If Harry Met Sally Again

by Annie Robertson

  ‘Hi, Jim.’ My father’s name isn’t Jim; it’s Gordon. Astrid calls my parents Imelda and Jim because of their uncanny likeness to Staunton and Carter.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ I mutter, knowing with Astrid around I’m not going to get a look in.

  ‘Nice bike,’ says Astrid.

  ‘So, you’ve seen the majestic beauty?’

  ‘Is that how you’re referring to Imelda these days?’

  I cringe. Astrid’s always been a suck up to my parents. Some things never change.

  ‘Ha!’ says Mum, her head almost inside the oven, her bottom up in the air.

  ‘She never was much of a beauty,’ Dad says, with a wink.

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘I never said I married her for her looks.’

  ‘Why did you marry me?’ asks Mum, backing out of the oven, and wiping hair off her face with her oven glove.

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  Astrid hangs her head in amusement.

  ‘You can’t let him say stuff like that,’ I say to Mum.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like, you were never much of a beauty.’

  She shakes her head, despairing over me rather than him. ‘He’s right. I wasn’t much to look at. I looked a lot like you when we got married.’

  Astrid let’s out a guffaw.

  ‘Oh, that’s bloody charming!’

  ‘Over the years I’ve thrown money at the problem,’ Mum continues, unaware of the insult she’s just hurled at me. ‘Without all the pampering I’m about a week away from looking like the bag-lady outside Marksies. You should try a little pampering of your own before the same fate befalls you.’

  ‘Oh – my – gawd!’

  ‘But be warned that your mother is a prime example of the fact that sometimes not even money can fix a problem,’ says Dad, pinching a hot cross bun, and heading into the hall.

  ‘Are you seriously going to let him get away with that?’

  ‘It’s just your father.’ Mum puts her oven gloves on the counter. I’m about to jump on my ‘have-a-little-self-respect’ bandwagon, when the front door flies open and Tilly and Henry charge in, followed by Narissa and Toby, who both head straight into the living room to see Dad.

  ‘Happy Easter!’ coos Mum as the children rush at her with homemade cards and bright yellow chicks and stories of what the Easter Bunny brought and how much chocolate they’ve already eaten, half of which is smeared all over their faces.

  ‘Wonderful, wonderful,’ says Mum, gathering up their messy offerings and hugging them.

  ‘Who’s that?’ asks Tilly suspiciously, staring at Astrid who is back on the counter and swinging her legs. All she needs is a packet of bubblegum and I swear she’d look just like she did when she was fourteen.

  ‘Auntie Nina’s friend, Astrid,’ says Mum.

  ‘Hello,’ says Astrid, waving.

  Neither of the kids respond; Astrid sticks out her pierced tongue.

  ‘Mummy, Mummy,’ yells Henry. ‘Auntie Neenaw’s friend is naughty.’

  ‘Tattletale,’ says Astrid as Narissa walks into the room.

  ‘Astrid. How nice to see you. You look, um,’ she eyes Astrid’s gypsy skirt, flouncy blouse and reams of beads. ‘Just the same.’

  ‘You look like you have two children.’ Astrid watches the two of them racing in and out of the back door like terriers.

  Narissa puts a basket, stashed full of Easter eggs, on the breakfast bar before kissing Mum. She then hands beautiful, dark chocolate Rococo eggs to Astrid and me as if doling out soup cans to the homeless.

  We watch as she removes layers of tissue paper from the huge Easter basket, unravelling what looks like a year’s supply of chocolate for Mum. It must have cost a fortune but Narissa presents it as if she were simply bringing in a bag of groceries from the Spar.

  ‘Have you seen what Mum’s done to your old room?’ Narissa says.

  I shake my head, ‘Nope.’

  ‘Go look.’

  Astrid and I climb the stairs with Narissa behind us. I open the bedroom door. There, in the centre of the room, is a therapy bed.

  ‘What’s this for?’ I ask, as Astrid checks out the little basin and the cabinets Mum’s had installed, full of towels and potions.

  ‘Haven’t you noticed Mum’s inability to frown recently?’

  ‘I figured she’d been spending ridiculous sums of money on face creams again. What’s that got to do with this?’

  ‘Toby and I laughed so hard when we discovered what she was up to.’

  ‘What is she up to?’

  ‘Ah, you’ve found it!’ says Mum, joining us and handing us each a glass of fizz.

  ‘Found what, exactly?’

  ‘My Botox therapy suite.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I look between her and Narissa, who is looking at me as if to say, ‘Told you you’d laugh’.

  ‘I’m finally putting my nursing training to use.’

  She goes to the sink and grabs a syringe from the drawer. She’s about to insert it into a little bottle of poison when Tilly bolts through the door.

  ‘Why’s Granny got a jaggy thing?’

  ‘Exactly what I was about to ask.’

  ‘It’s to help Granny and others look beautiful,’ says Mum.

  ‘Let me have a go!’ Tilly reaches up for it.

  ‘Maybe we should go and see if the Easter Bunny has been,’ says Narissa, steering Tilly away from the sight of her grandmother with a syringe and ushering them out to the garden.

  ‘Botox?’ I ask, sitting at the patio table with Narissa and Astrid. Mum has the kids occupied, ferreting through the bushes for eggs.

  ‘It’s horrifying,’ says Narissa. For once I nod in agreement. ‘But the motorbike thing is worse.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  ‘At least the therapy is behind closed doors. She can do what she likes in the privacy of her home but the bike, uh, I’m mortified.’

  ‘I doubt he’ll be riding it down the Northcote Road anytime soon,’ says Astrid.

  ‘It’s bad enough them arriving in that decade old Focus.’

  ‘Niss, you’re such a snob!’

  ‘Who’s a snob?’ asks Toby. He and Dad join us at the table with a bottle of beer.

  ‘Please don’t drink from the bottle,’ says Narissa before he’s even put it to his lips.

  ‘There’s your answer,’ I say.

  Toby throws his eyes back in an ‘I should have known’ way and sits down.

  ‘Where’s Aidan?’ asks Dad, bringing Toby a glass.

  ‘Working.’

  ‘On Easter Sunday?’

  Astrid nods.

  Narissa thumbs her new diamond necklace, which she’s keen for us all to admire.

  ‘Beautiful necklace, Narissa,’ says Astrid.

  ‘Toby gave it to me for Valentine’s.’ She says this as if it’s a whole lot of nothing, just a little trifle of gift.

  ‘Aidan always does something amazingly creative for Astrid on Valentine’s,’ I say, insinuating that another diamond hardly took Toby much thought.

  ‘Not this year,’ says Astrid, knocking back some fizz.

  ‘Really?’ I ask, amazed that this is the first I’ve heard of it; Valentine’s was well over a month ago. Why wouldn’t Astrid have said something before and, more to the point, why didn’t I think to ask?

  ‘It’s okay, he’s taking me to La Gavroche for our wedding anniversary. He says I deserve it for putting up with him these last few months, what with the man-flu and all.’

  ‘Toby wouldn’t dare forget Valentine’s, would you, darling?’

  ‘No, my darling,’ he answers, robotically.

  ‘I can’t remember when I last did something for your mother,’ says Dad. ‘Probably before you girls were born.’

  Toby chuckles; Narissa scowls at him.

  ‘Jim!’ says Astrid. ‘That’s really poor!’

  ‘Is it?’ he asks, teasingly. ‘If I were married to you I’d remember to do something.’

&nb
sp; ‘Oh my God,’ I say, barely able to stop myself from vomming in the ice-bucket.

  ‘Well,’ he says. ‘It’s just a lot of nonsense. Commercial gimmickry.’

  A thought of Will pops into my head and the card. I wonder if he did something for Carmen on Valentine’s, if him not believing in Valentine’s was more a reflection on us than on the day itself. But then why would he have sent me the card?

  ‘How’s the bookshop?’ Toby asks, taking a handful of small foil-coated eggs from Henry who’s appeared at his side.

  ‘It’s okay,’ says Astrid. ‘We may even be in profit this month.’

  The Valentine’s event we held was a big success. In one evening we doubled our January sales, plus we had the fun of watching Doreen flirt outrageously with Cowboy Steve.

  ‘And your script?’

  ‘Good, I think. I finished another draft last week and am waiting to hear back from the head of development.’

  ‘She’s going to be such a big star,’ says Astrid, as my phone rings.

  ‘Do you really think so?’ asks Dad. ‘I always knew Nina had it in her to be a success. Can we expect family holidays in the Caribbean?’

  ‘Nobody hold their breath on that one,’ I say, answering my phone as the kids descend upon us. Tilly jumps on Narissa, Henry on Toby, showing them the vast quantity of chocolate the Easter Bunny has off-loaded in Granny’s garden.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, going to the summerhouse and closing the door behind me.

  It’s Caroline.

  ‘Mike read your redraft. He thinks the changes are great.’ I can hear the ‘but’ long before she says it. ‘But there are still some major changes that need to be made, which he thinks might be helped by the addition of a co-writer.’

  ‘Oh right,’ I say, trying not to sound wounded even though it feels as if I’ve just been shot.

  ‘It happens a lot,’ says Caroline, quite reassuringly by her standards. ‘Nora Ephron collaborated all the time.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Even though I know it’s true it doesn’t help to make me feel any better.

  ‘Mike’s office is going to set up a meeting for you with Benjamin Scriber. He’s the best in the business, Nina – Oscar nominated – and Mike trusts him implicitly. You should be excited.’

  ‘Sure.’ I don’t feel excited at all, just knocked that they don’t believe I can deliver this on my own.

  ‘Plus the script is ten times more likely to be bought with him on board.’

  ‘I understand…’ I say, knowing there’s nothing I can do but give it a go.

  17

  I’m trying not to read anything into the fact that Mike’s assistant Andrew has booked a table in what was once a public toilet: the gastronomes’ paradise Restaurant Story. I’ve been seated beside a huge wall of glass, which faces onto a small patch of grass in the middle of a traffic island in Tower Bridge. The interior of plywood, concrete and exposed brick isn’t exactly cosy but I’m guessing the designer was going for Scandi-cool, which he’s achieved, and the wall of paperbacks at the far end gives it a little warmth and character.

  For the last twenty-five minutes, every time the door has opened I’ve glanced up to see if it’s a lone, earnest-looking male clutching a script and sporting a furrowed brow, the way I’ve imagined Benjamin Scriber to look since Andrew told me we’d be meeting. But so far nothing, only the comings and goings of media types in their late thirties and early forties, sporting open shirts, cashmere V-necks and suede moccasins. To pass the time I’ve been reading a well-thumbed copy of Tom Sawyer, which I found on the bookshelves.

  A momentary blast of traffic noise rushes through the door, drawing my attention up from the book and, to my astonishment, I see not Benjamin but the annoying hipster from Verity’s party and the National Theatre. Hoping not to catch his eye I quickly turn my attention back to Tom Sawyer.

  Please don’t be Benjamin, I chant internally, staring at the page but not taking in any of the words. Even with my head in the book I’m still aware of him walking in my direction.

  ‘Nina?’

  My heart sinks.

  ‘Benjamin?’ I ask, feigning surprise, clocking, with horror, his rolled-up jeans, lack of socks, and pink brogues with orange soles and laces.

  ‘Ben,’ he says, pulling out the seat opposite me.

  And that’s when it comes back to me, the name I’d forgotten. Ben.

  He’s fussing with his hair, which is combed up and back – classic hipster style. I fight the urge to reach over and mess it up. ‘We’ve met before—’

  ‘At the National Theatre,’ I say, pre-empting the end of his sentence, hoping to avoid the embarrassment of giving myself a false name at Ed and Verity’s party.

  ‘That’s right. I was here on another job.’ He pushes his retro fifties glasses up over the bridge of his nose. ‘I thought your name was Sally but you told me it wasn’t.’

  ‘Right, it’s Nina.’

  He looks at me with a slightly confused expression then shakes off a thought.

  ‘Well, what are the odds?’ He fiddles with his blue-check cuffs, which are rolled up over his yacht blazer sleeves.

  ‘Slim.’ I glance at the set menu, glad to have the pain taken out of ordering.

  Before Ben has time to pour himself some water the waiters descend on us with our pre-starters, two mouthfuls, which look like little pieces of artwork and taste extraordinary. The waiter took great lengths to tell us what they are but I wasn’t listening; all I could think about was how defensive I’d been about meeting Benjamin Scriber, and how now that Ben, bell-end extraordinaire, has been tasked with the job, I feel even more defensive and, dare I say it, a touch hostile. I don’t remember much about our meeting at Verity’s, but I do remember this: Can’t say I’m a huge fan of a sequel, especially the current trend to hark back to the classics.

  How am I possibly expected to work with someone who doesn’t believe in the project from the start?

  Across the table Ben produces my script from his large leather manbag. He’s covered the pages in red pen, which makes me feel like a schoolchild. I want to remind him that this is my script, my baby, so tread carefully! But instead, knowing the esteem in which Mike holds him, I sit, tight-lipped.

  ‘First thing to say is that I love the script. It’s really smart and funny, but in my opinion there are three areas that are letting it down.’

  I suddenly remember him bleating on about studio hacks writing pastiche, and I can’t help wondering: as my co-writer, isn’t he one of those hacks?

  ‘The premise of the first movie is, can men and women be friends, yes?’

  ‘Well, if we’re being strictly accurate, Ephron said it was about how different men and women are, and about being single.’

  ‘Right, but the general gist is, does sex ruin a perfect relationship?’

  ‘I suppose,’ I say, irritated by his generalisation and his lack of appreciation of Ephron.

  ‘And the premise of your movie is?’

  I think about this for a moment, knowing I should have a tagline to rattle off, but I don’t.

  ‘So that’s the first problem: it needs to have as strong a premise as the first movie and preferably one that follows on from it. Mike and I love the idea of the premise being not, does sex ruin a perfect relationship, but does marriage ruin a perfect relationship. It’s a great twist.’

  It may well be a great twist but it throws me straight back to Will’s mantra of, ‘Marriage ruins perfectly good relationships.’ It does nothing to endear Ben to me, nor does his swilling water in his mouth opposite me. It makes me think of Sally being repulsed by Harry when he tries to spit grape seeds out of the car window only to find that it’s closed.

  ‘We need to really work that into the heart of the script, find out how marriage has affected the relationships of the central characters.’

  ‘Your bread,’ says one of our waiters, presenting us with a loaf in a leather pouch, reminiscent of Ben’s manbag, and an ‘edible candle’,
which the waiter lights and tells us is made of beef dripping.

  ‘Candle-dripping made of beef,’ chuckles Ben. ‘That’s genius.’

  Pretentious twaddle, I think through a half smile.

  ‘So,’ he says, chewing bread and dripping with his mouth open. ‘The next thing to discuss is the supporting cast. At the moment it feels too one-dimensional.’

  I force myself to bite my tongue. ‘How so?’

  ‘In When Harry Met Sally, Sally had Marie as her confidant, and Harry had Jess. They played pivotal roles and had their own storyline too. In your script the supporting cast doesn’t have that same depth.’

  ‘Sally still has Marie. And it’s clear from the way Marie tells Sally that “Jess would be sorry to miss this day”, that Jess died.’

  ‘Right.’ Ben thinks about this, checking his notes. ‘Mike thought it might be better if Jess and Marie are divorced too, that Jess has moved away.’

  I tear a piece of bread into tiny pieces. ‘I don’t think so. Nora Ephron clearly wrote them as a passionate, adoring couple. They wouldn’t divorce, and besides, having both couples divorce is really depressing.’

  ‘Are you saying divorce is more depressing than death?’

  ‘No, I’m saying that having an idealistic couple divorce is more depressing than death. And an audience will empathise more with Marie if they know she’s suffered.’

  ‘People suffer through divorce too.’

  ‘It’s not the same thing.’

  ‘Well, regardless.’ He points his bread at me in a pincer grip, I have to stop myself from swiping it away. ‘The point is that Harry needs a new best mate.’

  ‘But Sally was, is, his best friend.’

  ‘But they haven’t spoken in years.’

  ‘That’s the point!’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That Harry’s alone,’ I say, exasperated. ‘He wants Sally back. He adores her.’

  ‘Harry having a best friend makes for more comedy moments.’

  ‘Does it?’ I ask, frustrated that the general consensus seems to be that the script needs more laughs. When Harry Met Sally was hardly a laugh a minute. Ephron was more subtle than that. ‘There just isn’t space for Harry to have a best mate.’