Our Story

by Miranda Dickinson

  Russell is peering at us over steepled fingers. ‘Problem?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Otty replies quickly. ‘When do we meet him?’

  ‘He’s arriving in an hour.’

  Fraser Langham is a try-hard. The moment he enters the writers’ room, it’s obvious. Too warm, too confident, too cloyingly self-deprecating when he thinks he’s losing a point. All he needs is a Nineties’ floppy haircut and he would be a young Hugh Grant wannabe straight out of a Richard Curtis movie. Except that he’s Scottish – a killer touch, he hopes. I notice the vowels lengthen, the tone drop to deep Caledonian velvet, whenever he’s addressing the female contingent of our writing team.

  It’s pathetic. And if he thinks it’s going to win him allies in here, he’d better think again.

  We are a team. A unit. And no smooth-talking Scot is going to spoil it.

  I catch Tom and Reece exchanging amused glances as they watch Langham smarm his way into the room. Good. I have them on my side. Try and Sean-Connery your way out of that, mister.

  ‘It’s an honour to join Ensign,’ Langham says. Is the patriotic hand-pat to the heart really necessary? Is it? ‘I’m excited about what you’re all doing here. And working with this awesome team. Russ let me see your work on Eye, Spy and I’ve got to tell you, it shook me up.’

  Who is he, Elvis?

  I catch Otty glancing my way and I curl my upper lip in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it homage to The King. She hides her smile behind her sweater sleeve. At least we’re united in thinking our new script executive is a bit of a tit.

  Small victories.

  We’re forced to listen to Langham drone on incessantly about working in America, all the famous showrunners he’s ‘helped steer’ – can you credit the guy? – and how he wants to be in at the beginning with Ensign to ‘shake the industry up’.

  I’ll say this for him: he’s a serious fan of shaking…

  My fellow writers appear to be just as nonplussed by him as I am, which makes me feel so much better. Daphne definitely isn’t a fan. I get the feeling she thinks she’s been overlooked while Russell hauled his chum into the company.

  I wanted something to unite Otty and me.

  I think we might just have found it.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  OTTY

  ‘That guy is a god!’ Rona exclaims, adding another coat of lipstick to the two she’s just applied.

  I don’t think I’ve seen Rona wear lipstick at all in the months we’ve worked here. Something tells me the arrival of our new script executive and the sudden appearance of Rona’s lipstick might be linked.

  ‘I take it you’re a fan?’

  ‘I was starting to think we’d never get any decent men in that room.’

  We are in the Ladies’ loo at Ensign Media, having nipped out when the writers’ room meeting broke for coffee. It’s a serious cliché to be discussing men with my female friend in a glossy corporate washroom, but we chose our venue out of necessity. If I’d thought it was impossible to hold a private conversation at Dad’s place, it’s downright risky to do it at Ensign. Because here it isn’t just gossipy bike mechanics looking for titbits to broadcast to whoever will listen, it’s a group of highly skilled wordsmiths who know exactly how to embellish it beyond all recognition.

  ‘We don’t know he is decent yet,’ I say. ‘What was Russell thinking bringing someone new in just as this team is working so well?’

  ‘Divide and conquer,’ Rona says, a suggestive eyebrow raised.

  ‘Why does that sound filthy when you say it?’ I laugh.

  She hops off the sink unit. ‘It’s a gift. Also, because there’s a hot Scot out there with my name all over him.’

  Fraser Langham is… I’m not sure what he is yet. He’s certainly divided opinion in the team. Joe hates him – that much is obvious. Maybe it’s because he’s threatened by how chummy Fraser and Russell are. Joe’s been unchallenged in his role as Russell’s bezzie mate up until now, so this must be a shock. Reece keeps eyeing Fraser suspiciously over the top of his designer specs, as if Fraser might jump him at any moment, Jake wears a frown that could slice cheese, and Tom is just disinterested in everything. Rona wants to shag Fraser on the spot. Which is understandable, given that he’s built like an extra from Outlander – moody grey-green eyes like a storm-cloud, tousled red-blond hair and muscles visible beneath his shirt that Rona is going to end up licking if she keeps staring at them like she is.

  And me? I’m still making up my mind.

  He’s trying a bit too hard to impress us, but I guess that could just be nerves. I won’t lie: he’s lovely to look at. But I have a sneaky suspicion he knows that. It’s fun seeing how much he’s winding up Joe, though.

  ‘So what’s going on with you and Joe?’ Rona asks as we’re walking back to the writers’ room.

  ‘Keep your voice down!’

  ‘So there is something?’

  ‘No… No, we’re good.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Rona begins, but a certain script executive from north of the border commands her attention as he strides past into the room.

  Fraser Langham: one point.

  During the break, he’s been looking at the pitches we’ve already made a start on developing and is now ready to give us his initial thoughts. Joe, Reece and Jake sit like three defensive monkeys – only instead of each one covering their eyes, ears or mouth, all three adopt the same arms-crossed position.

  This should be interesting.

  ‘Talk us through your thoughts, Fraser,’ Russell invites. I feel the room prickle.

  ‘Sure. You have great stuff here, guys. Excellent material for when we start to write.’

  Start to write? Some of these ideas are well on the way to completion. Does Fraser know how fast we’ve been working?

  ‘So, I think we should brainstorm…’

  Frowns flash around the table. ‘We’ve already done that,’ Rona tells him. ‘We’re developing the pitches now.’

  ‘Ah, well that’s where I’m going to stop you. Some of these pitches are okay, but most need work. Back-to-the-drawing-board work – or executive whiteboard,’ he smiles broadly at his own joke.

  None of us follow.

  Russell shifts a little and clears his throat. ‘We’ve developed a way of working quickly…’

  Fraser looks over his shoulder. ‘And, no offence, Russ, it shows.’

  Uh-oh.

  Russell’s mouth gapes a little. Daphne stares. The Three Angry Monkeys square up for a fight. Even Rona, who until Fraser started speaking was unashamedly measuring him for her bed, isn’t smiling now.

  ‘With respect,’ Joe says, ‘those pitches are a testing ground. Sketches that capture the essence of the idea. Nobody expects them to be production-ready.’

  ‘Well, Joe,’ Fraser says, making a point of reading the tented whiteboard in front of Joe, ‘with respect, every piece of work produced here should be production-ready. We can’t build a bank of credible, fleshed-out ideas if every one is just a crude sketch.’

  ‘So what do you suggest we do?’ Reece asks, arms still folded.

  ‘Do better from the beginning.’ The silence that follows bristles with fury. Fraser holds up his hands. ‘Look, guys, Russ hired me to say it like it is. You’re good – some of the most promising I’ve met in this kind of writers’ room set-up since I got back from LA. But you’re not the best. If you build in mistakes and misfires at the beginning, you have a greater chance of failing.’

  ‘We have no intention of failing,’ Tom snaps.

  I watch Fraser’s weary sigh and wonder how many other writing teams he’s insulted within the first hour of working with them. ‘Nobody’s saying you are. But the fact is, Ensign needs to lead the market. And that means all product – in whatever form we make it – has to be strong.’ He holds out his hands, his voice dipping to low, soft Scottish persuasion. ‘Here’s what I suggest, okay? We start again, but before we write a single line, we work out exactly what we
’re aiming to achieve, collectively.’

  I see Rona is back on board. That accent of his is something he seems to use as a tool, a hook, even a weapon. It’s fascinating.

  ‘Now, I know you have established pairings and those will not change. But for the purposes of this exercise, I want to temporarily reassign you. I suggest Reece and Joe, you work with Rona, then Tom and Jake, you have Ottilie. That way, guys, you can help the girls to really get under the skin of this…’

  What did he just say?

  Eyebrows rise around the room. Even Russell looks shocked.

  ‘Help the girls?’ I ask, my pulse kicking. ‘Why would we need help?’

  ‘I think what Fraser meant…’ Russell begins, but it’s too late. I feel the writers closing ranks, a united battalion against this at best clumsy and at worst downright misogynistic interloper.

  Fraser Langham’s composure slips. Even that gorgeous accent can’t save him now. This may prove to be Ensign Media’s shortest ever appointment.

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting…’

  ‘I think you were,’ Rona counters. ‘I don’t know what you’ve seen in other writers’ rooms, Fraser, but in this one we’re equal. That’s what makes Ensign an industry leader.’

  The session is fast escaping from Fraser and everyone knows it. He’s only saved when Russell steps in to prevent us hitting stalemate.

  ‘Okay, let’s call time here. Take a break, everyone. I’ll order pizza and then we can thrash this out—’ he casts a definite glance at Rona and me, ‘together.’

  There’s a scramble to leave the room and Russell pauses to slap a hand on Fraser’s shoulder before following everyone else out.

  I should follow them and leave our newest colleague to consider his stupid remark. But I hang back. I’m not sure why.

  Across the room is a crumpled version of the man Fraser was when we were introduced. Gone is his swagger, his unwavering self-belief. It’s a very different view and I wonder how much of his performance is a shield to who he really is. He doesn’t realise I’m here, his head bowed over his mobile phone, his fingers making angry stabs at the screen. I almost feel sorry for him.

  No, I do feel sorry for him. Not because of what he said, but because of his reaction now.

  Beyond the closed writers’ room door I can hear animated voices and too-loud laughter – mostly from Joe, it has to be said. I don’t need to guess what the subject of their mirth is. In the stillness of this room, I see Fraser Langham’s shoulders droop lower.

  Quietly, I get up and walk to the thermal coffee carafes on the table at the front of the room. I fetch two mugs from the stack, a couple of sachets of sugar and a teaspoon.

  ‘Coffee?’ I ask, pouring mine already.

  Fraser starts and looks up. ‘Hi – I didn’t realise you were here, um…’ He scans the name boards around the room, trying to work out where he’s seen me sitting.

  I decide I’m going to help him. ‘Ottilie,’ I finish. ‘But please, call me Otty.’

  ‘Otty.’ The gentle beginning of a smile appears. Without the bravado, it’s a soft, welcoming sight. ‘Coffee would be good, thanks. Black, one sugar.’

  I nod and slide his mug beneath the carafe spout, aware of him watching me.

  ‘That’s very kind.’

  I smile as I stir in the sugar. ‘It’s just coffee.’

  ‘Right. Don’t suppose you have any Valium you could put in it?’

  ‘Fresh out, sorry. You might want to bring your own in tomorrow.’

  He gives a rueful laugh. ‘Reckon I’ll need it.’

  I hand him his coffee and he smiles.

  ‘Thanks. Look, I hope you know I didn’t mean what I…’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. I could let him off the hook now, laugh off his remark, but he needs to understand the gravity of it. ‘That’s the point. I’m assuming you’re a decent guy and don’t think women need to be assigned to men to be shown how to think.’

  His eyes widen. ‘Hell no…’

  ‘Just a bit of advice, then: don’t insult your female colleagues on the first day. We have very long memories.’

  ‘Right. Sorry.’ He closes his eyes. ‘I am horrified with myself. What a rubbish start.’

  ‘An apology will be fine. And not saying anything as stupid as that ever again.’

  Fraser grimaces. ‘Noted. Thanks.’

  ‘Good.’ I collect my laptop and head for the door.

  ‘Otty?’

  ‘Yes?’

  I feel like he’s debating how to phrase what he wants to say, but I see him mentally pack it away behind a smile. ‘Thanks again.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ I reply, the pull to be with my colleagues suddenly strong.

  Out in Ensign’s reception, I join my friends.

  ‘Well done for sorting him out, Otts. What a dick,’ Joe grins, pulling a face at the untouched mug I’ve brought with me from the writers’ room and exchanging it for a newly delivered coffee from the ground-floor coffee shop. ‘Have this one, it isn’t tainted by an opinionated, misogynistic git.’

  ‘Cheers. I don’t think he meant to insult us, though.’

  ‘But he did. I give him a week. If he’s lucky.’ He winks at me and it’s so good to see that I forget Fraser Langham’s motives and his terrible word choice and concentrate on rebuilding bridges with Joe.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  JOE

  Pillock.

  Langham may have avoided any more faux pas, but he’s trouble. Not content with having us rewrite all of the initial pitches we’d developed as a team with Russell, he now has us reporting to him for feedback on what we produce. Quality control, he calls it. Being an interfering git, more like.

  We work till 3 p.m., thrashing out new possibilities for Russell’s one-line elevator pitches. I don’t think we’ve come up with anything to match our original ideas, but if Langham needs proof that our collective gut feeling is better than his ridiculous process, so be it.

  ‘This is a total waste of time,’ Reece groans, completing another index card and chucking it onto the pile we’ve created. ‘Dare me to work a killer shark into the next one?’

  We share conspiratorial smirks.

  ‘Do it.’

  ‘Rethinking your plan to bed the bloke, Rona?’ I ask.

  She shrugs. ‘Had to. I’ve not got the time to deal with that.’

  ‘Probably for the best, Ro. You’d have to develop eight different approaches on index cards for his approval before anything happened,’ I chuckle. ‘Fraser Langham is the only guy in the world who sees feedback as foreplay.’

  ‘Ugh, can you not?’ Reece shudders. ‘Puts me right off my pizza.’

  I like that nobody is defending Langham. Otty totally owned him earlier – and rightly so. I look over to the other group of writers, who are as uniformly miffed as we are. Otty is in the middle, between Jake and Tom, deep in conversation. I watch the way she uses her hands to explain a point – frenetic swoops and staccato beats that punctuate her speech. Things have been easier with her and me since Langham arrived. I’d rather be angry with Langham than Otty.

  Russ and Langham return, Fraser noticeably less Tiggerish than before. I wonder what’s been said in private. I hope Russ read him the riot act. It’s hard enough for women in this industry without some privileged middle-class white dude mansplaining their role. Of all the mistakes he could have made, Langham picked the worst.

  He takes his seat and looks straight over at Otty’s team. I see the brief smile she sends back to him. My hackles rise. Of course, she’s the sweetest person and it’s typical of her to be kind, but it’s stretching even her loveliness to bless that guy.

  Russell is pacing now, picking up index cards and making a show of his approval. He must be regretting ever bringing Fraser Langham into this room. He knows how good we are: we don’t need babysitting.

  ‘All right, boss?’ I say when he reaches us.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replies, turning his back on Langham as he
grimaces. We all see it and I feel Rona and Reece bloom beside me. ‘Fraser’s suggested one-on-one feedback sessions later today, maybe running into tomorrow. You all okay with that?’

  I shrug. ‘Bring it on.’

  Perhaps in a bid to lessen the impact, Russell suggests Langham use his office to meet each writer, while the remainder stays in here to continue work on the pitches. We break for coffee and as I’m walking to the kitchen to seek out much-needed biscuits, I notice Langham beckon Otty into Russell’s office.

  Good luck with that, Fraser.

  A moment later, the door flies open and Otty storms out. She walks straight into the writers’ room and by the time I get in there she’s working again, head bowed, stabbing furious words with a sharpie onto a stack of index cards. What happened there?

  I don’t manage to catch her attention for the rest of the afternoon, but I see no trace of a smile whenever I check.

  ‘Dude.’

  I feel a hand on my shoulder and look up. Jake looks ready to punch someone, so I’m guessing he’s just had his meeting with Langham.

  ‘Good sir. How goes it?’

  ‘Don’t ask. You’re up.’ He slaps his hand on my back as if I’m leaving for the Western Front.

  Perfect. I am going to enjoy this…

  Langham is looking far too comfortable in Russell’s chair and I notice the vacant seat waiting for me has been strategically moved a small distance away from the desk. Seriously? This is a feedback meeting about a few words on index cards, not an audition for a Hollywood film.

  ‘Hey, Joe,’ he says, laughing at his own joke. ‘Ah, love a Hendrix reference. I bet you get that a lot.’

  ‘Good job my mum hated the name Jude, hey?’ I say, grabbing the back of my chair and swinging it right up to the desk to sit. His flinch is my reward.

  ‘Yeah, please sit down,’ he says pointedly as I smile a beatific smile and cross my legs.