‘Dad’s business partner.’ Ali shook her head. ‘No fucking wonder you’re worried about gossip.’
The waiter, presumably sensing the tension, tentatively approached the table, set Ali’s coffee down and swiftly fled back to the safety of the counter.
‘Anyone else, Jesus, Mini – date him for fuck’s sake.’ Ali jerked her head at the waiter, who looked positively frightened and dropped behind the counter, pretending to be doing something on the floor. The café was way too empty for this kind of confrontation.
At this moment ‘Oh Superman’, Mini’s supremely pretentious ringtone, started up and she pressed her earpiece to take the call. Mini would take a call in the middle of a funeral. Ali sometimes felt she’d spent her life watching her mother talk to other people.
‘I’m in the middle of a meeting, Erasmus, what is it?’ Mini avoided Ali’s glare while she listened to her assistant, who took the phrase ‘long-suffering’ to new levels. Erasmus was more soul-sapped than long-suffering as he babysat the various artists Mini represented and obeyed every whim of Mini herself. ‘They’re all as psychotic as each other,’ Mini interjected wearily. ‘Tell him to return the baby immediately. He’s too old and he’s not making enough money to still be carrying on with thisenfant terribleshiteology.’ She hung up and offered a single word by way of explanation. ‘Edmund.’
Edmund was a performance artist Mini had been repping for years and had ruined practically every party Miles and Mini had ever thrown in their house. He once arrived wearing a young nude man draped around his shoulders and insisted on keeping him in the spare room where all the other coats were thrown on the bed. The other guests had been unhappy about a naked stranger rolling around among their clothes, a fact Miles patiently tried to explain to Edmund. It was all a moot point anyway as the guy, who Edmund later admitted he’d met on the bus, took off into the night wearing a four-grand fox-fur coat with several wallets stuffed into the pockets.
Mini hung up and reached for Ali’s hand. ‘These nails are disgusting, darling. They can’t be hygienic.’ She held the middle finger, examining Ali’s multi-coloured fake nails.
Ali took her hand back, twisting her still-pointed middle finger up, and carefully stood, giving her mother the finger at close range all the while. It was incredibly satisfying even if it looked ridiculous. ‘I’m going to work. You may not think my job’s important but they will notice if I’m not there.’
On the bus to work, Ali pulled out her phone. The tension that always amped up when dealing with Mini could usually be tamed by some calming scrolling. Checking in on her posts was like doing a scratch card. She opened the app with the buzz of anticipation. The protein-breakfast post was raking in the likes – a few hundred! Including one from Shelly herself. Whoop. Getting the follows from bigger accounts was important so other people would see she was doing well. She went through the comments, replying to each one individually – engagement was key to boosting her account.
As the Georgian buildings of the city centre gave way to the starker dual carriageway, Ali updated her Stories with chat about her day ahead. She tried to make her job sound more exciting than it was, hashtagging everything with #werk and #TVlife, but the reality was she was a lowly production assistant at the mercy of Stephan and the actors, many of whom were total knobs. She’d even been in college with one, Seamus Rourke, who never missed an opportunity to highlight how differently their careers were panning out.
‘It’s still so weird that you’re, like, a runner, isn’t it?’ he’d said the day before when she came to get him for his scene. ‘I always thought you wanted to write plays and stuff.’
The ping of the bus nearing her stop interrupted her thoughts. She grabbed her bag, hopped out at the TV station and headed towards Studio 4, where today’s scenes were shooting.
Inside the studio was hectic as usual.Durty Aul’ Townwas shown four times a week and getting episodes rehearsed, shot, edited and aired was a daily shitfight. Four scenes into the day and Ali found herself beside Terry, the show’s head writer, as they watched Stephan storming around the set of the town’s fictional pub, O’Mahoney’s, while crew scattered in every direction trying to look busy and avoid him.
Stephan raged around, spittle flying as he bitched people out of it for the slightest misstep or goof. He was most unpleasant but fun to watch, Ali thought, as long as he wasn’t directing his ire at her. He’d been series producer ofDurty Aul’ Townfor twenty-seven years and it seemed to have gravely affected his mental health. He terrorised people indiscriminately, from the make-up artists to the show’s oldest and longest-running stars, Yvonne Lawler and Eric Vaughan, who had appeared on the pilot episode as the couple who owned O’Mahoney’s. It was, in fact, Yvonne who was the source of Stephan’s current tantrum.
‘Jesus,’ Stephan screamed mid-scene. ‘This cannot go on. Can we do something about Yvonne’s face? Please. It’s giving me the creeps. She looks like the aul’ one fromTitanic. Trevor, check the lighting, will you? Or actually, fuck it, Yvonne, just face the other way – that’s right, luv, back to the camera. Thanks. Thanks, pet.’
Stephan, Ali believed, deliberately cultivated his reputation for being an arsehole. He strutted around in his uniform of black drainpipe jeans, black polo neck and old Doc Martens, smoking rollies and generally trying to act like a badass Tarantino-type despite being a fifty-something TV producer who had only made one show in his entire career. When younger up-and-comers came on board to join the writers’ room or operate cameras, Stephan’s desperation to impress was an embarrassment.
‘Christ,’ muttered Terry beside her. ‘The poor woman is nearly seventy.’
‘Ali?’ Shite, Stephan was roaring her name now. ‘Ali? Where the fuck is Ali?’ Stephan was standing dead in the centre of the set – if he’d bothered to turn his head slightly to the left, he’d spot her.
‘Stephan! What can I do?’ Ali scurried into his eyeline, digging in her pack where she kept the day’s running order, scripts, Stephan’s CBD oil, more heavy-duty medications and snacks. ‘Sandwich? Are your sugars dropping?’ Stephan had recently gone keto, which was makingDurty Aul’ Townan even more trying work environment than usual. Ali pulled out the lump of cheddar cheese sandwiched between two rashers that catering made specially every day.
Stephan snatched it up without a word of thanks and strode off to berate some other unfortunate and Ali returned, rolling her eyes at Terry. All the crew bonded over Stephan’s bonkers ways.
‘I’m not sure he actually gets the keto thing.’ Ali grinned. ‘So did you, eh, have a chance to look at that thing I sent you? I know you probably didn’t, I know how busy you are …’
Months ago, Ali had done a spec script forDurty Aul’ Townfor a storyline for Imelda, Shelly’s character, but it was hard to find the time to corner Terry. Plus she wasn’t totally sure she wanted to hear the feedback. If he hadn’t been chasing her to offer it, it was probably not glowing.
‘Ah, I did, Ali. Sorry – as you say, the pace around here … It can be really hectic in the writers’ room.’ Terry was looking awkward and Ali decided on the spot that, with everything that had already happened that morning with Mini’s burgeoning love life, maybe she didn’t need this buzzkill.
‘Look, no worries, it wasn’t right. It’s cool.’ She tried to smile.
‘Ali, you could be solid. I think you just need to give it more work. The scenes felt a little, I dunno … mannered. Maybe it’s coming from college. You did theatre, right? TV’s a different animal. Also I just felt, you know, if Imelda’s dad was getting sick – her reactions seemed a bit off. Wouldn’t she be more upset?’
‘Well, maybe she’s just handling it a bit differently. Maybe she doesn’t know how to handle it. But yeah, no, you’re right.’ Ali started backing away – she didn’t want to get upset on set. ‘Um, thanks, Terry. Thanks for reading it.’
‘Ali, these things take time. There’s nothing instant about making a career in writing. Keep sending me stuff.’ Terry was smiling kindly and Ali couldn’t take it. Still backing off while trying to smile, she stumbled over some huge camera cables and, thankfully, at that moment Stephan called for a five-minute break.
Ali went to the loo and took the opportunity to pop on Insta. It was like a little mental massage. She knew Terry wasn’t wrong. She’d been writing less and less in the last year. The things she wanted to write about were just too painful and then her Insta had started taking off and it was more fun and easier racking up likes than wordcounts.
Her post had a new comment:
@Janet_pics: You’re so dedicated, Ali, no wonder your skin’s so gorgeous. I need to start juicing more. What do you put in yours?
