The coldness of the kitchen seeps into my limbs as I sit. I’ve never felt alone in this house, not even when Matt moved out. But today the ache is raw in my chest. She’s here but she’s not. Our friendship is a soulless body, its heart ripped away. Things will never be the same.
I could go back to bed but I couldn’t escape her there. I could rest on the sofa, but the memory of our kiss lingers on its cushions. Even in the kitchen the ghosts of a hundred happy exchanges gather. On the fridge door, an Otty and Joe I no longer recognise smug-grin at me, oblivious to my pain.
I need to get out of here.
The city is cloaked in grey when I walk through it, the sunlight that summoned me from my bed this morning long gone. Suits me just fine. I don’t want to feel hopeful now. Bright sunshine would be cruel, in the circumstances.
I caught a bus into the city centre and now I’m skirting the new development at Paradise that links the Museum and Art Gallery in Victoria Square with the new library and the Symphony Hall. I think I’m heading towards the canals at Brindleyplace, but I’m not really monitoring my route. I just want to walk.
Will we ever get past this?
Otty seems well on the way to it, of course. But I’m far behind. What about when we start to write again? Tomorrow we’ll discover the next project Russell has for us and we’ll be expected to pick up where we left off. Can I sit with her for hours, be that close to her, knowing what I know – what we did – and still function as we did before?
A chatter of angry geese crash-lands on the canal as I emerge from the concourse between the Symphony Hall and the Convention Centre. The noise jars me. I shake it off. I’m jumpy and I don’t like it, my senses on high alert. It isn’t my hangover. It’s her.
I catch my reflection in the windows of the canalside restaurant. I look away. I don’t want to see the pain in his face, the haunted eyes of someone who just made the worst mistake of his life.
My feet stab against the blue brick steps up to the bridge that crosses the canal, far harder than they need to. I want to walk Otty out of my system, kick the memory of her kisses, her skin, the scent of her hair with each step. I want to forget, like she apparently has.
I have to forget last night – we both do – and find a way to work together.
It’s just going to take time…
Chapter Thirty-One
OTTY
It’s only been a few days since we celebrated finishing Eye, Spy, but returning to Ensign Media feels like I’ve been absent for months. We’re both here, Joe and me, doing our best impression of the happy writing team we were before. But I feel like a shell.
I hid in my room all day and night yesterday. I just couldn’t face seeing Joe again, knowing the mistake I almost made. As it is, he’s none the wiser, thinking I’m as embarrassed about spending the night with him as he is. So we met in the kitchen at breakfast this morning, our well-worn double act clicking back into place, if a little dented.
It will get better, eventually. I just need to keep smiling until it does.
Russell is on top form, at least. He swaggers into the writers’ room wearing an enormous grin and I half-expect him to start high-fiving us all like a coach in a sports movie after a big win.
‘Everyone caught up on sleep? Or drinking?’ He smiles at the ripple of laughter that travels around the room. ‘Excellent. Well, team, I have news.’ He performs one of his now infamous pauses, then holds up a sheet of paper. ‘Official green light. Production company on board, casting begins this week. Commissioners are moving fast on this one. They want it on screen in six months’ time.’
We are lifted by the surge of delight that takes us all with it. Hugs break out across the room. I hug Rona and reach across the table to grasp hands with Reece and Tom. Then I turn, just as Joe does – and the air is cut from our sails. We half-hug to maintain our carefully choreographed performance, but it’s more of a confused, hot-flushed mismatch of arms. Over Joe’s shoulder, I see Daphne’s eyes narrow.
‘Everyone’s excited about it. Plans to show a single episode per week, no box set on streaming services until the entire series has been broadcast. “Event TV”, kids, so Nathan Byford-King at The Sentinel can go and choke on that. I might invite him to a press screening and sit right next to him with the popcorn…’ He rubs his hands together and laughs. ‘But I’m getting ahead of myself. I always said I was setting up this team to be Ensign’s powerhouse – more than a single-series operation. It’s a new way of working. A dependable, consistent source of primetime hit shows. Well, congratulations: you’re it. I want to cover a range of stuff, from digital shorts and single-episode dramas right up to full-series and feature-length productions.’
It’s the dream. It should be exciting. It is exciting, but it isn’t how I thought it would be.
‘Bagsy the film,’ Joe mutters under his breath, loud enough for me to hear and I look at him without thinking. He risks a tiny smile. I send one back. It’s a stolen second of solidarity, but it’s the biggest step we’ve made since that night.
I’m not sure it’s even a truce, but it helps.
The plan for the next month is to work on pilot scripts based upon pitches Russell has written, the most viable of which will be taken forward. If this is successful, we repeat it until we have a bank of scripts for potential development.
‘We’ll keep the same writing teams,’ he says. ‘No point in reinventing the wheel. So today we plan and then you’re off.’
An air of excitement fills the room as Russell talks us through his ideas and we all pitch in with suggestions. As the time passes, I feel Joe relax a little beside me. I do the same. It’s not perfect and we still have to work out how to navigate being at home together, but it’s better than I feared it might be.
At lunchtime I’m waiting for coffee when I feel a soft pressure on my shoulder. I turn to meet Joe’s hesitant smile.
‘Otts, can we talk?’
‘I’m just getting a drink.’
‘Won’t be long.’
I glance over his shoulder towards the door. ‘You taking me on a Russell walk?’
His eyes flicker. ‘Sure, why not.’
We slip out of the room, my pulse thudding so loud I expect to hear it reverberating around the empty corridors. I haven’t done the eleventh-floor circuit before and I’m acutely aware of Joe watching me as we walk. It’s far bigger than I’ve imagined, West One’s still-to-be-let interiors eerily imposing.
‘Are we supposed to be talking?’ I ask after we’ve walked a few minutes in uneasy silence.
Joe stops walking. ‘Yes. Sorry.’ He stands a safe distance away from me.
I stay where I am and hug my arms to my body. It’s cold here, but I don’t know if that’s the building or the company. ‘Is this going to get easier, with us? Because it’s horrible.’ I hear the quake in my voice and hate it.
‘I hope it will. It has to.’
‘What if it doesn’t? Maybe we should just tell Russell…’ I see Joe’s horror at what that sounds like and quickly add, ‘that we’d like different partners.’
‘No.’
‘We have to do something…’ I don’t want to cry. I don’t want another row. I want us back.