Praise for Miranda Dickinson

‘Oh my heart, this book! What a story. It’s so achingly tender and bittersweet, and a spark of true joy. I adored every page’

Josie Silver, bestselling author of One Day in December

‘An engrossing love story, beautifully written’

Sarah Morgan, Sunday Times bestselling author

‘An exquisitely tender and breathtaking novel, beautifully written. This is Miranda at her best’

Cathy Bramley, Sunday Times bestselling author

‘Romantic, heartbreaking and emotional … A magical story about love, hope and forgiveness, and I am envious of anyone who has yet to read it’

Cressida McLaughlin, author of The Cornish Cream Tea Summer

‘A sweet, clever love story … I adored this book’

Dorothy Koomson, Sunday Times bestselling author

‘Tenderly written novel [that] is full of hope and the joy of taking a second chance’

Daily Express

‘A sparkling romance, packed with tenderness’

Woman’s Weekly

‘Emotional story … full of both heart and soul’

Fabulous

‘A love story we can all connect with’

Woman & Home

‘This story will have you championing the pair all the way’

The Sun

MIRANDA is the author of eleven books, including six Sunday Times bestsellers. Her books have been translated into seven languages and have made the bestseller charts in four countries. She has been shortlisted twice for the RNA awards (for Novel of the Year in 2010 with Fairytale of New York and again in 2012 for Contemporary Novel of the Year for It Started With a Kiss). She has now sold over a million copies of her books worldwide. Miranda lives in the Black Country with her husband and daughter.

Also by Miranda Dickinson

The Day We Meet Again

Somewhere Beyond the Sea

Searching for a Silver Lining

A Parcel for Anna Browne

I’ll Take New York

Take A Look at Me Now

When I Fall in Love

It Started With a Kiss

Welcome to My World

Fairytale of New York

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First Published in Great Britain as Illustrated Child by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Miranda Dickinson 2020

Miranda Dickinson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © August 2020 ISBN: 9780008323257

Version 2020-07-31

Note to Readers

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 Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008323240

For Rachael, with my love.

Because she loved Otty and Joe first.

‘When nothing is sure, everything is possible.’

MARGARET DRABBLE

Contents

Cover

Praise

About the Author

Also by Miranda Dickinson

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Acknowledgements

Extract

The Day We Met

Chapter One

Chapter Two

About the Publisher

Chapter One

OTTY

It’s my last day.

I repeat it in my mind like a mantra as I go through the motions of the job I’ve done since I was twenty-one. Even though I have longed for this day to arrive, it’s surreal to be living it.

Dad keeps glancing over when he thinks I’m not looking. I know what he’s thinking. It’s two hours until my final shift ends and I haven’t had the talk. Yet. But I feel it in the air, the low rumble of approaching thunder.

‘It won’t be the same without you, bab,’ Sheila says, setting another mug of tea next to my workbench. Where other people use words, Sheila Wright uses tea. This is easily the thirteenth mug she’s brought me today, although, to be honest, I stopped counting around lunchtime.

‘In a few weeks you won’t even notice I’m not here,’ I smile back, reaching for her hand when her eyes glisten. ‘And I’ll still see you at the cricket.’

She nods, dabbing her nose with a tissue she produces from her sleeve. When I was little, I used to imagine the inside of Sheila Wright’s cardigan sleeves as endless winter landscapes of white. She’s as close to a real auntie as I’ve ever had. I’m going to miss her chats every day.

But it’s time to go.

I turn my attention back to the bike frame propped up on the bench. There’s something dodgy with its suspension and I’m determined to sort it before I hand in my RoadTrail staff badge. A clean slate for my next big adventure to begin.

An hour later, the inevitable happens.

‘It’s a good job, this.’

I smile but keep my attention on the suspension unit. ‘It is, Dad.’

‘I’m not looking for anyone else.’

‘Well, you should. Steve and Jarvis can’t manage the workshop on their own.’

‘Oi,’ Jarvis says, his head popping up from the bench on the other side of the workshop. One thing I definitely won’t miss is never being able to conduct a private conversation in this place.

‘I’m just saying you need an extra pair of hands here, Jarv.’

‘If they come without a gob it’ll be an improvement.’ His grin is a balm to his barb. For Jarvis and Steve mickey-taking is a badge of belonging. If they mock you, you’re in.

‘You hope,’ I grin back.

‘This is a proper job,’ Dad says. And there it is.

‘So is my new one.’

‘I mean a steady job. One you can rely on. People are always going to need their bikes fixing…’

‘And they’re always going to watch TV.’

‘Writing,’ Dad says, spitting the word out like a fly in his tea. ‘That in’t safe, bab. Six months and then what? You’ll be out on your ear with moths in your wallet.’

I meet his frown. ‘I’ll be fine.’

I’ll be more than fine. Writing is my dream. I’ve done the sensible thing for years, my full-time shifts in Dad’s bike shop nothing compared with the endless unseen hours spent wrangling words onto the page. Tomorrow that me gets to step out into the light. I’m still expecting to arrive and find it’s all a prank. I’m terrified of failing. But I can’t wait to try.

‘You can still change your mind.’

‘I can’t.’ I glance over at my colleagues, lowering my voice. ‘Russell Styles is expecting me.’ He wants me, I want to add, but I don’t. Dad doesn’t understand what that sentence means to me. Out of the fifteen hundred scriptwriters who applied, a famous showrunner chose me. Even though it’s my first experience as a staff writer, my first in a writers’ room. My first of anything. Russell read my script and wanted me on his team.

‘If you work with Jodie Comer tell her she needs a hunky bike mechanic in her life,’ Steve says.

‘Hunky? More like chunky, mate,’ Jarvis shoots back.

Dad doesn’t smile with them. ‘Just think about it, our Otts. It’s risky to rest your bills on a pipe dream.’

Nothing I say will change his mind. So I just hug him.

At the end of the day, we gather by the back door of the workshop. The sun is just beginning to dip over the warehouse roofs of the trading estate and starlings are bickering in the ash trees over the road. I fill my lungs for the last time with the scent of oil and metal, sawdust and leather. It’s strange to think I won’t smell it again, won’t be followed home by it clinging to my clothes and hair.

Sheila is in tears, Steve has his arm around her and even Jarvis isn’t cracking jokes. Dad stands beside me, a silent sentinel. For a moment, everything is calm. It only lasts as long as a slow intake of breath, but I feel more expressed by the silence than by anything words could say.

‘Right then,’ I say, surprised to feel tears arriving. I hand Dad my badge and door pass and he takes it as solemnly as a war widow accepting colours from an officer. ‘Thanks, guys. For everything.’

Jarvis gives my arm his usual punch, and then scoops me into an enormous hug. ‘Knock ’em dead, Otty. You show ’em.’

I smile against his chest, the pull of Past Me suddenly strong. ‘I will.’

Steve shakes my hand, which is the most physical contact I’ve had with him in all the years we’ve worked together. ‘We’ll be watching for your name on them telly credits.’

‘Cheers, mate.’

I hug Sheila and Dad. ‘See you soon, yeah?’

They nod and stand together as I walk from them across the car park to my car. When I open the driver’s door, I turn back and take one last look. As one, the RoadTrail team raise their hands in salute.

I don’t let myself cry until I’ve driven off the estate.

Tonight, I’m going to have a quiet one. Let it all finally sink in. I plan a takeaway from Diamond Balti across the street from my flat with one of their enormous Peshwari naans and a bottle of Chang beer, followed by a night of classic drama repeats on telly. Perfect. I’d say an early night, too, but I know my brain. It rarely switches off before midnight and tonight my nerves will probably push that much later. I’ll sleep when it comes.

Monty, my yellow Fiat 500, creaks into the car park and when I kill the engine I sit in the stillness for a moment. Last time I’ll make that journey. Last time I’ll get home with the itch of not having written all day. Tomorrow, everything changes.

I consider going straight to Diamond Balti, but decide on a shower first. Leaving my car, I punch the entry number into the door lock and head inside. The three flights of stairs seem to take longer to climb this evening but everything feels significant today. I’m on the cusp of the next season of my life, my toes inching towards the edge, ready to leap…

Hang on. What’s that?

There’s an envelope drawing-pinned to my front door. That’s odd. Why wasn’t it posted through the letterbox? I pull the pin out, which takes more effort than I expect. Someone bashed it into the painted wood with considerable force. When I look at the brass dome of its head, I can see the pin is dented from whatever implement whoever put it there used. Poor thing. I pocket the pin and the envelope and unlock my front door.

It’s not Birmingham’s most spacious home, but I love my flat. I’ve rented it for seven years and it might as well be a palace for the security and comfort it gives me. That was another battle with Dad I stuck out and won. He wanted me to stay at home with him, but I needed my own space and somewhere I could write without having to justify it. I love Dad and I know he loves me, but I wish he wouldn’t think he has to protect me from the world. I’ve stopped trying to argue the toss and instead just go with it, trusting that he’ll see I made the right choice in time. This flat was the right choice for me: the first night I lived here, I wrote all night, going into the workshop the next day dizzy with exhaustion but buzzing.

I drop my rucksack by the kitchen counter and pull the envelope from my pocket. Inside is a single sheet of paper, typed.

Dear Miss Perry

NOTICE OF EVICTION

As landlord of Flat 6, Princess Building, West Park Road, I hereby give notice of the termination of your tenancy agreement, effective immediately. You must vacate the property, including all furniture and personal effects, by 10 a.m. tomorrow. Failure to do this will result in legal action being pursued against you.

Yours sincerely

Barrington Theopolis (Mr)

Landlord

What?

I stare at the paper as if the words might relent and rearrange themselves into something else. The letter creases as my fingers curl into fists around it. Eviction? Why? I have always paid my rent on time, never missing a payment in seven years. I haven’t had any warning of this. He can’t just evict me!

Shaking, I reach for my phone and dial Barry’s number. I swallow my panic and tears as I wait for him to answer. I won’t cry on the phone. I won’t.

‘Yes?’

‘Barry – Mr Theopolis – it’s Ottilie Perry. I just got your letter.’ You utter bastard, I add in my head, sucking in a lungful of air to keep myself from screaming at him or bursting into tears.

‘And?’

‘You can’t evict me. I’ve always paid my bills, I’ve never had a complaint from you or anyone else in the building…’

‘I have another tenant.’

‘I’m your tenant, Barry. I’ve been your tenant for seven years.’

‘She needs the flat tomorrow.’

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. This can’t happen, not tonight. My life is supposed to change tomorrow. And not like this. It can’t be this.

‘I need the flat now.’ Deafening silence on the other end of the line sets my blood boiling. ‘And anyway, you can’t just evict me. I have rights.’

‘That’s not my problem.’ There’s no emotion in his voice, not even a hint of remorse or embarrassment at what he’s doing. ‘I will collect the keys at 10 a.m. tomorrow.’

‘No you bloody won’t,’ I growl back, any pretence of calm abandoned now. He doesn’t deserve civility. And I’m not going to beg him. If he wants me gone, it will be on my terms. ‘I’m starting a new job tomorrow. So if you want the keys you will be here at 6 a.m. And I will require my deposit in full, in cash.’

‘Six?’

‘Six. Or else it will have to be late tomorrow evening. Your choice.’

A beat. I can hear his breathing rasp a little. ‘Fine. 6 a.m., sharp.’

I hang up before he has the chance to do it first.

Anger fires through my body, tears and shock chasing its heels. My legs give way and now I’m on the floor, shaking, sobbing, gasping for breath. I should fight this, get legal advice, refuse to leave. But there’s no time. I have a new job tomorrow and that’s all that matters. I will not give Barry Theopolis the satisfaction of a fight. I will take my business elsewhere.

I just have no idea where.

I allow myself one moment to look around my home – now not my home for much longer – taking in the features so familiar I don’t see them anymore. The faded curtains, the stacks of books rising around the walls like the skyscrapers of the city because I’ve never had space for bookshelves, the sagging sofa that came with the flat and will be left here tomorrow when I’m no longer its tenant.

I can’t believe I have to leave.

I sit up, drag my sleeves across my eyes to rid them of tears, will strength into my spine. I need to start packing. I’ll work out the rest later.

Chapter Two

JOE

‘Come over.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I have to work tonight.’

Her frustrated sigh slaps my ear where I hold my phone to it. ‘Why don’t you just shag Russell Styles and get it over with?’

‘It’s my job, Vic.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘It is.’

‘You know what, Joe? Forget it. You’re not the only person I’m seeing.’

Wow.

I blink at the empty room. There’s direct and then there’s Victoria. I mean, I never imagined I was the only bloke in her life but I kind of thought she’d keep that to herself. ‘Right, well. Have fun.’

I end the call.

‘You off out, Joe?’ Matt, my housemate, bobs his head around the door from the hall.

‘Apparently not.’ When Matt’s expression clouds, I hold up my phone. ‘I think I just got dumped.’

‘You think? Who by?’

‘Victoria.’

He chuckles and scratches his hair, which always looks like he’s just rolled out of bed. Which he probably has. ‘I thought you’d given up on her months ago.’

I grimace back. I should have, but I’ve been busy. And she has a habit of reappearing when I need distraction from work. ‘Turns out she beat me to it.’

‘Bummer, mate.’ I expect him to mosey off to whatever it is he does most evenings, but he remains by the doorway. ‘So – you’re not out tonight?’

‘Nope. Doesn’t matter anyway. I have these sample episodes to get done and the agency sent over a script clean-up they want for the end of the week.’

‘Man in demand, Joe.’

‘Lucky me. You off out?’

A flicker of something passes across his face. ‘Yeah. No. Not sure yet.’

He’s working on a feature film script at the moment and is lost in his head most of the time. At least, that’s what he says it is. Judging by the contents of the ashtray he regularly leaves in the kitchen – never quite making the bin – something else might be calling him to dreamland. ‘Hey, but you should totally go out anyway.’

‘Too busy. Like I said.’

‘Joe. Stop wallowing.’

‘I – er – I’m not?’

‘That’s what Victoria expects you to do, right? Hole yourself away, crying into your beer.’

Since when has Matt Evans ever worried about me? ‘Actually, she expected me to be going out tonight. She dumped me because I wasn’t.’

‘Right.’ He nods but his brow is still knotted. ‘Even still, you should go out. At least get food or – something. I mean, when was the last time you ate?’

I’m about to dismiss this when I realise he’s made a good point. I haven’t eaten since a hastily grabbed bacon roll before my meeting with Russell this morning. On cue, my stomach protests its emptiness. I could go to that all-you-can-eat multi-ethnic buffet place in town where my friend works. I could eat enough so I don’t have to worry about food again tonight and then work through till three or four-ish. Rumour is we have eight new writers arriving tomorrow and I need to be head and shoulders above them when Russell walks in.

‘I might just dash out for food, actually,’ I say, snapping my laptop shut and grabbing my keys from the kitchen counter. ‘Do you want anything?’

‘Nah, I’m good,’ Matt says, noticeably brighter than a minute ago. ‘Go. A break might be just what your brain needs.’

When he nods at my laptop I have a horrible feeling he saw the tellingly blank page on it before I closed the lid. I’m not stuck. I’m just… in a bit of an inspiration lull. Food will help.

Food does help. I don’t want to admit Matt’s right, but being away from the house does wonders for the script. It helps that my old schoolmate Nish works at the buffet place and doesn’t care if I work while I eat. An hour turns into two and before I know it, it’s almost one in the morning. Nish grins at me as I apologise on my way out.

By the time I get back to the house, sleep and a full belly are conspiring against me. Heading to bed with every intention of working there till the birds start singing, I crash out as soon as I get in.

Which is why, when I jump awake in brave sunlight and grab my phone, I’m sick to discover it’s 6 a.m. I’d planned to get into Ensign Media early this morning to be there before the new intake arrives. Cursing, I throw on fresh clothes and drag my fingers through my hair in a lame attempt to tame it before I dash downstairs.

It’s only when I’m waiting for my grumpy old filter coffee machine to do its stuff that I notice the note.

A bright pink sticky note, its edges curling, weighed down with a butter knife in the sea of crumbs on the breadboard.

Sorry, mate.

Moved out.

Matt

What?

I snatch the note from its crumby resting place and blink hard to clear sleep from my eyes. Moved out? When?

And then I let my gaze travel through the open kitchen door to the hallway. No shoes. No horrible shoe rack. Matt’s wretched shoe rack he insisted on having there, stinking out the space. I walk through to the empty hall, turn left into the living room and see more evidence: the four empty shelves in the large bookcase where Matt’s games and terrible sports biographies always lived. By the TV, no jumble of games console wires and controllers, no Xbox and Wii. I don’t have to check his room to work out that the books and his desk will be missing from there, too.

He bloody moved out. A week before the rent is due.

Slowly, it hits me.

He owes me three weeks’ rent. Money I don’t have.

I can feel panic rising and make myself breathe against the assault. I still have a week. I need to regroup, work out a plan. Matt is an utter dick for doing this to me but I have more important things to do than waste any brain-time on it today – like making sure my boss sees me before everyone else.

Everything else can wait.

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.

I move the same ornament on the mantelpiece two inches to the left that I moved two inches to the right a minute ago. Groaning, I shove my hands into my jeans pockets to keep them still.

I don’t know why I feel nervous.

Okay, maybe I do. Someone new means new rules, new rhythms, a whole new energy in the house. And she’s a girl. I like girls, but I’ve never had one as a housemate. Most of my relationships with girls have been strictly your-place-or-mine deals. Lots of fun, but you both get to go home afterwards. No shared bathrooms, no arguments over the TV remote.

A knock at the door makes me jump and I grab a final look in the mirror before I go to answer it.

She’s waiting on the doorstep like a rabbit about to scarper. When I offer my hand she grips it like a lifebuoy. A blush blooms across her cheeks and my nervous laugh mirrors hers. It feels like a first date, which is ridiculous.

‘Hi,’ she says, letting my hand go. ‘Can I…?’

‘Oh, sure. Sorry. Come in.’

I follow her into the hall and notice a layer of dust on the shelf under the mirror by the front door. I give it a surreptitious wipe as she pauses to inspect the Minton-tiled floor.

‘That’s gorgeous. Is it original?’

‘Yes. My landlord Eric renovated the house about ten years ago and it was the first thing he restored. Nice, huh?’

‘It’s beautiful.’ She straightens. ‘Um, where do we go?’

‘Just in there,’ I say, pointing to the living room.

She unleashes that smile at me before she walks in.

I take a breath. Cool and calm, Carver.

The late-afternoon sun is streaming in through the large bay window and I silently thank the house for showing itself at its best. The way light fills the rooms is one of the things I love most about this place. Watching Ottilie now, the warm gold sunlight playing in her hair, I am struck by a sudden sense that she was always supposed to be here.

Steady on…

I shake the thought and launch into the tour.

Ottilie politely inspects every room, nodding and making encouraging noises. So far, so good. Finally, we reach what might be her room. I’ve left it until last for two reasons: firstly, that I wanted the rest of the house to win her over before she sees the bedroom, and secondly, because it’s significantly smaller than my room. Matt didn’t care but girls have opinions on this kind of thing. What if she prefers mine to hers? What if she’ll only move in if we swap? Am I willing to surrender my sanctuary?

The answer to that is academic. I’ll have to be.

She’s very quiet. Standing with her back to me, facing the entire wall of empty bookshelves and small double bed. I can’t tell what she’s thinking. I don’t want to say anything too soon, but her silence is unnerving.

And then I notice her shoulders start to shake.

Oh no. Anything but that…

‘Is it—’ I fumble my words. ‘I mean, are you…?’

The shaking intensifies and a sob escapes. This is not good.

‘Ottilie?’

‘It’s Otty.’ She sinks to the bed, her back still to me.

‘Otty – are you okay?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she says, wiping her eyes.

My heart hits the IKEA rug. ‘Look, if you don’t like it we could always discuss swapping…’

‘No,’ she says. It isn’t the kind of no that’s negotiable.

Well, that’s that then.

‘No problem. Let’s just go back downstairs,’ I begin. But then she turns. And she’s smiling.

‘It’s perfect.’

‘It is?’

She nods, her eyes glistening. ‘So… many… shelves.’

Eh?

‘Shelves?’

‘For my books. I have a lot of books.’ She gives a loud sniff. ‘My old place had no bookcases. I just had piles everywhere. Of books,’ she adds quickly.

It’s a little bit adorable and it breaks the ice.

Downstairs we talk turkey. That is, we agree she’ll move in pretty much as soon as we’ve finished talking about it.

‘Furniture,’ I say, the thought suddenly occurring. Matt had little in the house apart from a desk in his room, a weird cast-iron pan-stacking thing in the kitchen and that horrific shoe rack in the hall.

‘I don’t have any.’

‘None at all?’

‘One chair. With flamingos on it.’ She giggles when she sees my confusion. ‘You’ll see. But no other furniture. Just books.’

She is a total surprise and the very last kind of person I imagined I’d share a home with. And she isn’t kidding about the books: sixteen boxes of them. How she got them all into the yellow Fiat 500 parked outside is mindboggling.

Within an hour they’re all in the house – our house now. Otty insists on buying pizza to celebrate and I don’t argue. I find a bottle of wine Matt forgot in his hurry to leave and we open it. We talk for hours in the living room while ITV3 plays reruns of crime dramas on the TV in the corner – Morse and DCI Banks, Vera Stanhope and Hamish Macbeth all speaking words penned by so many screenwriters before us.

And just like that, Otty is in.

Chapter Seven

OTTY

Waking up in a new house is weird.

Especially when the Someone Else Who Lives There walks out of the bathroom wearing only a towel, just as you’re heading in.

I was not prepared for that. To be fair, I don’t think Joe was either.

I can’t tell if the flush in his cheeks is from the shower or our meeting.

‘So. Morning, then,’ he grins.

‘Morning.’

If I wasn’t so mortified right now, I might enjoy this moment. I’ve felt like I’m at a disadvantage so far: moving into Joe’s house, starting work at Joe’s workplace. Even last night, when we laughed and chatted into the early hours, I was still aware that Joe was so familiar with everything in the house – which drawer the cutlery is in, where the wine glasses live, even which cushions belong on which chair in the living room. Now, in my thankfully modest nightwear, I finally have an advantage.

‘Nice T-shirt,’ he says, nodding at my Tom Walker tee.

‘Cheers. Um, nice – towel?’ I reply. That’s the line that breaks the tension.

This is going to take some getting used to…

Half an hour later I come downstairs and find Joe in the kitchen, thankfully fully clothed. The coffee machine is working away, filling the space with its warmth and roastiness. Caffeine is definitely destined to be my saviour this morning. Even though we only had one bottle of wine between us last night, the combination of that and the huge adrenalin rush of yesterday has left my head decidedly the worse for wear. Joe doesn’t seem to be in the same condition, amazingly fresh-faced considering the late night and our early start.

‘Coffee’s on,’ he says, buttering toast on a breadboard that looks as old as the house. He looks up. ‘You do like coffee, don’t you?’ Before I can reply he bats away the question with a wave of the butter knife. ‘What am I saying? You’re a writer: of course you do.’

Just like that. You’re a writer. The first time it’s been acknowledged in my everyday life. It isn’t a jibe or a criticism: it’s a fact. I feel tears threaten my eyes, which is completely daft, so I busy myself with finding a mug. Most of the kitchen stuff from my flat is still in a box in my room, but I brought my mugs downstairs last night and now they sit awkwardly in the cupboard next to Joe’s far more upmarket ones.

‘So, is it weird in the writers’ room with us new writers coming in?’

‘A bit.’ He munches a triangle of toast. ‘Doesn’t make much difference to me. I just keep my head down, keep doing the job.’

‘Some people yesterday were talking about the last intake getting fired. That must have been horrific, losing friends like that.’

‘They weren’t friends.’

‘Oh.’

He waves the toast in apology. ‘I mean, I don’t usually do the making-friends-at-work thing.’

I glance at the slice of toast I’ve just picked up. I don’t know whether I’m hungry now. ‘Why?’

‘Well, because…’ Joe slides out a chair from the kitchen table and sits. ‘Okay, the thing is, Russell is a bit impetuous. If people aren’t working well in the writers’ room, they go.’

Now I’m certain my appetite has gone.

‘How long did the previous intake last?’

‘I don’t think you need to…’

‘How long?’

‘Less than a week.’

Winded, I sit heavily on a chair. The air around me becomes thick and I can’t suck enough in to stop the burn in my lungs. ‘No…’

‘Hey, no, don’t panic.’

‘It’s impossible not to. This whole thing is impossible…’

‘Stop it. They weren’t your lot, okay? They weren’t you…’ He’s looking straight at me and I don’t want him to see my fear, don’t want him to know that about me. But it’s too late and yet again I’ve revealed my inexperience. But suddenly his hand is on mine on the table and I don’t know how to react. I look up at him. ‘That is – I mean – you can do this. You can prove to Russ that you belong there.’

‘How?’

‘By believing you should be.’ He shrugs, his fingers drifting back from mine like a gentle tide. ‘Fake it till you make it. You know you’re good enough – deep down. I mean, you had to believe that to even apply for this job.’

Do I believe I’m good enough? Right now I’m so scared I can’t remember feeling anything but fear. I saw the advert on a screenwriting website and applied before I had time to think better of it. I sent my sample script – a twenty-five-minute drama pilot about a Midlands street not unlike the one I grew up on – and I honestly didn’t think I’d hear anything from it. ‘I just don’t want to not be good enough, you know?’

Joe smiles. ‘Do I know? Every day of my life, right there. Just tell yourself this: everyone is bricking it. Even the biggest, loudest mouths in that room. Even Russell. Each of us knows we’re only as good as the next sentence we write.’ He drains his coffee cup and stands. ‘And if that doesn’t work, just imagine everyone naked.’

‘I read your script.’

I look up from the coffee station to see Rona, one of my fellow new writers, bearing down on me. She doesn’t smile but I’ve already learned this isn’t a bad sign. I’m surprised she’s read my work, even though the last thing Russell told us yesterday was that he’d put everyone’s sample scripts in the shared Dropbox file so we could familiarise ourselves with everyone’s style. Or spy on the competition, according to Joe. I haven’t looked at anyone else’s yet. I need my nerves to calm down sufficiently before I do.

‘Did you?’

‘Yeah. Amazing, girl. Like, full-on authenticity.’

‘Wow – um, thanks.’

‘Happy to write with you if we have to pair up?’ she says.

The compliment takes a moment to sink in. ‘I’d love that. Thanks, Rona.’

She nods and heads to her seat.

The wild flinging open of the door sends us all scuttling to our chairs as Russell sweeps in. His handclap bounces around the room. ‘Morning, team. Ready to work? Good.’

I watch him pacing the floor as he explains our brief for the first batch of scripts, remembering Joe’s remark from breakfast. I can’t believe anything scares Russell Styles. He oozes confidence, like it’s sewn into the very fabric of his being. Then I recall Joe’s other piece of advice and have to look down at my laptop to hide my smile.

We spend the morning going over Russell’s vision for the series, the characters and themes we’re going to adopt as our own and the style he believes will set this production apart from anything else currently on the market. The series bible is already twenty pages long: heaven only knows how big it will be once we all start writing.

I glance over at Joe, who is hunched over his laptop, typing like his life depends upon it. It’s as if he’s within an invisible box, oblivious to the rush of noise and energy around him. Contained, in every sense of the word. I admire his focus – I mean, that’s obviously how he’s got to where he is in his career.

I look down at the notes I’m making as I chat to my colleagues and I like what I see. I know it’s early days and I know I’ll need more than a few notes to impress Russell, but I like this strange new life of mine. Now I just have to work out how to make it successful.

Chapter Eight

JOE

Otty looks like she’s been here for ever.

I watch her across the room, a smiling, chatting beacon in the group of writers that surround her. You would never know she was the same panicked housemate I had breakfast with this morning.

I’d like to think my pep talk made this happen. But the more I watch, the more I’m convinced this is all Otty.

She hasn’t even been here two full days yet but she seems to know everybody already. As for me, I’ve tried my best not to notice them. Because knowing them means two things: first, you see their work and how good they are, which is never good for your head; and second, there’s the whole solidarity thing that steps in between the job and the team. Both of them take your eyes off the ball – and that’s dangerous. I don’t want to be obliged to anyone but myself.

Otty didn’t get the memo about this, apparently.

‘Close your mouth, there’s a train coming.’ Daphne slides into the vacant seat by mine, pleased with her jibe.

‘I wasn’t…’

‘Joseph, chill. It was a joke.’ I see her following my line of sight and make sure I’m looking at one of the hair-flickers next to Otty. ‘Ah, one of the Charlottes taken your fancy, hmm?’

‘Nope.’ Not that it’s any of her business.

‘Whatever. Look, I might have someone for your spare room.’ She waits. When I don’t respond her smile morphs into a frown. ‘Okay, I thought that news must just have cracked your face.’

I bring my attention back to her. ‘Thanks, but I have somebody.’

‘What? When did this happen?’

‘Yesterday. She moved in last night.’

Daphne folds her arms. ‘She?’

‘I think it’s going to work out,’ I say, quickly adding: ‘And if it doesn’t, it gives me more time to find someone else.’

‘And how did you find this – person? Telepathy?’

‘Actually, she found me.’ It feels good to say it and I don’t know why. Other than the gift of disapproval oozing from my colleague, which I am enjoying more than I should.

Just then, Otty glances over and smiles at me. The game’s up: Daphne clocks it immediately.

‘You are kidding me.’

‘Hey, it was your note that did it. Cheers for that, Daph.’

Even her perfect dewy foundation can’t disguise the indignant flush that rises in her cheeks. ‘What happened to “we don’t need any more writers”? What happened to “I don’t date colleagues”?’

‘It isn’t like that.’

‘Isn’t it?’

She’s really rattled, isn’t she? Having the upper hand with Daphne is a surprise development but it makes Otty even more of a brilliant decision. ‘Otty needed a room and I needed a housemate. It’s the perfect solution. I don’t have to explain my job to her; if the place is a tip because I’m on deadline she isn’t going to moan at me because she’ll likely be on deadline, too. We could even go for weeks without talking because we’re wrapped up in our scripts and neither of us ever has to apologise.’

Daphne’s eyes narrow. ‘Or maybe you’re letting your biggest competition into your inner sanctum. Giving her everything she needs to bring you down.’

‘Yeah, Daph, because she’s going to find so many of my deepest secrets hidden under the dirty plates in the sink.’

‘Look at her, Joe! She’s a player. Second day in this room and she already has that lot eating out of her hand. That whole “working-class chummery” act is a smokescreen. Russell said he’s looking for team players, not lone wolves. If he sees Ottilie working her stuff with half the room and you not even bothering to learn their names, who do you think he’s going to favour when the next cut comes?’

A small thought edges its way to the forefront of my mind: is this jealousy? I dismiss it. ‘Otty isn’t like that.’

‘Which you presumably know because you’ve been aware of her existence for all of twenty-four hours? Trust me, she’s trouble. The last thing you need is to be sleeping with the enemy.’

‘I’m not sleeping with her…’ I protest, but Daphne has already stalked away like a cheetah rounding on its prey. I shake off the irritation. Well, let her think I’m getting it on with Otty. About time she experienced being snubbed after all the months she’s done it to me.

After sketching out the basic arc of the pilot and first three episodes, Russ suggests we pair off to flesh out the scenes. I’d rather work alone but Daphne’s remark about our boss wanting team players sits uneasily within me. Just in case she’s right, I’ll show willing and do it this time.

‘Hey, pardner,’ the bearded hipster I’m paired with says in a woeful cowboy accent he’s clearly proud of. He could be a Josh or a Jake or even a Bernard for all I know. It doesn’t matter: ace this one and then I might get to do the rest alone.

My current writing partner bounces at my side and I have a horrible premonition that he might start like this and then transform into a bright-eyed psycho stalker, Single White Female style, only male. I think I hide my shudder well…

‘Hey – um…?’

‘Josh. Answer to J-Man, Joshy, whatever.’

‘Right. I’m Joe – nice to meet you.’

Josh/J-Man/Joshy shakes my hand with far too enthusiastic a grip. ‘Good to meet you, Joe. Fancy bashing out some words over food? I know a great sashimi place in the Jewellery Quarter.’

Spare me.

‘Love to but I have another deadline tonight,’ I shrug. His crestfallen face makes me feel like I just dropkicked a puppy. ‘How about a breakfast meet? The place next door does great stuffed bagels.’

‘Gluten-free?’

‘Probably.’

‘Great!’ Bouncy Hipster juggles the laptop and pad in his arms to pull his phone from his back pocket. ‘So ping us your number and I’ll see you tomorrow bright and early, yeah?’

I’m exhausted by the time he’s scampered off. This is going to be a long week.

‘Joe.’ Russell is striding over.

‘Hey, boss.’

‘A word in your ear?’

‘Sure.’

He glances over his shoulder. ‘Not in here. Walk with me.’

Instead of heading to his office, we pass through the entrance doors and commence a slow circuit of the eleventh floor. It’s still early days for this building and a third of the offices are awaiting tenants. The opposite side of West One is an eerie, echoing vastness, the kind of place someone tours shortly before the strip lights splutter out and apocalyptic zombies lay siege to the building. I squirrel the idea away. Who knows when the undead might come in handy?

‘How do you reckon the newbies are doing?’

I glance at Russell as he strides beside me. ‘Good. I mean, probably too early to tell. But they seem to be getting on.’

‘Hm.’

‘What’s on your mind?’

‘I want to give them a few days to settle. Not like last time.’ He gives me the kind of self-conscious grin more akin to apologising for nicking a parking space than cancelling eight writers’ contracts in one fell swoop. We really are that expendable to him.

‘I think it will serve the room best,’ I say, careful to keep my tone steady.

‘Mm. It helps that they have more about them than the last lot. More variety. I like the Brummie one.’

‘Aren’t they all…?’

‘The working-class girl. Bit older. Very Brummie. Her script was gritty and urban and just what we need.’

‘Ottilie Perry?’

‘That’s the one. Got to admit, she ticks a box the commissioners will like. Working-class, own-voice bollocks and all. I mean, look around the room, Joe: middle-class as far as the eye can see. But she has real potential. I like that. Keep an eye on her, will you? Report back regularly.’

This is awkward. ‘The thing is, Russ…’

I’m silenced by the slap of his hand on my shoulder. ‘My wünderkind and the workhouse apprentice. Practically a script in itself.’ He chuckles at his own quip. ‘All good, Joe? Excellent.’

As I watch him powering away my feet become lead weights on the newly laid office carpet. The last thing I want to do is babysit someone, especially my brand-new housemate. I gaze out across the carpeted emptiness to the wideness of the city beyond its windows. All I wanted was to focus on this job on my own. Fat chance of that.

Maybe if I can make it look like I’m mentoring Otty, Russell will be satisfied and leave me to get on with my own stuff. A point in my favour wouldn’t hurt in that room. And as the least-experienced writer on the team, Otty’s position is already perilous. The last cull took writers with five, ten years’ more experience. She needs protecting – for both our sakes. I need her in that room and in our house, paying half the rent. Once Russ recognises her talent, I can back off.

I hope.

Whatever else, I need to read Otty’s script. See what I’m really up against.

I’ll do it tonight.

Chapter Nine

OTTY

Oh, this house. It’s perfect!

While Joe and I are still sailing cautiously around each other, I feel like I’ve found my perfect space. What I overheard him say to Daphne Davies about this place being his muse makes sense now I’m here. The light is not what you’d expect to find inside when you view the house from the street. From outside it looks like a dark, imposing Edwardian villa, its ebony-painted window frames, white and black harlequin-tiled path and shiny black front door are imposing like many of the houses around here. But inside it’s light and warm and welcoming.

There’s still one person I know won’t be won over yet, no matter how lyrical I wax about the light and the ambience here. I can’t put it off any longer. Time to call home.

‘Old houses,’ Dad says, as if those two words carry a world of worry.

‘You should see the cornicing and the original fireplaces, Dad. And the tiles in the hall are Minton…’

‘Expensive, then, if anything gets broken.’

‘Joe tells me the landlord is very understanding.’

I hear an indecipherable mutter, which I don’t want to ask him to define. ‘And that’s another thing. Living with a fella…’

‘His name is Joe, Dad. He’s my colleague and my housemate.’

‘He’s a bloke, our Otts. There’s only one thing his trousers will be interested in.’

I bite my cheek to stifle a laugh. ‘Well, his trousers aren’t interested in me.’

‘You can’t know that! He could be planning on jumping you as we speak.’

‘Dad…’

‘What do you know about him, eh? And how come his last housemate moved out? These are questions you should have asked before you moved in.’

‘Joe is a decent guy, Dad. And you should trust me a bit more.’

‘Don’t start that with me, bab. We all know what decisions you make when it’s left to you.’

I am not having this argument again. ‘This is the right house for me. And when you see it, you’ll agree.’

He has no answer for that. And I know it will irritate him. I imagine him pacing the car park outside RoadTrail, the hum of passing traffic and scuff of boots on concrete confirming my suspicion. And then he comes back with the only thing he can throw at me. ‘It’s times like these I wish you still talked to your mother.’

‘If she’d left a forwarding address I could have.’

‘Yeah, well.’ He has to concede that. Fact is, when Mum left Dad she left everything – our home, the country, her interest in me. We don’t talk now and I’m not sure we ever really did when she was at home. I don’t feel I’m missing out, which is the saddest part. ‘You could’ve found a place with a girl, is all I’m saying. Or another one on your own.’

‘Not at such short notice. And not such a gorgeous place as this.’

‘Right. And what am I supposed to tell Sheila?’

I screw my eyes tight shut and wait until the urge to give the answer I really want to subsides. Even though I knew this was coming, it doesn’t make it any easier to hear when it does. I might have lived most of my life surrounded by opinions on it from everyone around me, but that stops now. I’m not working for Dad, I’m not living at home, I’ve made my decisions. And everyone else is just going to have to get used to it.

I take a breath: remind myself that they think they’re doing what’s best for me, even though they aren’t. ‘Tell Sheila I’ve found a lovely place to live. She doesn’t need to know anything else.’

He’ll come around, eventually. I hope, anyway. And even if he doesn’t, this is my place. I don’t need Dad or Sheila or half of the West Midlands to like it for me to be happy here.

‘What’s that?’

Rona puts the strange glass contraption on the scuffed scaffold-board desk beside me.

‘That is an air-press for a coffee.’

‘It looks like something from the Starship Enterprise.’

I sense the shadow of a smile. ‘And that’s what makes it cool.’ I arranged to meet my writing partner in the Custard Factory, in a hot-desking loft space her brother owns. It’s industrial and achingly cool – the kind of place I couldn’t have dreamed of working even six months ago. Everything is exposed brick and reclaimed steel and wood, the floorboards of the once busy factory space now polished and stained a deep cherry-brown. All around us people from across the creative industries are working together, air-pressed coffee steaming beside shiny laptops.

The beard ratio is strong here, too. I smile, remembering Joe’s formula for spotting hipster venues. I dashed out of the house early this morning and yelled goodbye to him, but I don’t think he heard me. He was in his invisible workbox again, at the kitchen table, his forehead furrowed into a deep frown. Come to think of it, he’s been weird since he got back from Ensign yesterday. I saw him go out with Russell in the afternoon; when he returned twenty minutes later he seemed preoccupied and stayed like that all night.

I don’t know if I should be worried or not. I don’t know him well enough to spot the signs yet. At RoadTrail I’d become so used to my colleagues’ emotional landscapes that I could decipher their mood by how they’d parked their cars outside the unit. It takes time, I remind myself, just like anything else. And whatever it is, it’s Joe’s business. I’m not the kind of person to instantly assume I’m responsible for someone else’s mood. If Joe has a problem, it’s his alone.

Besides, I have far more important things to focus on.

It’s amazing to think that people across the world might one day watch actors speaking the words Rona and I are writing today.

Our first assignment is completing a scene where a secret is revealed. In the thriller we’re working on, everyone is leading a double-life except for the central character, Laura Eye, who states at the beginning she has no life of her own beyond her work. This scene is the first glimpse viewers will get that Laura is lying.

Having somebody to spark ideas off creates a pace I haven’t experienced before. And what surprises me most is that apart from our first ten awkward minutes writing together, I feel like Rona’s equal. I never expected that. After four hours’ work, we’ve achieved so much.

We arrange to meet tomorrow in the same place and I leave with a free coffee from her brother Jas and his phone number, which I might just use. Part of the new me. New house, new job, new life. I like that. I walk out of the building on pockets of air and around me the city beams.

I should go straight home, but I want to go into Ensign Media to pick up a spare copy of the series bible. I want to keep one at home that I can annotate as I go. I’m protective about the notes I take, probably because I have written in secret for so long. Everything in the writers’ room is shared: it feels good to have something only I can see.

I’m in the lift to the eleventh floor before I realise I’ve parked, passed through the crazy entry system and navigated the security checks without even thinking. Another sign I’m more at home here now. I smile at my multi-reflections in the glass-lined elevator. Less of a newbie now, Otts.

The doors part and I step out with my head held high. I present my pass with a cavalier flourish to the panel on the wall and push open the door to Ensign’s reception.

Molly looks up from her monitor at the welcome desk. She’s probably not even twenty but she has a swagger like she’s been in charge of reception for ten years. ‘Ottilie, hi. The Eye, Spy team aren’t in today…’

‘It’s okay, I know. I was just after another copy of the series bible?’

‘There’s a stack of them in the writers’ room. Go on in.’

I thank her and head to the room. It’s odd with nobody else here: almost as if it’s lost without the bodies and noise inside it. I spot the stack of papers at the far end of the room and head towards it, my fingers tracing a trail around the edge of the writing table as I go.

‘The team aren’t in today.’

Startled, I turn back to the door. Daphne Davies is standing in the doorway. She isn’t smiling.

‘Hi, I know. I just needed another bible.’

‘Destroy the last one, did you?’ A smile appears but it doesn’t soften her stare.

‘You guessed it. Freak firestorm. Dragons. Usual occupational hazard.’ It wrong-foots her for a second, giving me chance to breathe. I move to the stack of papers and slide one from the top. Fixing my bravest smile, I turn back and walk towards our script co-ordinator.

She steps into my path. ‘So, I heard you’re living with Joe now? Fast work.’

‘It came up at the right time.’

‘I’ll bet.’

This is why I never worked in an office environment before. Why is everything a battle with some people? ‘Anyway, I’d better be getting back.’

‘Of course. Mustn’t keep Mr Carver waiting.’

Okay, that’s it. I am not leaving here with Daphne thinking she has licence to speak to me like that. ‘I’m sorry, was there something you wanted to say?’

She does that mock-astonished look that bitchy characters do in Netflix teen movies. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

I eyeball her. I can see my expression reflected in her expensive eyewear and I wonder if she even sees me. ‘Right. If you’ll excuse me…’

‘Thing is about Joe Carver: he’s a hustler. He likes to play the laid-back lad, all charm and nonchalance. He can make you feel like the only other person in the room. But he’d trample you to get where he wants to be.’

‘Good job he just needs me to help pay his rent then, eh?’

Daphne sighs and holds up her hand. ‘Ottilie, don’t get me wrong. I’m not suggesting you’re interested in him – although nobody would blame you if you were. He is not without his charms. Just be careful, okay? Because the man has an agenda. And you don’t really know him, do you?’

I’m rattled as I drive home through the building traffic. I don’t want to pay any attention to Daphne, but what she said has raised a question I can’t escape. Dad said it too, didn’t he? What do I know about Joe? I’ve seen how close to Russell he is and I know how focused he is on his work. And he has been weird with me lately. Closed off. Is that how he always is or is he having second thoughts about me moving in?

By the time I park outside the house, I’m a mess.

There’s only one thing for it: I have to talk to Joe.

Chapter Ten

JOE

I read her script. And if I didn’t like her so much already, I would hate her.

The thing is, the more I see Otty at work and spend time with her at home the more I’m convinced she doesn’t realise how good she is. Her dialogue sparkles, the characters as real and rounded as if you’d watched them for years. I know she thinks she’s flying blind, but she’s got this.

Which presents me with a problem.

Two problems, actually.

First, Russell wants to know what I think. I want to be honest with him so he trusts me, and I don’t want to sell Otty short. She’s more than just one of Russell’s boxes ticked for the writing team. Otty deserves to shine for her considerable talent alone, not where she’s come from. But Russell has already noticed her talent: if I tell him how good she really is, will that make him forget me?

And second, it feels wrong to be spying on Otty. If the tables were turned I would hate to discover she’d been spying on me. I’d be furious.

I’m going to have to think about this.

‘Joe.’

I jump and look up from my laptop. Otty is standing in the kitchen doorway. She doesn’t look happy.

‘Hey. Writing session go well?’

‘Yup.’

‘Great.’ There’s a pause that could split rock. She isn’t smiling, and when I try to wear one I know I look deranged. I never had this with Matt. ‘Josh and I did well too, for a first session. He’s very… enthusiastic.’

‘Enthusiastic is good. Even if you are judging him for his millennial facial hair.’ It’s a joke – I think – but delivered smileless it’s a bit scary.

‘Hang on, who said I was…?’

‘Have I offended you?’

‘Sorry?’

She takes a step into the kitchen. ‘Because I’ve been going over it in my mind and I can’t work out what’s changed here.’

‘Nothing’s changed.’

Her arms fold across her body. ‘You’ve hardly spoken to me this week. When I catch your eye at work, you look away.’

‘Have I? I didn’t mean to…’ I may have been a bit careful around her while I work out what to do with Russell’s request, but I haven’t tried to avoid her. At least, I don’t think I have…

‘You’re in your room as soon as I get home and either dashing out before me in the morning or trying to hide behind your laptop screen. If this isn’t working…’

‘No,’ I say quickly – because the last thing I want is Otty moving out. ‘It is working. I’m sorry. I’ve just had my head down.’

‘Whenever I’ve been around. The thing is, I don’t know you, Joe. I don’t know what you’re thinking: when you’re joking or when you just want to be left alone. And I just thought…’

She looks so lost and I want to hug her but she’s right. I don’t know her well enough, either.

‘Right, come on.’ I close my laptop, walk over to her and offer my hand.

She blinks at me like I’m speaking Russian. Or Martian.

‘We need to get to know each other. Starting now. Shall we?’

Otty takes my hand like it might be an incendiary device and I lead her out into the hall. I risk giving her fingers a squeeze as I open the door and we walk out into the bright Birmingham sunlight.

The canalside bar is quiet considering it’s a weekday. We find a table outside and take a seat, as homeward-bound business people and students scurry past. Otty is still glancing at me as if she expects me to turn into a werewolf any minute, but at least she agreed to come. I can work with that.

She sips her pear cider, the ice cubes clinking against the glass. I watch her, then realise I’m staring and turn my attention to the mother duck floating past on the dark canal water, and the five balls of fluffy feathers frantically paddling in her wake. I know how they feel.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, not daring to look at her yet.

‘Me too. I panicked.’

‘I didn’t exactly put your mind at rest.’

She traces a drop of condensation down the length of her glass. ‘I haven’t lived with anybody else for a long time. I’m still working out how to do it.’

‘Well, I haven’t lived with a girl before. Sorry, a woman.’

Otty gives a snort of laughter and almost chokes on her cider. ‘Thanks for noticing.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ I say, but I’m laughing, too.

‘For a scriptwriter you’re rubbish with words sometimes.’

‘Thanks for noticing.’

She’s smiling when I look at her and it feels like a win. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘You’re right, though: we need to get to know each other. So, what do you want to know?’

‘Favourite place in Brum?’

‘Easy. Electric Cinema. You?’

‘The Museum and Art Gallery. Pre-Raphaelite rooms.’

‘Ah, bit of a Dante Gabriel Rossetti fan, are you?’

‘More of a John Everett Millais groupie. Rossetti loved himself too much.’

‘Fair point. Um, what’s next?’

‘Favourite place to eat?’

‘Purnell’s, of course. You?’

‘Diamond Balti.’ She laughs when she sees my reaction. ‘It’s a hidden gem. Best Jaipuri chicken in Birmingham and naan breads bigger than your head. I’ll take you there some time.’

‘Sounds like an experience. I’ll look forward to that. Favourite football team? Villa or City?’ Don’t say City, don’t say City…

‘Neither.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re a Baggies fan?’

Otty shakes her head. ‘I’m not into football. Cricket’s our family’s game.’

‘Worcestershire?’

‘Get lost! I’m a Bear through and through. I’m a member of Warwickshire Cricket Club at Edgbaston.’

That’s another surprise. Otty does not strike me as a cricket fan, let alone a member. As we talk, more surprises emerge: she’s a former mountain bike mechanic, she’s teaching herself Welsh for fun and her biggest ambition is to write a series of Doctor Who. None of which I would have guessed unless she’d told me.

Birmingham has its summer hat on, city workers settling outside canalside bars to bask in the warm late-afternoon sun. The Venetian clock at Brindleyplace chimes the hour and Otty insists on stopping to listen until its lovely chimes have finished. Three swans land noisily on the canal and pigeons dip and soar above our heads. On days like this, my adopted home city is the best in the world. I came here as a fresh-faced kid from Oxford, firstly to do my degree at the university and then my first scriptwriting job apprenticed to a unit Russell was leading. And although I followed his team down to London for a couple of years and then dallied with a production company in Manchester for nine months, I found myself drawn back to Brum when freelance work kicked off. This place fits me. That’s all there is to it.

There’s an unhurried air today, the day’s work done and the promise of a light summery evening stretching ahead. Not that I work in an office, or have a workday that ends at 5 p.m. But for a while I can enjoy the atmosphere. And Otty’s company.

Until we stop for chips on the way home and she asks me a question.

‘What’s Russell really like?’

Crap.

‘He’s a good guy. Can be a bit blinkered sometimes but successful people often are.’

Otty blows on her chips. ‘It’s just that you seem close to him.’

‘He knows me, that’s all.’

‘I think it’s more than that. He respects you, more than the rest of us. I mean, I haven’t seen him take anyone else for a walk around the building.’

I didn’t know she’d spotted that. I stuff a load of chips into my mouth and wince as their heat scalds my tongue.

‘They’re hot,’ Otty says, looking at me like I’ve lost the plot. I probably have. Because I know the next question will be what Russell thinks of Otty and I don’t think I can lie to her if she asks me.

I swallow the molten mouthful, imagining the blisters it’s searing down my throat, and say the only thing I can think of that will change the subject:

‘I read your script.’

The chip on the wooden fork halts between the paper and her lips, which drop open. I force my gaze back up to meet hers.

‘Which script?’ Her whispered question makes the steam dance above her chips.

‘The one you sent with your application.’

She blinks. ‘When?’

‘This morning. Otty, it’s really…’

‘No!’ She holds up her hand. ‘Don’t say anything.’

‘But I thought it was…’

‘Stop it!’

‘But…’

‘No, Joe! You can’t just casually drop that on me, like it’s a trivial thing. Like it doesn’t matter.’

‘Who said it doesn’t matter?’

But now she’s backing away from me and I’m not sure why. ‘Don’t tell me what you thought, okay? Not here.’ She screws up her still half-full chip paper, throws it in the blue plastic bin outside the chippy and walks away from me.

I watch her leave, my own dinner no longer palatable. What just happened?

Chapter Eleven

OTTY

Why did I go off like that?

All he was doing was being kind, I’m sure. Before I started working on the writing team I would have killed to get any kind of feedback from Joe Carver. It was just unexpected when he offered it and I wasn’t prepared.

And now I’m hiding in my room back at the house, too chicken to go downstairs and explain myself. Great work, Otty Perry. Just brilliant.

We didn’t speak on the bus back from the city centre and as soon as we got in the house I fled upstairs. I can hear Joe crashing about in the kitchen beneath my room and I know he’s annoyed. I owe him an apology and an explanation. But what would I say?

How do I say that the words on the page are like pieces I’ve torn from myself and stuck there? How do I explain that the thought of them not shining like I want them to is worse than death? I’ve never told anyone how I feel about my writing. I don’t know if I will ever be able to express why I write, only that I have to. It’s as if the words cram up inside my head and demand to be let loose on the page. But is that how every writer feels about their work? Or is it just me?

It makes no rational sense. They’re just words – but they mean so much more than that. Until I sent that script to Ensign Media, I’d never shown my writing to another living soul. I’d never been on a training course, or met any other writers until the day I walked into the writers’ room. I never expected to be successful with my script and now I’m being counted among some of the brightest writing talents in the country. It’s terrifying, but the tiniest voice within me assures me I deserve to be here.

How do I say all of this to Joe?

The answer is simple: I don’t. Not tonight.

Throwing the duvet over my head, I close my eyes and wish it all away.

Brrrhhhzz… Brrrhhhzz… Brrrhhhzz…

It takes me a while to decipher the muffled buzzing sound when I open them again. Daylight floods into my room from the curtains I didn’t close last night and I groan as I see my crumpled clothes I’ve slept in. Eventually I pull back one corner of my duvet from where it’s been kicked to the floor and discover my mobile angrily buzzing its alarm from within the folds.

A brief peer into the upstairs landing confirms the bathroom is free, so I dash in and bolt the door. If Joe is awake already, I don’t want to bump into him on my way to the shower or – worse – on my way out of it. As soon as I’m done, I’m going to find him and apologise for last night. I just need to look less like an extra from The Walking Dead first.

Half an hour later, I dare to go downstairs. The sitting room is empty, the kitchen peaceful. Joe’s laptop is gone from the table, his jacket missing from the back of the chair where it usually lives. There’s the faintest tang of coffee in the still air but the filter jug is cold. If he made a pot it must have been hours ago.

My heart sinks to my socks. What if he’s avoiding me? Nobody would blame him if he were. I practically accused him of belittling me, after all. I am such a div.

I sit on the chair next to the one Joe normally sits on and let my hand rest lightly on the vacant seat. It’s going to take some explaining when I do see him and I still don’t know what to say. But I want to try. I like living here with Joe and I’m excited by the prospect of working with him. I don’t want him treading on eggshells around me in case I take offence.

It’s only then that I notice a sheet of paper propped up against the teapot in the middle of the table. Beside it is a new jar of jam and a grease-spotted white paper bag containing a flaky almond croissant. I reach over and take the note, surprised to find Joe’s handwriting spilling across its surface.

Peace offering.

Sorry I scared you. I didn’t mean to.

All I wanted to say was that I loved your script.

Don’t ever doubt you can do this. Your words are wonderful.

Joe

The curls and loops of his hand shimmer and dance as saltwater floods my vision. These words – I think to myself as I read them again and again – these words will be my focus from now on. If Joe Carver believes in my writing, I should believe in it, too.

Rona is grinning when I hurry into the loft workspace. Two large cups of coffee are already beside her and her brother gives me a cheeky salute as I pass him.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ I rush.

‘You’re not. I was early.’ She lowers her voice. ‘I knew I’d have to fend off certain questions before you arrived.’

Her nod towards her brother is anything but covert. I see Jas busy himself at the coffee counter. ‘Subtle.’

‘Little sister perks,’ she chuckles. ‘You have no idea how hard won they are.’

I have no brothers of my own but I’ve known Jarvis and Steve long enough to guess the deal. ‘What questions?’

‘Bribe me with cake and I just might tell you.’

‘I’ll pass for the moment,’ I say, taking my laptop out of my bag. It’s nice to think I was being asked about, regardless of what the questions were, and that together with Joe’s note brings a broad smile to my face.

It helps that I love what we’re writing, too. The characters seem easy to reach and bring to the page and being able to share ideas makes such a difference from writing alone. When Rona suggests a line and it’s perfect, I feel a shot of excitement; when I see a potential twist we clap our hands and giggle like plotting school kids. It feels like a game – and even though our allotted group of scenes have to be ready for when the writers’ room reconvenes next week, it doesn’t scare me as much as I thought it would. By the early afternoon, it’s written. We spend another hour going over it to make small tweaks, but it’s as ready as it can be for everyone else to see it.

Jas ventures over to the table when he sees us packing up.

‘All done?’

I smile at Rona. ‘All done.’

‘Good work. Don’t suppose you fancy a drink to celebrate? I knock off in twenty minutes and there’s a great bar down the street.’ He glares at his sister who is making kissy noises. ‘She’s not invited.’

‘Charming. Wouldn’t want to be a gooseberry anyway,’ Rona snaps, giving my elbow a nudge.

‘I’d love to, but I can’t today. Next week, maybe?’

‘How about Saturday?’ He’s far too cheeky for his own good but I like his style.

‘Saturday would be good.’

‘I’ll pick you up about seven? Rona can get your address for me.’ He grins and heads back to the counter.

‘Oh, so I’m your secretary now, am I?’ she yells after him, grinning back at me. ‘Smooth move, Perry. Or should I call you sis?’

‘Steady on! I’ll see you at Ensign tomorrow, okay?’

‘You certainly will. Great working with you.’

‘You too.’

I stop by the craft bakery on the ground floor and the independent brewery around the corner to pick up supplies, before the slow drive home. I’m praying Joe will be there. I’ve been thinking about him all day, my mind still processing his note. I’ve underestimated him and what he thinks of me.

He’s a hustler. He’d trample you to get where he wants to be…

I evict the rude interruption of Daphne’s words from my thoughts. She’s wrong. Joe Carver is my housemate – and my friend. If he wanted to step over me to get to his goal he wouldn’t have written that note. Daphne Davies knows nothing.

I can hear the low burr of the television as soon as I stand on the porch. Taking a breath, I turn my key in the lock and open the door. Joe looks up from the sofa and gives me a thumbs-up.

‘Hello, stranger.’

‘Joe, I’m so sorry.’

‘Forget it.’ His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, I notice. He looks tired.

‘Thank you for your note. It meant a lot.’ Not sure what else to say, I lift up the bag in my left hand. ‘I come bearing cake. And beer.’

He sits up and pats the sofa cushion next to him. ‘Then you are most welcome.’

And that’s all the discussion we need. I join my surprising, rather lovely housemate on the old sagging sofa and the evening passes in a happy blur of conversation, beer, cake and TV.

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.

‘Russ.’

He shakes his head. ‘Don’t say it, Joe, I know.’

‘No, I think what you’ve done is brave,’ I say, my toes squeaking in my shoes as they curl. I said I’d never brown-nose anyone to get ahead in this business. Some moral bastion I turned out to be. ‘But I do have one suggestion to make the team even stronger.’

He stares at me.

I slap on my most earnest expression.

‘Fine. Let’s walk.’

He’s speedier than normal and I struggle to summon enough breath to speak as we power around the building. I can’t mess this up. There’s too much riding on it.

‘Let me work with Otty.’

‘You? Why?’

‘You saw what she did with Rona. The best writing comes when you have a team firing off one another’s talent. Flint on flint. I can be that with Otty. You put her with someone who doesn’t push hard, she’ll be forced to back off, too.’

‘You think Tom’s a slacker?’

‘No! No – Tom’s great. He’s a safe pair of hands and we need that to give this series weight, dependability. But Otty’s a firebrand. She’ll shine if she has the right tools.’

‘Are you calling yourself a tool, Joe?’

I feel like a tool, scurrying after you like a yelping Yorkie. ‘Maybe I am. Maybe I need a flint to spark off, too.’

Russell stops and I almost career into him. ‘Maybe you do.’

It’s the world’s tiniest opening, but it’s a way in. ‘And you like Otty. You want to protect your authentic voice – you said it yourself, Russ. She’s the one that’ll silence the critics who say all drama is middle-class, middle-aged white-guy-led. She’s my housemate, my workmate… Imagine if she were my partner, too. Writing partner,’ I add quickly, realising how dodgy the previous sentence sounds.

‘My wünderkind and my workhouse apprentice, together at last. Flint on flint. The ultimate meet-cute.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t term it exactly like that…’

‘I like it! Good call, Carver. Let’s go back in.’

So I watch as Russell relays the new plan to the surprised team and shrug my pretend surprise when Otty stares at me. I keep my expression steady, sit up in my chair like everyone else and pray nobody can see the way my heart is hammering inside me or the beads of perspiration peppering my palms.

It’s a huge risk. If it goes wrong, it could cost me everything.

But it’s done. We’re as safe as we can be.

Now all we have to do is make this work.

Chapter Fifteen

OTTY

Something weird is going on.

Joe assures me it’s all good, but I don’t feel good about it.

Sharing a house with him is cool. Working in a team with him is great. But writing with him? That’s a huge step.

And then there’s the enormous fact that Russell just axed a chunk of our team and everyone is carrying on like it never happened. I know it isn’t the first writers’ room cull Joe and a few of the other original writers have seen, but it’s my first and it was horrific. Brutal doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I hang back as they all leave, unable to share the relief they all clearly feel at surviving Russell’s cull. I told Joe I have a headache and I’m heading home, so he’s right in the middle of them, laughing and talking too loud as they head for a bar in town. I don’t feel like celebrating someone else’s misfortune, which is how this feels. I just need a bath, a takeaway and a night in front of the blandest telly I can find.

‘Otty.’

There’s a figure by my car. I jolt as I see him, hood up, shoulders hunched against the chill of the evening.

‘Josh?’

He slips off the hood. He looks terrible. ‘Can we talk?’

My heart sinks. ‘Actually, I was just on my way home…’ I look over to where I last saw Joe, but he’s gone. It’s just Josh and me – and I can’t get to Monty because he’s blocking my way.

‘I just need a minute,’ he says. Hollow eyes bore into mine. ‘Please?’

I know I should go. What can I possibly say to him? I have a job and he doesn’t. It wasn’t my decision but I still feel to blame.

I offer him my hand but Josh bypasses it completely and before I know where I am, I’m in the middle of a too-tight hug that lasts just a little too long. When he eventually breaks it, I step back and he flushes a little.

‘How are you doing?’ It’s the most ridiculous question, but it’s the only one I can think of.

‘Crap,’ he says, sorrowful grey eyes mooning over his ginger beard.

‘What happened?’

‘I got a message to call Russell, and when I did he told me I hadn’t made the cut. No thank you, no good luck for the future. It just came out of nowhere.’

‘We were shocked, too,’ I say, adding, ‘All of us,’ in case he might be thinking otherwise.

‘This just keeps happening, Otty. I don’t know why. This was my last chance. My big break. I don’t know how I’ll pick myself up again.’

‘You will.’ You’ll have to. What choice do you have?

‘I mean, I thought my writing was good…’

‘It was. It is.’

‘Not good enough to impress King Russell though.’

I don’t want to be here. I never volunteered to be the sole Ensign spokesperson. Why didn’t Joe stay a bit longer?

‘Then he’s an idiot. You’re great, Josh. Everyone thought so. Joe said…’

‘Yeah, well, I haven’t heard from Joe, have I? Which says a lot. I’m sorry, Otty, I know you live with him but seriously the guy is a snake.’

I’m so surprised I can’t speak. Instead I stare, goldfish-mouthed, at him.

‘He’s so cosy with Russell all the time. And he’s survived all the other writer culls. You can’t tell me he didn’t know it was coming.’

‘He didn’t.’

‘I think Joe Carver knows exactly what’s going on. I think him and Daphne are in it with Russell and he’s as much a part of the decision process as they are.’

It gets worse. Josh starts to reel off every bad experience he’s had in writing teams, identifying a Joe Carver in every one. The guy – it’s always a guy, according to Josh – who’s everyone’s friend until it counts. The best mate of the showrunner, the one who’d sell his family to succeed. I heard this from Daphne, but it meant nothing then.

It means nothing now.

Josh is upset. He needs a target and he can’t yell at Russell. All the same, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to doubt Joe, not for a second.

‘I’m so sorry this has happened. There’s something a million times better out there for you. I’m sure of it.’

I don’t feel sure of anything. But Josh seems to take the hint.

‘Cheers.’

‘Take care, Josh.’ I go in for a hug, Josh thinks he’s kissing my cheek and we meet in an awful half-cheek-half-lips collision that sends both of us stepping back in horror. I need to get out of here.

‘Sorry. We can keep in touch, yeah?’

‘Sure,’ I lie because I want to get away.

Josh nods and steps back from Monty. I’ve opened the door and am in the driver’s seat before he can say anything else. But as I’m closing the door, his hand catches it and he leans in.

‘Just be careful, Otty. With Joe? He’s more involved with Russell than you think. You’re too lovely to be sullied by someone like him.’

I’m shaking as I speed away.

I don’t want to believe it. But even driving home, my brain is making connections I don’t want it to. Joe is very close to Russell. Could he have known what was going to happen? They’re always going off for private discussions – were they discussing this?

And even though I think Daphne talks out of her bum most of the time, what she said to me before about Joe refuses to go away. I’m angry that he didn’t do the decent thing and contact Josh himself. No matter how innocent he is of all the other stuff, his silence is damning. And, while I know Joe couldn’t have known Josh would show up at work this evening, I’m furious that Joe’s insensitivity made me feel obliged to hear all this.

By the time I park outside the house, I’m ready for a fight.

‘Oi, love, give us a smile,’ Joe grins as I power into the kitchen.

And that’s the only spark this powder keg needs.

‘Get stuffed.’

Joe’s eyebrows make a bid for the ceiling. ‘It was a joke?’

Ignoring him, I switch on the kettle and chuck a teabag into a mug. After the day I’ve had, I need tea and then bed, not Joe Carver being a dick.

‘Otts?’

‘I don’t feel like smiling, okay?’

‘You should. There’s plenty to be optimistic about. We’re still on the team and Russell wants us working together. And the hipster beard and hair-flick ratios have significantly lowered in the writers’ room.’

I stare at him. ‘You are unbelievable.’

‘Okay, do you have a problem with me?’

‘Yes, I have a problem. Your writing partner just lost his job – along with several of our colleagues – and you’re cracking jokes?’

‘Oh, come on, Otts, that’s not fair. You laugh or you die, that’s how you survive this. How we survive this.’

‘You worked with Josh. You wrote part of the Eye, Spy pilot with him. Did you even send a text to offer your condolences or thank him for the work he did?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because it’s decent, Joe! Because it’s human.’

‘It’s the business we’re in. Yes, it sucks, but it could just as easily be us next time.’

‘And that makes it all okay?’

His groan echoes around the kitchen. ‘I didn’t say that. There’s just no point in getting comfortable with anyone in that room because nothing lasts.’

‘So I guess you and I shouldn’t be friends then?’

I know I’ve pushed the point too far, but I’m horrified by Joe’s attitude. As soon as the words leave me I can see I’ve lost the advantage.

‘No, I think we should, Otty. But hey, if you reckon it would be a liability being friends with a heartless android like me, maybe we shouldn’t bother.’

I grip the back of the chair and stare at the old grain in the kitchen table. I hope Joe will walk out but he doesn’t move.

‘And how do you know how Josh is, anyway? He might be fine. Furious with Russell, probably. But already applying for new writer jobs if he has any sense. It’s what you do in this business.’

‘He’s devastated.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because he was waiting by my car tonight.’

He stares at me. ‘Oh, Otts, you didn’t talk to him…’

‘What else was I supposed to do? He’s just lost his job and he is crushed by it. Panicking about how he’ll pay his rent this month. Thinking his career is over. This isn’t the first writing job he’s been axed from. But I’m guessing you didn’t know that because you don’t believe in getting too attached…’

Joe snorts. ‘Well, at least it saves me from kissing him better.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘Work it out.’

‘I didn’t kiss him better. I listened to him, like the rest of you should have done. It was the decent thing to do.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he just lost his job!’

‘That wasn’t your fault.’

‘I know that. But nobody else appears to be bothered by it. We’ve just spent weeks working with him – I couldn’t pretend that hadn’t happened.’

‘And why should you feel responsible? You didn’t make the decision.’

‘No, but he thinks you did.’ That does it. I shouldn’t have said it, but I am far too angry to back away.

‘What?’

‘He thinks you’re in league with Russell. That you planned the whole thing.’

‘How can he…?’ Joe’s expression stills. ‘Is that what you think?’

‘You go off with Russell all the time. He seems to consult you on everything else, so why not this?’

‘Yes, he talks to me. Because I’ve known him the longest. But we don’t discuss who he’s going to fire. And if you think that about me, then I don’t see how we can move forward.’

‘I don’t know what to think.’

We stare each other down. I can feel my anger ebbing and the approach of tears but I’m not letting Joe off the hook.

‘Russell made the wrong decision, Joe.’

‘Maybe he did. But that’s his business. And if Josh wants to survive this gig, he’s got to accept this stuff happens. No amount of sympathy is going to change that.’

‘I did the right thing talking to Josh.’

‘Fine.’ He folds his arms. ‘So, did it make you feel any better?’

I can’t lie, even though every cell in my body wants me to. ‘No.’

‘Bloody hell, Otty.’ He rubs the back of his neck. ‘Do you need a drink?’

I shake my head.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’

I don’t, but then the words won’t stop. ‘It was horrible, Joe. Gut-wrenchingly horrible. How can Russell do that to someone and feel no remorse?’

‘It’s the business…’

‘No, it isn’t. And if it is, maybe I don’t want to be a part of it.’

I see his eye-roll and wonder if he’s ever gone through this. Has he always been so detached from his work? ‘Otts, you can’t save everyone. It’s not your responsibility. Don’t let this distract you from the brilliant job you’re doing.’

‘It doesn’t sit right with me.’

‘I know. But what matters is what you make of it. Words are all we ever have any power over. Everything else is bollocks.’ He catches the smile that sneaks onto my lips before I can stop it. ‘I have beer in the fridge. We can find a really bad TV movie to slag off?’

It’s a lame offer and the weakest excuse for a white flag, but the blandness appeals.

I’m still not okay about this. I won’t ever think Joe’s approach was right. It’s an uneasy truce, but we need to move on. Because tomorrow, we become writing partners – and we have to make it work.

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