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

  My hand is in his before I can think better of it.

  And then, we’re hugging.

  I’m not sure how it happens, or who initiated it, but it feels right. It lasts longer than either of us expect, so that when it ends we pull back, both a bit flushed.

  ‘So how do we do this?’ I ask because I’m still not certain it’s even possible.

  Joe grins. ‘First, we eat. Then we start from the beginning – together this time.’

  Chapter Twenty

  JOE

  We write. Late into the night. And I’m startled by how relieved I am that Otty agreed to this.

  It starts slowly, awkwardly, each discussion tentative, both of us edging around the questions. It’s like every word I say to Otty, or suggest for the page, is weighed and considered before I dare to voice it. But gradually the tension eases. As the page fills with words, our confidence grows.

  I can’t believe I flipped the way I did. Hours after the event, the memory still makes me squirm. More than that, I can’t believe I told Otty everything about Southside.

  Well, almost everything.

  There was the small detail of my disastrous, short-lived affair with Carla, the supervising producer. I’m not proud of that – mainly because I should have seen the danger before I strolled headlong into it. Turned out I was a willing volunteer for her plan to make Ced Martin, executive producer, jealous. It worked like a dream – and probably ended mine.

  ‘Joe?’

  I realise Otty is waiting for me. ‘Sorry.’ I reach across and type the next line of dialogue. Our spy, Laura Eye, is leaving a message on her late mother’s still-active voicemail, as she does every night before she sleeps. Nobody knows Laura made contact with her mum after years of estrangement, shortly before her death, so she feels it’s a safe outlet for her grief and loneliness. Of course, it isn’t, but our protagonist doesn’t know that yet.

  The voicemail was Otty’s idea and it’s brilliant. It reveals so much more of Laura’s character and motivation than she would divulge to her therapist or the other members of her family – and it’s heartbreaking that she’s essentially pouring her heart out to a machine with her mother’s voice.

  ‘If you want to call it a night you can,’ Otty says, stretching her arms above her head. She’s been trying to disguise her yawns for the last hour and I can feel the drag of tiredness down my spine.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Gone 3 a.m.’

  ‘I didn’t realise.’ When I look at her I can see dark shadows hollowing out her cheeks. ‘We probably should – if you want to?’

  She grins at the screen. ‘We’ve just sent Laura to bed, so maybe we should do the same.’

  We save the file, power down my laptop and head upstairs. On the landing, Otty stops by her bedroom door.

  ‘Night, then.’

  ‘Goodnight. We did good.’

  She smiles. ‘We did.’

  There’s a moment when I think we might hug, a slight leaning towards each other. My breath catches – and then Otty pulls back. I don’t know if I’m relieved or disappointed, but the smile we share instead is as close to an embrace as we could get without touching.

  When I walk into my room, the mirror on the wardrobe reflects a version of me I haven’t seen for a long time. He looks happy. I like him.

  ‘Somebody’s chirpy for a Monday.’ Daphne clicks sweeteners into her coffee, the squeak of her acrylic nails against the plastic dispenser a teeth-grating intrusion.

  ‘Morning, Daphne.’

  ‘How’s it going with the live-in writing partner?’

  I pour coffee into my mug, ignoring the edge in her question. ‘Good, thanks.’

  ‘I imagine it must be intense, spending all that time together.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Liar. Risky, though, putting all your eggs in one basket. One big row, one misunderstanding and – pouf – the party’s over.’

  ‘We work well together. And we’re enjoying living together, too.’

  That hit the target. I see the flicker in her expression before she regroups. ‘Shag her yet?’

  I don’t even deign to answer that, raising an eyebrow at Daphne as I walk away. Nope, you’re not going to dent my mood, I say to her in my head. Not this morning.

  It’s been the longest few days but I’m really proud of the script we sent to Russell yesterday afternoon. It has more depth than the scenes I wrote with Josh and I think even Otty would say it has deeper emotion than the writing she did with Rona.

  Of course, Russell might hate it.

  That’s why I’m here at Ensign so early this morning. My guts have been in knots for hours and there was no way I was getting any sleep last night. I love our scenes, but for me they’re a risk. Russell has only ever seen my work in its solid, dependable state. I don’t know if he’ll agree with us inventing a dead mother and a risky device in Laura’s voicemail messages. It isn’t in his series bible and it didn’t feature in any of our plot discussions within the writers’ room. It feels right, but the last time I was so certain of something, I lost it all.

  I hear voices in reception and make my way out of the writers’ room. Otty has arrived and she and Rona are laughing together. Daphne is doing her best to look disinterested, but I know she’ll be straining her ears to catch every word. And then Russell is suddenly among us.

  He looks relaxed. Considering he’s read everyone’s submitted scripts this has to be a good sign. I see him pocket a pain au chocolat from the stash I brought in – my blinding plan to bribe my way past any potential script niggles – and check to make sure nobody’s seen his blatant defiance of his doctor’s advice. And then he spots me and walks over.

  ‘Joseph! This your idea?’

  ‘I thought it wouldn’t hurt.’

  He reaches into his pocket and puts a torn-off chunk of pastry into his mouth. ‘You’ve got to give me the address of this bakery. Divine.’ He brushes off the shower of pastry flakes from his shirt and clamps a hand on my shoulder. ‘Walk with me.’

  Uh-oh.

  I push the shot of fear back down inside as we set off at Russell Styles’ pace. It’s fine. It will all be great. This is just his usual Otty-check, nothing more.

  But what if he loved everyone else’s scripts except ours? What if this is a kind intervention before we all go into the writers’ room?

  Breathe, Carver.

  Russell is busy talking about the building – there’s a plan for a digital production company to move into one of the vacant eleventh-floor office spaces in the next few months. I make positive noises at the right junctures, but we’re getting close to the halfway point on his usual route: the place where he will stop and say what we’ve come here to discuss. My throat is suddenly dry.

  He stops abruptly and I stop, too. I squirm behind a badly fitting smile.

  ‘Your script, Joe…’

  ‘Did it arrive okay?’ I’m playing for time and the squeak at the end of my question betrays my raging nerves.

  He laughs. ‘Of course it did. And it was…’ He waves a hand in the air as if trying to catch the right word.

  Oh crap…

  ‘… Inspired.’

  ‘It – it was?’

  ‘I have to admit, it was a risk pairing you with Otty. But what a pay-off! Fantastic, Joe. Just the kind of out-of-the-box thinking we need. Clearly she brings out the best in you.’

  Relief almost buckles my knees. ‘That’s great, Russ. I mean, we knew it was a bit – out there – but it works, yeah?’

  ‘Absolutely. And it’s another weakness in Laura we can tease the audience with. Get ’em gasping and OMG-ing all over Twitter, eh?’

  ‘Word-of-mouth power!’ I say, cringing at my air punch as soon as I’ve thrown it. My hand falls like a rock to my side.

  Russell doesn’t seem to notice my transformation into an overexcited buzzword-utterer. This morning is a morning of small mercies. ‘I love what you’re doing with our workhouse apprent
ice. I see big things for your partnership if you keep producing work like this. Good job, Joe.’

  I’m about to reply that Laura’s voicemail messages were all Otty’s idea, when Russell grins and sets off back to the office. I’ll tell him when we next talk. Accepting the praise for Otty’s work just isn’t right. But I can’t deny the rush of exhilaration as I hurry after him.

  We did it. The risk paid off.

  In the writers’ room we take our seats. I can feel the nerves rising like steam from my colleagues as they watch Russell walk in. They must all be battling the same doubts I did before my Russell-walk. I like the tiny advantage I have over them. But then I see Otty’s expression and remember that she doesn’t know we’re in the clear.

  Under the table I reach across and squeeze her hand where it rests in her lap. She jumps and looks at me.

  ‘He loves it,’ I mouth.

  Her eyes grow wide and then it’s like sunshine breaks out across her face. It’s the loveliest thing.

  ‘Thank you,’ she mouths back.

  Across the table, Daphne coughs.

  ‘Your scripts all made the cut,’ Russell announces, smiling as a tsunami of exhales and released laughter rings around the room. ‘So we sign them off and we move on. I’m happy with these pairings so I’m going to keep them. Your writing partner is now your permanent co-writer. Congratulations, guys. I’m excited about the work we’re doing.’

  I smile at Otty. She smiles at me. This is going to work, isn’t it?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  OTTY

  ‘Pass us one of them scratchings, our Otts.’

  I hand Dad the bag of pork scratchings, nicking one on the way. As he always does, Dad mock-gasps at my daughterly audacity and I bow my head and pretend to look guilty.

  I’ve missed this.

  It’s a gorgeous day today, the sun washing across the green of Edgbaston Cricket Ground. The game has settled into a steady rhythm of warm willow cracks and single runs, gentle ripples of applause and the occasional peak of excitement. It’s a county match, the mighty Warwickshire playing Yorkshire, and we’re fielding right now.

  Most of RoadTrail will be here soon, Jarvis and Steve are on their way over and Sheila is due to arrive after lunch. But for now, it’s just Dad and me.

  ‘We’ve got ’em on the rails, I reckon,’ he says between munches. ‘They had us last year but we in’t about to roll over again.’

  ‘It’s a good team,’ I reply, enjoying the sun on my shoulders as it reaches our side of the ground.

  ‘It is.’ He reaches for another handful of scratchings. ‘So, how you getting on in that old house?’

  ‘Nothing’s broken yet.’

  He nods. ‘Give it time. And your chap?’

  ‘Joe’s not my chap.’

  ‘Housemate, then. Is he treating you well?’

  I have to laugh at the formality of the question. ‘He hasn’t broken me yet.’

  ‘Ottilie!’

  ‘Sorry. We’re fine. We’re writing together now.’

  ‘Are you?’ I can tell by the sudden drop of his bushy eyebrows over his blue eyes what Dad thinks of this.

  ‘Russell put us together. It took us a while but it seems to be working.’

  ‘Well, as long as you’ve still got a job.’ He jumps to his feet, staring at the game. ‘Catch it! Catch it!’ His groan joins those of our fellow fans as he resumes his seat. ‘What kind of a catch was that? Anyone’d think they’d buttered the ball.’

  Dad’s sudden emotional outbursts at cricket matches never cease to amuse me. It’s a sign of home. This has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. Sitting in the same stand, in roughly the same seats (not too close to the exit, not too close to the front), in all weathers, sharing snacks, sandwiches and flasks of tea with Dad and any number of family members, friends and RoadTrail people. But the way I’ve always liked it best is like today: Dad and me.

  ‘Any luck with finding my replacement?’ I ask. Dad made some noises a while ago about looking, but I’ve heard nothing since.

  ‘I told you, I’m not replacing you.’

  ‘You need someone else in the workshop,’ I begin, but Dad’s tut stops me.

  ‘Bab, you may need it. That job of yours might be peachy right now, but I’ve heard it’s a fickle business and they’re just as likely to drop you as take you on.’

  ‘Russell loves what I’m writing with Joe. I think we’re going to be there a long time.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope so.’

  ‘You still need to get someone in.’

  His stares at the bag of scratchings in his palm. ‘I know.’

  ‘Even if you want it to be a short-term thing.’

  ‘I know, Otts. My life, you sound like Sheila.’

  ‘Well, maybe we both have a point.’

  He waves off my suggestion with all the irritation of a man frequently called out for his daft stubbornness. He’ll get there in the end, I’m sure. He’ll have to: I’ve risked too much to be working at Ensign and I’m not going back.

  The Yorkshire batsman, who has been sitting pretty at the crease for the last half-hour, suddenly hits the ball awkwardly – and we’re on our feet. I hold my breath as the ball sails out across the field, our team racing to meet it. And then it drops like a dream into the fielder’s hand and the entire stand erupts. Dad and I hug and I swear the sun shines brighter than it did a moment ago. Grinning at the other Warwickshire fans around us, we retake our seats.

  Dad mops his brow with an imaginary handkerchief and whistles. ‘Got ’im! Better late than never, eh?’ He smiles and pats my knee. ‘Good to have you here, bab. Been too long.’

  ‘I know. It’s just so busy at work. I’ve hardly had time to think.’

  ‘You work hard. Always have.’ He takes another pork scratching from the bag and chews thoughtfully. ‘You know, Sheila was asking how you were getting on.’

  The compliment creaks beneath heavy emphasis. ‘I’ll see her today, though,’ I reply, my stomach knotting. I feel bad about not seeing Sheila since I left Dad’s place. I love her – always will – but it’s not straightforward to see her outside of RoadTrail anymore.

  ‘You know, Chris is back in town.’

  And that’s why.

  ‘I thought he was in Oxford?’ Nerves lift the end of my question to an uncomfortable pitch and I cough to try to pull back control. The wording of his text returns to my mind: I have news. Was that what he wanted to tell me?

  ‘He was.’ Dad watches me carefully. ‘But he reckons there was too much calling him home.’

  The exhilaration from the catch fades as a cloud drifts across the sun. I watch a line of shadow sweep across the cricket ground, dulling everything.

  ‘So where’s he working now?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Some sort of freelance consultancy blah-de-blah. That techy stuff of his is beyond me. Point is, he’s back. And Sheila says he’s practically a different man.’

  I know where this is heading. I’d hoped to avoid the subject, seeing as we’ve been here for almost three hours without Dad mentioning it. But that was too optimistic, even for me. Of course it isn’t over with. It might never be.

  ‘Well, that’s good for him. And nice for Sheila too, I imagine, having him closer.’

  ‘Oh, she’s over the moon. I am, too. Always loved the lad. Despite… you know.’

  I hold my breath, willing something to happen on the pitch that steals his attention and robs his train of thought.

  Yeah, like that’s going to happen.

  ‘Maybe… you could see him now he’s back? Chat things over?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Couldn’t hurt.’

  Muscles knot across my shoulders. My chest grows tight. I didn’t want a fight today but I’m not going to back down on this. ‘No, Dad. It could hurt – a lot. We said all we had to a year ago.’

  Dad’s arms fold across his chest and I can feel lines being drawn between us. ‘No, bab,
you did. As I recall, poor Chris didn’t get a look-in.’

  Poor Chris. Here we go. ‘You don’t know what happened.’

  ‘I know what he told me. And Sheila.’

  ‘And what about what I told you?’ I catch the stares of the group seated behind us and pull my voice back to an angry whisper. ‘If Chris is getting on with his life then great, but there is nothing else for us to talk about.’

  ‘You could be married by now. Maybe thinking of kids. Most girls your age already have them.’

  It’s pointless. Dad just isn’t designed to accept that I could want anything other than marriage and kids. He married Mum the day after her nineteenth birthday and they had me when she was twenty-one. Even Mum divorcing him and shacking up with a tour rep half her age in Magaluf didn’t shake his hope for Chris and me. We’d grown up together, after all, our families as close as if we were all blood-related. Chris asked me out at the school disco in our GCSE year, and from then on everyone assumed we were heading for the altar. Looking back, I have the worrying suspicion my dad and Sheila agreed our future together when Chris and I were still in nappies.

  ‘I’m happy where I am, Dad.’

  ‘But are you? Everyone gets cold feet, Otts. And I know us lot weren’t much help. We were just excited for the wedding. We’d been excited about it for years…’

  And that’s the problem. Because I didn’t just break up with Chris: I smashed both our families’ dreams of us getting married. And though it was the right decision for me, I felt like I’d betrayed everyone by not conforming to their vision for my life. It haunted me like a belligerent ghost during the last twelve months I worked at RoadTrail, hanging mournfully in the shadows of every conversation, every day. Because how could I look at Sheila and not see her hurt? Or Dad without seeing his disappointment?

  But I did the right thing.

  I wasn’t happy. If I’d stayed at RoadTrail, married Chris as we’d planned to do this Christmas, and started the much-longed-for family everyone wanted, I would have been a living, breathing lie.

  I feel Dad’s hand on my arm. ‘He’d accept you doing the writing thing, however long you needed to do it. Now he’s had time to think he’ll have realised that’s where he went wrong. He’d let you do it now.’