Our Story

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘This writing – it’s what you want?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘And you’re certain you’ve not made a mistake with Chris?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dad twists his mug on the brown puddle of tea that’s spilled onto the table. ‘Then you’ve got to do what you think is best. We might not like it – and I don’t know why you can’t just be happy with Chris – but it’s your choice, bab. Your life.’

  At that moment, I could hug him. It’s a big step forward. ‘Thank you.’

  He shakes his head and his eyes fix on me. ‘And if Joe makes you happy—’

  So near and yet…

  ‘Dad. I’m not with Joe.’

  He stares at me. ‘Why not?’

  No point delaying what I was going to tell him. ‘Because I’m seeing someone else…’

  I wasn’t planning to see Fraser today, but the conversation with Dad makes up my mind. I still don’t think he got it, even after an hour of explaining.

  But what about Joe?

  Over and over.

  I work with Joe. I live with Joe. But I’m seeing Fraser.

  It would have been comical, if it didn’t hurt every time he asked.

  Even now, as I’m standing outside Fraser’s apartment building, pressing the intercom, Dad’s question is still playing in my head.

  But what about Joe?

  ‘He-llo?’ Fraser’s greeting makes me smile. In his accent, every word sounds musical.

  ‘Hi, it’s me,’ I say, the door buzzer sounding before I finish speaking.

  But what about Joe?

  He meets me as the lift doors part, his arms strong and his kisses warm. I give in to the familiarity of his embrace, pushing every other thought away as we move into his apartment.

  ‘It’s so good to see you,’ he murmurs, between kisses. ‘I’ve missed you all day.’

  ‘Me too,’ I reply, wanting to say more but losing the words in the rush of emotion that follows. Fraser wants me without me having to prove anything or persuade him. He doesn’t care what anyone else thinks – all he sees is me. It’s powerful and real and right now everything I need.

  ‘Stay,’ he whispers, his words warm against my neck.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, my mind made up.

  I don’t want to think about it anymore. I’m not with Joe. I’m with Fraser. It’s time I started making the most of what I have.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  JOE

  Otty didn’t come home last night.

  She always comes home.

  Her bed isn’t slept in. No sign of her car. And now I feel like a crazed stalker in my own home.

  It shouldn’t bother me but it does. And that bothers me. Even coffee isn’t helping this morning. I stare at the dark screen of my phone where it sits on the kitchen table. Should I text her? As a concerned mate just checking she’s okay? My finger hovers over the screen.

  Ugh. My phone clatters back to the table.

  Who am I kidding? There’s only one reason I would text: to let her know that I’m here. To make her feel guilty for not coming home, for being with Fraser, right now, doing whatever they are doing. When did I become that person?

  There are four slices in the toaster going cold. I put them in an hour ago and haven’t left my chair since. Besides, I’m not hungry. I don’t want to think about it, but I’ve just spent most of the morning doing exactly that.

  She doesn’t want me. I have to let her go.

  I pick up my stone-cold coffee and shift myself upright to make a fresh jug. Everything aches today. I should probably go out – find some lunch, do some exercise – anything to stop me going over this.

  I pull the glass jug from underneath the percolator and move it to the sink to fill it. As I do, something small, square and bright orange flutters to the floor. Bending down, I find it’s one of Otty’s daft motivational sticky notes. I turn it over to read the bouncy bubble script:

  We are such stuff

  as dreams are made on.

  The Tempest, Act IV Scene 1

  She’s mentioned that before. It’s her favourite quote from a Shakespeare play. Strange to think that the thing we’ve been tearing our hair out over for the past two weeks with this treatment is actually the stuff of our dreams. You have to love it or else you wouldn’t put yourself through it. If we stop and really take it in, it’s still a dream come true.

  I have another dream, it turns out. It began the other day when we ended up hugging. It’s set a spark burning in me again, like it did before. Possibility is a dangerous drug. It started me thinking that perhaps there was a way back for us. I wish I hadn’t listened to it now.

  It’s gone 3 p.m. by the time Otty rocks up and I’m annoyed. We were supposed to be spending most of the day sketching out the first episode of Eye, Spy season two after Russell and Langham accepted our series treatment. But I’m not about to do that without her. It’s our gig, our script. She knows this. So why stay out? I’ve had no text, no call, nothing to tell me where she is or what time I should expect her.

  I meet her in the hall, a shadow-Joe, waiting to raise hell.

  ‘Hey,’ she says, passing me to hang her coat on the banister. She’s still in the same clothes she was wearing yesterday, which makes her staying with Fraser an unplanned, spontaneous thing. And that makes it worse on so many levels.

  ‘I thought you were coming back this morning.’

  ‘I was just… later than I expected.’ She’s pulling off her boots, pocketing her phone and dumping her bag at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘It’s after 3 p.m.’

  ‘I know, sorry.’

  ‘So, where have you been?’

  Otty straightens, instantly frowning. ‘I stayed at Fraser’s.’

  ‘Spur-of-the-moment thing, was it? Or do you like wearing the same clothes two days in a row?’

  Too far, Joe.

  But also, too late to stop what’s coming. ‘No, Joe, say what you really think.’

  She shoulders past me into the kitchen. I hear the thud of cupboard doors and crockery being slammed onto worktops. I should let her bash and crash her way through it before I attempt to go in there. But I am in no mood for blatant common sense. I follow her in.

  ‘What I really think is that you should have called me if you knew you weren’t going to be back till later. We’re supposed to be working.’

  ‘I’m back now,’ she snaps, her back to me.

  ‘You could have called me. Sent a text. Sorry, Joe, stayed at Fraser’s. Or Back at 3 p.m…’ She’s ignoring me now, isn’t she? I fix my eyes on her and add,

  ‘Or Gone shagging. Back later.’

  Otty says nothing, the teaspoon crashing into the sink when she’s stirred her tea.

  I fold my arms and wait. She moves from the sink, walks straight past me as if I’m not there and sits at the kitchen table. A little thrown, I stay where I am. She fetches her laptop from the centre of the table, unzipping its protective sleeve and setting it before her, screen open. And I’m still there, like a bodyguard, definitely not moving now because this has become a battle of wills and Otty is not going to win. She sips her tea, unwinds the scarf from her neck, pulls an elastic band from her wrist and twists her hair up into a messy bun on the top of her head. I quietly fume as I watch her carefully place a notebook, pen and mobile phone beside her laptop, drink her tea and metaphorically dig in.

  Finally, she turns her head slowly to look at me. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, what?’

  ‘Are we working or not?’

  I glare at her, considering my options. What I want to do is storm out. Yell. Cause a scene. All of which would have been options, had I not just been standing here like a plank for five long minutes.

  If I wasn’t so angry with her, I might be impressed.

  So I take my seat beside Otty like a chastened kid, hating that it looks like I’m backing down.

  We work. Words are written. But it’s not fun. Or the stuff that dr
eams are made on. It’s a long, frustrating, side-glance-heavy, bitten-back-fury slog.

  At 8 p.m. we reach a natural break and grudgingly agree to call it a night. Otty closes her laptop and turns to me.

  ‘Have we got everything we need for tomorrow?’

  ‘For what?’

  Her sigh is the heaviest she’s heaved today – and that’s saying something. ‘For the party?’

  Bollocks.

  I’d completely forgotten. Back when Russ and Langham accepted the treatment, we decided to invite our fellow writers to ours for a laid-back party. Sort of a housewarming-meets-almost-Christmas-meets-treatment-completion celebration, although we’re not formally calling it anything other than a gathering at our house. Some housewarming: if things between us remain as they are it’ll practically be the Arctic in here.

  ‘I’ll grab stuff in the morning. Um, write me a list, yeah?’

  ‘Right.’ I can’t tell if this is another mark against me. To be honest, I’ve lost count. ‘Fraser’s coming, by the way.’

  Okay, that’s not happening. ‘He isn’t.’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘He’s not, for two reasons: firstly, we promised everyone it would be writers only, not management; secondly, Fraser doesn’t know about the party.’

  Otty squares up to me and I hold my ground. Round three? Four? Eighty-seven? ‘Firstly, I never made that promise and secondly, he asked me if he could come, so someone’s told him about it.’

  I want to hit back, throw something into the fray that will stop Otty in her tracks. She’s already made me look like an idiot once today: I won’t give her another chance.

  And then the solution arrives. ‘Well, Daphne’s coming, too.’

  Direct hit. ‘No, she isn’t.’

  ‘She is. Because while you were loving it up with Langham, I was getting together with her.’

  As soon as the words leave me, I hate myself. Otty’s been sensitive about Daphne since the beginning and it was the perfect weapon. But I’m stunned by my own heartlessness. Not least because it now means I have to go through with it.

  She seems to shrink a little, her eyes defiant, trained on me.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So when you told me there was nothing going on with you…?’

  ‘There wasn’t then. There is now. She’s been chasing me for a while. Guess it was just time to… give in.’ My resolve drains with each syllable but it’s too late. It’s said. And I’ve just inflicted a wound on my best friend. What kind of self-serving bastard am I?

  Otty just stares and for a minute I’m worried she’ll cry. I don’t think I could cope with that. But then the resolve I’ve seen her draw from so many times before comes back. Chin lifting, shoulders strengthening, jaw set. ‘Good. We can all have a great time.’ There is no joy in her voice.

  She keeps her eyes trained on me as she pulls in a breath. And then she walks out. I hear the kick of her heels against the stairs, the deliberate soft click of her bedroom door.

  Not a slam. I could have dealt with yelling and door slamming. But her stillness and control is the starkest, sharpest retaliation.

  The room echoes with her absence.

  I can’t back down or admit I lied. I have no choice but to see it through. So I find Daphne’s number, type a text and send it before I have chance to rethink.

  You said you wanted fun. I’m up for it if you still are. Joe xx

  Chapter Forty-Three

  OTTY

  The last thing I want to be doing is hosting a party. Looking at Joe’s face, I reckon he feels the same.

  But we promised everyone. And Rona has been buzzing about it for weeks. So, here we are, pretending we didn’t just knock seven bells out of each other, setting out the house for our guests, who will be arriving in less than three hours.

  Including Daphne.

  I can’t believe I didn’t see that coming. I mean, she’s been all over him for weeks. I just thought – I just hoped Joe wasn’t interested. Not that I have any right to tell him what to do in his private life. I have Fraser – and when Joe had the opportunity, he didn’t want me.

  The house is filled with the smell of two types of slow-cooked chilli on the hob and trays of mini beef Wellingtons and veggie sausage rolls baking in the oven. It should be perfect, but it isn’t.

  I can’t do tonight with us barely talking. One of us has to attempt to be an adult.

  I slip into the kitchen and switch Joe’s coffee machine on. Then I take a couple of veggie rolls, blowing on my fingers as I liberate them from the baking sheet. I pour coffee, pile the rolls on a plate and head into the living room, where Joe is moving furniture.

  ‘Peace offering?’ I say.

  He looks up and I’m relieved to see his features soften. ‘Go on then.’

  ‘They’re hot. Be careful.’

  He takes a veggie roll and juggles it between his fingers. ‘Noted.’

  ‘Can we just forget that row happened, please? I can’t be here, smiling for everyone tonight, pretending we’re okay if we’re not.’

  Joe nods, crumbs falling all over the place as he fails to eat gracefully. Then his face creases and his laughter fills the space. ‘Sorry.’

  I try not to laugh, but it’s impossible. It feels unfamiliar but so very missed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Otts.’

  ‘Me too. Can I tell you why I didn’t come home?’

  ‘I think I can guess why you didn’t come home.’

  ‘No – not that. I saw Dad.’

  Joe looks at me. ‘When?’

  ‘Saturday lunchtime.’

  ‘How did that go?’

  ‘It was the best chat we’ve had in a while and I think he finally got that I wasn’t getting back with Chris. But then he got it into his head that you and me really were together, which is, you know, insane.’

  ‘Bit harsh.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Told you I was a better actor than you give me credit for.’ He risks resting a hand against my arm. ‘At least he’s got the message about Chris. Your dad’s a good bloke. Just give him time with the other stuff.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And you’ve always got me as a mate, yeah? I know it’s been rough lately, but look at us, Otts: we always bounce back. And we’re still here.’ He kicks a kink in the rug to flatten it. ‘I’ve never had anyone in my life as reliable as that. That’s why this—’ he points a finger from me to him, ‘works. So, we’ll have a great party and show everyone that, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Good. Now, bump it out…’

  He offers his fist in some kind of strange Nineties cool-kid move and, laughing, I fist-bump it as earnestly as I can manage.

  An hour later the first writers have arrived. Jake and Tom are in the kitchen with Joe, Reece has taken up residence by the stereo and has assumed unofficial DJ duties, while I’ve just brought bottles of cider from the cooler for Rona and me. The house hums and everyone is in the best mood – such a contrast to the increasingly tense writers’ room.

  ‘This is great,’ Rona says, helping herself to a handful of pretzels from the bowls Joe and I set up on the coffee table. ‘All of us kicking back, not an index card or script in sight. And no bosses watching us.’

  I drop my head. ‘Actually, Fraser’s coming.’

  Rona lowers her bottle and gives me a stare that could slice steel. ‘You’re joking? Why?’

  ‘He’s my boyfriend. He wanted to come.’

  ‘I’ll bet he did.’

  ‘And Joe’s invited Daphne.’

  ‘What? Did he have a lobotomy at lunchtime? Bloody hell, Otts, what is wrong with the pair of you?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong. We’re just two grown adults with relationships.’

  ‘I beg to differ. You are two frightened kids in total denial.’

  ‘About what?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Really? You really think I don’t know what happene
d with the two of you?’

  I swallow hard. ‘You don’t know…’

  Rona grabs my elbow and frogmarches me to the bay window where there’s a little space away from keen ears. ‘Then let me make an educated guess: you and Joe slept together.’

  ‘Keep your voice down!’

  ‘I knew it!’

  ‘Rona, you can’t tell another living soul, do you understand? It was a mistake, we both owned it and we’re working our way through it…’

  ‘Oh, is that what you call it? I just thought you were two hurting souls ripping each other to shreds. My mistake.’

  I have no answer for that. Is it really that obvious?

  ‘It was nothing. We were drunk. I… I don’t remember any of it.’

  She’s not buying any of this. ‘But your heart does.’

  ‘Please, leave it alone. There are no answers. Believe me, I’ve looked.’

  ‘Oh, mate…’

  I blink back tears. ‘Can we talk about something else?’

  Her arm goes around me. ‘Sure. Sure, we can. I didn’t mean to upset you. What time is your hunky Scotsman getting here?’

  ‘Soon,’ I sniff.

  ‘Well, there you are then. You can lust after him to your heart’s content. Annoying though he is, he could still take my mind off most things.’ She grins and gives me a squeeze. ‘Does he have a brother?’

  Our friends are making themselves comfortable, bringing life and colour and laughter into our home. The house seems to swell with it, the joy of company making its rooms brighter, wider, even more welcoming. At least I still have this, I think. I catch Joe looking at me from the hall. I send him a smile and he raises his hand. But he feels a lifetime away.

  An hour later, I’ve served food and every available space is filled with friends huddled over bowls. Rona and Reece declare the vegetarian chilli and veggie rolls a success. Conversation ebbs and flows like a gentle summer ocean and everything is calm.

  I feel easier, too, now that we’re here and everyone is having a good time. And what’s strange is that Rona knowing the truth makes it a little lighter to carry. I hope she doesn’t let Joe know though. He seems happy enough, chatting animatedly with Jake and Tom on beanbags by the fireplace.