‘Which script?’ Her whispered question makes the steam dance above her chips.
‘The one you sent with your application.’
She blinks. ‘When?’
‘This morning. Otty, it’s really…’
‘No!’ She holds up her hand. ‘Don’t say anything.’
‘But I thought it was…’
‘Stop it!’
‘But…’
‘No, Joe! You can’t just casually drop that on me, like it’s a trivial thing. Like it doesn’t matter.’
‘Who said it doesn’t matter?’
But now she’s backing away from me and I’m not sure why. ‘Don’t tell me what you thought, okay? Not here.’ She screws up her still half-full chip paper, throws it in the blue plastic bin outside the chippy and walks away from me.
I watch her leave, my own dinner no longer palatable. What just happened?
Chapter Eleven
OTTY
Why did I go off like that?
All he was doing was being kind, I’m sure. Before I started working on the writing team I would have killed to get any kind of feedback from Joe Carver. It was just unexpected when he offered it and I wasn’t prepared.
And now I’m hiding in my room back at the house, too chicken to go downstairs and explain myself. Great work, Otty Perry. Just brilliant.
We didn’t speak on the bus back from the city centre and as soon as we got in the house I fled upstairs. I can hear Joe crashing about in the kitchen beneath my room and I know he’s annoyed. I owe him an apology and an explanation. But what would I say?
How do I say that the words on the page are like pieces I’ve torn from myself and stuck there? How do I explain that the thought of them not shining like I want them to is worse than death? I’ve never told anyone how I feel about my writing. I don’t know if I will ever be able to express why I write, only that I have to. It’s as if the words cram up inside my head and demand to be let loose on the page. But is that how every writer feels about their work? Or is it just me?
It makes no rational sense. They’re just words – but they mean so much more than that. Until I sent that script to Ensign Media, I’d never shown my writing to another living soul. I’d never been on a training course, or met any other writers until the day I walked into the writers’ room. I never expected to be successful with my script and now I’m being counted among some of the brightest writing talents in the country. It’s terrifying, but the tiniest voice within me assures me I deserve to be here.
How do I say all of this to Joe?
The answer is simple: I don’t. Not tonight.
Throwing the duvet over my head, I close my eyes and wish it all away.
Brrrhhhzz… Brrrhhhzz… Brrrhhhzz…
It takes me a while to decipher the muffled buzzing sound when I open them again. Daylight floods into my room from the curtains I didn’t close last night and I groan as I see my crumpled clothes I’ve slept in. Eventually I pull back one corner of my duvet from where it’s been kicked to the floor and discover my mobile angrily buzzing its alarm from within the folds.
A brief peer into the upstairs landing confirms the bathroom is free, so I dash in and bolt the door. If Joe is awake already, I don’t want to bump into him on my way to the shower or – worse – on my way out of it. As soon as I’m done, I’m going to find him and apologise for last night. I just need to look less like an extra from The Walking Dead first.
Half an hour later, I dare to go downstairs. The sitting room is empty, the kitchen peaceful. Joe’s laptop is gone from the table, his jacket missing from the back of the chair where it usually lives. There’s the faintest tang of coffee in the still air but the filter jug is cold. If he made a pot it must have been hours ago.
My heart sinks to my socks. What if he’s avoiding me? Nobody would blame him if he were. I practically accused him of belittling me, after all. I am such a div.
I sit on the chair next to the one Joe normally sits on and let my hand rest lightly on the vacant seat. It’s going to take some explaining when I do see him and I still don’t know what to say. But I want to try. I like living here with Joe and I’m excited by the prospect of working with him. I don’t want him treading on eggshells around me in case I take offence.
It’s only then that I notice a sheet of paper propped up against the teapot in the middle of the table. Beside it is a new jar of jam and a grease-spotted white paper bag containing a flaky almond croissant. I reach over and take the note, surprised to find Joe’s handwriting spilling across its surface.
Peace offering.
Sorry I scared you. I didn’t mean to.
All I wanted to say was that I loved your script.
Don’t ever doubt you can do this. Your words are wonderful.
Joe
The curls and loops of his hand shimmer and dance as saltwater floods my vision. These words – I think to myself as I read them again and again – these words will be my focus from now on. If Joe Carver believes in my writing, I should believe in it, too.
Rona is grinning when I hurry into the loft workspace. Two large cups of coffee are already beside her and her brother gives me a cheeky salute as I pass him.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ I rush.
‘You’re not. I was early.’ She lowers her voice. ‘I knew I’d have to fend off certain questions before you arrived.’
Her nod towards her brother is anything but covert. I see Jas busy himself at the coffee counter. ‘Subtle.’
‘Little sister perks,’ she chuckles. ‘You have no idea how hard won they are.’
I have no brothers of my own but I’ve known Jarvis and Steve long enough to guess the deal. ‘What questions?’
‘Bribe me with cake and I just might tell you.’
‘I’ll pass for the moment,’ I say, taking my laptop out of my bag. It’s nice to think I was being asked about, regardless of what the questions were, and that together with Joe’s note brings a broad smile to my face.
It helps that I love what we’re writing, too. The characters seem easy to reach and bring to the page and being able to share ideas makes such a difference from writing alone. When Rona suggests a line and it’s perfect, I feel a shot of excitement; when I see a potential twist we clap our hands and giggle like plotting school kids. It feels like a game – and even though our allotted group of scenes have to be ready for when the writers’ room reconvenes next week, it doesn’t scare me as much as I thought it would. By the early afternoon, it’s written. We spend another hour going over it to make small tweaks, but it’s as ready as it can be for everyone else to see it.
Jas ventures over to the table when he sees us packing up.
‘All done?’
I smile at Rona. ‘All done.’
‘Good work. Don’t suppose you fancy a drink to celebrate? I knock off in twenty minutes and there’s a great bar down the street.’ He glares at his sister who is making kissy noises. ‘She’s not invited.’
‘Charming. Wouldn’t want to be a gooseberry anyway,’ Rona snaps, giving my elbow a nudge.
‘I’d love to, but I can’t today. Next week, maybe?’