‘That’s more like it!’ Rona reviews the image and beams. ‘Look at that!’ When she turns the screen to us, we laugh. We look hilarious. But we look happy.
‘That’s so cool,’ Joe laughs. ‘And will probably be mortifying when the champagne wears off.’
‘It’s a moment in time. We’ll need to remember this when we get back to work. I’ll print a load out tonight and give you copies if you like?’
I smile. ‘That’d be great, thanks.’
‘Order! Order!’ Russell is tapping a champagne flute with a fork.
The chatter subsides as we look at our leader.
‘I just want to say thank you. For your commitment and brilliance and skill. And for not shopping me to the press for being a grumpy sod! I think we’ve built a great team here and I don’t want to lose momentum. I want to keep the writing partnerships we’ve established because I know they work. And when – note, when, not if – the show gets green-lit, we’ll write another team show, just like we’ve done with Eye, Spy. Consider yourselves hired for the long term.’
I’m in shock. Surprised, delighted, and completely gobsmacked. We’d been told our contracts were on a project-by-project basis, but Russell’s announcement means this is now, as Dad would say, a proper job.
And tomorrow at the cricket match, I’ll tell him.
Chapter Twenty-Six
JOE
I will never understand cricket.
Thankfully, Otty does and she’s told me enough to help me wing it today.
From what I can make out, it’s a big deal to score an invite to a Perry family-and-friends Edgbaston meet. So I can’t stuff this up. I don’t want to stuff this up, partly because Mike Perry could burn out my eyeballs with his death-stare if I did. But mostly because I don’t want to let Otty down.
She’s been on a sleepy-eyed high since Russell formally employed us. Today, she’s sparkling as much as someone catching up on a three-month sleep deficit can.
‘Here we go, Joe!’ she yells as she and her dad jump up. I follow them and the rest of the crowd around us. Something exciting seems to be happening on the – pitch? green? field? I can’t remember which – and lots of players are running towards one corner. After quite a long time of not much going on, this is a nice change. But then there’s a groan and everyone sits down again, followed by a patter of applause that sounds like rain bouncing off leaves.
Of course, I’m last to sit down, a little bewildered but grateful I haven’t offended anybody.
Otty slips her arm through mine and gives it a squeeze. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it soon.’
‘Hope so.’ I’m not convinced. Thirty-four years of existence haven’t unveiled the mysteries of this game to me so I don’t see how a couple of hours in an overcast cricket – stadium? ground? – will do the job. Nevertheless, I’m glad I came. It means a lot to Otty and, actually, it means a lot to me. Mike didn’t have to invite me. This is A Significant Event, and I’m going to be the best clueless cricket student I can possibly be.
‘Not a fan, I take it?’ Mike almost manages a smile.
If I were writing a script set at a cricket – tournament, maybe? – I would have a cheat sheet of terms beside me so I could always refer to it. I can’t do that here, though. Maybe I could jot them down on my palm with a biro when Mike’s not looking…
‘Relax,’ Otty whispers to me.
‘Yeah. Sorry.’
‘Hey Dad, Joe and I get to write something new next week.’
Her dad keeps his eyes on the match but his eyebrows rise. ‘Oh yeah? What?’
‘We find out on Monday,’ I say.
‘Exciting, then.’
‘It will be. And a relief that Russell’s keeping us on.’
Mike turns. ‘How long for?’
I love the way Otty blossoms when she’s happy about something. I swear she grows an inch taller. ‘For the long-term. Permanent positions, he said. So it’s now a proper job.’
I don’t know what Mike was expecting to hear about Otty’s writing career, but I’m pretty sure this wasn’t it. For a moment he doesn’t seem able to reply, his mouth gaping a little. Otty keeps on beaming between us.
‘Well. That’s good.’ Mike nods, his attention drifting back to the cricket players.
Something strange hangs over the resulting pause. In my peripheral vision, Otty’s shoulders drop.
‘Is your mum coming today?’ I ask, keen to plug the awkwardness with words and sound. Otty’s spoken of her family quite a bit but she’s never been very specific about her mother.
I see Otty and Mike tense in tandem.
‘Not on the scene.’
I could kick myself. Why did I think now was a good time to ask?
‘Oh. Sorry…’
The warmth of Otty’s smile is welcome. ‘Don’t worry, she’s not dead. She moved to Spain years ago. We don’t talk but it’s okay.’
Mike shakes his head. ‘Got enough from the rest of our lot to keep us busy, eh bab?’
From what Otty’s mentioned about her family before – and the extended network of non-related aunties, uncles and friends she counts amongst them – she’s from a different world to me. They are her roots: where she comes from and where she returns to reconnect. My family are supportive from a distance. I know they love me, they know I love them, but we don’t need to be together to prove it. They’re happy in Oxford, and Mum occasionally drops in if she’s guest-lecturing at Birmingham University. And that’s fine by me.
Half an hour later more of the Perry Cricket Posse arrive: two of her former colleagues from the bike-repair shop Mike owns (Jarvis and Steve – I learned their names at least), and her auntie-who-isn’t-really-an-auntie Sheila, who fusses around Otty like she’s a puppy. It’s loud and bustling and very Brummie – and I don’t know how you’d ever find stillness or calm in the middle of it all. But I like their energy. At the centre of the commotion, Otty shines.
‘So you’re the guy our Otts is shacked up with,’ Jarvis says. It’s a statement, not a question, and I’m not sure what he thinks of me.
‘We’re housemates. And we write together.’
‘So you say.’
Otty rolls her eyes. ‘Jarv…’
Beside him, Steve glowers. ‘He’d better be a gentleman, Otts…’
‘Pay no attention to them, both of you,’ Sheila says. She seems lovely, one of life’s true sweethearts. But the glare she gives Jarvis and Steve could cut steel. ‘It’s about time Otty had a good friend.’ She smiles at me.
Otty shifts a little beside me and I wonder if this is the usual level of scrutiny applied to her life, or just for my benefit.
‘Button it, boys,’ Mike barks, and I’m convinced all the cricketers far below our stand jump as we do. ‘I’ve had a chat with Joe and he’s a good lad. Now simmer down and watch the match.’
And just like that, I’m in.
I grin at Otty and she winks back. Test passed. Death-stares avoided.
And then it’s late afternoon and the match ends to good-natured applause. We rise and walk as a group towards the exit. At the top of the stairs to the ground floor, Sheila suddenly starts to wave.