LAURA
Make a mistake. Say something out of turn. Cry when I shouldn’t.
DR MONTGOMERY
Do you cry often?
LAURA
Sometimes I’m scared I’ll never stop.
I look back at my screen, take a breath and type words to fit the rhythm in my head. Little by little, Laura opens up, her therapist teasing each bit of information from her. The pace quickens, the verbal sparring turns into heartfelt honesty, and by the end of the scene the therapist is completely in Laura’s confidence – something she will later regret…
When I’m finished, I look up at the clock on the mantelpiece and am shocked to discover it’s almost 4 p.m. I can’t hear any sound from the kitchen, but then Joe is the quietest typer I’ve ever heard. I hit my keys with increasing fervour as I enter into the pace of a scene – I know even a room away Joe will have heard every tap, shift and space hammered out on my battle-scarred laptop.
The adrenalin subsides and a gnawing hunger surges in its place, followed by a thud of guilt in my gut. I really need to make things right with Joe. This partnership won’t work if we’re forever yelling at each other and flouncing off.
I tiptoe into the kitchen. Joe is leaning back in his chair, headphones on and eyes closed. I should let him know I’m here but there’s something about his stillness that stops me. His eyebrows are slightly raised, as if he’s just been surprised by a pleasant thought, and the first hint of a smile rests on his lips. The calmness of his features is strange and new – like seeing the sea become smooth as glass after a storm. I watch the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathes and notice for the first time how long his eyelashes are along the line of his closed eyes. What is it with blokes and eyelashes? I wish mine were as long as that.
Something shifts inside me and I make myself move towards the kitchen units.
When I start opening cupboards in search of plates, I hear Joe stir.
‘How’s it going?’
‘It’s done. You?’
He stretches his arms above his head. ‘Finished a while back. What time is it?’
‘Later than you think,’ I reply, smiling when he double-takes at his watch. ‘Hungry?’
‘Starving. What are you making?’
‘Sandwich for now and then I thought I’d make us a pot of chilli?’
‘Excellent plan.’ He yanks the lead from his laptop and winds it around his earphones. ‘I’m sorry. For being a moron.’
‘Generally or just this afternoon?’
It takes him a moment to work out I’m joking. ‘Specifically for this afternoon. I’ll apologise for the rest as we go.’
I’m halfway into making dinner later when I realise that I haven’t opened a wrong cupboard or had to search for pans and utensils. My body moves instinctively between fridge and worktop and hob, never missing a beat. The familiarity is comforting. When I first moved in, I never thought I’d be as at ease here as I was in my flat. It’s such a relief to discover it again.
‘What’s up?’ a newly showered Joe asks when he returns to the kitchen, rubbing his head with a towel as he accepts a glass of wine from me.
‘Er, nothing. Why?’
‘Oh. You look happy, is all I’m saying.’
‘I am. I love this house.’
He looks around and I swear I see him give the kitchen worktop a surreptitious pat. ‘Me too. It certainly makes writing easier. Well, it usually does.’
‘Sorry. Again.’
He bats away my apology. ‘Not your fault. But we do need to work out how the hell we’re going to do this.’
He’s right. Today was a first stab, but from now on we have to make it work. ‘Any suggestions?’
‘We split scenes where we can, write them separately and then bring it all together. I guess the more we do it, the easier it’ll be.’
I nod. ‘And we need to read each other’s work. All the time. Check we’re on the right track.’
He winces. ‘More wine might be required to make that happen, but you’re right.’
We swap laptops and sit at opposite ends of the table, reading in silence, the bubbling pot of chilli on the stove the only sound in the room. I like what Joe has written. It’s pacy and on point and exactly what Russell will want to read. So why doesn’t it thrill me like it should? I read it again, thinking I might be too distracted by the structure – but the same drop of disappointment pulls my gut.
‘What?’
I stare at him, instantly guilty for not loving his work. ‘It’s good.’
His eyes narrow. ‘No, it isn’t.’
‘I didn’t say…’
‘You didn’t need to.’
‘Joe, it’s fine.’
‘Right, ground rules. We have to be completely honest with each other if we have a hope of this working. We’ve got to say what we really think. No recriminations, no arguments if we don’t like what we hear. Regardless of which pieces we write, we both have to own the whole of it as if every word is ours. We have to make sure every word is right.’
I feel sick, but it has to be done. ‘Okay. Who’s going first?’
Joe swallows hard. ‘I will.’
Chapter Eighteen
JOE
This is horrific.
Once we’d got over the initial awkwardness of sharing a home, a job and a script, I’d assumed everything else would fall into place. I’m no stranger to criticism – either giving it or receiving it – but this is next-level terrifying.
She’s going to hate what I’m going to say about her script. And I dread to think what horrors she’s spotted in mine.
But I was the one who insisted on complete honesty. I can’t back out now.
Putting off the inevitable, I suggest we move to the living room. Otty agrees. Once the cushions have been rearranged, I’ve poured more wine and we’ve danced around each other more than necessary, we run out of reasons to delay it.
We sit as if awaiting an executioner, laptops brandished like shields.
‘Go on then,’ Otty says, downing the last of her wine. ‘Shoot.’
‘Total honesty.’
‘Yes.’
‘And no recriminations?’
‘Can’t promise that will be easy, but I’ll do my best.’
‘Okay.’ I rub sudden beads of sweat from my palms onto my knees, hoping Otty doesn’t notice. ‘This isn’t a criticism of this scene as such, more a general observation.’
Two lines crease between Otty’s eyebrows. ‘Right…’
‘It’s just…’ Now I’m here, the words aren’t. ‘Your writing is great. I totally get what you meant about the therapist scene having a slow build. But I look at what you’ve written and I look at you and the two don’t always match.’
‘I’m not a spy on the verge of collapse, Joe.’
‘I know. Sorry, this isn’t coming out well. I feel like the person you can be on here,’ I tap the screen of her laptop, ‘isn’t the person you are in here.’
She watches the vague waving of my hand above my head. ‘In the living room?’