‘That wasn’t your fault.’
‘I know that. But nobody else appears to be bothered by it. We’ve just spent weeks working with him – I couldn’t pretend that hadn’t happened.’
‘And why should you feel responsible? You didn’t make the decision.’
‘No, but he thinks you did.’ That does it. I shouldn’t have said it, but I am far too angry to back away.
‘What?’
‘He thinks you’re in league with Russell. That you planned the whole thing.’
‘How can he…?’ Joe’s expression stills. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘You go off with Russell all the time. He seems to consult you on everything else, so why not this?’
‘Yes, he talks to me. Because I’ve known him the longest. But we don’t discuss who he’s going to fire. And if you think that about me, then I don’t see how we can move forward.’
‘I don’t know what to think.’
We stare each other down. I can feel my anger ebbing and the approach of tears but I’m not letting Joe off the hook.
‘Russell made the wrong decision, Joe.’
‘Maybe he did. But that’s his business. And if Josh wants to survive this gig, he’s got to accept this stuff happens. No amount of sympathy is going to change that.’
‘I did the right thing talking to Josh.’
‘Fine.’ He folds his arms. ‘So, did it make you feel any better?’
I can’t lie, even though every cell in my body wants me to. ‘No.’
‘Bloody hell, Otty.’ He rubs the back of his neck. ‘Do you need a drink?’
I shake my head.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
I don’t, but then the words won’t stop. ‘It was horrible, Joe. Gut-wrenchingly horrible. How can Russell do that to someone and feel no remorse?’
‘It’s the business…’
‘No, it isn’t. And if it is, maybe I don’t want to be a part of it.’
I see his eye-roll and wonder if he’s ever gone through this. Has he always been so detached from his work? ‘Otts, you can’t save everyone. It’s not your responsibility. Don’t let this distract you from the brilliant job you’re doing.’
‘It doesn’t sit right with me.’
‘I know. But what matters is what you make of it. Words are all we ever have any power over. Everything else is bollocks.’ He catches the smile that sneaks onto my lips before I can stop it. ‘I have beer in the fridge. We can find a really bad TV movie to slag off?’
It’s a lame offer and the weakest excuse for a white flag, but the blandness appeals.
I’m still not okay about this. I won’t ever think Joe’s approach was right. It’s an uneasy truce, but we need to move on. Because tomorrow, we become writing partners – and we have to make it work.
Chapter Sixteen
JOE
Convincing Russell to let me write with Otty was the easy bit. Now I have to do it.
I woke up far too early this morning and abandoned any attempt to go back to sleep. There was no point. My head is like New Street Station at rush hour and rest is out of the question.
So I’ve been drinking coffee since six and there’s still no sign of Otty. I was going to suggest we went out for breakfast before we begin, to ease ourselves in a bit, but first I need to check she’s still speaking to me.
It doesn’t help that we argued last night. Otty’s a div for indulging Josh, but I can’t fault her reasons. I just don’t like her suggestion that I don’t care enough – or that I was involved in the decision. I was as shocked as anyone when Russell sacked those writers. Maybe I should have called Josh, but what would I have said? So sorry you lost your job, mate, but at least I still have mine? There’s no way that call would have appeared to be anything other than faux sympathy from a patronising git. Better to say nothing than insult him further.
All the same, I feel bad about it.
It’s not a blinding start for our writing partnership. But I’ll have to pick up the slack and run with it. We don’t have time for arguments.
It’s almost 8.30 a.m. when Otty appears and every muscle in my body is twitching from caffeine overload. My attempt at a friendly smile goes unnoticed as she heads for the coffee jug. I take a breath; steady myself.
‘Morning.’
‘Mm.’
That opening line needs work. ‘Ready to write for your life?’
She turns slowly, dark-rimmed eyes accusing. ‘Perhaps not the best choice of words.’
‘And that’s why we are going to make a great team. Me spouting banalities and you correcting them.’
It’s the smallest smile in the history of positive facial expressions. But I can work with it.
‘Idiot.’
‘You’re welcome. Fancy breakfast out first?’
Otty sighs and the frown eases. ‘I thought you were never going to ask.’
Of course, we don’t discuss the script when we’re eating breakfast in the small independent Jewellery Quarter coffee shop. This is partly because the coffee and Harissa-spiced baked beans on sourdough toast are too good to interrupt with serious conversation, but mostly because the whole ‘writing together’ deal suddenly feels so real. And, frankly, terrifying. I hadn’t expected that. One thing we’ve quickly established since Otty moved in is a delicious rhythm of banter that weaves through our conversations. It’s as easy as breathing. Even when we argue, there’s an energy I haven’t experienced with anyone else. I just assumed that it would instantly transfer to our writing partnership. But it’s startlingly absent. I wish I knew why.
‘These beans are incredible.’
‘Told you.’
‘And you were right.’ She observes me over her next forkful. ‘Even if we are paying eight quid for basically beans on toast.’
‘Epic beans on toast.’
Otty laughs. ‘I never had you pegged as a hipster.’
‘Ah, don’t be fooled by my clean-cut, nerdy exterior. My heart has a beard and cut-off chinos.’
‘I hope our words fly onto the page as easily as this.’ I watch her smile fade as she lifts her large artisan coffee cup and takes a sip so long I wonder if she’s trying to hide herself inside it.
‘They will,’ I say.
I hope they will. They have to.
Maybe it will be better when we get home…
FADE IN:
INT. THE KITCHEN OF A SURBURBAN EDWARDIAN TERRACED HOUSE
Two screenwriters sit beside one another at a kitchen table. Both have laptops. Both are staring at blank pages on their screens. JOE looks at OTTY. She is frowning at her screen, biting her thumbnail.
JOE
Why is this so flippin’ difficult?
I nudge Otty and slide my laptop over the kitchen table to face her. She reads what I’ve just typed and groans. Then she reaches across and types a reply:
OTTY
Because we are clearly LOONS.
I feel the tension shift between us. It’s a relief. We’ve been stuck like this for almost an hour since we came home and something has to give. I know I’m procrastinating, but the game calls to me and I can’t resist. I type back: