Our Story

by Miranda Dickinson

  Just then, her eyes flick to me. Before I can look away, she smiles. For a second I forget to listen to Russell. It’s a tiny smile, barely there, but it seems to illuminate the space around her. I glance at the name she’s written on the wipeable board: Ottilie. I was completely wrong in my assumption about her. She’s lovely.

  When I look back, she’s staring at Russell again.

  A little shaken, I pull my attention back to my boss.

  No. That is not happening today…

  Chapter Five

  OTTY

  I know him.

  I make myself listen to Russell Styles, but it bugs me. Where have I seen that guy before? I should have looked at his name board, but I daren’t take my eyes off my new boss again in case I miss anything. I’ve waited my whole life for this opportunity: I can’t stuff it up now.

  ‘Many of you have never worked like this, I appreciate, but trust me, this is the most efficient way to get our story to the screen,’ he says. ‘I want us to be a consistent, reliable unit, writing show after show. Multi-genre, multi-platform stuff. I’ll need you to be flexible. You might be team writing; you might go it alone. I may pull some of you from this crew to another mini writers’ room on a different project. What matters is that we make magic…’

  Russell is an even bigger presence than I thought he’d be. Confident, comfortable at the epicentre of all our nervous energy, he has all the swagger of a man at the top of his game. His last series for BBC Studios won armfuls of awards and the leading actor is currently being mooted as the next Bond. He could pitch them a nursery rhyme right now and they’d probably commission it. But the success of his next project is down to us. To me. It’s terrifying.

  I’m spooked by the thought so I let my eyes stray to the names on the boards, slowly moving round the table until I reach the bloke I recognise.

  Joe Carver.

  Oh wow, that’s Joe Carver! I’d forgotten he’d be here.

  I read an interview with Russell Styles, while my application for this project was under consideration, and Russell mentioned Joe by name. When you have the calibre of Joe Carver on the team, you know it’s something special.

  I see Joe smile when Russell catches his eye, a nod of the head that tells all of us he and RS are buddies.

  I watched the episode of Southside Joe wrote at least fifty times. He only ever did one, and I could never understand why. It was remarkable – taking the original book’s story and deepening every theme for the screen without it ever affecting the pace. That’s hard. Gabriel Marley won a Best Supporting Actor TV BAFTA for his role in that episode, but it was Joe’s words that put him there.

  And now I’m his colleague. My writing counted alongside his.

  The thought brings beads of cold sweat across my palms.

  We break for lunch at twelve and there’s a dash to the food table. First-day buffet, Russell warns: we can’t expect this every day. I stand back to avoid the crush and decide to move out to reception for a breath of fresh air. The windowless writers’ room is a little oppressive and I need space. It’s good to see light again, the city spreading out to the horizon.

  I glance down to the car park eleven floors below. I keep thinking about poor Monty overloaded with all my worldly goods. What am I going to do? I’m over the moon about being here but where I’ll go tonight after work tempers the thrill. Outside of this new job, I’m anchorless, a floating state of me in the middle of the city.

  My head is too crammed with it all. I’ll work out something later.

  I sink into a leather armchair by the window and wish I could disappear into the cool darkness between its cushions. Hearing voices approaching, I shrink further down in the hope they won’t see me.

  ‘He did what?’ A woman’s voice drifts in, amusement playing in her tone.

  ‘Moved out.’ The man doesn’t sound anywhere near as happy.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Last night.’

  ‘And you had no warning?’

  ‘Apart from the sticky note he left, no.’

  ‘Dumped by Post-it? Poor baby.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks for the sympathy, Daphne. What am I going to do?’

  ‘Just advertise the room.’

  ‘When, exactly? I have less than a week to find my own share of the rent and two pitches to sketch out for Russ.’

  ‘So, ask your landlord for more time.’

  I hear a long sigh before the man speaks again. ‘Eric’s wanted an excuse to get me out for months. One whiff of this and he’ll have a professional couple in there like a shot. I can’t lose the house, Daph. The light is perfect there. I can think there. It’d take me years to find somewhere else like that. It’s… my muse.’

  The woman laughs. ‘You are such a diva, Joseph.’

  Joseph? Is that…?

  ‘What do I do?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, Joe…’ I hear the click of heels travelling to the reception desk, followed by the rustle of paper. ‘Room available immediately. One month’s rent in advance. Now write your mobile number at the bottom and I’ll stick it on the company noticeboard. There. Sorted.’

  I wait until I hear them return to the writers’ room, my heart thudding. When the door closes, I spring up from the chair and hurry out to Ensign Media’s entrance, scanning the walls for a noticeboard. I spot it over by the water cooler.

  ROOM AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY.

  ONE MONTH’S RENT IN ADVANCE.

  NO SMOKERS. NO DIRECTORS. NO DIVAS.

  ENQUIRIES: JOE CARVER

  The rent amount he wants will leave a single crumpled tenner in the deposit envelope Barry gave me today. It’s a risk I’ll have to take. I don’t even stop to take down Joe’s number. Ripping the notice from the mocha felt of the board, I stuff it in my pocket, take a breath and march back into the writers’ room.

  Today is about taking chances. Making changes. This is a serendipity I can’t ignore. Pushing through the huddled bodies of my new writing colleagues, I walk straight up to Joe Carver.

  ‘I heard you were looking for someone,’ I say a little too loudly.

  The two writers with him stare at me.

  ‘Ah, so you’ve heard the rumours already?’ one chuckles.

  I smile but keep my eyes on Joe. He’s looking at me like Chewbacca just interrupted his lunch. Telltale nerves tremble in my hands and the temptation to leg it from the room surges inside me. But I can’t back down now.

  ‘I heard you were looking for someone,’ I repeat, holding up the crumpled note. His eyes widen when he sees it.

  ‘How did you…?’

  ‘I’d like to apply.’ He says nothing, so I press on. ‘I’m Ottilie, Otty to everyone. I need to move from my flat – already have, actually. This morning. Wasn’t my idea. I have everything in my car downstairs in the car park… The thing is, I have the money. Cash. Up front. And if you accept, I can move in this evening.’ My lungs ache when I snatch breath into them, a swell of blood rising in my cheeks. ‘Sorry. That came out fast.’

  ‘It did.’

  The other writers have edged away, leaving Joe and I staring at each other. His eyes are really blue. Up close I’m surprised by how young he looks. It makes me wonder if I look old to him. Not that it matters, but it might count against me. I was a little creative with my age on my application for this job, but now I’m here I can’t bluff it.

  ‘So…?’ I ask, instantly wishing I hadn’t because Joe doesn’t reply.

  He hates the idea.

  I’ve said too much, blown my chance with the verbal torrent I just aimed at him. This is why I don’t do this. Now he thinks I’m a pink-haired vagabond freak living in her car, trying to move into his space. Why did I think he’d even consider me?

  ‘Yeah,’ he says.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You can see it after we finish here, if you like?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’ He glances to the side as if seeking back-up.

  ‘Yes,’ I say
quickly, before he thinks better of it. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Great. Thanks, Ottilie.’

  He doesn’t leave, like I expect him to. I don’t know whether to say anything else or just grin inanely back. I don’t want to risk this arrangement that feels as if it’s balanced on fragile ice.

  Then Joe Carver smiles at me.

  It’s warm and wide and inviting. And it’s all for me.

  Oh crap…

  Chapter Six

  JOE

  I must be out of my mind.

  Why did I agree to let her see the house? She’s clearly strange. I mean, who carries all their stuff in their car? I don’t know why she had to leave her last place, either. It could be something really bad. And in five minutes she’ll know where I live.

  Her smile is to blame. I thought the small glimpse of it was charming, but the full version blew me away.

  Ugh. I never had this issue with Matt.

  I move quickly around the house, shoving piles of dirty clothes under my bed and stuffing stacks of paper and notebooks into the nearest cupboard. My space is a bombsite when I’m working and I didn’t expect to have a prospective housemate visit today. The bath is passable; a quick once-over with an antibac wipe makes the sink toothpaste- and beard-trimming-free. There’s no time to vacuum, but stripped oak floorboards are thankfully forgiving in that regard; and at least I remembered to raid Ensign’s fridge for fresh milk before I headed home. I give the liquid air freshener Mum brought the last time she visited a tentative sniff, but think better of spraying it around. According to the label, it’s Dewy Roses. It smells like loo cleaner to me.

  Ottilie might not like the house. I’m not sure that would be a bad thing.

  But she has nice eyes. And a lovely smile. And cash.

  Maybe a trial month is good idea. Test the arrangement – just to make sure she isn’t a closet psycho or someone who wields vintage Samurai swords as a hobby. If it doesn’t work out at least I’ll have Eric off my back for a while and four weeks to find another housemate. By then Russell will have my sample scripts and I can think about everything else again.

  I move the same ornament on the mantelpiece two inches to the left that I moved two inches to the right a minute ago. Groaning, I shove my hands into my jeans pockets to keep them still.

  I don’t know why I feel nervous.

  Okay, maybe I do. Someone new means new rules, new rhythms, a whole new energy in the house. And she’s a girl. I like girls, but I’ve never had one as a housemate. Most of my relationships with girls have been strictly your-place-or-mine deals. Lots of fun, but you both get to go home afterwards. No shared bathrooms, no arguments over the TV remote.

  A knock at the door makes me jump and I grab a final look in the mirror before I go to answer it.

  She’s waiting on the doorstep like a rabbit about to scarper. When I offer my hand she grips it like a lifebuoy. A blush blooms across her cheeks and my nervous laugh mirrors hers. It feels like a first date, which is ridiculous.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, letting my hand go. ‘Can I…?’

  ‘Oh, sure. Sorry. Come in.’

  I follow her into the hall and notice a layer of dust on the shelf under the mirror by the front door. I give it a surreptitious wipe as she pauses to inspect the Minton-tiled floor.

  ‘That’s gorgeous. Is it original?’

  ‘Yes. My landlord Eric renovated the house about ten years ago and it was the first thing he restored. Nice, huh?’

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ She straightens. ‘Um, where do we go?’

  ‘Just in there,’ I say, pointing to the living room.

  She unleashes that smile at me before she walks in.

  I take a breath. Cool and calm, Carver.

  The late-afternoon sun is streaming in through the large bay window and I silently thank the house for showing itself at its best. The way light fills the rooms is one of the things I love most about this place. Watching Ottilie now, the warm gold sunlight playing in her hair, I am struck by a sudden sense that she was always supposed to be here.

  Steady on…

  I shake the thought and launch into the tour.

  Ottilie politely inspects every room, nodding and making encouraging noises. So far, so good. Finally, we reach what might be her room. I’ve left it until last for two reasons: firstly, that I wanted the rest of the house to win her over before she sees the bedroom, and secondly, because it’s significantly smaller than my room. Matt didn’t care but girls have opinions on this kind of thing. What if she prefers mine to hers? What if she’ll only move in if we swap? Am I willing to surrender my sanctuary?

  The answer to that is academic. I’ll have to be.

  She’s very quiet. Standing with her back to me, facing the entire wall of empty bookshelves and small double bed. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. I don’t want to say anything too soon, but her silence is unnerving.

  And then I notice her shoulders start to shake.

  Oh no. Anything but that…

  ‘Is it—’ I fumble my words. ‘I mean, are you…?’

  The shaking intensifies and a sob escapes. This is not good.

  ‘Ottilie?’

  ‘It’s Otty.’ She sinks to the bed, her back still to me.

  ‘Otty – are you okay?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, wiping her eyes.

  My heart hits the IKEA rug. ‘Look, if you don’t like it we could always discuss swapping…’

  ‘No,’ she says. It isn’t the kind of no that’s negotiable.

  Well, that’s that then.

  ‘No problem. Let’s just go back downstairs,’ I begin. But then she turns. And she’s smiling.

  ‘It’s perfect.’

  ‘It is?’

  She nods, her eyes glistening. ‘So… many… shelves.’

  Eh?

  ‘Shelves?’

  ‘For my books. I have a lot of books.’ She gives a loud sniff. ‘My old place had no bookcases. I just had piles everywhere. Of books,’ she adds quickly.

  It’s a little bit adorable and it breaks the ice.

  Downstairs we talk turkey. That is, we agree she’ll move in pretty much as soon as we’ve finished talking about it.

  ‘Furniture,’ I say, the thought suddenly occurring. Matt had little in the house apart from a desk in his room, a weird cast-iron pan-stacking thing in the kitchen and that horrific shoe rack in the hall.

  ‘I don’t have any.’

  ‘None at all?’

  ‘One chair. With flamingos on it.’ She giggles when she sees my confusion. ‘You’ll see. But no other furniture. Just books.’

  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 s
till 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.’