She is a total surprise and the very last kind of person I imagined I’d share a home with. And she isn’t kidding about the books: sixteen boxes of them. How she got them all into the yellow Fiat 500 parked outside is mindboggling.
Within an hour they’re all in the house – our house now. Otty insists on buying pizza to celebrate and I don’t argue. I find a bottle of wine Matt forgot in his hurry to leave and we open it. We talk for hours in the living room while ITV3 plays reruns of crime dramas on the TV in the corner – Morse and DCI Banks, Vera Stanhope and Hamish Macbeth all speaking words penned by so many screenwriters before us.
And just like that, Otty is in.
Chapter Seven
OTTY
Waking up in a new house is weird.
Especially when the Someone Else Who Lives There walks out of the bathroom wearing only a towel, just as you’re heading in.
I was not prepared for that. To be fair, I don’t think Joe was either.
I can’t tell if the flush in his cheeks is from the shower or our meeting.
‘So. Morning, then,’ he grins.
‘Morning.’
If I wasn’t so mortified right now, I might enjoy this moment. I’ve felt like I’m at a disadvantage so far: moving into Joe’s house, starting work at Joe’s workplace. Even last night, when we laughed and chatted into the early hours, I was still aware that Joe was so familiar with everything in the house – which drawer the cutlery is in, where the wine glasses live, even which cushions belong on which chair in the living room. Now, in my thankfully modest nightwear, I finally have an advantage.
‘Nice T-shirt,’ he says, nodding at my Tom Walker tee.
‘Cheers. Um, nice – towel?’ I reply. That’s the line that breaks the tension.
This is going to take some getting used to…
Half an hour later I come downstairs and find Joe in the kitchen, thankfully fully clothed. The coffee machine is working away, filling the space with its warmth and roastiness. Caffeine is definitely destined to be my saviour this morning. Even though we only had one bottle of wine between us last night, the combination of that and the huge adrenalin rush of yesterday has left my head decidedly the worse for wear. Joe doesn’t seem to be in the same condition, amazingly fresh-faced considering the late night and our early start.
‘Coffee’s on,’ he says, buttering toast on a breadboard that looks as old as the house. He looks up. ‘You do like coffee, don’t you?’ Before I can reply he bats away the question with a wave of the butter knife. ‘What am I saying? You’re a writer: of course you do.’
Just like that. You’re a writer. The first time it’s been acknowledged in my everyday life. It isn’t a jibe or a criticism: it’s a fact. I feel tears threaten my eyes, which is completely daft, so I busy myself with finding a mug. Most of the kitchen stuff from my flat is still in a box in my room, but I brought my mugs downstairs last night and now they sit awkwardly in the cupboard next to Joe’s far more upmarket ones.
‘So, is it weird in the writers’ room with us new writers coming in?’
‘A bit.’ He munches a triangle of toast. ‘Doesn’t make much difference to me. I just keep my head down, keep doing the job.’
‘Some people yesterday were talking about the last intake getting fired. That must have been horrific, losing friends like that.’
‘They weren’t friends.’
‘Oh.’
He waves the toast in apology. ‘I mean, I don’t usually do the making-friends-at-work thing.’
I glance at the slice of toast I’ve just picked up. I don’t know whether I’m hungry now. ‘Why?’
‘Well, because…’ Joe slides out a chair from the kitchen table and sits. ‘Okay, the thing is, Russell is a bit impetuous. If people aren’t working well in the writers’ room, they go.’
Now I’m certain my appetite has gone.
‘How long did the previous intake last?’
‘I don’t think you need to…’
‘How long?’
‘Less than a week.’
Winded, I sit heavily on a chair. The air around me becomes thick and I can’t suck enough in to stop the burn in my lungs. ‘No…’
‘Hey, no, don’t panic.’
‘It’s impossible not to. This whole thing is impossible…’
‘Stop it. They weren’t your lot, okay? They weren’t you…’ He’s looking straight at me and I don’t want him to see my fear, don’t want him to know that about me. But it’s too late and yet again I’ve revealed my inexperience. But suddenly his hand is on mine on the table and I don’t know how to react. I look up at him. ‘That is – I mean – you can do this. You can prove to Russ that you belong there.’
‘How?’
‘By believing you should be.’ He shrugs, his fingers drifting back from mine like a gentle tide. ‘Fake it till you make it. You know you’re good enough – deep down. I mean, you had to believe that to even apply for this job.’
Do I believe I’m good enough? Right now I’m so scared I can’t remember feeling anything but fear. I saw the advert on a screenwriting website and applied before I had time to think better of it. I sent my sample script – a twenty-five-minute drama pilot about a Midlands street not unlike the one I grew up on – and I honestly didn’t think I’d hear anything from it. ‘I just don’t want to not be good enough, you know?’
Joe smiles. ‘Do I know? Every day of my life, right there. Just tell yourself this: everyone is bricking it. Even the biggest, loudest mouths in that room. Even Russell. Each of us knows we’re only as good as the next sentence we write.’ He drains his coffee cup and stands. ‘And if that doesn’t work, just imagine everyone naked.’
‘I read your script.’
I look up from the coffee station to see Rona, one of my fellow new writers, bearing down on me. She doesn’t smile but I’ve already learned this isn’t a bad sign. I’m surprised she’s read my work, even though the last thing Russell told us yesterday was that he’d put everyone’s sample scripts in the shared Dropbox file so we could familiarise ourselves with everyone’s style. Or spy on the competition, according to Joe. I haven’t looked at anyone else’s yet. I need my nerves to calm down sufficiently before I do.
‘Did you?’
‘Yeah. Amazing, girl. Like, full-on authenticity.’
‘Wow – um, thanks.’
‘Happy to write with you if we have to pair up?’ she says.
The compliment takes a moment to sink in. ‘I’d love that. Thanks, Rona.’
She nods and heads to her seat.
The wild flinging open of the door sends us all scuttling to our chairs as Russell sweeps in. His handclap bounces around the room. ‘Morning, team. Ready to work? Good.’
I watch him pacing the floor as he explains our brief for the first batch of scripts, remembering Joe’s remark from breakfast. I can’t believe anything scares Russell Styles. He oozes confidence, like it’s sewn into the very fabric of his being. Then I recall Joe’s other piece of advice and have to look down at my laptop to hide my smile.