‘Yeah, well it’s okay if you’re single. Not a career, though, is it? How much does it pay? I’m guessing not much. I mean, you’re not Quentin Tarantino, are you?’
Okay, this guy is one sentence away from a punch. Thankfully, Otty replies before I can tell him where to shove his dumb assumptions.
‘It’s the best job in the world, actually. And totally a career choice – like I told you for years.’
Ouch. No wonder she kicked him to the kerb if he tried to stop her writing. I squeeze her shoulder to let her know that she’s smashing this.
‘It’s great, too, although a lot of work.’
‘Probably for the best that you moved in then, darling,’ I say, stroking her cheek with my other hand.
Otty’s eyebrows lift so high they are practically in her hairline. ‘Um, probably…’
Creepy Chris is paler than the whitewashed walls now. ‘Moved in?’
‘A couple of months ago,’ Otty nods.
‘Right…’
‘It’s perfect,’ I carry on, enjoying the effect on Otty’s smarmy ex far too much to consider where I’m going with it. ‘Although sharing a house with this one can be pretty distracting…’ I gaze deep into her eyes. ‘It’s too easy to forget work entirely…’
‘Actually, we should probably be going,’ Otty says, but it isn’t panic I hear in her voice. It’s a deep, breathy playfulness. Suddenly, it doesn’t feel like we’re joking…
‘Yes, we should…’ I force my eyes back to Otty’s ex, who looks about ready to slip between the cracks in the reclaimed oak floorboards. ‘Good to meet you, man. If you’ll excuse us…’
Outside, a safe distance from the café, we finally collapse into helpless guffaws.
‘My boyfriend? Where did that come from?’
I lean against the wall. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’
‘You almost gave me heart failure,’ she giggles. ‘And then when you slipped your arm round me…’
‘Smooth, huh?’
‘So smooth.’ Her face glows as she beams up at me. ‘That was terrible acting, though.’
‘Was it? I thought I was good.’
‘Seriously, don’t ever get carried away with your words and think you can perform them.’
‘Hey, it convinced Creepy Chris.’
‘Yeah, but what does he know?’
‘It was worth my bad acting just to see his reaction,’ I laugh. ‘Did you see his face? I thought he was going to faint and…’
But I don’t get to say any more because right then, Otty hugs me. And I’m so surprised the words freeze on my tongue.
She is holding my body to hers so tightly. I hesitate, not knowing what to do; my hands out at my sides as if touching her might make her disappear. But she presses in – and my arms instinctively fold around her. Otty’s skin is warm; her hair dusted with the scent of the coffee shop.
She holds me for a long time.
I don’t want to move.
‘Thank you,’ she says eventually, head against my chest.
‘For what?’
Her sigh warms my skin beneath my shirt. ‘For caring about me.’
And then, the hug is over.
We share pink-cheeked smiles and walk back towards the cathedral. She doesn’t mention it again – neither do I. But something has shifted in the air between us, a micro-quake in the atoms that form our world.
Does Otty sense it, too?
Chapter Twenty-Three
OTTY
We are in the home straight with the first season of Eye, Spy. Nerves fizz like exposed live wires, all of us are one wrong word away from an argument and Russell is a brooding, prowling beast circling us all.
It hasn’t helped that yesterday The Sentinel published a piece by well-known TV critic Nathan Byford-King, which suggested that iconic showrunners like Russell, Jed Mercurio, Chris Chibnall and even Queen Phoebe Waller-Bridge were ruining the quality of British drama:
Instead of innovation we are subjected to endless parades of caricatured parody: the side-wink, kill-the-star, slit-throat ‘event TV’ culture we allegedly can’t get enough of. But it’s a diet empty of any benefit. Surely the time is right for these behemoths of popular drama to step aside, take their mammoth egos with them and allow better writers not so obsessed with personal brand-touting to tell the stories we need?
It was the kind of nasty, snobbish click-bait stuff designed to annoy everyone, and should have been ignored for the utter guff it was. But it worked. By lunchtime it had been shared and quoted hundreds of thousands of times across social media – sending Russell into a tailspin of rage. He’s convinced himself that if even one sentence of Eye, Spy is off-target, it will fail. Even a long walk around the building with Joe didn’t lighten his mood.
A dark cloud hangs over us today as we work. Russell’s insisted that all the final scenes are written in-house, in this room. It’s tough for everyone. Like writing inside a pressure cooker. And Russell is in here with us, all the time, watching our every move with the maniacal scrutiny of a black-suited vulture.
It feels like we’re writing for our lives.
Joe grimaces when I look at him. I mirror his expression. Then we duck down behind our laptop screens and keep typing.
At least I have Joe. Writing in these conditions could be too much if I didn’t feel I had support. But I know he’s on my side.
We haven’t talked about it, but what he did on Sunday blew me away. I just thought he’d sit there while Chris and I spoke – anyone else would have been embarrassed into silence. I still can’t get over how he threw himself into it. I mean, I knew we were friends and recently we’ve grown closer. But that was next-level mate support. I’m still giggling about Chris’s face when Joe did his boyfriend speech. Dreadfully delivered, utterly inspired. It doesn’t take away any of the other rubbish clinging to our break-up, but for this small moment it feels like I’ve snatched back a little power. That feels good.
A nudge against my arm summons my attention back to the laptop screen, where a new line of script has mysteriously appeared:
LAURA
Well, this is a bundle of laughs.
Checking Russell isn’t looking at us, I lean casually over Joe’s keyboard and type:
GUS
I feel like we’re in an exam.
Why are you writing as Laura?
LAURA
Why not? I’d make a great Laura.
You’re just jealous, Gus.
GUS
You wish. Is it going to be like this till the season is done?
LAURA
R is v. stressed. I caught him scoffing handfuls of mini-doughnuts this morning. Not looking good.
GUS
Who brought doughnuts in?
LAURA
Tom. He knows what R’s like just before deadline. Like this:
Joe sticks his tongue out and crosses his eyes. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself laughing.
At lunchtime, I grab a fresh coffee and a handful of fruit from Ensign’s kitchen and commandeer a leather chair in reception. The door opens and a slightly flustered Daphne strides in. I look back out at the city, but she’s already clocked me. Before I can move, she’s taken the armchair opposite mine.