires End) as corporate lawyer-turned whistleblower Gus. Supporting cast includes Gabriel Marley, Talli Paul, Emma Spurgin Hussey and Rory Wilton. Created by Russell Styles (Southside, Servant, Insiders), the six-week ‘event TV’ drama will be simulcast on BBC One and BBC America in March next year. A deal has also been signed with Netflix for subsequent world distribution.
We knew season one had started filming but until now the identity of the cast has remained a closely guarded secret. Seeing the full list in black and white is the biggest thrill. That’s our drama, performed by actors I love – and the actual date when the world gets to hear our words. ‘That cast is incredible. And a March broadcast date is brilliant.’
‘Thought you’d be pleased.’ She takes back the paper. ‘Better go and share this with the writers’ room ruffians. Congratulations, Joe.’
I smile, waiting for her to leave before I open my laptop again. I don’t want her to see my latest dream-plot for ridding the world – and Otty – of Langham. Immature? Probably. But it makes me feel power where I have none and that keeps me fighting.
Daphne doesn’t move. ‘Must be tough, having Fraser Langham popping over to yours. Has he stayed yet?’
I swallow the obscenity I’m tempted to chuck back. ‘No. They don’t – he hasn’t. Prefers his own environment, apparently.’ Under a rock, most likely.
‘Are you lonely, Joe?’ Her voice is suddenly very close, very low, by my ear. ‘Because you don’t have to be.’
I freeze. ‘I’m – fine.’
But the hesitation was there and she knows. A year ago, this would have been a result. Could it be now?
Her breath meets my ear in warm bursts as she laughs. ‘I guess it depends on what you want. Personally, I don’t see anything wrong with a bit of fun.’ Her hand rests on my shoulder, her index finger brushing the space where my neck meets my collar. ‘If you’re interested, you know where I am.’
Shaken, I watch her leave. I should dismiss it immediately; tell her where to get off. But she knows the deal and when she puts it like that, why shouldn’t it be possible?
I am lonely. I hate that word, but I loathe the reality more. Otty has Fraser. She isn’t thinking about me. And lately the loneliest I am is when I’m writing by her side. Maybe a mindless fling would work. At least I wouldn’t feel alone in a room of lovers.
But could I really go there?
‘You know what we need,’ Otty says the next day when we’re trying to write the treatment document for season two.
‘New brains.’
‘No…’
‘Superhero typing ability.’
‘Joe…’
‘Sentient robots. Ghost-writing monkeys. Fifteen-fingered aliens…’
Her sigh flutters the lime-green Post-it note that’s stuck to the top of her laptop screen. I don’t know if it’s coincidental, but since we started writing about spies Otty has become obsessed with sticky-notes covering the cameras on her laptop, mobile and iPad. They have her enthusiastic bubble writing on them, too, like the script she’d scrawled across her mountain of book boxes when she moved in: motivational lines, quotes from Jed Mercurio and Lin-Manuel Miranda, or – like today’s offering – mini-messages to us:
We rock!
#BAFTA4Us
‘You aren’t taking this seriously, are you?’ she says.
‘I’m deadly serious. We have a full treatment to write by Monday – exactly four days away – and we’re nowhere near on track. Right now, a multi-dextrous extra-terrestrial would be flippin’ handy.’
Otty raises her eyes to the copper lampshade in the ceiling above the kitchen table. ‘We need a miracl
e.’
‘Nah, come on. That kind of talk doesn’t achieve anything.’
She props an elbow on the table and rubs her eyes. She’s wearing black nail varnish today and I’ve been winding her up with Goth jokes since breakfast. ‘Sorry. I’m just a bit freaked after seeing the press release.’
‘Me too. That cast, eh?’
She turns to me. ‘Oh my gosh, I know! Laura and Gus are perfectly cast. But it’s nuts, because I follow both actors on Instagram and next March they’re going to be acting out my storyline, saying our words. And Emma Spurgin Hussey as Dr Montgomery is inspired.’ She blows out a long breath, almost dislodging the sticky note this time.
‘Proves we knew what we were doing,’ I say, the squeak in my voice all the proof Otty needs that this means everything to me, too. ‘Excellent scripts attract the best casts.’
‘And Gabriel Marley, eh?’
‘I know.’
She nudges my arm. ‘Know what I reckon? He saw your name on the script header and he was like, “That guy got me a BAFTA. Where do I sign?”’
‘Yeah, thanks, but I don’t think my name was even on it. And it might have had more to do with the fact that Russell’s name was.’
Otty will not be moved on this, it seems. I’m then treated to what can only be described as a five-minute MarleyFest – my housemate’s dubious impression of Gabriel Marley speaking lines from Southside. She makes me laugh, but when that subsides, I realise: ‘Those lines are all from the episode I wrote.’
‘Of course.’
‘And you just did them verbatim.’
She shrugs. ‘I told you, I watched that episode on repeat for months.’
‘Because of Gabriel Marley.’
A small frown creases her brow. ‘Because of you.’
What am I supposed to say to that? I can’t say anything because my throat is suddenly tight with emotion.
So I don’t.
I just turn to Otty and hug her.
She relaxes into my arms and it’s only when we’ve been there a while I realise this is the first time I’ve held her properly since that night. It feels like we’ve salvaged a fragment of what we lost. Maybe, if we can save more…
Reluctantly I release her and we sit back. She observes me for just a second, the gentlest hint of colour across her cheeks. ‘That is not getting this written,’ she says, pointing at the screen.
‘Back to it, then?’
‘Immediately.’
‘Yes, boss.’
We return to the document growing far too slowly on the screen between us. But when I sneak a look back at Otty, she’s smiling.
Chapter Forty-One
OTTY
I am not expecting a message from Chris. But when his text arrives, I decide I can’t ignore it. I’m in Cannon Hill Park, taking a rare break from writing to enjoy the seasonal colour and let myself breathe. The text jars the equilibrium I’ve been feeling, but I don’t hesitate in calling back.
The shock in his voice when he answers my call is palpable.
‘I thought you might just text me back…’
‘We need to talk,’ I say.
I’ve been thinking about what I’d say to Chris if he contacted me again since that awful meeting in the cricket ground. Secretly, I was hoping he’d taken the hint and that would be the end of it, especially as I’ve heard nothing until now. But I need to draw a line here, leave him in no doubt.
‘Mum was devastated,’ he rushes. ‘She still is.’ It stings but I expected it to.
‘I will always love your mum. But she can’t dictate our lives.’
‘What if I want her to?’
I stare down at the piles of newly fallen autumn leaves at my feet and watch them lift and shiver in the breeze. ‘You don’t want that, Chris. I know you don’t.’
So much has happened since that day. I look up and realise I’ve absent-mindedly wandered towards the bandstand where Joe and I hid back in the summer. The memory of what happened, both before and after we visited it, is raw.
A robin hops across the concrete base of the bandstand and eyes me in the pause that follows. I wonder if he expected an audience this morning. Finally, I hear Chris sigh, a long, slow exhale of resignation.
‘You don’t want us, do you? You don’t want me.’
‘No.’
‘And there’s no way back?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Because of Joe.’
I close my eyes. ‘No, because of me.’
‘I just think you need time, Otty. Get this writing thing out of your system and then you can focus on us.’
I keep my breath steady and my words civil. ‘I will never get writing out of my system, Chris. It’s who I am. And I need to be with someone that respects that.’
‘Well, maybe I need someone who’ll respect me.’
It’s meant as a dig, of course, but it’s the truth. ‘Yes, you do. And you’ll find her. She’s just not me.’
There’s a shorter, more staccato rush of breath on the other end of the call. ‘Your loss. I don’t suppose you’ve told your father this?’
The robin’s head flicks to one side when I open my eyes. We have spoken, very carefully policed chats on subjects that don’t include Chris, Joe or any of the lumbering elephants passing between us. I don’t think I’ve been any more willing to break that than he has. But we haven’t spoken about what happened. ‘Not yet.’
When Chris ends the call, I know what I have to do.
I climb the steps and sit in the spot where Joe held my hand, reaching into the pocket of my coat to fetch my mobile. It’s just chilly enough to see my breath and when I find Dad’s number, a ghostly cloud of white partially obscures his picture on the screen just before I select it.
‘Bab?’
‘Hey, Dad.’
‘What’s up?’
I inhale to steady myself. Sad enough that Dad now only thinks I contact him when a disaster has occurred. ‘Nothing, I’m okay. Can we meet? Today?’
‘Where?’
‘The Tea Room in Cannon Hill Park?’
‘Give me an hour and I’ll meet you there.’
The Garden Tea Rooms at one edge of the park is a bit of an institution and just happens to be one of Dad’s favourite places. It’s a whitewashed, boxy 1930s-designed single-storey building and serves the kind of food I remember from cafés as a kid. Ham, egg and chips, jacket potato and cheese and enormous full English breakfasts, all served on the kind of pale green and pale pink plates Nan used in her little flat. It’s one of those places that’s part of my childhood.
I’m hoping that the nostalgia softens his mood. My life has moved on significantly since the day at the cricket and Dad needs to see it.
He arrives exactly one hour after I spoke to him, even though he lives less than twenty minutes away and the autumn Saturday traffic is light. I wonder if he’s been sitting out the wait in his car, watching the dial on the old Bakelite watch his first foreman at Rover gave him as a present when he graduated from his apprenticeship. Biding his time.
‘I bought us tea and a sticky bun,’ I say, pushing a mug and plate to his side of the table.
‘Ta, Otts.’ He sits and takes an enormous gulp of tea. ‘Was beginning to think you’d forgotten how to use your phone.’
‘Sorry. Work’s been crazy.’
‘Hm.’
I try a different approach. ‘They’ve just announced the cast for that drama Joe and I have been writing.’
He’s midway into a bite of the white-icing-smothered cinnamon swirl, so he just nods.
‘Really great actors,’ I press on. ‘It’s going to be amazing.’
‘On that Netflix thing, is it? Or the one where you talk into your telly?’
‘Terrestrial. BBC One.’
Dad stops eating. ‘You’re pulling my leg. BBC? The proper BBC?’
I nod, a swell of pride within.
‘Well. That’s something.’
‘I’m so excited. We
both are…’
Instantly, Dad’s face darkens. ‘Joe. Would this be your colleague, housemate, just-a-friend or boyfriend?’
I wish I knew.
‘Just Joe. I’m not with him, Dad. He was trying to help.’
‘By hoodwinking your family? Some help.’
‘He told Chris he was my boyfriend so Chris would leave me alone. I didn’t ask him to, but yes, when it happened, it was the perfect – the easiest solution.’
‘You loved Chris,’ Dad says, as if I’ve forgotten.
‘I did. Once.’
‘You were happy. You told all of us that you two were happy.’
I stare at my untouched Chelsea bun. The syrup on the glacé cherry sparkles stickily in the bright light. ‘I wasn’t happy for a long time. I tried really hard to be.’
Dad pushes his empty plate away. ‘Well, you made a damn good show of it.’
There is no answer to that. ‘I’m not getting back together with Chris. I need you to hear that.’
‘Sheila’s beside herself.’
‘She needs to accept it, too. I’m sorry, Dad, I’m not proud of how it all played out with Joe, but I can’t apologise for trying to dissuade Chris. He can’t make me happy. I’d make him miserable in time, too.’
My dad is quiet then. I wonder if he is taking in what I’ve said or preparing his next volley. The day I told him that I’d called off the engagement and left Chris, he told me it was just nerves and that it would all be fine in the morning. And that was his stance for months. Sheila carried on as though Chris and I were still together. She stopped bringing wedding magazines over, but that was her only concession. I couldn’t be angry with her because I love her as much as if I were her blood niece. And it was always there when I was working with them over the next year – their quiet assumption that I’d come to my senses soon.
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