Our Story: the new heartwarming and emotional romance fiction book from the Sunday Times bestselling author of Take A Look At Me Now

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘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.

  We spend the morning going over Russell’s vision for the series, the characters and themes we’re going to adopt as our own and the style he believes will set this production apart from anything else currently on the market. The series bible is already twenty pages long: heaven only knows how big it will be once we all start writing.

  I glance over at Joe, who is hunched over his laptop, typing like his life depends upon it. It’s as if he’s within an invisible box, oblivious to the rush of noise and energy around him. Contained, in every sense of the word. I admire his focus – I mean, that’s obviously how he’s got to where he is in his career.

  I look down at the notes I’m making as I chat to my colleagues and I like what I see. I know it’s early days and I know I’ll need more than a few notes to impress Russell, but I like this strange new life of mine. Now I just have to work out how to make it successful.

  Chapter Eight

  JOE

  Otty looks like she’s been here for ever.

  I watch her across the room, a smiling, chatting beacon in the group of writers that surround her. You would never know she was the same panicked housemate I had breakfast with this morning.

  I’d like to think my pep talk made this happen. But the more I watch, the more I’m convinced this is all Otty.

  She hasn’t even been here two full days yet but she seems to know everybody already. As for me, I’ve tried my best not to notice them. Because knowing them means two things: first, you see their work and how good they are, which is never good for your head; and second, there’s the whole solidarity thing that steps in between the job and the team. Both of them take your eyes off the ball – and that’s dangerous. I don’t want to be obliged to anyone but myself.

  Otty didn’t get the memo about this, apparently.

  ‘Close your mouth, there’s a train coming.’ Daphne slides into the vacant seat by mine, pleased with her jibe.

  ‘I wasn’t…’

  ‘Joseph, chill. It was a joke.’ I see her following my line of sight and make sure I’m looking at one of the hair-flickers next to Otty. ‘Ah, one of the Charlottes taken your fancy, hmm?’

  ‘Nope.’ Not that it’s any of her business.

  ‘Whatever. Look, I might have someone for your spare room.’ She waits. When I don’t respond her smile morphs into a frown. ‘Okay, I thought that news must just have cracked your face.’

  I bring my attention back to her. ‘Thanks, but I have somebody.’

  ‘What? When did this happen?’

  ‘Yesterday. She moved in last night.’

  Daphne folds her arms. ‘She?’

  ‘I think it’s going to work out,’ I say, quickly adding: ‘And if it doesn’t, it gives me more time to find someone else.’

  ‘And how did you find this – person? Telepathy?’

  ‘Actually, she found me.’ It feels good to say it and I don’t know why. Other than the gift of disapproval oozing from my colleague, which I am enjoying more than I should.

  Just then, Otty glances over and smiles at me. The game’s up: Daphne clocks it immediately.

  ‘You are kidding me.’

  ‘Hey, it was your note that did it. Cheers for that, Daph.’

  Even her perfect dewy foundation can’t disguise the indignant flush that rises in her cheeks. ‘What happened to “we don’t need any more writers”? What happened to “I don’t date colleagues”?’

  ‘It isn’t like that.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  She’s really rattled, isn’t she? Having the upper hand with Daphne is a surprise development but it makes Otty even more of a brilliant decision. ‘Otty needed a room and I needed a housemate. It’s the perfect solution. I don’t have to explain my job to her; if the place is a tip because I’m on deadline she isn’t going to moan at me because she’ll likely be on deadline, too. We could even go for weeks without talking because we’re wra
pped up in our scripts and neither of us ever has to apologise.’

  Daphne’s eyes narrow. ‘Or maybe you’re letting your biggest competition into your inner sanctum. Giving her everything she needs to bring you down.’

  ‘Yeah, Daph, because she’s going to find so many of my deepest secrets hidden under the dirty plates in the sink.’

  ‘Look at her, Joe! She’s a player. Second day in this room and she already has that lot eating out of her hand. That whole “working-class chummery” act is a smokescreen. Russell said he’s looking for team players, not lone wolves. If he sees Ottilie working her stuff with half the room and you not even bothering to learn their names, who do you think he’s going to favour when the next cut comes?’

  A small thought edges its way to the forefront of my mind: is this jealousy? I dismiss it. ‘Otty isn’t like that.’

  ‘Which you presumably know because you’ve been aware of her existence for all of twenty-four hours? Trust me, she’s trouble. The last thing you need is to be sleeping with the enemy.’

  ‘I’m not sleeping with her…’ I protest, but Daphne has already stalked away like a cheetah rounding on its prey. I shake off the irritation. Well, let her think I’m getting it on with Otty. About time she experienced being snubbed after all the months she’s done it to me.

  After sketching out the basic arc of the pilot and first three episodes, Russ suggests we pair off to flesh out the scenes. I’d rather work alone but Daphne’s remark about our boss wanting team players sits uneasily within me. Just in case she’s right, I’ll show willing and do it this time.

  ‘Hey, pardner,’ the bearded hipster I’m paired with says in a woeful cowboy accent he’s clearly proud of. He could be a Josh or a Jake or even a Bernard for all I know. It doesn’t matter: ace this one and then I might get to do the rest alone.

  My current writing partner bounces at my side and I have a horrible premonition that he might start like this and then transform into a bright-eyed psycho stalker, Single White Female style, only male. I think I hide my shudder well…

  ‘Hey – um…?’

  ‘Josh. Answer to J-Man, Joshy, whatever.’

  ‘Right. I’m Joe – nice to meet you.’

  Josh/J-Man/Joshy shakes my hand with far too enthusiastic a grip. ‘Good to meet you, Joe. Fancy bashing out some words over food? I know a great sashimi place in the Jewellery Quarter.’

  Spare me.

  ‘Love to but I have another deadline tonight,’ I shrug. His crestfallen face makes me feel like I just dropkicked a puppy. ‘How about a breakfast meet? The place next door does great stuffed bagels.’

  ‘Gluten-free?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Great!’ Bouncy Hipster juggles the laptop and pad in his arms to pull his phone from his back pocket. ‘So ping us your number and I’ll see you tomorrow bright and early, yeah?’

  I’m exhausted by the time he’s scampered off. This is going to be a long week.

  ‘Joe.’ Russell is striding over.

  ‘Hey, boss.’

  ‘A word in your ear?’

  ‘Sure.’

  He glances over his shoulder. ‘Not in here. Walk with me.’

  Instead of heading to his office, we pass through the entrance doors and commence a slow circuit of the eleventh floor. It’s still early days for this building and a third of the offices are awaiting tenants. The opposite side of West One is an eerie, echoing vastness, the kind of place someone tours shortly before the strip lights splutter out and apocalyptic zombies lay siege to the building. I squirrel the idea away. Who knows when the undead might come in handy?

  ‘How do you reckon the newbies are doing?’

  I glance at Russell as he strides beside me. ‘Good. I mean, probably too early to tell. But they seem to be getting on.’

  ‘Hm.’

  ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘I want to give them a few days to settle. Not like last time.’ He gives me the kind of self-conscious grin more akin to apologising for nicking a parking space than cancelling eight writers’ contracts in one fell swoop. We really are that expendable to him.

  ‘I think it will serve the room best,’ I say, careful to keep my tone steady.

  ‘Mm. It helps that they have more about them than the last lot. More variety. I like the Brummie one.’

  ‘Aren’t they all…?’

  ‘The working-class girl. Bit older. Very Brummie. Her script was gritty and urban and just what we need.’

  ‘Ottilie Perry?’

  ‘That’s the one. Got to admit, she ticks a box the commissioners will like. Working-class, own-voice bollocks and all. I mean, look around the room, Joe: middle-class as far as the eye can see. But she has real potential. I like that. Keep an eye on her, will you? Report back regularly.’

  This is awkward. ‘The thing is, Russ…’

  I’m silenced by the slap of his hand on my shoulder. ‘My wünderkind and the workhouse apprentice. Practically a script in itself.’ He chuckles at his own quip. ‘All good, Joe? Excellent.’

  As I watch him powering away my feet become lead weights on the newly laid office carpet. The last thing I want to do is babysit someone, especially my brand-new housemate. I gaze out across the carpeted emptiness to the wideness of the city beyond its windows. All I wanted was to focus on this job on my own. Fat chance of that.

  Maybe if I can make it look like I’m mentoring Otty, Russell will be satisfied and leave me to get on with my own stuff. A point in my favour wouldn’t hurt in that room. And as the least-experienced writer on the team, Otty’s position is already perilous. The last cull took writers with five, ten years’ more experience. She needs protecting – for both our sakes. I need her in that room and in our house, paying half the rent. Once Russ recognises her talent, I can back off.

  I hope.

  Whatever else, I need to read Otty’s script. See what I’m really up against.

  I’ll do it tonight.

  Chapter Nine

  OTTY

  Oh, this house. It’s perfect!

  While Joe and I are still sailing cautiously around each other, I feel like I’ve found my perfect space. What I overheard him say to Daphne Davies about this place being his muse makes sense now I’m here. The light is not what you’d expect to find inside when you view the house from the street. From outside it looks like a dark, imposing Edwardian villa, its ebony-painted window frames, white and black harlequin-tiled path and shiny black front door are imposing like many of the houses around here. But inside it’s light and warm and welcoming.

  There’s still one person I know won’t be won over yet, no matter how lyrical I wax about the light and the ambience here. I can’t put it off any longer. Time to call home.

  ‘Old houses,’ Dad says, as if those two words carry a world of worry.

  ‘You should see the cornicing and the original fireplaces, Dad. And the tiles in the hall are Minton…’

  ‘Expensive, then, if anything gets broken.’

  ‘Joe tells me the landlord is very understanding.’

  I hear an indecipherable mutter, which I don’t want to ask him to define. ‘And that’s another thing. Living with a fella…’

  ‘His name is Joe, Dad. He’s my colleague and my housemate.’

  ‘He’s a bloke, our Otts. There’s only one thing his trousers will be interested in.’

  I bite my cheek to stifle a laugh. ‘Well, his trousers aren’t interested in me.’

  ‘You can’t know that! He could be planning on jumping you as we speak.’

  ‘Dad…’

  ‘What do you know about him, eh? And how come his last housemate moved out? These are questions you should have asked before you moved in.’

  ‘Joe is a decent guy, Dad. And you should trust me a bit more.’

  ‘Don’t start that with me, bab. We all know what decisions you make when it’s left to you.’

  I am not having this argument again. ‘This is the right house for me. An
d when you see it, you’ll agree.’

  He has no answer for that. And I know it will irritate him. I imagine him pacing the car park outside RoadTrail, the hum of passing traffic and scuff of boots on concrete confirming my suspicion. And then he comes back with the only thing he can throw at me. ‘It’s times like these I wish you still talked to your mother.’

  ‘If she’d left a forwarding address I could have.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ He has to concede that. Fact is, when Mum left Dad she left everything – our home, the country, her interest in me. We don’t talk now and I’m not sure we ever really did when she was at home. I don’t feel I’m missing out, which is the saddest part. ‘You could’ve found a place with a girl, is all I’m saying. Or another one on your own.’

  ‘Not at such short notice. And not such a gorgeous place as this.’

  ‘Right. And what am I supposed to tell Sheila?’

  I screw my eyes tight shut and wait until the urge to give the answer I really want to subsides. Even though I knew this was coming, it doesn’t make it any easier to hear when it does. I might have lived most of my life surrounded by opinions on it from everyone around me, but that stops now. I’m not working for Dad, I’m not living at home, I’ve made my decisions. And everyone else is just going to have to get used to it.

  I take a breath: remind myself that they think they’re doing what’s best for me, even though they aren’t. ‘Tell Sheila I’ve found a lovely place to live. She doesn’t need to know anything else.’

  He’ll come around, eventually. I hope, anyway. And even if he doesn’t, this is my place. I don’t need Dad or Sheila or half of the West Midlands to like it for me to be happy here.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Rona puts the strange glass contraption on the scuffed scaffold-board desk beside me.

  ‘That is an air-press for a coffee.’

  ‘It looks like something from the Starship Enterprise.’

  I sense the shadow of a smile. ‘And that’s what makes it cool.’ I arranged to meet my writing partner in the Custard Factory, in a hot-desking loft space her brother owns. It’s industrial and achingly cool – the kind of place I couldn’t have dreamed of working even six months ago. Everything is exposed brick and reclaimed steel and wood, the floorboards of the once busy factory space now polished and stained a deep cherry-brown. All around us people from across the creative industries are working together, air-pressed coffee steaming beside shiny laptops.