We present an extract from Love Scene, the new novel from Anna Carey, best-selling author of Our Song.
Love Scene is the story of Annie McDermott, who thinks she's landed her dream job when she’s hired as a staff writer at an iconic Irish soap. But when she gets there she discovers that not only is she sharing an office with her college nemesis Art Sullivan, but her new boss Bernard is a tyrannical bully…
When I open the door of office number one after that first staff meeting, Art is sitting with his elbows on his desk and his head bowed, massaging his temples. But he sits up straight and turns to face me when I come in.
'Well,’ he says, ‘that was fun!’
‘I can think of another few words for it.’ I put my laptop and notebook into my bag.
‘I don’t know why you’re so freaked out,’ says Art. ‘It’s only a tight deadline. You must have faced them before.’
‘It’s not just the tight deadline,’ I say. ‘It’s Bernard!’
‘I’ve met worse than Bernard,’ says Art. ‘I can handle him.’
‘Good for you,’ I say. ‘I’m not sure I can. And didn’t you notice the other writers smirking whenever we messed up? They hate us for taking jobs that could have gone to their friends.’ I hold up my phone. ‘Susan just added us both to a group chat for the entire team. ‘I bet they’re going to send us hate mail. Or hate texts. Whatever.’
Art shrugs, seemingly unmoved. ‘We can’t do anything about that. But you know, if you can’t handle all the pressure, maybe this isn’t the job for you …’
‘Oh, don’t worry about me!’ I say. ‘I can handle the pressure. Three weeks for a final draft is absolutely nothing. I had to rewrite some of the Tony Barton murder episode of Our Toon the day it was shot!’
‘The what of our what?’ says Art.
‘It was the most-watched half hour of television in the UK last month,’ I say through gritted teeth.
But of course Art isn’t impressed.
‘Really? Good for you,’ he says, as if I’d just revealed I’d won first prize in a junior infants drawing competition.
‘So,’ I say, ‘I’m fine with the pressure. I’m not fine with, I don’t know, the vibe.’
‘Who cares about the vibe?’ says Art.
‘I do,’ I say. ‘Clearly.’
‘Look, Susan said we’ll be working in here most of the time,’ says Art. ‘Bernard will be tucked away in his own office. We won’t have to see him much outside of meetings. Just don’t bite him or anything at the next one. You looked like you might sink your teeth into his leg today.’
‘There will be no biting!’ I say. ‘Do you think I’m an actual animal?’
‘As for the other writers, they’ll come around,’ Art continues. ‘It’s not like we crossed a picket line or anything. And it’s not like any of them turned down the job so one of their mates could take it.’
Hmmm. That’s actually a good point.
‘We’ve been given these jobs because people at IBC think we’re good, right?’ says Art.
‘Bernard doesn’t seem to think we’re much good,’ I say. ‘Why the hell did he even hire us?’
‘You must have read about how much pressure they’re under to justify Northside,’ says Art. ‘IBC probably made him hire new writers to show their critics they’re turning over a new leaf.’
‘And that doesn’t bother you?’ I’m not going to admit how much being employed as a sop to IBC’s critics bothers me.
Art shrugs. ‘Why should it? I’m doing this job for the money, not artistic integrity. And IBC clearly needs to give the show a kickup the arse. So we all win.’
How is he so blasé about this?
‘Well, I hope we win,’ I say. ‘We need Northside to be a hit again. We need it to survive. It’s so important for Irish telly.’
‘No one can predict what’ll be a hit or not,’ says Art. ‘Nobody knows anything. William Goldman said that. The screenwriter,’ he adds, as if talking to a small child. ‘He wrote The Princess Bride.’
God, he really can’t help himself, can he?
‘I know who William Goldman is,’ I say. ‘I was in your film studies class in UCD. Though apparently I didn’t make much of an impression, seeing as you clearly don’t remember me.’
‘I know you were in my class,’ says Art, to my surprise.
‘Oh you do, do you?’ I say. ‘Well, this morning you acted like you’d never met me before.’
‘You did the same thing,’ he points out. ‘If you didn’t remember me I wasn’t going to make things awkward. Anyway, of course I remember you. You were the angry goth.’
I stare at him in outrage. ‘I wasn’t a goth!’
‘Are you sure? You looked like a goth.’
‘I definitely wasn’t a goth,’ I say. ‘I was witchy. There’s a big difference.’
‘If you say so,’ says Art. ‘Well, whatever you were I see you’re making up for it now.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You’re very colourful these days.’ He points at my incredibly chic outfit. ‘Look at those pantaloons.’
I gasp in genuine horror. ‘They’re not pantaloons! They’re sapphire-blue needlecord culottes.’
‘Well, they’re not very goth.’
‘Yes, because I’m not a goth and I never have been,’ I snap.
‘Anyway,’ he says, as if I were the one who had started this stupid conversation, ‘I remember us having a big argument in Fintan Donohue’s class about …’
Then his expression changes.
I feel a smile creep across my own face. ‘About what, exactly?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Art. ‘Some nonsense.’
‘I actually remember that argument very well,’ I say. ‘It was about soaps. I said they could be art, and if I recall correctly, you said they were … oh, what was it? Trash for idiots? Anti-culture? Something like that. And only people who couldn’t make proper films would end up working on them.’ I fix him with a dazzling smile. ‘How do you feel about that now?’
I expect him to make a dismissive remark or even get all angry and defensive, but instead he looks so genuinely embarrassed I almost feel guilty as I grab my jacket and walk out of the office.
Almost.
But not quite.
Love Scene is published by Hachette Books Ireland
