‘Coming, one sec,’ Shelly replied, then turned to Amy, dropping her voice. ‘We’ll have to see how desperate I get, I guess.’
‘It’s not desperate, it’s savvy,’ Amy argued quietly but insistently. ‘I’ll put together some profit projections and you can just think about it.’
Ali still hadn’t found Stephan when she saw Ruairi shepherding Shelly down to set and decided to follow. She hadn’t wanted to plead her case on a set full of people, but when there was no sign of him in the production office or the canteen, she figured she’d just better get on with the humiliation.
As she neared Studio 4, she spotted Terry pop out of the writers’ room just down the hall ahead of her and she had a mad urge to flee. It was one thing prostrating herself in front of Stephan after everything that had happened, but having to face someone she respected and admired was too much. She was just about to duck into one of the holding rooms they used for extras when Terry called out.
‘Ali? Jesus, is that you?’
‘Hi …’ she said nervously, trying to pretend that she hadn’t been about to dive into a random room to avoid him.
‘Ali, it’s so good to see you. I heard about your dad. I’m so sorry. I lost my aul’ fella when I was forty-five and I found that hard. You’re so young.’ He made to give her a clumsy one-armed hug when the bump announced its presence by impeding the affectionate gesture.
‘Woahhh.’ He looked with alarm, as though her belly was re-enacting the scene from Alien.
‘It’s just a baby.’ Ali laughed in spite of the awkwardness.
‘Wow.’ Terry rubbed his greying beard. ‘You’ve had a lot on.’
‘Yep.’ Ali pressed her lips together and nodded. ‘It’s been pretty shite.’ She surprised herself by being so honest. She’d always tried to put on a good front for Terry. She’d wanted to impress him since the day she joined Durty Aul’ Town, sending him her spec scripts in the hopes of getting a shot in the writers’ room.
‘Look, I’ve an hour before my next meeting – want to grab a coffee?’ Terry asked kindly.
Ali studied him carefully.
‘I came to talk to Stephan, Terry. About getting my old job back.’
‘Ali.’ He sighed and started shaking his head. ‘Do you actually want your old job back?’
The question stopped Ali in her tracks.
‘Come and have a chat,’ Terry persisted. ‘You are better than being Stephan Delaney’s on-set punching bag. Are you still writing?’
Ali paused, torn. He was right. If she went back to Stephan, nothing would change – she’d just be a slightly slower production assistant encumbered with a growing belly.
‘I haven’t really been writing,’ she said, falling into step with Terry as he headed towards the coffee dock. ‘Things have been way too hectic for that.’
‘Obviously.’ He grinned, gesturing at her bump.
‘This isn’t even the half of it.’ She laughed grimly, tapping the bump. ‘You don’t want to know the shitshow my life has been – all my fault but, still, it’s hitting Jerry Springer levels.’
‘Ah well, I had heard a few mutterings around the production office.’ Terry smiled kindly as they joined the end of the coffee dock queue. ‘Instagram-something-something-something.’ He waved his hand vaguely. ‘Social media is like a foreign language. So, what happened?’
Once they had ordered and settled at a small table among the dusty fake plants and the other jaded-looking TV execs, Ali launched into the sorry saga. To her surprise, Terry was laughing with tears running down his cheeks by the end.
‘I’m so sorry.’ He was holding his head, his shoulders shaking with suppressed giggles. ‘I know it’s not funny, or it shouldn’t be. It’s fucking tragic, Ali. It’s just the way you tell it.’
‘Well, I’m glad my social media exile and Dad’s death is bringing some joy to your day,’ Ali deadpanned before cracking up herself. ‘It is hilarious in a completely fucking bleak way, I guess.’
‘Genuinely, Ali, I don’t know if you’re already thinking this or what, but you need to turn this into a one-woman show. It’s perfect for the stage.’
‘Oh God, WHAT?’ Ali yelped.
‘Seriously, what better way to turn all of this around? You could silence your detractors by taking back the narrative power, make the jokes before they get to make them.’
‘I think they probably already have …’
‘Whatever. Doesn’t matter if they have, you’re the star of this thing. You said, what, three hundred thousand people are on your Instagram thingy – you have the audience, you get to tell the story.’
Ali grinned slowly. He didn’t quite have the lingo, but he knew what he was talking about. The show idea was kind of interesting. What did she have to lose?
‘I’m not really a performer, though, is the only thing.’ Ali rubbed absent-mindedly at her bump, where the foetus appeared to also be chiming in with a few little kicks of encouragement.
‘Says who?’ Terry stared at her. ‘Even if your fake – what did you call it? – “bump journey” got people interested in you online, it was you they stuck around to watch. Yes?’
‘I guess.’ Ali felt an unfamiliar rush of excitement; she hadn’t felt not-shite in so long, she was momentarily confused. Oh yes, this is what feeling optimistic and hopeful is, she thought wryly.
‘I’ll help you with it.’ Terry was still in convincing mode. ‘I’ll happily read drafts. I have contacts in this town. I know I didn’t develop your spec script from last year, but this seems like much more your thing. I haven’t laughed that hard in ages – you’re a real storyteller, Jones. This is a great opportunity.’
‘OK, OK.’ Ali was now blushing furiously. ‘I swear I will … try to put something down on paper.’
‘Yes, thank God I intercepted you en route to grovel to Stephan.’ Terry slapped the table, startling a group of downtrodden-looking extras at the next table. ‘I saved you! Now, when is that baby due? You need to get this out there soon, by the looks of things? The bump really adds to the whole piece.’
‘Yes, I suppose it does,’ Ali agreed. ‘I’m due in early October.’
‘Ohhh, are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Terry had a definite glint in his eye.
‘I seriously doubt it.’
‘Three words, Ali: Dublin. Stage. Festival.’ He underscored each word with a sweep of his right hand.
‘But, like, it’s in August. Wouldn’t they have all the acts confirmed, plus don’t I need a script to get a slot?’
‘Yes, you do.’ Terry leapt up, suddenly looking more like fifteen than fifty. ‘You work on a script and leave the rest to me. Let me make a couple of calls. I’ll be your agent, OK? You trust me?’ He cocked his finger at her like a gun, closing one eye in a cheesy wink. ‘This is my business, Ali, the business of show, and I will pull some strings, for I am the puppet master,’ he finished triumphantly and a couple of the extras, clearly having recognised Terry as the head writer – and therefore someone to suck up to if they were ever to progress to the coveted role of ‘featured extra’ on Durty Aul’ Town – clapped appreciatively.