Chapter Two Soundtrack: Love + War in Your Twenties by Jordy Searcy

Ping.

An email arrives.

It's from Nas's second production. Nas's second production is over budget already.

The subject line is double banking—URGENT. It's also flagged as urgent with a little red flag.

Nas groans. I know this because our desks face each other in the anteroom of Barry's office. Barry's door is still menacingly open between us, so this morning we are not speaking out loud.

Instead, Nas, who has still not looked at me, types something very quickly.

One.

Two.

Three.

No email appears in my inbox. I can feel Nas looking at me between his screens. His devil eyes burn. My turn to type:

(re: double banking—URGENT)

Nasir,

I hope all is well with you. I noticed I haven't been copied into a response to the email below. Perhaps you accidentally removed me from the chain?

If you have any doubts or queries on how to handle your budget problem, I'm happy to advise. I'm only an email away.

Regards,

Ellie

One.

Two.

Three.

He's forwarded me the missing email. Point to Ellie.

A creak comes from Barry's office. Nas and I stop typing and sit in perfect silence. Creeeeeak again... then silence. We resume, cautiously. If Barry realises we're working, who knows how he will react. Innovation Generation can only be avoided for so long.

Nas yawns. I cough. Nas sneezes. I roll my eyes. He sneezes again, louder.

I sometimes think his sneeze will be the last thing I hear on this earth. I found a grey hair this morning. Time is running out.

Another email arrives about his double banking problem. I wish I could ignore it, but this waiting room before death doesn't allow it. It is impossible to ignore anything he does.

Instead, I am silently copied into all of Nas's work for his four productions; he is silently copied into everything on my three. It's like being trailed by a waifish Victorian ghost, if the ghost regularly corrected my spelling. Budgets, crewing, diversity quotas, scheduling, script reviews, final mixes: Nas is there for it all.

I don't blame him for hating me, not really. It was his department, once, before Barry poached the senior role and hired me, taking away half of Nas's job. It was meant to make things easier for him: someone who knew everything he was doing, so he could take a week off, for once. He never does. Instead, it's just trapped us in this purgatory of checking and re-checking each other, jostling for precedence, with both of us knowing that Nas is just a little bit better at everything.

I know he resents this. He reminds me every day.

He's on the phone now. I can't tune out his voice. It's gravelly, but not in a sexy way. In an annoying way.

'Eleanor will do that,' he's saying. 'She's the main contact for all your production queries.'

I click my pen twice, meaning Fuck you.

You too, he clicks back. 

The 'ignoring each other' phase is over. I mindlessly twirl my engagement ring. Nas fidgets with his glasses. On off, on off. It's hypnotic.

'Staring at me?' he asks without looking up from his computer.

3-1. Slow start for me.

He glances back up, surprised by my silence. His eyes narrow. 'You do look tired.'

'You did send your reports too late.'

'5.30.'

'I checked them. Thoroughly.'

'Head off early today then.' I bristle at this. He's not my boss. Also, I have nowhere to go, a pitiful fact that I don't need to linger on.

As though she's heard my mental monologue, Mei texts me. Mei has been my best friend since before we could talk. All through school, we were an inseparable duo, her causing trouble and me getting us out of it. I wouldn't be surprised if she had read my mind.

drink next week? miss you, have news, love kisses hugs etc xoxo

Ofc, I text back, when's good? x

monday? xoxo

I send back a thumbs up.

I won't ask to meet sooner. Mei is a junior doctor. Her work is hard enough without me dropping all my feelings on her—but still. The week ahead looms ominously in front of me. I twirl my pencil. Maybe if I stab myself I can have the afternoon off.

And while ominous evils are ahead, of course Nas decides to join them. He walks up to my desk, leans down, and asks, 'Can you put down your pencil, stop pretending to stab me, and let me ask you a question?'

*

Through the hallway, I can hear the raucous shouts of our marketing team, parrying ideas back and forth; the coffee machine grinds in the kitchen as someone's day begins; the breeze slides through Nas's window, always open, no matter how cold I am. Our desks neatly face each other. Under both are piled books sent on submission, scripts we've annotated and highlighted, folders of old viewership reports, and coffee rings on each of our desks beside our identical laptops (mine was newer, so his was upgraded; he got a second monitor, so I did too).

Everything is exactly as normal.

But Nas is asking me for a favour.

Nas, for the first time in two and a half years, has crossed the invisible line separating our desks, walked past Barry's door, and asked me for a favour. He has never asked me for anything more than a coffee, and I am starting to suspect that he actually likes when I sabotage those with sugar.

What does he want?

And what will it cost me?

I have clearly been in a state of stress-induced paralysis because he awkwardly clears his throat. I jolt my eyes up to his. He is trying not to laugh. I have not begun our conversation with the cool, controlled sophistication I'd hoped for.

'Sure,' I say, trying to sound casual. 'You can ask.'

This sounds much smarter in my head.

'Thanks. I—'

Barry calls from his office, interrupting him. Nas looks relieved. Is he nervous?

'Kiddos!' Barry shouts. 'Creatives! I hope you are making movie magic out there.'

We make television.

'I'm moving our brainstorming session. I have to head home—you wouldn't believe it but my back is killing me again. I always overdo it at aerial yoga.'

We do not believe it.

'I might be back later. We'll see.'

He will not be back later. He has rearranged our days, done twenty minutes of work, and disappeared home again.

'Bye!' Nas and I call back in unison.

'Is the favour to help you with aerial yoga?' I ask Nas softly.

'Sure, if by "help" you mean "push me to my death".'

If Nas wasn't so evil, we could laugh together at Barry. Instead, we resume our awkward eye contact. Under the desk, my leg is jiggling.

'Look, I know you—' Nas cuts himself off again. Barry strides past us. Today he is wearing a floppy purple beanie to hide his new perm and has smudged ink on his cheek from where he fell asleep on his hand.

'Carry on!' he calls. We watch him leave then, in unison, our heads snap back to each other. Nas is leaning down over me so that his stupidly shiny hair falls in front of his stupid glasses.

'I know we don't get on,' Nas finishes. 'Obviously. I know you'll want to say no.'

This is irritating. I do want to say no, but I also want him to be wrong. I say nothing.

'But I also know that you're a good commissioner. And I want to pitch you something worth commissioning.'

'Why can't you commission it?'

'I'm at capacity. You have space for one more.'

'And you're just giving me a commission.'

'I want to pitch you.'

I narrow my eyes at him. He narrows his eyes back.

'Okay. Pitch me.'

He breaks into an enormous smile. This is not his defeated smile. This is a smile I only see when he's charming a director or drinking with the sales team. This is a happy smile.

'I will.' He finally walks back to his desk, and calls over his shoulder: 'By the way, you're late for your production meeting.'

Bastard.

    *

'You always have such good ideas,' Andrew is saying. Andrew has the twitchy nose of a lifelong cocaine user and the dead eyes of a recent divorcee. Andrew is both, as he told me at after-work drinks. I have only met him twice. The second time he asked to share my taxi home. I walked.

Andrew is also the director of one of my series. We are paying his company an obscene amount of money to produce it, but they insist on calling me every week to ask for my advice. I am, as I keep reminding them, only 27 years old and not a producer.

'Don't you have a location scout?' I ask weakly. They have run into an issue with their rigging and need my opinion on which lake to film beside. 'They both look very similar to me.'

'That's why you should come in person,' Andrew insists. 'See both the lakes.'

'Again, I'm not sure I know enough about lakes to...'

But it's too late. Andrew is on a roll. 'And we're having some issues with the actors' billings, and having you in—you know, the big guns—would just sort them out.'

Nas snorts from across the room. Luckily he is on mute.

'I don't really have time to—'

'And it would just really boost morale. You know, show the team that you're invested in our work.'

'Okay?' I feel like I have been stampeded by a herd of goats.

'Great, so you'll both come over tomorrow. We'll send a runner to meet you.'

Nas and I lock eyes above our screens. His eyebrow twitches. 'Let's wrap it up there,' I say before his other eyebrow lifts, and then we're all in for it.

'Just say no,' Nas calls over after I end the call. 'Just remind them you're paying them forty million pounds so they'll do what you tell them. We're not babysitters.'

'That's brilliant advice, Nasir. Maybe I'll also remind them that I hold their futures in my palm and demand the placentas of their first-born children to roast over my campfire.'

Laughing, he leans back into his chair. He folds his arms behind his head. 'Finally, full commitment to your witchiness.' He cuts me off before I object. 'I meant the dress.'

Oh. I'd forgotten my floor-length black slip dress. He watches my reaction and, satisfied, returns to his screen.

'And you're not annoyed about cancelling your 36-hour neon mud yacht rave plans?' I don't know why I'm still talking. Clearly, any plans he's cancelling pale compared to annoying me by coming.

'We aren't having a 36-hour neon mud yacht rave on set?' he asks without looking up. 'We have 36-hour neon mud yacht raves on my sets.'

So he's definitely just coming to annoy me. I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood. I will not snap at him.

My list of questions for Barry blinks in the corner of my screen. I can't bring myself to call him. It's too exhausting.

More and more often, I feel like my days are just a slow rush of sensations before I can return to sleep—longer and longer every day, no matter how many breathing exercises Sandra recommends. Each new freckle, wrinkle or scar separates me from who I was Before. In four more years, my entire body will have replaced itself, cell by shedding cell, and I'll be unrecognisable, even to myself.

'Eleanor.' Nas snaps me out of my thoughts. My watch shows I've lost ten minutes.

He's standing beside my desk. I tense for a snide comment. He's about to ask something but instead tightens his jaw and says, 'I've booked our flights and hired a car for tomorrow. Receipts are in your inbox. I paid on your account.'

Of course he did, but I don't care about that. 'I'd rather not drive. Let's get a train instead.'

'There are no trains. We're going to rural Ireland. They can't even get a phone signal.'

'A taxi, then.' I can shut my eyes in the backseat, at least, and wait for it to be over.

'We're travelling between sets. We need a car.' He sighs. 'I'll drive. Just... meet me in terminal two, past security. Get to the airport however you want.'

'You're leaving?' He's wearing his coat and I glance away from him to notice Natalie from IT perched on his desk. Natalie is wearing a short red dress. Natalie looks very, very pretty.

He follows my gaze. 'Yep. Getting my weekend plans in early.'

I smile sweetly. 'Have fun. Try to be charming. If you piss off our IT support, I'll never speak to you again.'

'Promise?'