I make some vague mumble about tea and head for the kitchen, my heart crashing to my trainers when the measured steps behind confirm Otty’s dad is following me in.
Where is Otty? She surely hasn’t gone to Ensign this early? I know she parked outside the house last night because I saw Monty’s indicators flash when she checked she’d locked it using the key remote through the living-room window. What do I say when her dad asks me?
‘I’m guessing she isn’t in,’ he says, inches from my shoulder. Not content with wielding a terrifying death-stare, is Mr Perry a mind-reader, too?
‘I don’t think so. Her car isn’t outside.’
‘Have a row, did you?’
‘Eh? No, nothing like that. She might have gone into work early or maybe she’s getting petrol before the morning rush on the roads. Would you like tea?’
The kettle bubbles into life and I let the familiarity of its sound calm me. I have to get a grip. Otty’s mentioned things aren’t always easy with her dad, but it’s clear she loves him. I have to make the best impression I can, even though my dayglo running attire hasn’t set me off to the best start.
‘I thought it was a long shot, like. I was only planning on driving down our Otts’ street, check she was there, you know? But then I saw the space so I parked. I thought it’d be good for the two of us to have a chat.’
He says ‘chat’ with all the menace of a Peaky Blinder.
Oh great.
‘How do you take your tea?’ I squeak.
‘Milk and one sugar, thanks.’ He slides a chair out from the table and sits. Watching me. Wordlessly. With his Brummie death-stare…
I make tea and hand him a mug. ‘Hope it’s okay.’
He observes me from under thickset brows. ‘Tay’s tay, lad.’
‘Sure. Right.’ I drop to a chair opposite his and now we’re sitting like two rather genteel cowboys taking tea before High Noon. ‘So – er – what did you want to talk about?’
‘You. And our Otts.’
‘What about us? I mean, her. And me?’
‘She likes you. Trusts you. Told me you were great friends.’
‘We are, I think.’
‘But nothing else?’
A brief image of Otty hugging me after Creepy-Chrisgate flashes into my mind and for a horrible moment I’m scared her dad sees it. ‘No. Nothing else. Apart from writing together. Which we are. And she’s brilliant, Mr Perry, honestly. Gifted.’
‘Call me Mike,’ he says, unsmiling. ‘And I appreciate the compliment. Otty’s always worked hard for everything. She tells me this is her dream job.’
I nod and take a gulp of far-too-hot tea, styling out the pain as my tongue melts behind my tight-lipped smile. ‘Her writing is excellent and I can tell how much she invests in it…’
‘I want you to take care of her,’ Mike says, so suddenly it winds me.
‘Sorry?’
‘Look after her. Look out for her. She’ll never tell you, but that girl of mine’s had more than her fair share of crap to deal with over the years. I don’t want her to get hurt. Understand?’
‘Of course.’ I’m not sure I do. What exactly is he asking me to do? Does he really think Otty can’t take care of herself? But then Mike’s stare softens a little. A smile is still a stranger to his face, but I see the dad not the judge. I rest my mug on the table and look at him. ‘Sir, your daughter is wonderful. She’s become a real friend since she moved in and I would do anything to protect that. I promise I’ll look out for her.’
He surveys me for a moment, then gives a small nod. ‘Appreciate that, ta. So tell me about this writers’ room: what goes on in there?’
‘Hasn’t Otty told you…?’
‘You tell me, son.’
I explain how the team was set up and what Russell’s plans are for us. Mike takes it all in, pausing occasionally to sip his tea. As I talk I feel the tension ease between us and it’s only when Otty’s father drains the last of his mug and stands that I realise we’ve talked for half an hour.
‘Right, I should be going. Cheers for the tay and the chat, Joe. I appreciate the—’
‘Dad? What are you doing here?’
Otty is standing in the kitchen doorway, her pink-tipped hair tied in a messy knot on the top of her head. She has a brown paper bag in one hand and a cup-carrier holding two takeaway coffees in the other. And she looks horrified.
‘I nipped over but you weren’t in,’ Mike says and for the first time I see what a smile does to his stern features. ‘So Joseph here kindly let me in and made us a brew. And now I’m off, or else Jarvis and Steve will be shivering on the doorstep.’
‘Okay…’ Otty is still taking this in when Mike plants a kiss on her cheek.
‘I’ll see you soon, bab.’ He turns back. ‘And you should come up the cricket with us, Joe.’
‘Really?’
‘You’d love it. You can meet everyone – put a face to the name and that.’
‘I – er…’ I begin, looking for confirmation from Otty, who appears to be seeking it from me. ‘I’d love to.’
‘Next weekend, then. Otts knows the time and the place. Take care, both. I’ll see myself out.’
We watch him go and stare after him until the front door slams.
‘What happened?’ Otty asks, agog.
‘He was just sitting outside in his van when I got back from my run. Where have you been?’
She raises the cups and bag. ‘Getting these. I thought we deserved a breakfast at home, free of indigestion, rather than trying to eat at Ensign in all the pressure.’
‘That’s very kind.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ She smiles – and instantly my friend is back.
Whatever was on her mind last night is clearly not now – and that’s a relief. Work might be crazy, I might have just had the scariest encounter of my life with her father, but Otty is here and she’s smiling and we have breakfast together before we face the madness of the writers’ room.
Also, I need her to give me a crash course in cricket…
Chapter Twenty-Five
OTTY
It’s done.
The postcard lines on the board each have Russell’s sign-off signature. Six episodes, including a pilot, complete.
We’re reading through the final scene that Joe and I finished writing yesterday, every line of dialogue and direction spoken aloud by Russell. I have to sit on my hands to keep my nerves and excitement under control. The twist revealed in the very last scene was my idea – an initial red herring that began with Laura’s voicemail messages she leaves for her dead mother and, when she tearfully confesses it to one key character, ended up changing the whole focus of Laura Eye’s story, leaving the door wide open for a second series. I’ve seen how all of us have taken it and woven it into our own sections of the story. It’s seamless and feels completely organic.
And it was my idea.
I don’t think I’ll ever get over that.
‘Here we go, folks,’ Russell beams, all trace of his week-long thunderous mood vanished. ‘The final gut-punch.’ He reads: