Our Story

by Miranda Dickinson

  I thought I knew Joe Carver. But I never did.

  I don’t drive straight to Fraser’s home. I’m not calm enough yet. So I take a circuitous route, skirting the city I love, passing over flyovers and through tunnels, the lights blurred and dancing though my tears. Once again, I’m alone, adrift in the place that holds my heart; once again the city soothes me. I’ve cried more over Joe than anyone else and it has to stop. I don’t want to leave Birmingham and these streets that are as familiar as the lines on my skin. But Joe is here. And I can’t be where he is.

  Does he really remember? Or was that another lie?

  I push it away. It doesn’t matter. I can’t take back what was said tonight.

  Finally, when I’m ready, I take the road that leads to my new start.

  ‘Otty?’ Fraser meets me by the lift, eyes wide when he sees the state of me.

  ‘Can I stay?’

  ‘Yes – you know you can.’

  ‘I’ll take the job.’ The flash of surprise in his expression bruises me. ‘I’ll go to London with you. And – can I move here? Until we leave?’

  His smile blossoms, his body already enclosing mine. ‘Yes. Yes, to all of it. I love you.’

  I let his kisses fall and steal my reply.

  West One is shrouded in mist when I arrive on decision day. Locking Monty’s door, I let my gaze travel up the sleek green glass and steel lines that disappear into billows of white. Whatever happens today, my life will change. I’ve loved working here, but life pulls me on.

  When I reach the entrance, Rona is waiting. Of course she knows – I poured it all out to her in an email yesterday at Fraser’s, bruised and aching from the events of the night before. And being a great friend, she doesn’t ask to go over it, just wraps me into a hug.

  ‘You don’t deserve it, Otty. Joe should be the one leaving. That’s all I’m saying. Now come on: let’s face our spec script destiny.’

  Last night, Fraser and I talked about what we would do if my script wins. The plan would be for me to work remotely for Ensign on a single commission, while we set up the writers’ room at Exemplar. He seems to think Russell will be okay with that. In truth, I’m dreading that outcome. But then I’m dreading Russell’s reaction to our news.

  Fraser is in with Russell, now. He drove in early to do it. The timing isn’t great, but I’m glad I’m not the one dropping the bombshell.

  ‘I reckon you’re a shoe-in,’ Jake says when we join them for coffee. ‘I overheard Russell talking about the new direction the first Ensign-Tempest production will have.’

  ‘That could be any of us.’

  He gives me a wry smile. ‘My pitch was Killing Eve meets Broadchurch. I’m anything but groundbreaking.’

  ‘Otty.’ Rona’s hand tightens on my arm. I follow the line of her gaze and see him, edging into the room, looking for someone.

  Joe Carver looks like a ghost.

  I feel like I’ve spent days angry with him and I’m tired of it. I stand by everything I said, but I’m not having it brought into this room, not on the last day I’ll be here as an Ensign screenwriter. Giving Rona a nod I leave my friends and make my way over.

  ‘Walk with me,’ I say, not stopping for his reply.

  I hear his steps behind me as we leave the warmth of Ensign’s suite and head into the cool stillness of the eleventh floor. When we’re far enough away, I stop and turn to him.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he rushes, getting there first. ‘For everything. I don’t want you to hate me.’

  I sigh. ‘I don’t hate you.’

  ‘But you don’t believe me?’

  I look at the floor. ‘I don’t think I can.’

  ‘Read my script? Like we said. Please? It will make sense if you do.’ His hand reaches for mine but stops before they meet. Like Lizzie and Dan’s hands on the bench in my script… ‘It might not change anything, but I want you to see it.’

  ‘They’ll be starting soon…’

  ‘Please. I hate that I hurt you.’

  I have to look at him then. ‘Me too.’

  ‘Are you coming back to the house tonight?’

  ‘Yes. To pack. I’ll pay till the end of the month but I’ll leave tomorrow.’

  Joe releases his breath in a long slow exhale. ‘How did we end up here? It was good, wasn’t it? Most of the time.’

  ‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out. I’ll miss… the house. The fun.’

  He nods. ‘Team O-Joe were pretty spectacular. I’ll miss writing with you.’

  I’ll miss it too. I’ll miss so much more. I want to read his script, but I’m scared what I’ll see there. I can’t give him even a moment’s hope. This has to be a clean break, a new start. No looking back. ‘So let’s go in there as Team O-Joe, not Otty and Joe,’ I say. ‘Let’s be our success.’

  His smile is sad.

  Slowly, we walk back to the place where it all began.

  The warmth of the writers’ room wraps around me like a blanket as Joe and I take our seats together. For the time we’re here, we are as we’ve always been: writing partners. Whatever else has happened, we have to celebrate what we’ve achieved.

  ‘Uh-oh, here we go,’ Rona whispers beside me as the door opens and Fraser and Russell walk in. Russell casts a glance over at me and gives a solemn nod. It’s done: he knows and I’m now a departing employee. I pull my heart up from the floor, set my smile in place.

  ‘Well, kids, it’s been a journey. I want to thank you for your submissions. All of them stunning. The decision has been a monster, as you can imagine. But we can only begin with one. So here goes.’

  In my peripheral vision, I can see the rise and fall of Joe’s chest as his eyes are trained on our showrunner. My breath is quicker, too. As we wait, I feel the warmth of Joe’s little finger encircle mine, holding on. I let it stay.

  Russell takes a script from the pile he brought in. The room holds its breath.

  ‘The winning script startled me. It’s unlike anything I’ve produced before. And it’s a risk. But the writer’s heart beats through the lines, their breath in the pauses. And I would be a fool not to bring it to the screen. The first Ensign-Tempest production will be written by… Joe Carver.’

  The tension breaks, applause and cheers filling the room.

  And our fingers part.

  I look at Joe, who is staring at Russell.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I whisper.

  ‘It’s not my story…’ he begins. But suddenly our colleagues, with their hugs and chatter and backslaps, surround us. I let the tide of bodies get close to Joe as I leave my seat, moving to the head of the writers’ table. Fraser kisses my cheek as I hug him.

  ‘Not disappointed?’

  ‘Relieved, actually.’ I smile up at him. ‘Nothing’s in our way.’

  ‘So, Fraser and Otty, abandoning me.’ I turn to see Russell walking over. ‘Can’t say I’m happy you’re stealing my secret weapon, Langham. But you’re part of the Ensign family and I thank you for all you’ve done.’

  ‘Appreciate that, Russ.’ Fraser smiles. ‘Otty, I’ll get us coffee.’

  I watch him leave.

  ‘Can’t believe Team O-Joe will be no more,’ Russell says.

  ‘Me neither. I’m sorry, Russell, for the short notice.’

  He shrugs. ‘It’s how this gig works. I was expecting it with him. Listen, I many have given you the impression that your success here wasn’t down to you.’

  I stare at him.

  ‘That wasn’t my intention. You shine, Ottilie Perry. All on your own. Whatever you decide to do, there will always be a place for you here. Any time.’

  Overwhelmed, I hug him. His shoulders stiffen like a kid resisting a grandparent’s kiss, but I think he appreciates the gesture.

  When he leaves, I watch the bustle of the writers’ room – this space where I chased a dream and found so much more. I’ll work out my notice in whatever way Russell wants and then I’ll leave it behind: my colleagues, Russell Styles, this room, the b
uilding.

  And Joe.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  JOE

  One last night in our house.

  Tomorrow, Otty will pack her car, leave her keys, and walk out of my life for good. And I have no idea what will happen next.

  The house is already brighter with her back here, but it’s a melancholy joy. In the middle of the living-room floor, a mountain of boxes is growing. Each one covered in bold, bubble-letters in a hand I would know anywhere.

  Hunky Hardbacks

  Lifesavers

  Weepie Treats

  Total Classics

  Strange But True

  Brummie Noir

  Sixteen boxes – the only thing she arrived with.

  There are cases, too, new things she’s acquired while living here. But gathered together it looks too little, too insignificant a pile for the difference its owner has made in this house.

  We smile and edge around one another, but our conversation is muted and minimal. I ordered Otty’s favourite meal from Diamond Balti, but neither of us has much appetite, so it sits, forlorn and untouched, on the coffee table.

  There is so much I want to say to her. But the time to say it is over.

  And the worst thing? When I lie in bed that night, too awake to sleep, the memory of her being there with me refuses to leave. I can’t say I wish it hadn’t happened, but I wish its ghosts would go.

  I left my door open and the lamp on, hoping she might wander in as she’s done before. But her door remains closed.

  At 4 a.m., I stop trying to sleep and get up. The house is cold and dark, sorrowful, still. I make a drink and sit in the coolness of the kitchen. And that’s when I decide: I won’t be here when Otty drives away. I’ll help her pack, but I can’t see her leave. It might end me.

  Weariness hits and I fold my arms on the table, resting my head on them. And sleep must sneak in after all because the next thing I know, soft fingers are stroking my shoulder.

  ‘Hey, go back to bed.’

  I blink away sleep and wince as my neck cramps. ‘Sorry, I must have dropped off.’

  Otty smiles. ‘You pay for a bed, you know.’

  It’s a tiny sliver of Past Us and it’s as welcome as the first light of dawn spilling into the kitchen. ‘Don’t tell Eric.’

  ‘Coffee?’

  I glance at the stone-cold offering beside me. ‘Love one, thanks.’

  I watch her move around the kitchen, as if this were any other day and not the one I’ve been dreading. She knows where everything is now, moving instinctively from drawer to cupboard to fridge. If her eyes were closed, I don’t think she’d miss a beat.

  After she sets two fresh mugs down, I’m surprised when she sits next to me.

  ‘So,’ she says, ‘this is it. Let’s part as friends, okay? We’ve spent too long fighting.’

  I force a smile. ‘Friends.’ I think of her driving away and put my plan into action. ‘I have an early meeting with Russ this morning, so I’m afraid I won’t be here to see you off.’

  ‘Oh.’ Her gaze slips. ‘Okay.’

  ‘I mean, I’ll help you pack your car – shift all those boxes for you – but then I have to go. Sorry,’ I add, as if that makes up for my total cowardice.

  ‘You don’t have to help.’

  ‘I’d like to.’ I lift an arm and pat my bicep. ‘Besides, these could do with a workout and I can’t afford the gym.’

  A flash of amusement registers beside me. ‘Oh well, in that case, be my guest.’

  So we pretend. That breakfast and our kitchen-table chat are like we’ve always shared, and not the last. But I can’t escape the reality – with each ordinary act we’re saying goodbye.

  Last lull in the conversation as we drink coffee.

  Last smile glimpsed.

  Last pass in the hall as we prepare for our day.

  Otty is as beautiful as she’s always been; as she was the first day she sent me a brave smile across the writers’ room. I realised far too late what my heart was doing. Today, it hurts to watch her, the defiant smile she wears because we are done fighting. I think she wants to forget too, keep this moment free of the complications we’ve knotted around ourselves. Just us, in the house that will for ever be changed when she’s no longer here.

  Last fight.

  Last irritation.

  Last silence.

  When I can put the moment off no longer, I lift the first box from the living-room pile, starting the final chain of events that will pull Otty from my life for good. We don’t speak as we carry them to her car, our smiles sad as we pass on the harlequin path. I hate every step. The front door propped open ushers coolness into the house that feels like a growing emptiness. It’s blowing away all traces of her, the scent of her, the air around her. When I come home this evening, it will all be gone.

  Finally, her car is packed, the space on the living-room rug achingly empty. I can’t stay. I want to, but my heart needs to survive this. We meet on the doorstep, where a year ago she gripped my hand like she was scared of letting go.

  ‘So,’ she says, her eyes full of me.

  ‘So.’

  ‘I’ll miss you. I’ve loved this.’

  ‘Even the crap bits?’

  She laughs but her eyes glisten. ‘Even those.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. It encompasses more than I could express. ‘Would you read my script? It won’t change anything, but I’d like you to see it.’

  ‘I – can’t…’

  ‘Not today, then. But any time. You know where I am. Just turn up and ask to see it. I wouldn’t have written it if it weren’t for you.’

  Her eyes are sad. ‘Maybe.’

  It’s all I can hope for. ‘I’d better get going.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She swears under her breath and pulls me to her. The warmth of her body is a shock, the fullness of her in my arms the final stab of pain. I hold on tight, my cheek against her head, the scent of her hair filling my lungs. I feel the gentlest shaking of her shoulders and bite my lip to keep my own emotion in check.

  ‘Goodbye, Joe,’ she murmurs against my chest.

  I love you, the words urge in my mind. Don’t go. But it’s too late. I pull back and look at her.

  Last time on my doorstep.

  Last time in our house.

  Last time we’re us.

  ‘Bye, Otty.’

  And then I walk away, kicking out my pain with every hurried step. I don’t stop or try to look back.

  It’s time to let go.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  OTTY

  I watch Joe until he gets in his car and then I hurry inside. I can’t watch him drive away.

  This is so much harder than I thought it would be.

  His door was open all night, light from his room bleeding out onto the landing – a final invitation. I almost accepted. When I woke at 5.30 a.m. I’d made up my mind to go in there and say what I really wanted to. But his bed was empty. I thought he’d gone already but then I found him fast asleep in the kitchen. I sat beside him for a while before I woke him. I needed to remember his face without the dark cloud that has shadowed it since I returned.

  It’s for the best this way. I don’t know why we’ve kept coming back every time we’ve hurt each other but I know it doesn’t achieve anything, in the end. I’m moving away and starting again: it’s the chance to draw a line for good.

  I’m sad, though.

  I’m sad that it’s over.

  The house is silent now. I make a slow circuit of the rooms, noting the details I’ve taken for granted, letting the memories sparked by each space wash over me. I don’t try to stop them: when I leave today I’ll lay them all alongside my key on the kitchen table and close the door. But just for a while, I want to remember.

  I remember all of it, Otty. All of you.

  That was the beginning of the end for us, I think. Until then it had been a spark in the air, a possibility we wouldn’t explore. When it became real, it changed us. All of the
pain I’ve felt stemmed from that night.

  But I can’t wish it never happened.

  I climb the stairs, laughter and embarrassment, jokes and fury trailing behind me as memories collect in my wake. On the landing, I sidestep the whisper of an awkward dance on the night of my first date with Jas, and skirt the shaky, held breath at the entrance of Joe’s room waiting to break the news about Fraser. By the bathroom the revenant of first-morning Joe emerges wearing only a towel; by the entrance to my room the faintest glow of an almost-hug after our first writing session. Doors opened and slammed, mornings greeted and goodnights wished.

  And one night where only one door closed us in.

  I don’t go into Joe’s room, though. I can’t.

  And then there are no more reasons for me to stay. I go back downstairs, find my house key and slide it off my key ring. Blinking back tears, I walk through into the kitchen.

  The scent of breakfast still lingers here, fresh as if we’d dashed out together on our way to Ensign. That’s how I’ll remember it, I decide. We’ve just hurried away, the house awaiting our sure return. The bright summer sun sparkles now, dust motes spinning in the pools of gold. I always loved the light here. I follow the sunlit path from the window across the kitchen floor, to where it comes to rest on the fridge door.

  My breath stalls.

  In the natural spotlight, two faces grin at me, their arms flung around one another in wild abandon. Otty and Joe in Purnell’s, confident in their own friendship, loving their lives. That’s how I want to remember us.

  I consider taking it with me, but then a thought occurs. My fingers hover next to the image, heart suddenly loud in the quiet space. I should leave it; walk away. But there’s one thing I haven’t said yet.

  Taking the photograph down, I slide open the drawer nearest the cooker and find a lidless biro that inexplicably still works, despite being in the house for as long as I’ve lived here. I turn the image over and write a message on the back.

  Ten words that tell the truth.