The beard ratio is strong here, too. I smile, remembering Joe’s formula for spotting hipster venues. I dashed out of the house early this morning and yelled goodbye to him, but I don’t think he heard me. He was in his invisible workbox again, at the kitchen table, his forehead furrowed into a deep frown. Come to think of it, he’s been weird since he got back from Ensign yesterday. I saw him go out with Russell in the afternoon; when he returned twenty minutes later he seemed preoccupied and stayed like that all night.
I don’t know if I should be worried or not. I don’t know him well enough to spot the signs yet. At RoadTrail I’d become so used to my colleagues’ emotional landscapes that I could decipher their mood by how they’d parked their cars outside the unit. It takes time, I remind myself, just like anything else. And whatever it is, it’s Joe’s business. I’m not the kind of person to instantly assume I’m responsible for someone else’s mood. If Joe has a problem, it’s his alone.
Besides, I have far more important things to focus on.
It’s amazing to think that people across the world might one day watch actors speaking the words Rona and I are writing today.
Our first assignment is completing a scene where a secret is revealed. In the thriller we’re working on, everyone is leading a double-life except for the central character, Laura Eye, who states at the beginning she has no life of her own beyond her work. This scene is the first glimpse viewers will get that Laura is lying.
Having somebody to spark ideas off creates a pace I haven’t experienced before. And what surprises me most is that apart from our first ten awkward minutes writing together, I feel like Rona’s equal. I never expected that. After four hours’ work, we’ve achieved so much.
We arrange to meet tomorrow in the same place and I leave with a free coffee from her brother Jas and his phone number, which I might just use. Part of the new me. New house, new job, new life. I like that. I walk out of the building on pockets of air and around me the city beams.
I should go straight home, but I want to go into Ensign Media to pick up a spare copy of the series bible. I want to keep one at home that I can annotate as I go. I’m protective about the notes I take, probably because I have written in secret for so long. Everything in the writers’ room is shared: it feels good to have something only I can see.
I’m in the lift to the eleventh floor before I realise I’ve parked, passed through the crazy entry system and navigated the security checks without even thinking. Another sign I’m more at home here now. I smile at my multi-reflections in the glass-lined elevator. Less of a newbie now, Otts.
The doors part and I step out with my head held high. I present my pass with a cavalier flourish to the panel on the wall and push open the door to Ensign’s reception.
Molly looks up from her monitor at the welcome desk. She’s probably not even twenty but she has a swagger like she’s been in charge of reception for ten years. ‘Ottilie, hi. The Eye, Spy team aren’t in today…’
‘It’s okay, I know. I was just after another copy of the series bible?’
‘There’s a stack of them in the writers’ room. Go on in.’
I thank her and head to the room. It’s odd with nobody else here: almost as if it’s lost without the bodies and noise inside it. I spot the stack of papers at the far end of the room and head towards it, my fingers tracing a trail around the edge of the writing table as I go.
‘The team aren’t in today.’
Startled, I turn back to the door. Daphne Davies is standing in the doorway. She isn’t smiling.
‘Hi, I know. I just needed another bible.’
‘Destroy the last one, did you?’ A smile appears but it doesn’t soften her stare.
‘You guessed it. Freak firestorm. Dragons. Usual occupational hazard.’ It wrong-foots her for a second, giving me chance to breathe. I move to the stack of papers and slide one from the top. Fixing my bravest smile, I turn back and walk towards our script co-ordinator.
She steps into my path. ‘So, I heard you’re living with Joe now? Fast work.’
‘It came up at the right time.’
‘I’ll bet.’
This is why I never worked in an office environment before. Why is everything a battle with some people? ‘Anyway, I’d better be getting back.’
‘Of course. Mustn’t keep Mr Carver waiting.’
Okay, that’s it. I am not leaving here with Daphne thinking she has licence to speak to me like that. ‘I’m sorry, was there something you wanted to say?’
She does that mock-astonished look that bitchy characters do in Netflix teen movies. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
I eyeball her. I can see my expression reflected in her expensive eyewear and I wonder if she even sees me. ‘Right. If you’ll excuse me…’
‘Thing is about Joe Carver: he’s a hustler. He likes to play the laid-back lad, all charm and nonchalance. He can make you feel like the only other person in the room. But he’d trample you to get where he wants to be.’
‘Good job he just needs me to help pay his rent then, eh?’
Daphne sighs and holds up her hand. ‘Ottilie, don’t get me wrong. I’m not suggesting you’re interested in him – although nobody would blame you if you were. He is not without his charms. Just be careful, okay? Because the man has an agenda. And you don’t really know him, do you?’
I’m rattled as I drive home through the building traffic. I don’t want to pay any attention to Daphne, but what she said has raised a question I can’t escape. Dad said it too, didn’t he? What do I know about Joe? I’ve seen how close to Russell he is and I know how focused he is on his work. And he has been weird with me lately. Closed off. Is that how he always is or is he having second thoughts about me moving in?
By the time I park outside the house, I’m a mess.
There’s only one thing for it: I have to talk to Joe.
Chapter Ten
JOE
I read her script. And if I didn’t like her so much already, I would hate her.
The thing is, the more I see Otty at work and spend time with her at home the more I’m convinced she doesn’t realise how good she is. Her dialogue sparkles, the characters as real and rounded as if you’d watched them for years. I know she thinks she’s flying blind, but she’s got this.
Which presents me with a problem.
Two problems, actually.
First, Russell wants to know what I think. I want to be honest with him so he trusts me, and I don’t want to sell Otty short. She’s more than just one of Russell’s boxes ticked for the writing team. Otty deserves to shine for her considerable talent alone, not where she’s come from. But Russell has already noticed her talent: if I tell him how good she really is, will that make him forget me?
And second, it feels wrong to be spying on Otty. If the tables were turned I would hate to discover she’d been spying on me. I’d be furious.
I’m going to have to think about this.
‘Joe.’
I jump and look up from my laptop. Otty is standing in the kitchen doorway. She doesn’t look happy.
‘Hey. Writing session go well?’
‘Yup.’
‘Great.’ There’s a pause that could split rock. She isn’t smiling, and when I try to wear one I know I look deranged. I never had this with Matt. ‘Josh and I did well too, for a first session. He’s very… enthusiastic.’
‘Enthusiastic is good. Even if you are judging him for his millennial facial hair.’ It’s a joke – I think – but delivered smileless it’s a bit scary.
‘Hang on, who said I was…?’
‘Have I offended you?’
‘Sorry?’
She takes a step into the kitchen. ‘Because I’ve been going over it in my mind and I can’t work out what’s changed here.’
‘Nothing’s changed.’
Her arms fold across her body. ‘You’ve hardly spoken to me this week. When I catch your eye at work, you look away.’
‘Ha
ve I? I didn’t mean to…’ I may have been a bit careful around her while I work out what to do with Russell’s request, but I haven’t tried to avoid her. At least, I don’t think I have…
‘You’re in your room as soon as I get home and either dashing out before me in the morning or trying to hide behind your laptop screen. If this isn’t working…’
‘No,’ I say quickly – because the last thing I want is Otty moving out. ‘It is working. I’m sorry. I’ve just had my head down.’
‘Whenever I’ve been around. The thing is, I don’t know you, Joe. I don’t know what you’re thinking: when you’re joking or when you just want to be left alone. And I just thought…’
She looks so lost and I want to hug her but she’s right. I don’t know her well enough, either.
‘Right, come on.’ I close my laptop, walk over to her and offer my hand.
She blinks at me like I’m speaking Russian. Or Martian.
‘We need to get to know each other. Starting now. Shall we?’
Otty takes my hand like it might be an incendiary device and I lead her out into the hall. I risk giving her fingers a squeeze as I open the door and we walk out into the bright Birmingham sunlight.
The canalside bar is quiet considering it’s a weekday. We find a table outside and take a seat, as homeward-bound business people and students scurry past. Otty is still glancing at me as if she expects me to turn into a werewolf any minute, but at least she agreed to come. I can work with that.
She sips her pear cider, the ice cubes clinking against the glass. I watch her, then realise I’m staring and turn my attention to the mother duck floating past on the dark canal water, and the five balls of fluffy feathers frantically paddling in her wake. I know how they feel.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, not daring to look at her yet.
‘Me too. I panicked.’
‘I didn’t exactly put your mind at rest.’
She traces a drop of condensation down the length of her glass. ‘I haven’t lived with anybody else for a long time. I’m still working out how to do it.’
‘Well, I haven’t lived with a girl before. Sorry, a woman.’
Otty gives a snort of laughter and almost chokes on her cider. ‘Thanks for noticing.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ I say, but I’m laughing, too.
‘For a scriptwriter you’re rubbish with words sometimes.’
‘Thanks for noticing.’
She’s smiling when I look at her and it feels like a win. ‘You’re welcome.’
‘You’re right, though: we need to get to know each other. So, what do you want to know?’
‘Favourite place in Brum?’
‘Easy. Electric Cinema. You?’
‘The Museum and Art Gallery. Pre-Raphaelite rooms.’
‘Ah, bit of a Dante Gabriel Rossetti fan, are you?’
‘More of a John Everett Millais groupie. Rossetti loved himself too much.’
‘Fair point. Um, what’s next?’
‘Favourite place to eat?’
‘Purnell’s, of course. You?’
‘Diamond Balti.’ She laughs when she sees my reaction. ‘It’s a hidden gem. Best Jaipuri chicken in Birmingham and naan breads bigger than your head. I’ll take you there some time.’
‘Sounds like an experience. I’ll look forward to that. Favourite football team? Villa or City?’ Don’t say City, don’t say City…
‘Neither.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re a Baggies fan?’
Otty shakes her head. ‘I’m not into football. Cricket’s our family’s game.’
‘Worcestershire?’
‘Get lost! I’m a Bear through and through. I’m a member of Warwickshire Cricket Club at Edgbaston.’
That’s another surprise. Otty does not strike me as a cricket fan, let alone a member. As we talk, more surprises emerge: she’s a former mountain bike mechanic, she’s teaching herself Welsh for fun and her biggest ambition is to write a series of Doctor Who. None of which I would have guessed unless she’d told me.
Birmingham has its summer hat on, city workers settling outside canalside bars to bask in the warm late-afternoon sun. The Venetian clock at Brindleyplace chimes the hour and Otty insists on stopping to listen until its lovely chimes have finished. Three swans land noisily on the canal and pigeons dip and soar above our heads. On days like this, my adopted home city is the best in the world. I came here as a fresh-faced kid from Oxford, firstly to do my degree at the university and then my first scriptwriting job apprenticed to a unit Russell was leading. And although I followed his team down to London for a couple of years and then dallied with a production company in Manchester for nine months, I found myself drawn back to Brum when freelance work kicked off. This place fits me. That’s all there is to it.
There’s an unhurried air today, the day’s work done and the promise of a light summery evening stretching ahead. Not that I work in an office, or have a workday that ends at 5 p.m. But for a while I can enjoy the atmosphere. And Otty’s company.
Until we stop for chips on the way home and she asks me a question.
‘What’s Russell really like?’
Crap.
‘He’s a good guy. Can be a bit blinkered sometimes but successful people often are.’
Otty blows on her chips. ‘It’s just that you seem close to him.’
‘He knows me, that’s all.’
‘I think it’s more than that. He respects you, more than the rest of us. I mean, I haven’t seen him take anyone else for a walk around the building.’
I didn’t know she’d spotted that. I stuff a load of chips into my mouth and wince as their heat scalds my tongue.
‘They’re hot,’ Otty says, looking at me like I’ve lost the plot. I probably have. Because I know the next question will be what Russell thinks of Otty and I don’t think I can lie to her if she asks me.
I swallow the molten mouthful, imagining the blisters it’s searing down my throat, and say the only thing I can think of that will change the subject:
‘I read your script.’
The chip on the wooden fork halts between the paper and her lips, which drop open. I force my gaze back up to meet hers.
‘Which script?’ Her whispered question makes the steam dance above her chips.
‘The one you sent with your application.’
She blinks. ‘When?’
‘This morning. Otty, it’s really…’
‘No!’ She holds up her hand. ‘Don’t say anything.’
‘But I thought it was…’
‘Stop it!’
‘But…’
‘No, Joe! You can’t just casually drop that on me, like it’s a trivial thing. Like it doesn’t matter.’
‘Who said it doesn’t matter?’
But now she’s backing away from me and I’m not sure why. ‘Don’t tell me what you thought, okay? Not here.’ She screws up her still half-full chip paper, throws it in the blue plastic bin outside the chippy and walks away from me.
I watch her leave, my own dinner no longer palatable. What just happened?
Chapter Eleven
OTTY
Why did I go off like that?
All he was doing was being kind, I’m sure. Before I started working on the writing team I would have killed to get any kind of feedback from Joe Carver. It was just unexpected when he offered it and I wasn’t prepared.
And now I’m hiding in my room back at the house, too chicken to go downstairs and explain myself. Great work, Otty Perry. Just brilliant.
We didn’t speak on the bus back from the city centre and as soon as we got in the house I fled upstairs. I can hear Joe crashing about in the kitchen beneath my room and I know he’s annoyed. I owe him an apology and an explanation. But what would I say?
How do I say that the words on the page are like pieces I’ve torn from myself and stuck there? How do I explain that the thought of them not shining like I want them to is worse than death? I’ve ne
ver told anyone how I feel about my writing. I don’t know if I will ever be able to express why I write, only that I have to. It’s as if the words cram up inside my head and demand to be let loose on the page. But is that how every writer feels about their work? Or is it just me?
It makes no rational sense. They’re just words – but they mean so much more than that. Until I sent that script to Ensign Media, I’d never shown my writing to another living soul. I’d never been on a training course, or met any other writers until the day I walked into the writers’ room. I never expected to be successful with my script and now I’m being counted among some of the brightest writing talents in the country. It’s terrifying, but the tiniest voice within me assures me I deserve to be here.
How do I say all of this to Joe?
The answer is simple: I don’t. Not tonight.
Throwing the duvet over my head, I close my eyes and wish it all away.
Brrrhhhzz… Brrrhhhzz… Brrrhhhzz…
It takes me a while to decipher the muffled buzzing sound when I open them again. Daylight floods into my room from the curtains I didn’t close last night and I groan as I see my crumpled clothes I’ve slept in. Eventually I pull back one corner of my duvet from where it’s been kicked to the floor and discover my mobile angrily buzzing its alarm from within the folds.
A brief peer into the upstairs landing confirms the bathroom is free, so I dash in and bolt the door. If Joe is awake already, I don’t want to bump into him on my way to the shower or – worse – on my way out of it. As soon as I’m done, I’m going to find him and apologise for last night. I just need to look less like an extra from The Walking Dead first.
Half an hour later, I dare to go downstairs. The sitting room is empty, the kitchen peaceful. Joe’s laptop is gone from the table, his jacket missing from the back of the chair where it usually lives. There’s the faintest tang of coffee in the still air but the filter jug is cold. If he made a pot it must have been hours ago.
Our Story: the new heartwarming and emotional romance fiction book from the Sunday Times bestselling author of Take A Look At Me Now Page 5
