Our Story

Chapter Twelve

JOE

Tonight, Otty has a date.

I mean, I’m not surprised. I haven’t expressly enquired about her love life and neither has she about mine, so we can both assume the other is dating. I just wasn’t expecting to meet her date quite so soon into our house-sharing experience.

‘Hi,’ he smiles from the doorstep. He looks like Dev Patel and the porch light illuminates him like a film star. ‘I’m here for Otty?’

Mustering what manners I still possess, I usher him into the sitting room and walk back into the hall. At the bottom of the stairs, I hesitate. Should I yell up or go and fetch her? If it were Matt up there, I’d yell. But Otty isn’t Matt. And Matt never had dates arrive at the house to pick him up. Thinking better of shouting, I sprint up the stairs and knock on her door.

‘One minute,’ she calls from inside.

So now I’m stranded on the landing carpet, debating what to do with my hands like I’ve just been thrust on stage. I stuff them in my pockets and look up to the ceiling. This is crazy. It’s almost like I’m the one waiting for my date.

And then the door opens. She’s wearing a simple black tunic and skinny jeans with silver flats, her pink-edged hair pulled up into a high ponytail. Tiny curls nestle at the nape of her neck and she wears a seaglass drop hung on a silver chain that rests on the line of her collarbone. She smells good, too…

I cough and take a step back. ‘Your date’s here.’

‘Okay,’ she grins, the slightest patter of pink on her cheeks. ‘Thanks, Joe.’

We do a weirdly awkward do-se-do on the landing, both apologising when we move in the same direction. Laughing, she finally eases past me and skips down the stairs. I hear her voice dancing with her date’s low tone and the click of the door latch being opened. Hurrying down, I reach the door just as it’s closing, Otty’s hazel eyes framed in the gap as I pull it back open.

‘Have a good time,’ I say, lifting my hand and instantly regretting it. Who am I, her dad? What’s next? Have her home by midnight?

Ugh.

She’s still giggling when I close the door and lean against it. I need beer…

I don’t see Otty until next morning, which is largely due to me dashing back up the stairs last night when I heard voices in the porch at midnight. I didn’t want to be sitting in the living room when they walked in. We’re going to have to establish ground rules for dates in future, I think. The last thing either of us needs is to be tiptoeing around the other.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table in my usual spot, wrangling the last part of the scene I’m writing. The first bit flowed like a dream, but then I seemed to hit a roadblock and now every sentence is like dragging water from granite.

‘Morning.’

‘Hi.’

I watch Otty sashay into the kitchen. There’s a definite spring in her step. Worrying. But she’s fully dressed, so that’s something. Only pouring one mug of coffee. Good sign. But three slices of toast in the toaster? What does that mean?

‘I’m hungry,’ she says, giving me a look like I’m judging her. Which I guess I am, but not in that way. Why is she that hungry, though? Did she not eat enough when she went out last night or did she expend a lot of energy…?

What am I doing?

I flash an apologetic smile at her and make myself stare back at the screen. Otty’s sex life is absolutely none of my business. I am disgusted with myself. Even if I still want to know…

‘How was the date?’ I ask, keeping my eyes on my WIP. Better to just ask it, I reckon, and stop all this second-guessing.

‘Lovely.’

‘Oh. Mmm. Good.’

In my peripheral vision I see her shake her head at me and turn back to the toaster.

So. Lovely as in lovely evening, shame about the date, or lovely as in my date was everything I dreamed he’d be and it was lovely? It’s impossible to tell. I don’t know why it’s getting to me, but it is and I don’t like it. I knew living with a woman would be tricky.

The tap of my laptop keys meets the clunk of the toaster popping up, in the space where words are definitely not welcome. This is bound to get easier, I tell myself, bashing out any old words now just to keep typing and avert the wordless void. She’ll probably experience this strangeness when I next have a date and then we can settle into an easy routine where we never mention it again.

I hit the keys a little harder than necessary.

Otty doesn’t notice.

I never realised buttering toast could be so loud…

I keep typing.

‘Do you want some?’

‘No,’ I reply. ‘I’m good, thanks.’

The fridge door creaks when Otty puts the butter back. The cupboard door bangs closed when she’s got her plate.

‘He didn’t stay, if that’s the question you’re not asking me.’

I look up and she’s got her hands on her hips. I feel judged and seen and if I could shrink small enough to slip behind the loose E key of my laptop right now I would be doing it.

‘I wasn’t…’

‘You were. It was a first date, Joe. So thanks for thinking he might have wanted to stay over, but also I am not like that.’

‘Right.’

‘Next time, just ask. Or don’t. But let’s not do this not asking, okay?’

‘Okay. Sorry.’

She rolls her eyes but at least she’s smiling. ‘Good. He was a great kisser, though…’

And with that bombshell, she leaves me.

We work separately for the rest of the day, which is just as well considering I feel like a worm for how I acted at breakfast. At 7 p.m., I knock on her bedroom door and offer her dinner. Having finally won the battle with my dodgy scene, I am surprisingly hungry and I’m guessing she might be, too.

‘As long as you’re paying,’ she says, shutting her laptop and picking up her jacket.

There’s only one place we can head to. In the steamy warmth of Verne’s Buffet my mate Nish finds us a table near the food stalls (less walking, more eating – he knows me well) and I laugh at how wide Otty’s eyes grow when she sees the buffet run.

‘This place is amazing! How many different types of food are there?’

‘Chinese, Cantonese and Japanese on the middle island, then Jamaican, Thai, Indian and Creole around it.’

‘I don’t even know where to start.’

‘Easy. The table nearest ours is starters of everything.’

We pile our plates high, Otty skipping from one serving platter to the next like a kid in a toyshop, and then we return to our table. I don’t get another word out of my housemate for a full five minutes while she commences the onslaught on her starters. Finally, she looks up and chuckles as she wipes grease from her chin.

‘Sorry. Hungry.’

‘I guess it really was a good date last night then?’

‘Not this again.’

I signal surrender with a spring roll. ‘Sorry.’

‘Can we just not talk about it?’

‘Fine by me.’

‘Because if you’re going to be creepy-weird every time I have a date…’

‘I won’t.’

‘Glad to hear it. So how’s your love life, Joseph?’

I stuff two triangles of prawn toast into my mouth and shrug my apology at her loud protests. But it’s good – this feels good. I like how we’re bouncing back whenever a sticking point arises.

‘Besides, I eat when I’m nervous,’ Otty says, abandoning the subject of dates like the pile of empty pistachio shells on her plate.

Mouth too full to reply, I raise my eyebrows.

‘The writers’ room meeting tomorrow? Russell’s had all weekend to read our scenes and what if he hates them? What if he’s been planning which of our bony bums to kick out tomorrow? I mean, it’s all right for you: you’re Joe Carver and Russell adores you. But this is the first time he’s seen my words on this project, and…’ She finally pauses long enough to draw breath and down a mouthful of beer.

‘You’ll be fine,’ I say, brushing crumbs off my T-shirt. Because she will be. Her writing is awesome, Rona’s writing is great and bound to complement Otty’s, and Russell is secretly a fan already. Although I can’t tell her that. ‘I’m nervous, too.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘I am. Do you think my job is any more secure than yours? Or Russell’s?’

Otty puts down her beer bottle with a clunk. ‘No, you’re not telling me that Russell Styles is struggling.’

‘Not struggling, but not guaranteed success, either. Do you know he had three projects fail to be commissioned before this?’

‘You’re kidding me? But Southside, Servant and Insiders were such colossal hits.’

‘They were, but TV commissioners are fickle. He needs Eye, Spy to be a hit, or future commissions will be harder to get.’

‘Wow.’ Otty falls silent as she takes this in; and in the gap before she next speaks I feel the weight of it, too. Then she slaps her hands on the table and stands up. ‘I’m going to need more food.’

Chapter Thirteen

OTTY

If you can gauge the level of nerves in a room by the proportion of coffee consumed within the first ten minutes, then we are officially at Peak Fear.

Looking at the collection of dark-circled eyes and gaunt faces around the writers’ room, I don’t reckon any of us managed much sleep last night. I hope feedback meetings won’t always be this scary. Even though I’m happy with the scenes Rona and I have written, today feels like we’re about to be judged. What if Russell thinks our scripts stink?

Rona grimaces as she resumes her seat next to me. She’s on her third large eco-mugful of filter coffee already. Joe and Josh/J-Man/Joshy are on their fourth. At this rate, we’ll all be dancing the caffeine jig by lunchtime.

‘Good morning, team!’ Russell sweeps into the room, a stack of papers in his arms.

Everyone tenses.

This is worse than getting essays back at school.

Our leader is oblivious to the held breaths around the room as he perches on the edge of the writers’ table. ‘So, first stabs at the pilot scenes…’

Someone’s stomach gurgles. I see eyes trying not to open too wide.

Russell looks up after a gap so excruciating even Simon Cowell would call time on it. ‘All good.’

Twelve pairs of lungs collectively exhale.

‘I like them all. Some fine tuning here and there – I’ve indicated where this needs to happen on each team’s notes – but overall, good work. I think we’ve nailed the feel of the series and the characters are emerging nicely.’

Across the table, Joe gives me a covert thumbs-up. I smile back. Next to him, Daphne gives me daggers. It makes me even prouder of our housemate-workmate thing. Daphne clearly hates it, but she doesn’t matter. We are winning.

‘But that’s your last free pass.’

The room pales as one.

‘Time is not on our side. If we’re to get the green light for production after Christmas, we have to deliver this as early as possible. Two months at best, no more than three at worst.’

What? How is that even possible?

Shocked, we watch Russell stand and pace the floor. ‘We can do it with this team. We have enough talent. But there is no room for hangers-on. If you aren’t willing to write your arses off, you won’t stay. I cannot afford for anyone to be taking it easy. So no time off. No slacking. I’ve given each pair a block of scenes to work on this week, deadline Friday. These run across the pilot and next three episodes. We just thump these out, as quickly as we can, regroup and move on to the next batch. So, let’s hunker down now and run through the storyline for the first four eps and then you’re on your own.’

‘So, Rona reckons you’re writing the Next Big Thing in TV,’ Jas says, reaching for the wine bottle and topping up our glasses. The hum of conversation in the soft-lit city-centre restaurant washes against my ears like a warm tide and it’s so soothing I have to keep kicking myself under the table to stop drifting off.

‘I hope so.’

‘Been great for me because she’s too busy to bug me,’ he grins. ‘Although it means I haven’t seen you as much as I wanted.’

If I’m honest, this is more by design than circumstance. I like Jas, I do. It’s just that working with him constantly two steps away is becoming a bit much. I’ve started to feel like I should be apologising for working, and I don’t want that. So for the last week and a half, Rona has been coming to our house to write instead of the hot-desk loft. It works well, too: Joe and Josh/J-Man/Joshy in the kitchen, Rona and me on the sofa in the living room. Which means no admittedly handsome coffee-bar owners peering over my shoulder and trying to steer the conversation in the direction of dates…

I smile at Jas as he chats away, but a familiar sinking feeling is laying siege to my stomach. It has been for a while, if I’m honest. It could just be the pressure of my job, but I’m pretty sure it isn’t.

Since the end of my last relationship over a year ago – and the fallout I’m still navigating with my family over it – I’ve been determined to get on with my life and date. Each one has been an act of defiance, a statement that the only person allowed to steer that part of my life is me. And Jas has been a perfect person to prove my point. But that’s the problem: I can’t see us going beyond that and I think he wants more. He’s lovely, but he’s not what I want.

I feel rotten. I’m not paying attention to what he’s saying because I feel like he said it all the first time.

‘Can I just say something?’ I ask, when he stops talking long enough for me to get a word in.

‘Sure.’ He scoops a spoonful of risotto into his mouth.

‘This is a great restaurant…’

‘I knew you’d like it.’ He chews and it’s suddenly all I can see.

‘And it’s good to see you again, Jas…’

Tiny grains of arborio rice and bits of mushroom stud his teeth when he grins. ‘You too, babe.’

‘And you’re a really lovely guy…’

The rice and the mushroom shards and the teeth vanish behind unsmiling lips. The fully loaded risotto spoon halts midway from the plate to its intended destination.

There’s no going back now…

In the taxi on the way home I allow myself to breathe. I did the right thing. It might be a bit dodgy with Rona for a while, but it would’ve been worse to prolong it. Mostly, I feel relieved. Also, hungry. Next time I want to break up with someone, I’ll wait until after dessert.

Which is why the smell of newly fried chips that greets me in the hall of our house is a heaven-sent perfume from the gods. I follow its golden potatoey aroma into the kitchen, where Joe looks up from the swanky deep fat fryer I didn’t know we had.

‘Hey, Otts. Want some?’

‘I love you. Marry me.’

‘Steady on…’

‘I was talking to the chips.’

‘Phew.’ Joe wipes his brow in mock relief and grins at me as he grabs another potato from the bag on the chopping board.

I sit at the table and shrug off my jacket, feeling the weight of the evening finally leave. It’s good to be home. And I love that he doesn’t ask me what’s happened. We’re just here, waiting for food. Joe chops, I breathe and the chips fry. And though his back faces me, I know he’s smiling, too.

Two weeks after the first scary feedback meeting, we reconvene in the writers’ room at Ensign to find a surprise from Russell. The bubbles may be supermarket Prosecco and the champagne flutes might be plastic, but it’s as huge a treat as the real thing. ‘You lot are awesome,’ Russell says, raising his glass. ‘I’ll be honest, I was nervous about it, but you’ve done Ensign proud.’

He slaps his hand on the large whiteboard that covers almost the entire wall behind him. The schedule of all six episodes now has more squares filled in and signed off than it has empty spaces and we applaud as Russell ceremonially signs off the last square in the pilot episode column.

‘As a reward, you have exactly one hour to enjoy this complimentary alcohol at considerable expense to the company…’

‘Cheers to Aldi’s finest!’ Joe pipes up, eliciting laughter from the room.

Russell’s laugh booms over us all. ‘Only the best for you, Mr Carver. So. One hour off, then back to it.’

We stand and gather in groups around the room, the sense of relief and celebration palpable. I see Joe and Russell walk out together and imagine our employer marching my housemate around the eleventh floor again like Martin Sheen and Rob Lowe in The West Wing. He insists Russell doesn’t see him as any different to the rest of us, but I don’t buy it. Lately they’ve been promenading frequently. Daphne tries to catch Russell’s attention as they leave but he powers past as if she isn’t there. I see her hand fall slowly back to her side. She looks after them and then the moment is gone: her killer smile is back and she’s turned to command a conversation with Rona and the Charlottes.

‘Bloody glad she’s not talking to me.’ Josh/J-Man/Joshy is grinning when I find him at my side. I must stop calling him that. It’s been stuck in my mind since Joe confessed his nickname for his writing partner and if I’m not careful I’ll say it out loud to him.

‘Who?’

‘Daphne. Scares the life out of me. I reckon she eats scriptwriters for breakfast.’

I grin back. ‘Probably. So, Russell’s happy with us.’

Josh raises his Prosecco. ‘Long may it continue.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’

We clink glasses – which is more of a clunk than a clink given the plastic. And though the drink is cut-price and in an hour we’ll all be back at the coalface, I let myself luxuriate in the moment. We’ve survived the first test. We’ve created something amazing. I did it.

My mobile buzzes in my pocket. I smile my apology at Josh as I move away to check the message.

And instantly wish I hadn’t.

Hey Otty, how’s life in good old Brum?

I have news. Be good to chat soon. Please.

I still miss you. Chris x

I stab my thumb against the screen to delete the text, looking up in time to see Joe walking back in, a steaming Ensign mug in his hand. I fix my smile back where it had slipped. Joe looks over, pulls a face and lifts his hand to his temple. He hit the beers a little too enthusiastically last night, so the switch from Prosecco to coffee doesn’t surprise me. I manage a smile back but my whole body is shaking now. I thought I’d blocked his number. Why didn’t I block it?

A prickle crosses my shoulders and I shake it off. I’ve left that part of my life behind. All of it. So why do I feel like it’s refusing to leave?

I watch Joe amble over to Josh and repeat his oh look I have coffee and not alcohol routine, beaming a victor’s smile when Josh laughs. I sip my drink; try to swallow the bite of cold dread.

I’m not going to talk to Chris. No going back. Being here is what matters.

Chapter Fourteen

JOE

We never saw it coming.

Russell loved our scenes and passed them all for the next stage of piecing the episodes together. He repeated his belief that we were the best team he’d ever assembled and we all believed him. The writing pairings worked, everyone was happy.

Then we arrived at the following weekly meeting to find empty seats.

Six writers gone. It’s shocking.

At least Russell had the decency to do the firing away from the writers’ room this time, although I don’t imagine it was any less brutal an experience for the people he dispensed with.

It’s scared all of us and now we’re watching our boss like a hawk for any sign of bloodlust as he paces the room.

‘I had a rethink last night,’ he says. ‘And I came to the conclusion we were carrying too much dead wood. The writers we’ve let go weren’t contributing enough, in the right voice. We couldn’t afford to piggyback them. To deliver this series, we need to be leaner, meaner…’

‘Cheaper,’ Daphne mutters next to me.

‘But the good news is that I don’t intend on ditching anyone else. We’re taking no new writers on so you lot are it.’

I glance at my colleagues. Nobody looks particularly comforted by this.

‘For the foreseeable,’ he adds. Because of course he reserves the right to change his mind. It’s no guarantee of safety for us. But at least we’re still here.

My co-writer Josh is one of the casualties; one of the Jakes and both Charlottes are gone, too. Thankfully, Otty’s writing partner Rona is still in the room, her eyes wide as she takes in the news. Otty mouths What the…? to me and I shrug. I had no more warning of this than she did.

It had all been going so well. Only last night Otty and I were saying how settled everything was in the room now the pilot is in the bag. Shows what we knew.

I’m an idiot for relaxing. Russ promised me he wouldn’t cull any more writers after the last lot, but what did that promise mean in the end? If he’s done it when things are going well, he’ll do it further down the line, especially if we struggle to keep up the pace. To survive, we need to maximise our chances of staying in Russell’s good books.

But losing such a significant number of writers is a blow. Everyone left in the writers’ room feels it. How will we complete the series as fast as Russell wants it with such a small writing team?

If Russell has any such qualms, he doesn’t show it. Already he’s reassigning writers to new pairs like he hasn’t just ripped the original ones to shreds, and he’s halfway through doing it before I realise what’s happening.

I glance up at the whiteboard to the list of writing pairs.

Rona – Jake

Otty – Tom

Joe – Reece

No, that won’t work!

I like Reece, one of the oldest writers in the room, but he’s fallen foul of Russ before and I don’t reckon that makes him a strong candidate for staying. Tom’s great, a real solid writer and the kind who keeps his head down and avoids confrontation. He could be good for Otty. But she blossomed when she wrote with Rona and that was largely down to her pushing herself. Rona could write Tom off the page and she might well do it.

I need to stay. Otty needs to stay. Russell is still obsessed with her as his ‘working-class gem’ – only the other day he took me off on an eleventh-floor walk to ask how she was getting on and rave about the scenes she’d written with Rona. Maybe if he thought the wrong pairing could dampen her passion for the project, he might change his mind.

I was going to call time on our round-the-building conferences, largely because I feel it’s dishonest to Otty. But this is too important to ignore. I’m doing it for her – if she ever finds out I think she’ll understand this.

I wait until Russell’s announced all the pairings then follow him as he strides out of the room.