JOE
Speak for yourself. I’m amazing.
She snorts and the game is on.
OTTY
You write the damn script then, Captain Amazing.
I make sure she sees my melodramatic eyes-to-heaven move, and then type:
JOE
I would, but my cape keeps snagging on the keys.
Her laughter is a gift.
OTTY
Title of your autobiography.
JOE
Sounds filthy.
OTTY
Everything sounds filthy to you.
JOE
Title of your angsty 90s album.
OTTY
We need to focus. Seriously.
JOE
This is much more fun.
OTTY
It is. But unless Laura from Eye, Spy is likely to pose as a time-wasting screenwriter, I don’t think Russell will rate this script.
She’s right, of course. Bloody annoying, too.
‘Fair enough,’ I say. ‘Although I reckon Russell would love to know our real-life story. The true struggles of a house-sharing writing team – it screams chart-topping Netflix documentary series, doesn’t it?’
‘We’d need significantly more car chases and explosions in it to interest Russell Styles.’
I laugh and accept defeat. ‘Probably.’ I slide my laptop back to my side of the table and resist the urge to add…
JOE
You’d be surprised.
… to the end of it before I delete all the text. Nerves roll in my stomach. What would Otty say if she knew I’m updating Russell on her progress? She’d be livid. Anyone would. I watch the words disappear from the screen, the brief after-image causing a shot of fear before they fade from my sight.
The action we’re writing today is intercut between two scenes: one where Laura – the protagonist and spy of the title – is meeting with her boss to fight for her position, and the other where she is in a secret therapy session, revealing to her counsellor exactly how close to breaking point she is. But so far we’ve tried three different entry points and none of them work.
‘Laura wouldn’t start by confessing all to her therapist,’ Otty says, twisting the pencil she doesn’t need on the pad she doesn’t need either. Tiny dots of graphite dust have been stabbed into the top page, miniature explosions of grey pushed into pristine white.
‘I thought that’s what therapists are for.’
‘They are, but you don’t just walk in and blurt it all out.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘No.’
‘How do you know?’
Her eyes flick to her screen. ‘I – don’t. I’m just saying that’s not how it works.’
I don’t believe her. Her reaction is too odd to ignore. But I can’t push her on it because it’s almost midday and we’ve written exactly nothing. I store it away for another time. ‘So, where do we start?’
‘Laura walks into both rooms. Symmetry from the beginning.’
‘Nnnnuurr! Wrong answer.’
‘What was that supposed to be?’
‘Cliché buzzer. Seen it in every script since the dawn of time.’
‘Nnnnuurr! Hyperbole alarm.’
She’s too quick. Shame we aren’t writing a comedy. ‘Too much build-up. Russell would hack that to bits.’
‘Not if we justify it in the script.’
I get where she’s coming from, but I know Russell. I know what he likes. Straight to the action, no messing about on the way. I don’t want to hold it over Otty because this is her script as much as it’s mine, but we can’t afford to muck up where Russell’s concerned. Individuality is for spec scripts and solo projects, not collaborative screenplays.
‘Trust me, Otty…’ I begin, cringing at my own condescension.
‘No, you know what, Joe? I’m in that room because Russell trusts my instincts. He loved the scenes I wrote with Rona, so he’ll love the ones I’ll write with you.’
‘Not if we can’t even agree how to start them.’
A scrape that sets my teeth on edge sounds as Otty pushes back her chair, snatching her laptop from the table. ‘Fine.’
‘What…? Where are you going?’
‘To the other room,’ she snaps, stuffing her notebook and pencil under one arm. ‘I’ll write the therapist scene, you write the MI6 meeting.’
Mouth agape, I watch her leave.
Chapter Seventeen
OTTY
Okay. So maybe storming out like that wasn’t the best response.
Or the most professional.
But neither was Joe ‘I’m chums with Russell Styles, dontcha know’ Carver’s. Trust me, Otty – like he was patting me on the head.
This isn’t about Joe. He just pushed the wrong buttons at the worst time. Truth is, I’ve been a wreck since last night. First all the stuff with Josh, then my fight with Joe and then a night of broken sleep while my brain decided to stay up and replay it all. Stupid brain.
And also because, with that one sentence, Joe managed to morph into my dad.
Trust me, Otty…
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve heard that tone whenever my father decides to offer his wisdom. The condescension – always the weapon of choice for a man who wants to win an argument. I know Joe isn’t Dad, but it felt the same as every conversation I’ve had with my father over the past year. Like they know what’s best for you; like your own mind isn’t strong enough to make the right decisions. Dad-chats are just not simple anymore: there’s always an unspoken edge to every conversation we have. A silent elephant stubbornly wedged into the space between us. A Chris-shaped impasse. It’s another complication in an already weird situation.
There have been no more texts from my ex but I’ve become wary of checking messages all the same. I’m hoping it’s a one-off. I don’t have the mental capacity to deal with that on top of writing.
And I’m not having my housemate think he can talk to me like Dad and Chris have.
I stretch my legs out along the small sofa in the living room until my heels meet the cushions on the far end of it. Every muscle feels one wrong move away from cramp. I know I hold my body in tension when I’m nervous but today the knots refuse to budge.
At least there are words on my screen now – real words this time, not fake script games with Joe. They need finessing, but the bones are there:
DR MONTGOMERY
What would you like to talk about today?
LAURA
I don’t know.
DR MONTGOMERY
What made you decide to see me?
LAURA
Do I need a reason?
DR MONTGOMERY
Do you think you need one?
LAURA
Do you always talk in riddles?
DR MONTGOMERY
Do you always evade questions?
LAURA
(beat)
I think my boss wants to fire me.
DR MONTGOMERY
What makes you think that?
LAURA
He’s been watching me. Talking about me.
DR MONTGOMERY
Isn’t that his job?
LAURA
It’s more than that. I catch him staring at me across the room. Like he’s waiting for me to trip up.
DR MONTGOMERY
Trip up? In what way?