ideas.
‘ Are you serious? ’
Brendan nodded. He said he ’ d been going through the stuff I ’ d sent up with my application and thought it was about time we kicked the odd proposal around. I was astonished and - to be truthful - a wee bit guilty. Just ten weeks ago, I ’ d had absolutely no doubts about what really mattered in television, promising myself regular evenings at the spare room desk, developing ideas, polishing submissions, plotting my assault on the world of social documentary. None of that, of course, had happened, partly through sheer pressure of work, but partly too because of the growing realisation that I ’ d chanced upon something that I was good at. I didn ’ t want to spend a lifetime conjuring order out of chaos, and in the shape of people like Brendan I could see exactly where this kind of non-stop madness led , but just now - in mid-series - I was quietly pleased with my own performance. I ’ d survived. I ’ d won myself a decent promotion. And the fact that I hadn ’ t even been to Texas or B&Q for the flatpack desk really said it all.
‘ Documentaries, ’ I mused. ‘ What brings this on? ’
Brendan mumbled something about taking stock. The restaurant had a bare, chilly, unfurnished feel - quite at odds with what you might expect from a place serving Irish food - and the fact that we were virtually the only people there made us mildly self-conscious. Brendan had lowered his voice to a whisper.
‘ You get to an age, ’ he was saying, ‘ when it isn ’ t bloody funny any more. ’
‘ Change the gags, ’ I suggested automatically. ‘ Change the writers. ’
Brendan didn ’ t react. He was looking hard at the table placing. His glass, for once, was untouched.
‘ I mean it Jules, ’ he muttered at last. ‘ I ’ m in the shit. ’
At this point I recognised, rather belatedly, just why he ’ d been so keen for us to talk. It wasn ’ t about me and my documentary ideas at all. It wasn ’ t even about Members Only , or any of the other half-dozen shows churning through the Doubleact production machine. It was about Brendan.
I touched his hand, a gesture of reassurance, and felt him give a little involuntary jump. Maybe the rumours are true, I thought. Maybe he ’ s finally overdone the coke, or the vodka, and any of the other little treats that flag your path to the first million quid.
‘ What is it? ’ I asked as gently as I could.
He glanced up, almost furtive. He looked terrible, his face gaunt with exhaustion.
‘ You want a list? ’
‘ Only if you ’ re offering. ’
‘ OK,? he shrugged. ‘ Let ’ s start with you. ’
I let him get it off his chest. He said he ’ d fallen in love with me. Right from day one. That ’ s why I ’ d got the job. That ’ s why I ’ d slipped so effortlessly into Doubleact. He ’ d noticed the photo, and he ’ d heard the voice behind my various submissions, and once I ’ d turned up in the flesh he was doomed.
He looked up, seeing the expression on my face, sensing my anger at this self-confessional drivel. Hadn ’ t I won the job on merit? Because I was good? Because I deserved it? He stilled my protests, holding up both hands. That was exactly the problem, he said. I had been bloody good. I was bloody good. And the better I got, the more I got on top of the job, the worse it became.
‘ Worse? ’
‘ For me. Loving you. Being in love. ’
He went on and on, talking about th e long nights he ’ d had, not sleeping, the days he ’ d had, laying little ambushes for me around the office, making sure he got his hourly fix of glimpses, chance meetings, corridors, stairwells, even the fucking kitchen, for Chrissakes. I nodded, afloat on this torrent of self-revelation, wiser now about his obsession with Doubleact ’ s jar of instant coffee. The stuff Sandra gave us was dreadful. Why would anyone want more than one cup a month? Why hadn ’ t I wised up?
‘ Your desk ’ s outside the kitchen, ’ he
‘ Are you serious? ’
Brendan nodded. He said he ’ d been going through the stuff I ’ d sent up with my application and thought it was about time we kicked the odd proposal around. I was astonished and - to be truthful - a wee bit guilty. Just ten weeks ago, I ’ d had absolutely no doubts about what really mattered in television, promising myself regular evenings at the spare room desk, developing ideas, polishing submissions, plotting my assault on the world of social documentary. None of that, of course, had happened, partly through sheer pressure of work, but partly too because of the growing realisation that I ’ d chanced upon something that I was good at. I didn ’ t want to spend a lifetime conjuring order out of chaos, and in the shape of people like Brendan I could see exactly where this kind of non-stop madness led , but just now - in mid-series - I was quietly pleased with my own performance. I ’ d survived. I ’ d won myself a decent promotion. And the fact that I hadn ’ t even been to Texas or B&Q for the flatpack desk really said it all.
‘ Documentaries, ’ I mused. ‘ What brings this on? ’
Brendan mumbled something about taking stock. The restaurant had a bare, chilly, unfurnished feel - quite at odds with what you might expect from a place serving Irish food - and the fact that we were virtually the only people there made us mildly self-conscious. Brendan had lowered his voice to a whisper.
‘ You get to an age, ’ he was saying, ‘ when it isn ’ t bloody funny any more. ’
‘ Change the gags, ’ I suggested automatically. ‘ Change the writers. ’
Brendan didn ’ t react. He was looking hard at the table placing. His glass, for once, was untouched.
‘ I mean it Jules, ’ he muttered at last. ‘ I ’ m in the shit. ’
At this point I recognised, rather belatedly, just why he ’ d been so keen for us to talk. It wasn ’ t about me and my documentary ideas at all. It wasn ’ t even about Members Only , or any of the other half-dozen shows churning through the Doubleact production machine. It was about Brendan.
I touched his hand, a gesture of reassurance, and felt him give a little involuntary jump. Maybe the rumours are true, I thought. Maybe he ’ s finally overdone the coke, or the vodka, and any of the other little treats that flag your path to the first million quid.
‘ What is it? ’ I asked as gently as I could.
He glanced up, almost furtive. He looked terrible, his face gaunt with exhaustion.
‘ You want a list? ’
‘ Only if you ’ re offering. ’
‘ OK,? he shrugged. ‘ Let ’ s start with you. ’
I let him get it off his chest. He said he ’ d fallen in love with me. Right from day one. That ’ s why I ’ d got the job. That ’ s why I ’ d slipped so effortlessly into Doubleact. He ’ d noticed the photo, and he ’ d heard the voice behind my various submissions, and once I ’ d turned up in the flesh he was doomed.
He looked up, seeing the expression on my face, sensing my anger at this self-confessional drivel. Hadn ’ t I won the job on merit? Because I was good? Because I deserved it? He stilled my protests, holding up both hands. That was exactly the problem, he said. I had been bloody good. I was bloody good. And the better I got, the more I got on top of the job, the worse it became.
‘ Worse? ’
‘ For me. Loving you. Being in love. ’
He went on and on, talking about th e long nights he ’ d had, not sleeping, the days he ’ d had, laying little ambushes for me around the office, making sure he got his hourly fix of glimpses, chance meetings, corridors, stairwells, even the fucking kitchen, for Chrissakes. I nodded, afloat on this torrent of self-revelation, wiser now about his obsession with Doubleact ’ s jar of instant coffee. The stuff Sandra gave us was dreadful. Why would anyone want more than one cup a month? Why hadn ’ t I wised up?
‘ Your desk ’ s outside the kitchen, ’ he
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