Our Story

by Miranda Dickinson

  When I’m finished, I look up at the clock on the mantelpiece and am shocked to discover it’s almost 4 p.m. I can’t hear any sound from the kitchen, but then Joe is the quietest typer I’ve ever heard. I hit my keys with increasing fervour as I enter into the pace of a scene – I know even a room away Joe will have heard every tap, shift and space hammered out on my battle-scarred laptop.

  The adrenalin subsides and a gnawing hunger surges in its place, followed by a thud of guilt in my gut. I really need to make things right with Joe. This partnership won’t work if we’re forever yelling at each other and flouncing off.

  I tiptoe into the kitchen. Joe is leaning back in his chair, headphones on and eyes closed. I should let him know I’m here but there’s something about his stillness that stops me. His eyebrows are slightly raised, as if he’s just been surprised by a pleasant thought, and the first hint of a smile rests on his lips. The calmness of his features is strange and new – like seeing the sea become smooth as glass after a storm. I watch the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathes and notice for the first time how long his eyelashes are along the line of his closed eyes. What is it with blokes and eyelashes? I wish mine were as long as that.

  Something shifts inside me and I make myself move towards the kitchen units.

  When I start opening cupboards in search of plates, I hear Joe stir.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘It’s done. You?’

  He stretches his arms above his head. ‘Finished a while back. What time is it?’

  ‘Later than you think,’ I reply, smiling when he double-takes at his watch. ‘Hungry?’

  ‘Starving. What are you making?’

  ‘Sandwich for now and then I thought I’d make us a pot of chilli?’

  ‘Excellent plan.’ He yanks the lead from his laptop and winds it around his earphones. ‘I’m sorry. For being a moron.’

  ‘Generally or just this afternoon?’

  It takes him a moment to work out I’m joking. ‘Specifically for this afternoon. I’ll apologise for the rest as we go.’

  I’m halfway into making dinner later when I realise that I haven’t opened a wrong cupboard or had to search for pans and utensils. My body moves instinctively between fridge and worktop and hob, never missing a beat. The familiarity is comforting. When I first moved in, I never thought I’d be as at ease here as I was in my flat. It’s such a relief to discover it again.

  ‘What’s up?’ a newly showered Joe asks when he returns to the kitchen, rubbing his head with a towel as he accepts a glass of wine from me.

  ‘Er, nothing. Why?’

  ‘Oh. You look happy, is all I’m saying.’

  ‘I am. I love this house.’

  He looks around and I swear I see him give the kitchen worktop a surreptitious pat. ‘Me too. It certainly makes writing easier. Well, it usually does.’

  ‘Sorry. Again.’

  He bats away my apology. ‘Not your fault. But we do need to work out how the hell we’re going to do this.’

  He’s right. Today was a first stab, but from now on we have to make it work. ‘Any suggestions?’

  ‘We split scenes where we can, write them separately and then bring it all together. I guess the more we do it, the easier it’ll be.’

  I nod. ‘And we need to read each other’s work. All the time. Check we’re on the right track.’

  He winces. ‘More wine might be required to make that happen, but you’re right.’

  We swap laptops and sit at opposite ends of the table, reading in silence, the bubbling pot of chilli on the stove the only sound in the room. I like what Joe has written. It’s pacy and on point and exactly what Russell will want to read. So why doesn’t it thrill me like it should? I read it again, thinking I might be too distracted by the structure – but the same drop of disappointment pulls my gut.

  ‘What?’

  I stare at him, instantly guilty for not loving his work. ‘It’s good.’

  His eyes narrow. ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘I didn’t say…’

  ‘You didn’t need to.’

  ‘Joe, it’s fine.’

  ‘Right, ground rules. We have to be completely honest with each other if we have a hope of this working. We’ve got to say what we really think. No recriminations, no arguments if we don’t like what we hear. Regardless of which pieces we write, we both have to own the whole of it as if every word is ours. We have to make sure every word is right.’

  I feel sick, but it has to be done. ‘Okay. Who’s going first?’

  Joe swallows hard. ‘I will.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  JOE

  This is horrific.

  Once we’d got over the initial awkwardness of sharing a home, a job and a script, I’d assumed everything else would fall into place. I’m no stranger to criticism – either giving it or receiving it – but this is next-level terrifying.

  She’s going to hate what I’m going to say about her script. And I dread to think what horrors she’s spotted in mine.

  But I was the one who insisted on complete honesty. I can’t back out now.

  Putting off the inevitable, I suggest we move to the living room. Otty agrees. Once the cushions have been rearranged, I’ve poured more wine and we’ve danced around each other more than necessary, we run out of reasons to delay it.

  We sit as if awaiting an executioner, laptops brandished like shields.

  ‘Go on then,’ Otty says, downing the last of her wine. ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Total honesty.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And no recriminations?’

  ‘Can’t promise that will be easy, but I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Okay.’ I rub sudden beads of sweat from my palms onto my knees, hoping Otty doesn’t notice. ‘This isn’t a criticism of this scene as such, more a general observation.’

  Two lines crease between Otty’s eyebrows. ‘Right…’

  ‘It’s just…’ Now I’m here, the words aren’t. ‘Your writing is great. I totally get what you meant about the therapist scene having a slow build. But I look at what you’ve written and I look at you and the two don’t always match.’

  ‘I’m not a spy on the verge of collapse, Joe.’

  ‘I know. Sorry, this isn’t coming out well. I feel like the person you can be on here,’ I tap the screen of her laptop, ‘isn’t the person you are in here.’

  She watches the vague waving of my hand above my head. ‘In the living room?’

  ‘No. In the house, in this street, in the city.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘In life. You can be so brave on the page – breathtakingly so, when it happens. But I think how you see yourself in real life is hijacking that ability.’

  ‘I thought we were talking about the script.’

  ‘We were. We are. But I feel like you’re pulling back in your writing in between these brave moments because you don’t fully believe you can write like you do.’

  I knew she wouldn’t like it. And I’m making a total arse of myself trying to express it, which doesn’t help.

  What I mean is that in her script there are sections where her word choice is practically apologetic, always after a flash of brilliance. I just think if she can fully accept that she was born to write and embrace the potential of that, who knows what she could achieve?

  That’s what I want to say. But I don’t get the chance.

  ‘Right. Noted. Is it my turn now?’

  Her abruptness cracks the air. That isn’t a good sign. ‘Um, be my guest.’ I brace myself.

  ‘Your scene is lacking something. Passion. Edge. It could be any conversation between a boss and employee, anywhere. Not the pivotal moment where Laura fights for her professional life by lying about her personal one.’

  My hackles begin to rise. ‘In what way?’

  ‘When I read your Southside script…’

  Oh fantastic, here we go. Like I haven’t had this reference a thous
and times before from every starry-eyed wannabe scriptwriter I’ve met in the last five years.

  ‘This isn’t Southside.’

  ‘I know it isn’t, but it’s still you writing it.’

  She’s folded her arms now, chin raised. Like that, is it, Otty? That’s the way you want to play this?

  ‘Southside was a different thing entirely. A different time. Nobody has the licence to air a spec script like that anymore. It hardly ever happens.’

  ‘I read that script, Joe, lots of times. I studied it. You were breathless and brilliant. You never dropped a beat. This scene is as crucial as any in that episode – more so when the twist is revealed.’

  ‘Laura is clearly panicked and nervous and on the edge.’ I’m stabbing at the back of my laptop now, as if the point I’m making will burst through the screen and hit Otty squarely in the face. ‘I don’t see how it could be any clearer.’

  ‘You said no arguments, Joe.’

  ‘I’m not arguing. I’m stating facts.’

  ‘Well, I don’t see it.’

  How can she not see that in my script? The whole scene is Laura battling her nerves in the face of her boss. Is she being deliberately obtuse?

  ‘It’s there. I don’t think you’re even talking about what I’ve written.’

  ‘Oh really? How do you figure that, Joe?’

  ‘Because it makes no sense. I just think you’re angry I called you out.’

  I shouldn’t have said it aloud. Otty snaps my laptop closed and throws her hands up. And I glare back – because even if she’s right for one nanosecond, I’m not giving her the satisfaction of seeing it.

  ‘No, I’m trying to do what you suggested.’

  ‘So it’s my fault?’

  ‘Get over yourself, Joe! Go and nurse your dented male pride better, and come back when you’re ready to write like an adult.’

  ‘But we need to sort this scene.’

  ‘We’re done for tonight, don’t you think?’

  But I’m not done. Far from it. I don’t know why I ever thought this could work. ‘I write with passion, Otty. It’s in every line I write. I’m bloody good at what I do. And Russell headhunted me because he wanted me on his team. I was first in. I didn’t need an open call to beg for a place. So you’ll forgive me if I don’t feel the need to take advice from an entry-level writer with no experience.’

  What the…? Where did that come from?

  I’ve said too much. I don’t want to see the wound I just inflicted. Disgusted with myself, I do the only decent thing I can. I get the hell out of there.

  Up in my room, I slam my head against the pillow. Why did I do that? Why sabotage my own suggestion? Otty didn’t deserve that and she doesn’t deserve a writing partner who can’t handle criticism. At least her criticism was about what I’d written. Why did I think full-on character assassination was the way to go?

  Her scene is brilliant. So brilliant it scares me – because if Russell has another cull and it’s a choice between Otty and me I’m not sure I’d win. I just wish she hadn’t mentioned Southside. I didn’t realise she knew I’d written that episode, or that she’d read it, let alone studied it. I should be flattered. But it’s complicated.

  I wrote that episode what feels like a lifetime ago and it almost broke me. And since its success I can’t even look at it – because I know what I’ve lost.

  I see Otty’s hope and irrepressible belief in how writing should be and it makes me feel weary of the whole thing. She hasn’t yet had the sting of rejection, or kicks of doubt when jobs don’t go the way you’d hoped. And that should be celebrated and protected, but instead I can see it all lying in wait for her, a minefield she’s about to wander into.

  It’s still no excuse for what I said. But I don’t know how to fix it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  OTTY

  I am brave in real life. I’m braver than Joe Carver, that’s for sure.

  He knows nothing about me.

  And what kind of an idiot suggests complete honesty if he can’t handle the truth? I’ve never seen someone so spectacularly miss the point as Joe just did. How on earth has he survived as long as he has in this industry if that’s his reaction to constructive criticism? At least I was talking about the words on the page, not some completely unwarranted critique of my personal life.

  Git.

  I kick the leg of the nearest chair and immediately reach down to straighten it. It isn’t the chair’s fault.

  ‘Sorry, house,’ I say to its quiet walls. This should be our sanctuary, not our battleground.

  I take a glass from the drainer on the sink and fill it with water. Then I drink it slowly, taking my time: a well-practised act I’ve repeated after every argument, every peak of tension in my life. Take a moment. Breathe. Focus on one simple thing.

  And then I walk upstairs to Joe’s room.

  I knock but don’t wait for an answer. This needs sorting now, not when he’s sulked for hours. He looks startled when I walk in, scrambling upright on his bed as if I’m aiming a flamethrower at his head. I sit on the end of the bed and pull my legs up so my chin is resting on my knees. Joe watches every move with wary eyes.

  ‘So, what was that about?’

  He scratches his knee, the faded denim suddenly summoning his attention. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Thanks for the apology. But that’s not what I asked for.’

  ‘I overreacted. It won’t happen again.’

  ‘Too right, it won’t. It can’t, Joe. We don’t have time for it.’

  He raises his gaze and I hold it, long and slow and steady. I think I see a hint of fear in the deep blue stare. ‘I know.’

  I thought this could work, but today has been horrendous. I know Joe thinks we can write together, but we’re clearly incompatible. ‘I think we should call Russell in the morning. Explain the situation and ask for his original pairings to be reinstated…’

  ‘No, Otty…’

  ‘I think we should. We tried to write together, but it didn’t work. Let’s just call it quits before we do any real damage. Because, I don’t know about you, but I love living here. With you. I think we can be the best of friends and true allies in that writers’ room. But writing together? It’s too much for us. We should just accept defeat and move on.’

  I wasn’t expecting him to look so shocked. Anyone could see the disaster today’s writing session became was a bad idea. Even the house seems to breathe a sigh of relief when I say it.

  ‘Today was rubbish. Tomorrow will be better.’

  ‘No, it won’t. You said I should believe in myself, Joe: well, I do. Enough to know when something is dead on its feet.’

  ‘I didn’t mean…’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what you meant. The fact is, you don’t know me. All you know is what you see on the page. Working together and fighting like we did will destroy us eventually. I don’t want that to happen.’

  Joe looks as though he’s been punched in the gut. I haven’t seen this version of him before and it sits strangely with the Joe Carver I’ve become accustomed to.

  ‘Wait. I was out of line when I said that. Your writing is brilliant. It’s honest and knowing and, yes, brave as hell. It scares me how good you are.’

  ‘I really don’t think…’

  ‘No, listen. I couldn’t handle the Southside comparison because I’m not that writer now. I poured my soul into that episode, did what Hemingway said and bled my words all over the page. I lived every word and fought for each one through all the revisions. And then the producers decided to hire somebody else to write the next two series. No thank you, no acknowledgement of my input, of how that episode shaped the rest of the show. I only discovered Gabriel Marley had won the BAFTA for my work when he mentioned it in an interview months afterwards. I wasn’t even credited in the list of writers when the award was won.’

  What a horrible experience. How do you come back from that? ‘I had no idea.’

  He shakes it off. ‘Nobody doe
s. But that’s why you holding that episode as the benchmark for great writing is the worst thing for me to hear because I don’t want that happening to you. Writing like that, at that level of intensity, it’s just not sustainable. The guy they hired in my place was what they call a “safe pair of hands”. Not passionate, not on the edge: solid and dependable. He writes what makes the producers and commissioners happy. Passion never comes into it.’

  ‘So that’s how you write now?’

  ‘It’s kept me in work and in demand for five years.’

  ‘But does it make you happy?’

  ‘Paying my rent makes me happy. Writing for a living makes me happy. Not being worried about being replaced makes me very happy.’

  In that moment, I realise that Joe and I will never be alike. Without passion, without mining something hidden deep within me, I couldn’t write. I know I’m new to this and I realise this is the first time I’ve risked my livelihood on the words I write, but I left a really safe job to do this. Passion is what drives me.

  ‘I can’t write like that.’

  His eyes are still as he speaks. ‘I know. But see, that’s why we make a great team. Your passion, my experience. All bases covered. We can push each other, protect each other…’

  ‘Or destroy each other.’ Right now it feels like we’re magnets with poles reversed, forcing us as far apart as it’s possible to be.

  ‘Not if we know exactly where we are. You’re brave, I’m cautious. I’m experienced, you’re just starting out. You have to see how that could work?’

  I let it sink in. I came up to his room with every intention of pulling the plug on our writing partnership, but is Joe right? ‘I don’t know.’

  He edges across the bed to me and offers his hand. ‘Otty, if you trust me, I promise I won’t let you down. No more fighting. Just words. Would you give us another go?’

  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.