Our Story

Chapter Three

OTTY

Sixteen boxes of books.

Sixteen.

And no furniture – unless you count the threadbare folding chair covered in flamingos I’ve had since university.

Clothes, yes. Shoes, not as many as people think a woman of my age should own. But the two suitcases in which they are currently hiding are barely visible beneath Mount Book Box.

‘What am I supposed to do with them?’ I ask my suddenly ex-landlord.

He shrugs and does that half-screwed-up expression of his that could mean anything from amusement to bemusement to agitation, but always looks like trapped wind. At least my eviction means I won’t have to see his gurning anymore. Right now I’ll take any silver lining I can get.

‘I don’t care what you do. Get them off my premises by 5 p.m. or I’m burning them.’

Never one for moderation, Barry Theopolis.

I won’t argue with him. And I won’t let him win. Today is the day my life changes and this nasty little man is not going to spoil it.

‘Fine,’ I say, my chin high.

He was halfway down the stairs anyway, but I see it register in a shake of his shoulders as he disappears back to his stupid big American car parked on the double-yellows outside. Why is there never a traffic warden around when you want one? He has parked illegally every time he’s visited in the past eighteen months and not even a whisper of a parking ticket. How is that fair?

The slam of the front door reverberates through my shoes.

At least I have my deposit back. Grubby notes stuffed angrily into an envelope, shoved into my hands like I’d just demanded Barry’s kidney. It will help me move on, even if right now all I want to do is curl up on the doormat that’s no longer mine and sleep this all away.

I rub my eyes, the effects of my frantic, tearful all-night packing session setting in. Thank goodness the guys in Diamond Balti had a stack of empty boxes to give me when I hurried over there sobbing. If they hadn’t, I don’t know how I would have packed everything. I take one last longing look at the locked door of my flat, only now seeing the scuffs and scratches in its tired paintwork, the dark smudges around the Yale lock. Have those always been there? I don’t know. But then how often do you closely inspect the outside of your front door when you have a key?

I really can’t go back to Dad’s. I won that argument – to go back would be to admit Dad was right. And if he’s right about that, he’ll think it makes him right about everything else, including my new job.

Because it isn’t just working for Russell Styles that Dad disagreed with. There’s another, bigger decision he still doesn’t accept, over a year since I made it. I can’t let him think for a moment that I was mistaken, then or now. I have to move on.

The thought twists my guts and my grumbling stomach reminds me it hasn’t yet been fed. I check my watch. Just over an hour to spare. Is it enough? The book box mountain stares at me and I consider the three flights of stairs between here and the tiny car park. Sixteen journeys there and back are going to take a while. I consider knocking on my neighbour Stan’s door at Flat 7, across the box-strewn landing. If he’s up he might help me, but when I saw him yesterday he told me he was on nights again. It’s barely 7.30 a.m.: I can’t wake him.

Stuff it. I’ll just have to shift them myself and pray that Monty’s aged suspension is up to the task of carrying all my worldly goods. I grab the first box, whelp a little at its weight, and stagger down the stairs.

Forty minutes later, I’m squeezed into the minuscule amount of box-free space inside Monty, wishing I’d fallen for a bigger car eight years ago. A Fiat 500 seemed lovely back then, when I was still in my room at Dad’s house and the dream of my own place seemed about as likely as me being headhunted by Disney. There must be some world record for the greatest number of boxes packed into a tiny yellow car. If so, I am the clear winner.

Monty creaks and groans around the roads on the way to West One, a brand-new skyscraper of offices and studios in the heart of the city. A dozen media and production companies have recently moved here, with more set to follow, boosting the city’s bid to become the creative hub of the country outside London.

Russell Styles’ production company is Ensign Media, on the eleventh floor of West One, as stated in the letter I have read and reread, which is currently lying open and slightly crumpled on the passenger seat, one corner crushed by my suitcase. The entry details to the building made my head spin. There’s a barrier and a code and first-come-first-served parking – and that’s before the coded entry and ID-swipe at reception, the airport-style metal detectors and the pass-operated lifts. What if I fail at the first hurdle and never reach the eleventh floor?

That’s if I make it into the building at all. Car park security might take one look at me and think I’m a squatter trying to move in. Who arrives for the first day of their dream job with the entire contents of their home in their car?

And even if I do make the writers’ room of Ensign Media, will they decide I’m too old to be there? Or too uncool? I imagine the writers’ table populated entirely by twenty-three-year-olds – guys in cropped drainpipe chinos and striped tees with identical hipster beards, wafer-thin women in vintage print tunics over skinny jeans with huge scarves and expertly messy up-dos.

I have to stop this.

Positive panda, my nan used to say. ‘If you’re thinking it will be bad you’ll be right. If you think it’s going to be good, it just might be.’

I smile. Nan would be all over this if she were here. Striding into that room like a woman half her age, charming the socks right off Russell Styles. I wonder if she can see me today from wherever she is now. Is she cheering me on from the edge of her armchair, fists in the air and verbal Fs flying, like she used to while watching her beloved American wrestlers?

I score a parking space between two huge 4x4s, which even though it means a squeeze out of my door a contortionist would be proud of, is still one box ticked on today’s list. I glance at my poor overloaded Monty as I walk towards the building that houses my dreams, praying security don’t think he’s a potential bomb threat. Would a terrorist cover their boxes in pink felt-tip-pen-drawn hearts, with bubble-letter labels like Hunky Hardbacks and Lifesavers and Weepie Treats? I don’t think so.

At West One’s imposing entrance I stop, letting my gaze rise with the steel and green-tinted glass twenty-two floors up to the leaden Birmingham sky. A single, brave shaft of sunlight is pushing through the stubborn clouds up there.

That’s me, I think. Ottilie Perry, terrified new apprentice screenwriter, doing her best to shine.

I take a breath, shoulder my rucksack and walk in.

Chapter Four

JOE

‘We don’t need any more writers.’

Script co-ordinator Daphne gives me a look like I’ve just suggested oxygen should be optional, her eyebrows rising above the retro tortoiseshell rims of her glasses. A year ago that would have reduced me to a gibbering puddle of compliance, but not today. Today, I am beyond that.

‘Scared they’ll all be better than you?’ she purrs.

‘Of course not,’ I snap back. ‘Nobody’s better than me.’

‘Keep telling yourself that, Joseph.’

She reaches past me a little too close for comfort and smiles as she empties the last of the filter coffee into her eco-mug. I watch her sashay back to her desk. Thanks for nothing, Daphne Davies. I yank open a cupboard door in the ‘office kitchen’ – which is the biggest use of hyperbole in this place – and scrabble around for filters and ground coffee.

I’m not scared. I’m not.

But what if one of them is brilliant? Like, Phoebe Waller-Bridge brilliant?

Leaving the coffee machine complaining loudly as it brews a fresh pot, I wander back to the windowless writers’ room where the newly appointed scriptwriters will join the rest of us in an hour’s time. Each place at the large, oval, beech-effect laminate table is marked by a blank pad of paper, a freshly printed series bible and a tented strip of whiteboard plastic, upon which each person will write their name. I think about how easily the dry-wipe-marker names can be removed and remember the scene last week when Russell fired half the team. Their names erased in one stroke, their seats ominously empty as the script meeting continued without them. In the pit of my stomach, a ball of nerves begins to roll.

Russell rates me, I remind myself. I was first on this team. But some of the writers he fired were really good. And now there’s a whole new bunch to contend with.

I sneaked a look at the new intake’s names on the sign-in sheet earlier. If I were casting them as characters in this unfolding drama, what personality traits would I assign them? Their names suggest mostly middle-class upbringings, the Charlottes and Jakes, the Jens and Joshes. But one sounds like she’s coming straight from Swiss Finishing School – Ottilie, for crying out loud. Her last name reins it in a bit – Perry, a pretty common surname around here – but still. What kind of monster lumbers their kid with a name like that?

Are the new writers ambitious? Genius wordsmiths? Or are they the kind you find in any writers’ room, the ones that keep their heads down and do the donkey-work? Sometimes it pays to be anonymous but consistent in this business.

I have no intention of hiding. This is my gig, my domain. And no got-in-through-a-training-scheme hustler is going to dethrone me.

‘Mr Joe Carver, as I live and breathe!’

My professional smile snaps into place as I turn to see to my employer. ‘Russ, hey.’

‘Good to have you still on board, man.’

‘Good to be here.’

Showrunner Russell Styles is a little flushed from his journey up. A heart scare at Christmas has him yomping up eleven floors-worth of stairs to get to work every day and he’s very proud of it, even if he can’t breathe well for a while afterwards. Not that it does much to counter the constant diet of high-fat, high-sugar crapness found in the writers’ room, or the indulgent industry dinners he’s a first-call guest for these days. But every little helps, I guess.

He slaps a comradely arm against my back and I’m drawn into a half-hug I wouldn’t volunteer for. ‘Now, don’t worry about the new writers. That bright-eyed eight will likely be a stoic two by the end of the week.’

I remember the sudden sackings last week and swallow hard. ‘Not worried, RS. I know you need me.’

His eyes twinkle. ‘Always, Joe. Always. So, shall we prepare the bear pit?’

An hour later, the writers’ room is a quivering mass of bravado and fear. My colleagues who survived the cut sit a little taller in their seats, but I know they’re weighing up the newbies as much as I am. Lots of beards this time. All identical in shape, which is impressive if a little disconcerting. Beyond that, the standard cropped-chino-slash-brogues-without-socks ratio is strong here. Four women: two of the hair-flicking, oversized scarf-sporting variety; one rocking a buzz cut and impressive painted Doc Martens, who looks like she means business; and one – well – surprisingly normal-looking one. She has bright pink tips to her hair and rather lovely eyes, but beyond that she could be any person in any street. She looks scared to death. She should be.

The door opens and Russell strides in. As one, the writers rise and applaud. He feigns embarrassment but not convincingly. It’s all part of the theatre of the writers’ room: the scene of more drama than ever makes it to the screen.

‘People,’ he says, eventually signalling for the applause to end. There’s an unholy concerto of scrapes as seats are resumed. ‘Welcome. Before we begin, let me say this: every writer sitting here has earned their place in this room. There are no hangers-on. You are here because I believe in you.’ The new intake blushes, gazing at Russell with even wider eyes. Those of us who survived Friday’s cull aren’t so comforted. ‘Now, we have work to do. We’re running this as a script-to-screen outfit. Three months to beat out at least a pilot and four episodes, preferably six, with a view to a full commission and a fast move to production.’

I see frowns being battled around the table by the newbies. It’s new – the way a lot of emerging drama is happening in the US – and those of us with more experience are wary of it. More work, less time to do it in and significantly less money for doing it. But it’s Russell Styles. And Ensign Media is one of the hottest properties in the business right now. I glance over at the girl with the pink-tipped hair. She looks like she might burst into tears.

Just then, her eyes flick to me. Before I can look away, she smiles. For a second I forget to listen to Russell. It’s a tiny smile, barely there, but it seems to illuminate the space around her. I glance at the name she’s written on the wipeable board: Ottilie. I was completely wrong in my assumption about her. She’s lovely.

When I look back, she’s staring at Russell again.

A little shaken, I pull my attention back to my boss.

No. That is not happening today…

Chapter Five

OTTY

I know him.

I make myself listen to Russell Styles, but it bugs me. Where have I seen that guy before? I should have looked at his name board, but I daren’t take my eyes off my new boss again in case I miss anything. I’ve waited my whole life for this opportunity: I can’t stuff it up now.

‘Many of you have never worked like this, I appreciate, but trust me, this is the most efficient way to get our story to the screen,’ he says. ‘I want us to be a consistent, reliable unit, writing show after show. Multi-genre, multi-platform stuff. I’ll need you to be flexible. You might be team writing; you might go it alone. I may pull some of you from this crew to another mini writers’ room on a different project. What matters is that we make magic…’

Russell is an even bigger presence than I thought he’d be. Confident, comfortable at the epicentre of all our nervous energy, he has all the swagger of a man at the top of his game. His last series for BBC Studios won armfuls of awards and the leading actor is currently being mooted as the next Bond. He could pitch them a nursery rhyme right now and they’d probably commission it. But the success of his next project is down to us. To me. It’s terrifying.

I’m spooked by the thought so I let my eyes stray to the names on the boards, slowly moving round the table until I reach the bloke I recognise.

Joe Carver.

Oh wow, that’s Joe Carver! I’d forgotten he’d be here.

I read an interview with Russell Styles, while my application for this project was under consideration, and Russell mentioned Joe by name. When you have the calibre of Joe Carver on the team, you know it’s something special.

I see Joe smile when Russell catches his eye, a nod of the head that tells all of us he and RS are buddies.

I watched the episode of Southside Joe wrote at least fifty times. He only ever did one, and I could never understand why. It was remarkable – taking the original book’s story and deepening every theme for the screen without it ever affecting the pace. That’s hard. Gabriel Marley won a Best Supporting Actor TV BAFTA for his role in that episode, but it was Joe’s words that put him there.

And now I’m his colleague. My writing counted alongside his.

The thought brings beads of cold sweat across my palms.

We break for lunch at twelve and there’s a dash to the food table. First-day buffet, Russell warns: we can’t expect this every day. I stand back to avoid the crush and decide to move out to reception for a breath of fresh air. The windowless writers’ room is a little oppressive and I need space. It’s good to see light again, the city spreading out to the horizon.

I glance down to the car park eleven floors below. I keep thinking about poor Monty overloaded with all my worldly goods. What am I going to do? I’m over the moon about being here but where I’ll go tonight after work tempers the thrill. Outside of this new job, I’m anchorless, a floating state of me in the middle of the city.

My head is too crammed with it all. I’ll work out something later.

I sink into a leather armchair by the window and wish I could disappear into the cool darkness between its cushions. Hearing voices approaching, I shrink further down in the hope they won’t see me.

‘He did what?’ A woman’s voice drifts in, amusement playing in her tone.

‘Moved out.’ The man doesn’t sound anywhere near as happy.

‘When?’

‘Last night.’

‘And you had no warning?’

‘Apart from the sticky note he left, no.’

‘Dumped by Post-it? Poor baby.’

‘Yeah, thanks for the sympathy, Daphne. What am I going to do?’

‘Just advertise the room.’

‘When, exactly? I have less than a week to find my own share of the rent and two pitches to sketch out for Russ.’

‘So, ask your landlord for more time.’

I hear a long sigh before the man speaks again. ‘Eric’s wanted an excuse to get me out for months. One whiff of this and he’ll have a professional couple in there like a shot. I can’t lose the house, Daph. The light is perfect there. I can think there. It’d take me years to find somewhere else like that. It’s… my muse.’

The woman laughs. ‘You are such a diva, Joseph.’

Joseph? Is that…?

‘What do I do?’

‘For heaven’s sake, Joe…’ I hear the click of heels travelling to the reception desk, followed by the rustle of paper. ‘Room available immediately. One month’s rent in advance. Now write your mobile number at the bottom and I’ll stick it on the company noticeboard. There. Sorted.’

I wait until I hear them return to the writers’ room, my heart thudding. When the door closes, I spring up from the chair and hurry out to Ensign Media’s entrance, scanning the walls for a noticeboard. I spot it over by the water cooler.

ROOM AVAILABLE IMMEDIATELY.

ONE MONTH’S RENT IN ADVANCE.

NO SMOKERS. NO DIRECTORS. NO DIVAS.

ENQUIRIES: JOE CARVER

The rent amount he wants will leave a single crumpled tenner in the deposit envelope Barry gave me today. It’s a risk I’ll have to take. I don’t even stop to take down Joe’s number. Ripping the notice from the mocha felt of the board, I stuff it in my pocket, take a breath and march back into the writers’ room.

Today is about taking chances. Making changes. This is a serendipity I can’t ignore. Pushing through the huddled bodies of my new writing colleagues, I walk straight up to Joe Carver.

‘I heard you were looking for someone,’ I say a little too loudly.

The two writers with him stare at me.

‘Ah, so you’ve heard the rumours already?’ one chuckles.

I smile but keep my eyes on Joe. He’s looking at me like Chewbacca just interrupted his lunch. Telltale nerves tremble in my hands and the temptation to leg it from the room surges inside me. But I can’t back down now.

‘I heard you were looking for someone,’ I repeat, holding up the crumpled note. His eyes widen when he sees it.

‘How did you…?’

‘I’d like to apply.’ He says nothing, so I press on. ‘I’m Ottilie, Otty to everyone. I need to move from my flat – already have, actually. This morning. Wasn’t my idea. I have everything in my car downstairs in the car park… The thing is, I have the money. Cash. Up front. And if you accept, I can move in this evening.’ My lungs ache when I snatch breath into them, a swell of blood rising in my cheeks. ‘Sorry. That came out fast.’

‘It did.’

The other writers have edged away, leaving Joe and I staring at each other. His eyes are really blue. Up close I’m surprised by how young he looks. It makes me wonder if I look old to him. Not that it matters, but it might count against me. I was a little creative with my age on my application for this job, but now I’m here I can’t bluff it.

‘So…?’ I ask, instantly wishing I hadn’t because Joe doesn’t reply.

He hates the idea.

I’ve said too much, blown my chance with the verbal torrent I just aimed at him. This is why I don’t do this. Now he thinks I’m a pink-haired vagabond freak living in her car, trying to move into his space. Why did I think he’d even consider me?

‘Yeah,’ he says.

‘Sorry?’

‘You can see it after we finish here, if you like?’

‘Really?’

‘Mm-hmm.’ He glances to the side as if seeking back-up.

‘Yes,’ I say quickly, before he thinks better of it. ‘I’d like that.’

‘Great. Thanks, Ottilie.’

He doesn’t leave, like I expect him to. I don’t know whether to say anything else or just grin inanely back. I don’t want to risk this arrangement that feels as if it’s balanced on fragile ice.

Then Joe Carver smiles at me.

It’s warm and wide and inviting. And it’s all for me.

Oh crap…

Chapter Six

JOE

I must be out of my mind.

Why did I agree to let her see the house? She’s clearly strange. I mean, who carries all their stuff in their car? I don’t know why she had to leave her last place, either. It could be something really bad. And in five minutes she’ll know where I live.

Her smile is to blame. I thought the small glimpse of it was charming, but the full version blew me away.

Ugh. I never had this issue with Matt.

I move quickly around the house, shoving piles of dirty clothes under my bed and stuffing stacks of paper and notebooks into the nearest cupboard. My space is a bombsite when I’m working and I didn’t expect to have a prospective housemate visit today. The bath is passable; a quick once-over with an antibac wipe makes the sink toothpaste- and beard-trimming-free. There’s no time to vacuum, but stripped oak floorboards are thankfully forgiving in that regard; and at least I remembered to raid Ensign’s fridge for fresh milk before I headed home. I give the liquid air freshener Mum brought the last time she visited a tentative sniff, but think better of spraying it around. According to the label, it’s Dewy Roses. It smells like loo cleaner to me.

Ottilie might not like the house. I’m not sure that would be a bad thing.

But she has nice eyes. And a lovely smile. And cash.

Maybe a trial month is good idea. Test the arrangement – just to make sure she isn’t a closet psycho or someone who wields vintage Samurai swords as a hobby. If it doesn’t work out at least I’ll have Eric off my back for a while and four weeks to find another housemate. By then Russell will have my sample scripts and I can think about everything else again.