Our Story

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘Hey,’ Joe rushes in, dropping into his chair.

  ‘You sound out of breath.’

  ‘Russ walks really fast when he’s stressed. But…’ he lowers his voice, ‘today it’s good stress.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just watch,’ he grins, reaching for a script.

  What is it with people and secrets today?

  I just hope it’s good news. Rumours are rife of award nominations for the leading and supporting actors. Of course, we’re all hoping for a writing nomination, but it’s too fanciful to dwell on. We need season two ready if we get a chance.

  ‘Right, everyone, last round of changes, I promise,’ Russell says, ignoring our groans as he strides around the room, handing out stapled sheets.

  Really? More? I’m starting to feel like I’m caught in a never-ending loop nobody’s bothered to cut.

  A copy spins across the laminate desk to land by me. I reach for it. Only two pages, that’s more promising.

  ‘Go on, open them,’ Russell snaps from the head of the table.

  I pull back the cover sheet at the same time as my colleagues. There is a single change, centred in the middle of the page:

  ONE CHANGE:

  WE ARE NOW A

  TWO-SEASON SERIES!

  We’re all so knackered it takes a moment to sink in. Then an entire writers’ room scream as one, a torrent of hugs and backslaps and excited chatter breaking out. And at its centre, our showrunner, beaming brighter than a lighthouse.

  ‘We’re done on the script changes,’ he says when we’ve all collapsed back into our seats. ‘Commissioners love it. So, terrestrial on BBC One and BBC America, simulcast as before. They wanted an option on a third season—’ a ripple of delight travels the room, but he raises a hand to temper our expectations, ‘which I’ve declined for the time being. However, I have agreed tentative first refusal when and if we are ready. Also Netflix are interested in a multi-series, multi-film deal. Again, early doors on that.’ He lifts both hands as if bestowing a blessing. ‘This is down to you guys. Thank you for your patience and for not walking out.’

  Daphne and Molly arrive with yet more champagne, a questionable choice given that most of us haven’t slept for a week and are likely to be comatose after one sip.

  Our showrunner raises his glass. ‘I think there’s really only one toast we can make, given the circumstances. Make sure someone films this, please: I’d like to post it to our social media channels immediately – and tag a certain newspaper, too.’ Clearing his throat like a hammy actor about to deliver a speech, he raises his glass: ‘Mindless machine, my ass!’

  We laugh and chorus back: ‘Mindless machine, my ass!’

  Fraser joins me and Rona as we gather in the fresher air of reception.

  ‘Seriously, I had visions of us being found in that room in ninety years’ time,’ Rona yawns. ‘Just a load of dusty carcasses forgotten by the world, still trying to get through Russell’s notes.’

  ‘That’ll be your spec script, will it?’ Fraser asks.

  ‘Watch it, Langham.’ She wags a finger. ‘I’m still working out who to bump off. A rude Caledonian script executive might be just what I’m looking for.’

  ‘Make it grisly, Rona.’

  She looks at me. ‘I like him. I’m getting a top-up. Any takers?’

  I hold up my glass, which has hardly been touched.

  Rona tuts loudly. ‘Lightweights.’

  When she’s gone, I lean into Fraser, enjoying the way his arm moves around my waist. ‘So, you knew about Russell’s announcement?’

  ‘No. I found out the same time as you.’

  I frown. ‘Then what’s your news?’

  ‘Let’s go to my car.’ He takes my hand and we slip out of the room.

  We dodge a spring rain shower as we hurry out of West One to the car park. Fraser’s Jaguar is warm and welcoming when we get inside.

  ‘So?’

  His eyes sparkle as he faces me. ‘Okay, you cannot tell a living soul about this—’

  ‘I won’t.’ I love his excitement. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I’ve been offered a job.’

  The rain thrums more insistently on the car roof. I’m not sure I heard him right. ‘What?’

  ‘At Exemplar. They love what we’ve done on Eye, Spy. They want their own writers’ room, just like ours. They’ve asked me to set it up.’

  I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Exemplar Productions are probably Ensign’s biggest competitor. That Fraser even talked to them while working for Russell is bad enough, but I know for a fact they aren’t based near Birmingham. ‘Where?’

  ‘London! Old stomping ground, calling me back. But it’s huge, Otty, it’s the chance to run my own gig.’

  ‘But Russell needs you here.’ All trace of celebration leaves me as I face him.

  ‘Russell is more than capable of running his own outfit. And the team are ambitious, ready to push forward. I got us to a second series; Russell doesn’t need me now.’

  I stare at him, not sure if this is real or an awful hallucination. ‘So, that’s it? You just take a job in London and don’t tell me?’

  Fraser’s eyes widen and he takes both my hands. ‘No, no, listen. They want you, too. I want you,’ he laughs, ‘in many different ways, but I want you to be my lead writer.’

  Hearing this while battered by sleep deprivation, emotionally raw after the green-light news, is not the best. ‘I’m not lead writer material, Fraser. I have barely a year’s experience in the job.’

  ‘Russell saw your potential. Joe too. Both of them considerably more experienced than you, and yet they talk about you as Ensign’s secret weapon.’

  ‘No they don’t.’

  ‘Russell does. Do you have any idea how hard it is to win his approval? He’s infamous for trusting no one. And yet who was on the planning team for season two? You can do this, Otty. I know you can.’

  ‘But London—’

  ‘Think about it, Otts. Me and you, working together. Living together. A new city, a new start. Exemplar are the kind of innovators that catch the market’s attention. And that means springboards into who-knows-what. This is a break for both of us.’

  ‘But you’re only telling me now?’

  ‘I wanted to wait until the offer was certain.’

  ‘Does Russell know?’

  His gaze drops.

  How can he do this? When everything else is certain and sorted? Has he no loyalty at all? To Russell? To his colleagues? To me?

  ‘Tell me what you’re thinking, Otty.’

  ‘I… I don’t know what to think.’

  His hand reaches across to stroke my face, the green-grey pools of his eyes earnest, questioning. ‘Come to London with me. We’ll start something new. I can do anything if I have you.’

  ‘I need to get out of here.’ My hand is on the door handle.

  ‘No, Otty, wait! Think about it, please?’

  It’s too much. I can’t possibly make a decision like that now. Ignoring Fraser’s protests, I run through the pelting rain back to West One.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  JOE

  Something’s playing on Otty’s mind.

  It isn’t lack of sleep because we had the day off after we got the green light for Eye, Spy 2, and slept side by side on the sofa for much of it. I don’t think it’s Langham, either. He was round here last night like flipping Captain PDA, all touchy-feely stuff and lingering kisses – and Otty seemed fine with that.

  I guess it could be the fallout after such an intense period of work. It’s happened to me before. One minute you’re working like a dog, forfeiting sleep and generally going bonkers, the next the project’s done and you’re left hanging in mid-air. It can take a while to reacclimatise. I always think being a writer is a bit like P.T. Flea from A Bug’s Life and his Flaming Death trick. Invite an audience, set yourself alight, take a few days to heal, and do it all over again.

  Otty’s laptop is open on the
coffee table but I haven’t seen her type anything since I got up. I’m tempted to have a peek at her spec script, find out what she’s planning. She won’t tell me anything about it – which is how we’re supposed to do this – but I’d kind of hoped she might make an exception for little old me.

  Not that I’m going to ask her today, though. She could use that spoon in her empty cornflake bowl to gouge my eyes out.

  She’s staring at the television as if she can see straight through it to the wall on the other side, biting at a hangnail on her thumb. There’s a tiny crease between her eyebrows that hasn’t softened all morning. Even the pink tips of her hair look subdued.

  I can’t let her stay like this all day.

  ‘Penny for ’em, laydee,’ I say, in my best Dick Van Dyke cockney voice.

  She just blinks ahead, long and slow.

  So much for my comedy skills. ‘Otts, what’s up?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘If by fine you mean giving the telly death-stares then, yeah, you are fine.’

  That works. She gives a weary shake of her head and looks at me. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To take you out.’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘Yes today. Have you not checked the fixtures list? Warwickshire are at home at the – stadium thingy.’

  ‘You hate cricket.’

  ‘I like it if you tell me all the proper words.’

  Her sigh is heavy, but the prospect of an afternoon spent watching her favourite team causes a sparkle she can’t hide. ‘Okay.’

  As it turns out, we pick a good match to watch. Warwickshire are batting and, to a layman, seem to be pretty handy in that department. I’m impressed by how far they actually hit the ball – on televised matches it never seems that big a distance. We stand to applaud when they score runs and sit when they play, the slowest, Brummiest Mexican wave I’ve ever seen.

  I’ll say one thing for cricket: it certainly seems to attract a nicer type of person. Everyone seated around us is pleasant and we get included in bursts of their conversation as if we all rocked up here together. It’s nice.

  I glance at Otty, who is intently watching the game, elbows on knees.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’ I ask, handing her a plastic cup filled with tea from the thermos I remembered to bring.

  ‘Are you going to stop asking me about it?’

  ‘Probably not. And cricket’s a long old game.’

  Otty looks at me. ‘I can’t tell you. Not yet. But this is lovely, thanks.’

  ‘Nice try, Perry.’

  She fiddles with her shoelace. ‘I don’t know. Do you ever feel like life is just waiting to jump you like a… a… ninja?’

  ‘Ah, the infamous Birmingham Life Ninjas.’ I nod. ‘I’ve heard the legend.’

  ‘Don’t mock me. All of my good words are in my spec script,’ Otty says with a rueful grin.

  ‘I’d stick the ninjas in if I were you. Might be the killer touch.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’ It’s only a tiny laugh, but it’s a start. ‘I just really like the life I’ve got now. I like the house and my job and… I suppose you’re okay too.’

  I roll my eyes, glad that she’s attempting humour. ‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Especially the me-being-brilliant bit.’

  ‘Yeah, it is. I wish we could press pause when life is just how we like it. Freeze it, right there. So it doesn’t change… Ignore me. I’m just tired.’

  I watch her for a while as her eyes follow the play on the field. I want so much to talk to her about the script I’m writing – that I finished a draft of in the early hours of this morning. It’s solved a lot of the questions I’ve carried about what happened, but some knots remain. I wish I could discuss it objectively with Otty – if we could critique the story without it being ours, how would we resolve it? I imagine us placing sticky-note lines across the walls of our home, strands of potential resolution that could direct our lives…

  ‘Have you sketched out the options?’ I say, surprised that I’m voicing my thoughts.

  She turns her head. ‘For what?’

  ‘For whatever’s on your mind. Like we did for Laura and Gus.’

  ‘I haven’t. That doesn’t work in real life.’

  ‘Doesn’t it?’ I see her considering my suggestion. ‘It’s your life, you should be the one sticking the notes on the wall.’

  There’s a glimpse of a smile. ‘Defeat the Life Ninjas with Post-its?’

  ‘Ninja vs Sticky Note has a ring to it.’

  She laughs and looks at her match programme. She is so lovely when she laughs. I force my attention back to Warwickshire’s players.

  ‘Look, I don’t profess to be an expert in life stuff. But I know you should at least get a say – if not in what happens to you, then in what your response is. Okay, example: Laura can’t stop Soren targeting her family, but she can choose to lie down or fight. Or walk away.’

  ‘Or keep the things the way they are?’

  I nod. ‘As I recall, the maintain-status-quo thread was the orange Post-it line.’

  She wrinkles her nose. ‘You’re strange. But that helps, thank you.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘Have you booked your consultation with Russell yet?’

  I resist the surge of nerves. ‘Tomorrow afternoon at 4 p.m. You?’

  ‘5 p.m. tomorrow. Want to share a ride in?’

  ‘Deal. You drive, I’ll make dinner.’

  I’m nervous about tomorrow. My spec script is very different from any writing of mine anyone has seen before. I think it has pace and focus, but Russell’s work is very much the big-action, big-story narrative. Will my portrait of two small lives appeal? Seth and Evie’s story is epic in the tiny details: heartbeats instead of explosions, the turn of a conversation instead of the twist of a knife. Too late to worry about that now. This is all I have to show him.

  Otty and I arrive at Ensign a little after 3 p.m. and head into the writers’ room. Some of our colleagues have opted to come in and work here on their spec scripts, the hangover of the Eye, Spy script revision still pulling us back. Rona is working at her brother’s café and Reece at the Library of Birmingham at a hot desk overlooking the city. But Tom and Jake are here and they grin at us when we walk in.

  ‘Ready to meet the executioner?’ Tom asks.

  ‘Feels like that, doesn’t it?’ I grimace. ‘How did yours go?’

  He shrugs. ‘Okay, I guess. Lots to think about. So who’s up first?’

  ‘Joe is,’ Otty says. ‘I’m in after.’

  ‘Team O-Joe separated – can the world cope?’ Jake laughs. ‘It’s like Avengers Endgame all over again.’

  I grimace. ‘I reckon Thanos is a bit more reasonable.’

  Otty fixes me with a stern look. ‘You will be fine.’

  ‘So will you.’

  She sits and fetches her laptop from her bag. ‘Oh, I know I will be.’

  I join in the good-natured banter with my friends but my nerves are a tangle of fear. Time seems to be wading slowly through fast-setting concrete and by the time 4 p.m. arrives, I don’t know whether I want to throw up, leg it down the eleven flights of stairs to the car park or hide beneath the writers’ room table.

  I wipe the moisture from my palm on the back of my jeans before I knock Russell’s door. I have to calm down.

  ‘Well, well, Mr Carver,’ he booms, standing up to shake my hand.

  Okay, that’s unexpected.

  We’ve all emailed our scripts to Russell prior to our consultations, but I’ve printed out two copies for the meeting. I want to make notes of Russell’s suggestions and if I try to type it up I’ll lose things. I can think better when I make notes by hand. A little more time to think about the words I’m forming, not bashed out in a frenzy only spell-check can rescue. I hand one to him as I sit.

  ‘Copy in case you need one.’

  ‘No need,’ he says, lifting a script from the desk. It is covered in his
large, flamboyant handwriting.

  Breathe, Carver, breathe.

  ‘You made notes?’

  He wears a strange smile and I can’t work out if it’s a sign of hope or a portent of doom. ‘Plenty.’

  At least I can’t see any red lines…

  I settle in my seat as best I can.

  ‘I have to say, I was surprised by your spec.’

  ‘Um, pleasantly?’ The last note of my question is practically falsetto.

  ‘You’re scared, aren’t you?’

  ‘Can you tell?’

  ‘Relax, Joseph. Let’s start with the headlines then work through the body, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ Is that good?

  It’s only a spec script. My future career does not hang on Russell liking it. If it doesn’t win the Ensign commission, it won’t be the end of the world.

  Except it’s not just a script, is it? It’s our story – Otty and Joe, disguised as Evie and Seth. And I’m so stupid because right until this moment it hasn’t occurred to me that any criticism of them will feel like an indictment on us. I’ve bled all over this: if Russell hates it, he’ll be damning me.

  ‘It’s brave. It’s tender. It’s not the tense thriller I was expecting, but I was engaged, Joe. Truly.’

  I can’t believe it. ‘Oh… Thank you…’

  Russell rests his chin on his hands and observes me. ‘I’m curious, what made you decide to go down this route? I seem to remember you referencing a locked-room thriller?’

  ‘It wasn’t the story I wanted to tell,’ I reply, shocked by my own admission.

  ‘Not the one that mattered?’

  I nod.

  ‘Hm.’ Russell takes this in, watching me. ‘How long have we known each other, Joseph? Seven years? More?’

  ‘Eleven now. I was a trainee staff writer on one of your early projects at BBC Drama.’

  ‘I remember. I caught you writing your own stuff when you should have been working on mine.’

  I can’t help my smile. ‘Yeah, sorry about that. I was a dick when I was twenty-three.’

  ‘Aren’t we all? Some of us are dicks at fifty.’ He laughs. ‘Long time, Joe. Last time I got this feeling from your work was on Southside. But this script is beyond that.’ He sits back. ‘Hurts, doesn’t it?’