‘Otty! Otty! Otty! Oi! Oi! Oi!’
The chants of my former workmates bring the most welcome release. I see Dad hunker in his seat as Jarvis and Steve stomp down the steps and edge along the row towards us. I hug Jarvis and high-five Steve, who holds his rucksack as a safety shield between us to ensure I don’t hug him, too. I know there will be smuggled-in cans of Batham’s bitter in that rucksack, secreted within the folds of his anorak and jumper along with four enamel mugs he will innocently decant the beer into as he hands it out. Steve’s alcohol-smuggling skills are second to none.
‘I wondered when the cavalry was arriving,’ I grin, avoiding eye contact with Dad.
‘More like the clowns,’ he mutters.
‘Miss any good stuff?’
‘We just got their guy out after a long spell,’ I reply, offering Jarvis the bag of pork scratchings. He takes a handful and stuffs them all in his mouth.
‘Nice one,’ he says, spraying crumbs. ‘How’s it going in TV world?’
‘Good, thanks. Are you and Steve surviving without me?’
‘Just about,’ Steve grins, pouring dark amber bitter into a sneaky mug hidden between his knees. ‘It’s a laugh a minute with your dad.’
‘Button your lip and pass us a beer,’ Dad grumbles.
‘Sheila coming?’ Jarvis asks.
‘Should be,’ I reply before Dad can say anything.
‘Has he told you your ex is back?’
Fabulous. ‘Apparently I’m the last to know about it.’
‘He’ll be sniffing round you soon enough. Just kick him to the kerb when he does.’ I appreciate Jarvis’s gentle lean against my shoulder more than I’d tell him. Of all the RoadTrail employees, Jarvis is the closest to an ally I’ve had. He was the only one to tell me I’d done the right thing when I left Chris.
‘Less of that,’ Dad says, but it doesn’t matter. At least I’ll have one wingman on our stand today.
We watch the game and our conversation eases away from Chris Wright. The sun warms us, the smuggled beer soothes and the rhythm returns. But the same edge of unease remains beneath it all for me, darker, uncertain water swirling around my feet.
I’m exhausted by the time I get home.
The house welcomes me with cool quietness, its rooms bathed in gentle late-afternoon light. Joe isn’t there. I’m glad. My mind needs the stillness to recalibrate. Sheila never arrived, in the end. Her car had a slow puncture so she had to sort that instead. I feel like I’ve dodged a bullet.
At some point I’ll have to face it. Probably Chris, too.
And I will.
Just not today.
Chapter Twenty-Two
JOE
The board in the writers’ room is gradually filling up with Russell’s signatures. We’re halfway through the episodes now, all of us working at a pace unlike many of us have been asked to write before. I’m knackered – Otty is, too – surviving on caffeine and a totally rubbish diet that my body will surely kick me for later. But it’s working. The more scenes we produce, the more confident we grow, and the happier Russell becomes, which is the main thing.
I just wish he wouldn’t keep assuming all of our innovation comes from me, like Otty’s idea that Laura now has a dead mother she leaves voicemail messages for. I felt Otty stiffen next to me as he praised it.
‘It’s quite frankly brilliant. It gives us another weakness for Laura, another secret someone else can abuse. I always knew Joe was good, but this is next-level…’
I corrected him then like I’ve corrected him so many times during our eleventh-floor power-walks, but I’m starting to wonder if he even hears it now. Maybe it’s become subliminal – he’s so used to me adding, ‘That was Otty’s idea… Otty wrote that’, to every compliment he wrongly aims at me that perhaps his brain is still registering it when his ears aren’t.
I hope so. I hate feeling like a double agent.
Something Otty wrote last night set alarm bells ringing. Laura Eye is talking with her therapist, and she says this:
LAURA
The duplicity is the hardest to take, you know? Never trusting anyone. Always assuming the other person is lying in some way. Because I’m lying to them, too, aren’t I? I have to.
DR MONTGOMERY
Isn’t that part of your job? Withholding truth sometimes?
LAURA
Yes, I suppose so.
DR MONTGOMERY
(consults notes)
What concerns you about it now? Has something changed?
LAURA
(looks out of the window)
I think someone close to me is lying.
DR MONTGOMERY
Why do you think that?
LAURA
Because he’s holding something back. I feel it when we’re together. It’s as if he’s taking orders from someone else…
I know that Laura Eye is talking about Gus Parkinson, the guy she’s working alongside at the multinational corporation she’s been assigned to protect. My head is well aware that Otty isn’t writing it about me. But I’ve seen her expression whenever I return from talking with Russell and it worries me. I’m probably feeling guilty. No, I definitely am.
Does Otty know? She isn’t letting on if she does. But that doesn’t make me feel any easier about the whole thing. Maybe we’re safe enough now. Russell likes our writing, so he’ll keep us together regardless. Perhaps I’ll have a word with him, suggest that Otty knows what she’s doing and doesn’t need a mentor anymore.
Mind you, even that sounds patronising.
At least other areas of my life are simpler. I have a new date for a start.
It’s very new and only happened yesterday, but tonight I am going out with Molly for the first time. Molly Stephens is the receptionist at Ensign. She’s beautiful and to be honest I noticed her ages ago. But when I started there I was still seeing Victoria on and off, so I wasn’t looking for anyone else. Molly’s lovely, a little shy but engaging, and I’m excited about getting to know her better.
Also, her dad is mates with Robert Plant from Led Zeppelin, which is more than a bit cool. I hear they get together quite a bit so I’m hoping she’ll invite me.
Shallow? Perhaps. But it’s going to add an extra bit of spice to an already promising evening.
‘Make sure you have her home by midnight,’ my housemate and writing partner grins, wagging her finger at me like a failing-to-look-stern headmistress.
Otty is, of course, having the time of her life tonight. It’s the first date I’ve been on since she moved in and she’s relishing the chance to exact revenge on me for how I was the night of her first date with Rona’s brother.
‘Very funny,’ I say, leaning down to tie my shoelaces.
‘I will be scrutinising your breakfast choices in the morning for signs of wanton shaggage.’
She is enjoying this far too much.
‘That’s not a word.’
‘Er, I think you’ll find it is. “Shaggage – noun – the unexpected baggage that inevitably follows a bout of shagging. See also bonkage and knobbage.”’ She beams like a smug victor on a podium.
‘They never taught me that in English lessons.’
‘Maybe they should have, Joseph.’
I straighten and grab my jacket. ‘You know, this gets old really quickly.’
Otty blesses me with a wry smile. ‘Have a lovely time, Joe.’
‘I will.’
‘Be good,’ she calls after me.
‘I’ll be amazing,’ I call back.
‘Ugh. Get out of my house immediately!’
I grin as I leave.
I’ve arranged to meet my date in a decent restaurant just off Chamberlain Square. Not knowing what she likes, I played safe and booked us a table at a small French bistro. French is good, right? I arrive first and wait at the table for her, suddenly feeling nervous. Which is daft, considering I’m hardly new to this. But now I’m at the table, trying not to demolish all the breadsticks before Molly arrive
s, I’m acutely aware of how many months have passed since my last date. It isn’t that I haven’t wanted to; I’ve just been busy.
I’m only here now because Otty and I agreed we needed a Saturday off.
I’ve seen her go on the odd date here and there, too, but nothing serious. I can’t even remember their names because she maybe mentions them once and then they’re gone. Work has been so all-consuming that it’s no wonder we’re both a bit lacklustre on the dating side.
All that could change for me tonight, though, if it goes well.
I check my watch: Molly is five minutes late.
That’s okay, I assure myself. We’re just playing it cool on the first date.
I raise my hand to summon a passing waiter and have just ordered a beer when Molly arrives.
She looks beautiful. Her blonde hair is loose and curls up where the ends meet her shoulders. She’s wearing a white blouse and fitted black trousers and her belt has just a hint of glitter that shimmers as she walks. Remembering my manners, I scramble to my feet to greet her with a double-cheek kiss.
So far, so awkwardly good.
‘Did you find this place okay?’ I ask as the waiter pulls out a chair for her and I sit back down.
‘Yeah, it was exactly where you said it would be.’
‘Right.’ We share timid smiles. ‘Would you like some wine?’
She glances at my newly arrived beer. ‘You already have a drink.’
‘I know. But I can leave it if you wanted wine instead.’
What? One thing’s for certain: I need to work on my first-date small talk because I suck at it tonight.
Molly lifts her hand and the waiter reappears. ‘Beer for me too, please.’
‘Oui, mademoiselle.’
She shrugs, her smile dazzling. ‘I like beer.’
I resist the urge to laugh because at that moment, I like Molly.
As first dates go, it’s surprisingly good. Dinner arrives and we both relax. By dessert, things are positively cosy.
‘I was hoping you’d ask me out,’ she admits, mid-tarte Tatin.
‘Were you?’
She nods. ‘For a long time. I even thought about asking you on a date. But I didn’t know if you and Otty were a thing.’
‘Ah. We’re not.’
‘I know that now. It’s just you were always together at work. And then Daphne said you lived together.’
I bristle. ‘Right…’
‘She seemed to think there was more going on than just sharing a house?’
I’ve seen the dead-eyes Daphne’s been firing our way in the writers’ room. The woman is obsessed with us. I know Otty is wary of telling her anything now. ‘Daphne sees drama everywhere. Don’t listen to her. Otty and I work together and live together, that’s all. She’s dating, so am I.’
A small crease appears between Molly’s perfectly groomed eyebrows. I’m not sure why – I mean, I’ve just explained everything, haven’t I? ‘Okay.’
‘I’m having fun,’ I say, although it sounds more apologetic than I intend.
‘Me too.’
Molly plays with the last piece of apple on her plate, her spoon twisting left and right as if guiding an ice hockey puck across the cream-glazed base of her bowl. I follow it, mesmerised, her voice strangely far away when she speaks. ‘We could have more fun next time if you wanted to come to mine?’
‘That would be… Yes, great,’ I manage, the bistro suddenly very warm indeed.
Outside, Molly pulls me in for a kiss that is as long as it is sweet and I promise to see her again soon outside work. We didn’t talk about Robert Plant tonight, but I’m not disappointed. Judging by our goodnight kiss, there will be plenty of opportunity for that…
I half expect Otty to be waiting up to grill me when I get home, but I find the house in darkness. No doubt she’s saving up her jibes for tomorrow. I might call her bluff – arrive in the kitchen in only my boxers and take two cups of coffee back upstairs with me. Or I might rock up in the clothes I’ve worn tonight, as though I’ve only just come home.
Smiling to myself, I grab a bottle of beer from the fridge and head up to my room to work.
‘It’s your turn to get the coffee.’
I look at Otty over the screen of my laptop. ‘I got them last time.’
‘No, I got these.’
‘Did you?’
She laughs. ‘Must have been some night for you and marvellous Molly. It’s addled your brain.’
I pull a face but I’m enjoying the banter today. Otty beat me to the chase this morning by leaving a note in the kitchen inviting me to join her at this city café for a working brunch. All my clever schemes to wind her up about my date therefore failed – and by the time I arrived it seemed too late to try.
I haven’t been here before, but I like it. Excellent coffee and laid-back service, all within a short walk of Birmingham Cathedral. In fact, the service is so laid-back it takes practically an hour for them to make your coffee. They seem to be enjoying themselves, though, and it’s oddly calming to watch the baristas at work.
I’m glad Otty suggested working out here. I’m not a fan of Sunday writing but, with a deadline, every day is a writing day. If it had to be anywhere, it’s best in a place like this. Stuck at home we’d never be this productive.
We have a breakdown of scenes we have to write and as we complete each one I mark another tick on the list. Mum used to mock me for my insistence on tick-boxes on every kind of list. But it makes me feel like I’ve achieved something – however small. It’s the completionist in me. I like everything done and accounted for. Leaving stuff half-finished does not put me at ease.
I tick another box with a flourish and grin at Otty. ‘Five down, five to go.’
She laughs. ‘Ooh, we’re at the midpoint twist!’
‘Okay, here’s one: Laura and Gus run out of coffee because one of them forgets whose turn it is to buy the next round?’
‘Rubbish. That’s not a twist to get people talking on Twitter.’
‘It’s unexpected. And everyone can identify with the horror of an empty cup…’
She shakes her head. ‘Loon. What we need is something…’ She breaks off, her smile vanishing, her eyes wide.
‘What?’ I ask. It’s not unlike Otty to stop mid-sentence because an amazing plot point has shocked her into silence. But then she ducks her head down behind her screen. That’s not what usually happens.
‘Down here,’ she insists. When I don’t respond, she grabs the collar of my shirt and pulls me down, until my face is an inch from hers.
‘What are we doing?’
‘Don’t look.’
‘Don’t look where?’
‘Over… by… the… door,’ she hisses, which of course makes me try to see what I’m not supposed to be looking at. But there’s just a random bloke standing there, scanning the room for a table.
‘Otts, you’re hurting me,’ I yelp as she yanks my head down again.
‘Just… Hang in there.’
‘You’re being weird. What’s going on?’
Her sigh could cool everyone’s coffee on the tables around us. ‘I don’t want to see him.’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t look!’
‘Ow, would you stop grabbing my neck?’
‘Sorry. I just can’t let him see me.’
‘Who? The chap by the door?’
She gives me a look like I should have worked this out ages ago. ‘He’s my ex.’
‘You had a date with him?’
Otty closes her eyes, her jaw tight. ‘No. My proper ex. As in the guy I broke up with before I got this job?’
‘Oh. Long-term?’ She nods. ‘How long-term?’
‘I started going out with him when I was sixteen.’
‘Bloody hell…’
‘And every time I’ve seen him since it ended I’ve just broken up with somebody else. So Chris thinks I’m lying about dating other people. He thinks it’s only a matter of time before
I admit the truth and take him back.’
I stare at her. ‘Would you take him back?’
‘No. Were you even listening?’
My neck is beginning to ache from the unnatural angle Otty is holding it at. And this sudden revelation is messing with my already post-beer-hazed brain. ‘You don’t need to hide, Otts.’
‘Yes, I do. The place is packed, he’ll be gone in a moment.’
I raise my head and see that she’s wrong. ‘Well, actually…’
‘Ottilie? Is that you?’
At close quarters to my housemate I can practically feel her heart sink. Slowly, she lifts her head and I follow.
‘Chris. Hi.’
‘I thought I saw you.’
‘You did.’ Her smile pulls her lips into a thin line.
‘Glad I did.’ His eyes make a super-creepy slow drop as he takes her in. Like he’s eyeing up his next meal. It makes me feel sullied and I’m only sitting by its subject. ‘You didn’t reply to my text.’
‘No, sorry. Work and stuff.’
He shrugs. ‘I thought that was what it was. So, I guess you heard I’m back?’
‘Dad told me. Birmingham won over Oxford, did it?’
‘What’s in Birmingham did.’ He smiles a too-wide, too-white, definitely icky grin and I instantly dislike him. ‘Also I got offered a great job with a tech agency start-up.’
‘Great. Um, congratulations.’
‘It’s less money than I was on in Oxford, but with house prices cheaper here it’s practically a raise.’ The dark smudge of his shadow passes over my tick-box list of scenes as he leans in. ‘Perfect job to build a home on – support a partner… and kids…’
‘I’m happy for you.’
‘I knew you would be. So, you seeing anyone?’
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.
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