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

Otty cringes beside me. I’m offended for her. I mean, I’m a fan of directness when it’s necessary but this bloke is off the scale. Was Otty really saddled to that for all those years? She’s visibly shrunk into her chair now, a diminutive scrap of what I know her to be.

  This is horrible. I can’t just sit here and let my lovely friend and writing partner be subjected to Captain Creepy’s subtle-as-a-brick leering. She doesn’t deserve such blatant disrespect.

  Otty is about to reply when I clear my throat and Creepy Chris’s attention slides to me.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you had company.’

  ‘We’re working, actually,’ Otty says, her smile the weariest I’ve seen. ‘This is Joe, my…’

  ‘Boyfriend,’ I rush, before I have time to think it through.

  Otty’s mouth hangs open and I smile brightly at her, hoping my rapidly developing plan is instantly conveyed through my expression. For a horrible moment I think she’s too shocked to understand, but then I see her cotton on. ‘Yes, he is… Chris, meet Joe Carver.’

  Creepy Chris looks like he’s swallowed a bucket of eels. ‘Hey,’ he manages, extending his hand. ‘Chris Wright.’

  ‘Hi.’ I shake his hand warmly and then slip my arm around Otty in a move so smooth Daniel Craig’s Bond would be in awe. I feel her shoulder tense briefly before she leans into my half-embrace. The line where our bodies meet becomes deliciously warm.

  ‘I didn’t know…’ Chris splutters. ‘I mean, when I spoke to your dad he told me you were single.’

  ‘Your dad, always the joker,’ I say, grinning a little too enthusiastically at Otty. Considering I’ve never met her father, will this look convincing?

  ‘But he said…’ Otty’s creepy ex gives a laugh that’s more his nerves leaking than the carefree sound he wants it to be. ‘Oh right, I get it. Good joke, Otty. You almost had me there.’

  Otty blinks at him. ‘It’s not a joke, Chris.’

  ‘But he’s…’ His hand gives a vague wave as if we should all know what it means.

  ‘Gorgeous?’ Otty finishes.

  Blimey.

  I fix my smile.

  ‘No – I mean, it’s just a surprise. He’s not the kind of bloke you usually go for, that’s all.’ He shifts from one foot to the other. ‘So, how did you meet?’

  ‘We’re working together,’ Otty says. ‘On the TV drama I got the job writing?’

  ‘Oh, so you did that?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Yeah, well it’s okay if you’re single. Not a career, though, is it? How much does it pay? I’m guessing not much. I mean, you’re not Quentin Tarantino, are you?’

  Okay, this guy is one sentence away from a punch. Thankfully, Otty replies before I can tell him where to shove his dumb assumptions.

  ‘It’s the best job in the world, actually. And totally a career choice – like I told you for years.’

  Ouch. No wonder she kicked him to the kerb if he tried to stop her writing. I squeeze her shoulder to let her know that she’s smashing this.

  ‘It’s great, too, although a lot of work.’

  ‘Probably for the best that you moved in then, darling,’ I say, stroking her cheek with my other hand.

  Otty’s eyebrows lift so high they are practically in her hairline. ‘Um, probably…’

  Creepy Chris is paler than the whitewashed walls now. ‘Moved in?’

  ‘A couple of months ago,’ Otty nods.

  ‘Right…’

  ‘It’s perfect,’ I carry on, enjoying the effect on Otty’s smarmy ex far too much to consider where I’m going with it. ‘Although sharing a house with this one can be pretty distracting…’ I gaze deep into her eyes. ‘It’s too easy to forget work entirely…’

  ‘Actually, we should probably be going,’ Otty says, but it isn’t panic I hear in her voice. It’s a deep, breathy playfulness. Suddenly, it doesn’t feel like we’re joking…

  ‘Yes, we should…’ I force my eyes back to Otty’s ex, who looks about ready to slip between the cracks in the reclaimed oak floorboards. ‘Good to meet you, man. If you’ll excuse us…’

  Outside, a safe distance from the café, we finally collapse into helpless guffaws.

  ‘My boyfriend? Where did that come from?’

  I lean against the wall. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’

  ‘You almost gave me heart failure,’ she giggles. ‘And then when you slipped your arm round me…’

  ‘Smooth, huh?’

  ‘So smooth.’ Her face glows as she beams up at me. ‘That was terrible acting, though.’

  ‘Was it? I thought I was good.’

  ‘Seriously, don’t ever get carried away with your words and think you can perform them.’

  ‘Hey, it convinced Creepy Chris.’

  ‘Yeah, but what does he know?’

  ‘It was worth my bad acting just to see his reaction,’ I laugh. ‘Did you see his face? I thought he was going to faint and…’

  But I don’t get to say any more because right then, Otty hugs me. And I’m so surprised the words freeze on my tongue.

  She is holding my body to hers so tightly. I hesitate, not knowing what to do; my hands out at my sides as if touching her might make her disappear. But she presses in – and my arms instinctively fold around her. Otty’s skin is warm; her hair dusted with the scent of the coffee shop.

  She holds me for a long time.

  I don’t want to move.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says eventually, head against my chest.

  ‘For what?’

  Her sigh warms my skin beneath my shirt. ‘For caring about me.’

  And then, the hug is over.

  We share pink-cheeked smiles and walk back towards the cathedral. She doesn’t mention it again – neither do I. But something has shifted in the air between us, a micro-quake in the atoms that form our world.

  Does Otty sense it, too?

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  OTTY

  We are in the home straight with the first season of Eye, Spy. Nerves fizz like exposed live wires, all of us are one wrong word away from an argument and Russell is a brooding, prowling beast circling us all.

  It hasn’t helped that yesterday The Sentinel published a piece by well-known TV critic Nathan Byford-King, which suggested that iconic showrunners like Russell, Jed Mercurio, Chris Chibnall and even Queen Phoebe Waller-Bridge were ruining the quality of British drama:

  Instead of innovation we are subjected to endless parades of caricatured parody: the side-wink, kill-the-star, slit-throat ‘event TV’ culture we allegedly can’t get enough of. But it’s a diet empty of any benefit. Surely the time is right for these behemoths of popular drama to step aside, take their mammoth egos with them and allow better writers not so obsessed with personal brand-touting to tell the stories we need?

  It was the kind of nasty, snobbish click-bait stuff designed to annoy everyone, and should have been ignored for the utter guff it was. But it worked. By lunchtime it had been shared and quoted hundreds of thousands of times across social media – sending Russell into a tailspin of rage. He’s convinced himself that if even one sentence of Eye, Spy is off-target, it will fail. Even a long walk around the building with Joe didn’t lighten his mood.

  A dark cloud hangs over us today as we work. Russell’s insisted that all the final scenes are written in-house, in this room. It’s tough for everyone. Like writing inside a pressure cooker. And Russell is in here with us, all the time, watching our every move with the maniacal scrutiny of a black-suited vulture.

  It feels like we’re writing for our lives.

  Joe grimaces when I look at him. I mirror his expression. Then we duck down behind our laptop screens and keep typing.

  At least I have Joe. Writing in these conditions could be too much if I didn’t feel I had support. But I know he’s on my side.

  We haven’t talked about it, but what he did on Sunday blew me away. I just thought he’d sit there while Chris and I spoke
– anyone else would have been embarrassed into silence. I still can’t get over how he threw himself into it. I mean, I knew we were friends and recently we’ve grown closer. But that was next-level mate support. I’m still giggling about Chris’s face when Joe did his boyfriend speech. Dreadfully delivered, utterly inspired. It doesn’t take away any of the other rubbish clinging to our break-up, but for this small moment it feels like I’ve snatched back a little power. That feels good.

  A nudge against my arm summons my attention back to the laptop screen, where a new line of script has mysteriously appeared:

  LAURA

  Well, this is a bundle of laughs.

  Checking Russell isn’t looking at us, I lean casually over Joe’s keyboard and type:

  GUS

  I feel like we’re in an exam.

  Why are you writing as Laura?

  LAURA

  Why not? I’d make a great Laura.

  You’re just jealous, Gus.

  GUS

  You wish. Is it going to be like this till the season is done?

  LAURA

  R is v. stressed. I caught him scoffing handfuls of mini-doughnuts this morning. Not looking good.

  GUS

  Who brought doughnuts in?

  LAURA

  Tom. He knows what R’s like just before deadline. Like this:

  Joe sticks his tongue out and crosses his eyes. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself laughing.

  At lunchtime, I grab a fresh coffee and a handful of fruit from Ensign’s kitchen and commandeer a leather chair in reception. The door opens and a slightly flustered Daphne strides in. I look back out at the city, but she’s already clocked me. Before I can move, she’s taken the armchair opposite mine.

  ‘Brutal in there today,’ she says, spreading a large white napkin across her lap and producing the smallest box of sushi I’ve ever seen from a company logo-printed canvas bag. ‘Haven’t seen him this bad since Insiders. That was when he had his health scare and Miri put her foot down.’

  ‘Miri?’

  Daphne blesses me with a pitying look. ‘His second wife? The one who’s had him dashing up the stairs every morning?’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t met her.’

  ‘Nor are you likely to. She won’t come near this place.’ She expertly picks up a hosomaki roll and delivers it to her mouth. ‘So, Joe tells me the two of you are writing well.’

  ‘I think we are.’

  ‘It’s so good that he’s taking time to invest in you.’

  What is she saying? ‘It’s good that we’re investing in each other.’

  ‘But only in the writing sense, yes?’

  Not this again. ‘As friends, too.’

  ‘Just friends. I’m glad. I’ll admit, I was concerned. Especially given how close Joe and I are becoming…’ She leaves just enough of a pause for this to sink in, then rises elegantly from her chair. ‘We’ll be seeing so much more of each other soon, Otty. I hope you’re okay with that.’

  It’s only when she walks away that I realise I don’t know whether she meant seeing more of me, or seeing more of Joe.

  It’s almost 9 p.m. when we leave Ensign. My eyes ache so much I have to sit in Monty in the car park for a while until they adjust to the night view. When I blink, the ghost-image of my laptop screen reappears for a second, imprinted on my retina. Joe said he’d meet me at home – he’s volunteered to get a takeaway tonight as neither of us has the energy to cook. At least writing the remaining scenes at Ensign this week means a night free from work. Not that I reckon Joe or I will be awake for long after we’ve eaten.

  As I lean back into my seat, two figures emerge from the glass doors and walk slowly across the car park. I follow them absent-mindedly, blinking again to coax the life back into my vision. The couple skirts the edge of the parked cars, their bodies passing through alternating shafts of streetlight and dark pools of shadow. Then, under the nearest light to me, they stop and face each other. Slowly, they embrace. And it’s only when they lean in to one another that the orange glow bathes their features.

  I can’t believe it.

  Joe said he wasn’t seeing anyone. Despite his two dates with Molly, I haven’t heard him mention seeing her again. I thought it was just him losing interest – but is this why?

  And how could he be seeing her after all the jokes he’s made?

  Has this been going on all along? And when was he going to tell me?

  I feel sick, but I can’t stop watching.

  Daphne rests her chin on Joe’s shoulder, his hands against her back. And if I didn’t know my car was hidden in the shadows between two others so nobody can see, I would swear that Daphne looks straight at me – and smiles.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  JOE

  I don’t know what got into Otty last night, but something was off.

  I thought I’d done the right thing driving several miles out of my way so I could get her a takeaway from that Diamond Balti place she loves. I think she was pleased. She looked surprised. She just wasn’t really in the room after that.

  She’s probably tired. We all are. And if Russ doesn’t calm down, he’ll send us all jumping over the edge with him like a pack of sleep-deprived, caffeine-crazed lemmings.

  I tried talking with him again yesterday, but Daphne appeared and hijacked the conversation. She’s been acting strange lately, too, but that’s nothing new. She’s also become more than a little tactile. Not sure how I feel about that. I mean, there are huggy people and arm’s-length people and Daphne Davies was always firmly in the latter camp. She’s the last person I expected to become one of life’s huggers.

  Irony is, a few months ago I would have been all over that like a rash. What is it people say about being careful of wishes? She insisted on walking to the car with me last night and the hug she gave me was… unexpected. She said it was a gesture of support from one writer to another, but I’m not sure. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was making a play for me.

  Women are strange creatures.

  I check my watch as I run along the path towards the park at the end of our road. 6.25 a.m. – enough time for a lap before heading back for a shower. Russell wants us in at eight thirty this morning and I have to be ready for whatever he throws at us. By rights I should still be in bed making the most of my rest before another voluntary incarceration in the writers’ room, but I needed fresh air and the chance to blow off some steam.

  The park is empty save for a gaggle of miffed-looking Canada geese and a couple of early-morning dog-walkers. The grass is damp and a thin layer of mist hangs low across the park. Every part of my body aches, but the run seems to stretch out knots in my shoulders, back and legs. I push on, following the path around the lake, over the bridge from the feeder stream and out across the wide green space.

  Ten minutes later, I arrive back at the house to find Otty’s yellow Fiat gone and a black Transit van in its spot, its bumper almost touching the dark blue paintwork of my Volkswagen Golf in the next space. I hope it isn’t still here when she gets back: Ottilie Perry is highly territorial when it comes to parking spaces, I have discovered. Doing my stretches by our gate, I look at the name on the van, painted in silver-edged red letters:

  ROADTRAIL

  For all your two-wheeled needs

  The name feels familiar, but I don’t know why. Have I seen this van before? I can’t remember, not that I’m going to try too hard. It’s far too early to attempt any kind of brain-wracking, so I leave it and open the gate.

  When I’m putting my key in the front door lock, a cough behind summons my attention.

  ‘Morning. Are you Joe?’

  I survey the balding, short man, who I guess to be in his mid- to late sixties. He’s wearing a black polo shirt, black trousers and boots, an identical logo to the one on the van emblazoned across his chest.

  ‘I am.’ I step back onto the path to meet him. ‘Mr?’

  ‘Perry. Michael Perry.’ He offers his hand. ‘O
ttilie’s dad.’

  ‘Oh… Hello,’ I manage, remembering to shake his hand just as he is frowning pointedly at it.

  What is he doing here? And, more importantly, is it possible he could disintegrate me with his stare?

  ‘Would you like to come in?’

  Please say no, please say no… I might be feeling refreshed from my morning run but my brain is not ready to deal with this level of adulting this early.

  ‘I will for a bit. I’m on my way into work, so I can’t stop long.’

  Ugh. ‘Okay, this way.’

  I usher Mr Perry into the hall and show him the living room, hoping he might take the hint and sit in there while I figure out what the heck I’m supposed to do in this situation. I’ve never met him before – I’ve always been out when he’s visited Otty here. Judging by the way he is grimly inspecting every detail of the house and me, I don’t think he’s going to love either of us, or think us worthy for his daughter to choose to live with. Possibly the bright pink T-shirt and tight electric-blue shorts I chose for my morning run aren’t helping matters, either.

  I make some vague mumble about tea and head for the kitchen, my heart crashing to my trainers when the measured steps behind confirm Otty’s dad is following me in.

  Where is Otty? She surely hasn’t gone to Ensign this early? I know she parked outside the house last night because I saw Monty’s indicators flash when she checked she’d locked it using the key remote through the living-room window. What do I say when her dad asks me?

  ‘I’m guessing she isn’t in,’ he says, inches from my shoulder. Not content with wielding a terrifying death-stare, is Mr Perry a mind-reader, too?

  ‘I don’t think so. Her car isn’t outside.’

  ‘Have a row, did you?’

  ‘Eh? No, nothing like that. She might have gone into work early or maybe she’s getting petrol before the morning rush on the roads. Would you like tea?’

  The kettle bubbles into life and I let the familiarity of its sound calm me. I have to get a grip. Otty’s mentioned things aren’t always easy with her dad, but it’s clear she loves him. I have to make the best impression I can, even though my dayglo running attire hasn’t set me off to the best start.