Damage limitation, they call it. Except it doesn’t stop the damage. Right now it hurts like hell. I saw what she was going to say before she said it, so I got my punch in early. It doesn’t feel like I won.
How can it not have meant anything to her? It meant everything to me.
I don’t know what I expected her to do. I’d left her sleeping in my bed so soundly I thought she’d stay there until I returned with fresh coffee and gentle kisses to wake her. The breakfast of lovers – or some other sentimental crap my brain decided it would be. I thought I’d join her and we would stay in bed all day. I thought she’d want to make up for all the time we’ve spent dancing around each other, when we should have recognised what was right in front of us.
But she was never going to do that, was she?
I knew it the moment she arrived in the kitchen, showered and dressed. I felt grubby and dishevelled next to her. I knew she didn’t want me.
How can she not remember last night? My own memory may be hazy but I remember what matters: I remember her. Is she lying? I don’t want to think she might be because that would make it a million times worse. But if she remembers and still doesn’t want me… I don’t think I could bear that.
‘I think I might go back to bed,’ she says, resting her hand against her forehead presumably to avoid any further misunderstandings. ‘Sleep this off.’
‘Yeah. Good idea.’
She stands and waits. I hate the hope that rises in me, willing her to change her mind and tell me she remembers everything and wants me after all. I don’t want to hold my breath but I do, releasing it in a long, slow exhale when she walks out.
I keep my smile steady until she’s gone.
The coldness of the kitchen seeps into my limbs as I sit. I’ve never felt alone in this house, not even when Matt moved out. But today the ache is raw in my chest. She’s here but she’s not. Our friendship is a soulless body, its heart ripped away. Things will never be the same.
I could go back to bed but I couldn’t escape her there. I could rest on the sofa, but the memory of our kiss lingers on its cushions. Even in the kitchen the ghosts of a hundred happy exchanges gather. On the fridge door, an Otty and Joe I no longer recognise smug-grin at me, oblivious to my pain.
I need to get out of here.
The city is cloaked in grey when I walk through it, the sunlight that summoned me from my bed this morning long gone. Suits me just fine. I don’t want to feel hopeful now. Bright sunshine would be cruel, in the circumstances.
I caught a bus into the city centre and now I’m skirting the new development at Paradise that links the Museum and Art Gallery in Victoria Square with the new library and the Symphony Hall. I think I’m heading towards the canals at Brindleyplace, but I’m not really monitoring my route. I just want to walk.
Will we ever get past this?
Otty seems well on the way to it, of course. But I’m far behind. What about when we start to write again? Tomorrow we’ll discover the next project Russell has for us and we’ll be expected to pick up where we left off. Can I sit with her for hours, be that close to her, knowing what I know – what we did – and still function as we did before?
A chatter of angry geese crash-lands on the canal as I emerge from the concourse between the Symphony Hall and the Convention Centre. The noise jars me. I shake it off. I’m jumpy and I don’t like it, my senses on high alert. It isn’t my hangover. It’s her.
I catch my reflection in the windows of the canalside restaurant. I look away. I don’t want to see the pain in his face, the haunted eyes of someone who just made the worst mistake of his life.
My feet stab against the blue brick steps up to the bridge that crosses the canal, far harder than they need to. I want to walk Otty out of my system, kick the memory of her kisses, her skin, the scent of her hair with each step. I want to forget, like she apparently has.
I have to forget last night – we both do – and find a way to work together.
It’s just going to take time…
Chapter Thirty-One
OTTY
It’s only been a few days since we celebrated finishing Eye, Spy, but returning to Ensign Media feels like I’ve been absent for months. We’re both here, Joe and me, doing our best impression of the happy writing team we were before. But I feel like a shell.
I hid in my room all day and night yesterday. I just couldn’t face seeing Joe again, knowing the mistake I almost made. As it is, he’s none the wiser, thinking I’m as embarrassed about spending the night with him as he is. So we met in the kitchen at breakfast this morning, our well-worn double act clicking back into place, if a little dented.
It will get better, eventually. I just need to keep smiling until it does.
Russell is on top form, at least. He swaggers into the writers’ room wearing an enormous grin and I half-expect him to start high-fiving us all like a coach in a sports movie after a big win.
‘Everyone caught up on sleep? Or drinking?’ He smiles at the ripple of laughter that travels around the room. ‘Excellent. Well, team, I have news.’ He performs one of his now infamous pauses, then holds up a sheet of paper. ‘Official green light. Production company on board, casting begins this week. Commissioners are moving fast on this one. They want it on screen in six months’ time.’
We are lifted by the surge of delight that takes us all with it. Hugs break out across the room. I hug Rona and reach across the table to grasp hands with Reece and Tom. Then I turn, just as Joe does – and the air is cut from our sails. We half-hug to maintain our carefully choreographed performance, but it’s more of a confused, hot-flushed mismatch of arms. Over Joe’s shoulder, I see Daphne’s eyes narrow.
‘Everyone’s excited about it. Plans to show a single episode per week, no box set on streaming services until the entire series has been broadcast. “Event TV”, kids, so Nathan Byford-King at The Sentinel can go and choke on that. I might invite him to a press screening and sit right next to him with the popcorn…’ He rubs his hands together and laughs. ‘But I’m getting ahead of myself. I always said I was setting up this team to be Ensign’s powerhouse – more than a single-series operation. It’s a new way of working. A dependable, consistent source of primetime hit shows. Well, congratulations: you’re it. I want to cover a range of stuff, from digital shorts and single-episode dramas right up to full-series and feature-length productions.’
It’s the dream. It should be exciting. It is exciting, but it isn’t how I thought it would be.
‘Bagsy the film,’ Joe mutters under his breath, loud enough for me to hear and I look at him without thinking. He risks a tiny smile. I send one back. It’s a stolen second of solidarity, but it’s the biggest step we’ve made since that night.
I’m not sure it’s even a truce, but it helps.
The plan for the next month is to work on pilot scripts based upon pitches Russell has written, the most viable of which will be taken forward. If this is successful, we repeat it until we have a bank of scripts for potential development.
‘We’ll keep the same writing teams,’ he says. ‘No point in reinventing the wheel. So today we plan and then you’re off.’
An air of excitement fills the room as Russell talks us through his ideas and we all pitch in with suggestions. As the time passes, I feel Joe relax a little beside me. I do the same. It’s not perfect and we still have to work out how to navigate being at home together, but it’s better than I feared it might be.
At lunchtime I’m waiting for coffee when I feel a soft pressure on my shoulder. I turn to meet Joe’s hesitant smile.
‘Otts, can we talk?’
‘I’m just getting a drink.’
‘Won’t be long.’
I glance over his shoulder towards the door. ‘You taking me on a Russell walk?’
His eyes flicker. ‘Sure, why not.’
We slip out of the room, my pulse thudding so loud I expect to hear it reverberating around the empty corridors. I haven’t done the ele
venth-floor circuit before and I’m acutely aware of Joe watching me as we walk. It’s far bigger than I’ve imagined, West One’s still-to-be-let interiors eerily imposing.
‘Are we supposed to be talking?’ I ask after we’ve walked a few minutes in uneasy silence.
Joe stops walking. ‘Yes. Sorry.’ He stands a safe distance away from me.
I stay where I am and hug my arms to my body. It’s cold here, but I don’t know if that’s the building or the company. ‘Is this going to get easier, with us? Because it’s horrible.’ I hear the quake in my voice and hate it.
‘I hope it will. It has to.’
‘What if it doesn’t? Maybe we should just tell Russell…’ I see Joe’s horror at what that sounds like and quickly add, ‘that we’d like different partners.’
‘No.’
‘We have to do something…’ I don’t want to cry. I don’t want another row. I want us back.
‘I know. How do we fix this?’
I shake my head, my mouth empty of words. So Joe speaks instead.
‘I don’t want to lose you. Us. We made a mistake. We have to live with it – and each other.’
It’s incredibly bleak, put like that. But he’s right. ‘I don’t want to lose us either.’
I watch Joe as he stares at the ceiling, hands on his hips, like he does when we’ve hit a block in a scene. If only this were as simple as unravelling an unruly section of dialogue…
‘What would Laura and Gus do?’ I say.
Joe’s eyes flick back to me. ‘What?’
‘If this were Laura and Gus from Eye, Spy, not me and you, how would we write them out of it?’ The idea blooms in my mind as I give it voice.
‘Well, Gus would be trying to be practical. Not letting Laura see she was breaking his heart.’
I wince a little. Joe’s words have an edge I’m not sure how to take. ‘Laura would be trying to outrank him. Hiding her own pain until she can tell Dr Montgomery in therapy.’
‘That’s just them marking their positions. It doesn’t solve the problem.’
‘So what would?’
He thinks for a while, leaning against a solitary partition in the vast empty space. ‘They would make it an open joke.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Their enemies would expect them to conceal any involvement. So they joke about it. Openly. No attempt to hide their mistake. Nobody can exploit a secret everyone knows.’
‘They joke about sleeping together?’ Is that what he’s suggesting?
‘What’s the alternative? They’re doing so well – undercover, I mean. They have a good thing going. The joke would unite them, not divide them.’
‘But they’re still hurting…’ I pull back, knowing I’m not talking about our characters now. ‘How can that be something they are okay with?’
He looks at me for a long time. ‘It hurts now. But if they share this, maybe it will get easier.’
I don’t like it at all. It’s bad enough to dismiss what we shared as a mistake, but to invite others to laugh at us? How does that make it any better? ‘So they just tell everyone?’
‘No. I’m not suggesting that. They joke about it between themselves. And then, if it leaks out – if someone else works out what’s going on – they have the perfect cover. Oh that? We just laugh about that now…’ He spreads out his hands like he’s just completed a magic trick. ‘See?’
I don’t know how that protects their hearts. But maybe if they share an approach, it’s a touch point that could unite them. I hate the idea of the joke but I want to find common ground with Joe. ‘Can you do that? Can they?’
‘I think they can.’ He moves a little closer. ‘I think we can.’
That’s it, then. Block removed. Strategy written.
So why does it feel like a lie?
Chapter Thirty-Two
JOE
Hide behind humour. Isn’t that what every self-respecting male protagonist resorts to? So much for being original with my coping strategy.
But, against the odds, it seems to be working.
It’s been two weeks since Otty and I decided on the joke and it’s starting to feel part of our everyday patter. I still sense a hesitancy when it’s about to happen – a brief flash of concern before we leap – but we’re getting better at it.
‘Ugh, put it away,’ Otty says as I lean around her, bare-chested from my morning shower, to steal a slice of toast she’s just buttered. ‘Nobody wants to see that this early in the morning.’
‘Seem to recall you did once,’ I grin, pushing the stab of guilt away.
‘Emphasis on the once,’ Otty retorts, fast as a gunshot. She even risks a swift appraisal of my towel-wrapped waist before she turns back to the breadboard. It’s a strange flirtation and uncomfortably affecting. I see the tension in Otty’s shoulders and turn away. It’s far from easy. But we’re trying.
Russell’s called the writing team in early this morning – and he wants to see Otty and me first. Not sure what to make of that yet. He phoned us at home yesterday evening to invite us, which is definitely out of character for the man who even resents having to send group emails to the team.
‘What do you think it is?’ Otty asks me as we drive into West One’s car park.
I don’t know why she’s asking me. I’m as clueless as anybody. ‘Search me.’
A familiar song starts playing on the radio and my housemate instantly brightens. ‘Hold on, Tom’s here.’
I laugh, but Otty is already singing along to the song, tapping the steering wheel. I’ve heard it before at home, when she’s cooking with the radio on or listening to music as we work. I remember the title as she reaches the chorus: ‘Just You and I’.
‘Lovely song, Tom,’ I say to the radio.
‘We’re going to be okay, Joe. Tom Walker will sort it. This song’s like a talisman for me.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
At the barrier to West One’s car park, she stops singing and looks at me. ‘You don’t think Russell knows? About us?’
‘Not unless he’s bugged our house,’ I laugh. She’s frowning when I look at her. I soften my voice. ‘Hey. Don’t worry. Laura and Gus have it covered.’
It’s lame, but at least I get a smile in return.
I won’t show Otty, but I’m nervous, too. We’ve worked well, our stuff is strong – the strongest in the writers’ room, I’d say – but since that night there’s a stubborn disconnect that all our brave words and hesitant jokes have failed to repair. Has Russell seen it?
We run the gauntlet of West One’s elaborate security systems and make the lift with ten minutes to spare. In it, we stand at opposite sides as it ascends. As far apart as we can be… I shake the thought away. That’s not fair on either of us.
When the floor counter flicks to eleven, I move next to Otty, daring to catch her little finger with mine as our arms hang side by side. She squeezes back. One tiny assurance. Our hands part as the steel doors open and we walk in silence to Ensign’s door.
‘Team O-Joe!’ Russell’s baritone booms as soon as we enter. He’s adopted that name for us from Rona and it’s stuck. You can hear how delighted with himself he is whenever he says it. I guess it’s endearing – even if this morning it does little to ease our nerves. Safe behind matching bright smiles, Otty and I walk into Russell’s office.
‘Sit,’ he commands – and we do, comically in time. On any other day it would be funny. ‘I’m getting breakfast rolls in for us all and some kind of freaky veggie concoction for Rona and Reece.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘I’m sure they’ll be over the moon.’
He waits for us to respond, but when neither of us does, he pushes a thermal jug of coffee across his desk to us.
‘Thought we’d get the good stuff in first. Reward for being so bloody early. Go on – help yourselves! I persuaded the ground-floor coffee shop to open at six so they could fill this baby for me. Smart plan, huh?’
‘Thank you,’ Otty says. ‘So, you wanted to see us?’
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‘I did. Can you both stop looking like I’m about to decapitate you, please?’
We make an effort to relax, which isn’t all that successful.
‘Joe, Otty, I’m not going to beat around the bush here. You are my best writers. Both of you. The work you did on Laura’s development in Eye, Spy was inspired. It’s what’s made everyone so excited about the show – commissioners, production, even some of the cast we’ve got coming on board already. The buzz is all over the trade press. I can’t stress enough how vital this has been to getting that green light. I owe you.’
I hear Otty’s sharp intake of breath beside me. I’m holding mine.
‘Thank you,’ we say together, allowing ourselves a smile at our subconscious synchronicity.
‘There’s already an appetite for a second season.’ Russell leans towards us as if the office might betray his secret. ‘Keep that to yourselves, though. I want you to know, if we get another series, you two are my lead writers.’
It’s not just a promise of work. It’s immense. Being lead writer on a series of the magnitude we hope Eye, Spy will be is career-defining, life-changing stuff.
‘Seriously?’ I say, cringing at the squeak in my voice.
Russell nods. ‘Good news?’
‘Great news.’
‘We’ll still team write, but the three of us will bash out the bones of the story beforehand. I want you both in from the very beginning. Four of us, actually.’
Who else?
‘Daphne?’ Otty asks, reading my mind.
‘No…’ Russell pulls a face. ‘I mean, can you imagine? No, I’m bringing in someone new. Hence the early-morning team briefing today.’
‘Who?’
‘Fraser Langham.’ When it’s clear neither Otty nor I know who he is, Russell frowns. ‘Well, you should have heard of him. He’s just back from working in the States with Shonda Rhimes. I was lucky to get him. Great guy. Visionary, versatile – he’s as at ease on US writer-room dramas as he is with the traditional set-ups in the UK. And everyone wants him. The four of us will be leads on Eye, Spy 2, if we get it.’
I’m not sure how I feel about a new guy joining us. From her thinly veiled frown I can see Otty feels the same. We’ve come through so much as a team – survived the sackings and the writing partnership changes – and we’re so much stronger for that. It’s a mix that works. Why shake it up now, when we’re on the cusp of enormous success?
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