If Harry Met Sally Again

by Annie Robertson

  ‘I think that’s a good thing.’ Ben glances over his laptop to check I’m in agreement. I think about it for a while, think that Harry may well be the sort of person who would seek out someone different from Jess for fear of being reminded of what he’d lost.

  ‘I agree,’ I say, feeling a little buzz of excitement from the collaboration. ‘What should we call him?’

  ‘It needs to be an all-American name. How about Joe?’

  ‘That was Sally’s ex in the original,’ I say, vetoing the idea.

  ‘Dickie?’

  ‘Reminds me of The Talented Mr Ripley. What about Tom?’

  ‘My uncle’s called Tom, and it’s kind of an upbeat name.’

  There’s something oddly personal about Ben’s mention of his uncle. It makes me wonder about his family and what he’s like around them, especially his mum, and what she thinks about the whole hipster thing.

  ‘Jim?’ I suggest.

  We both take a moment to consider this option.

  ‘Jim’s got a good, middle-aged manliness about it.’

  ‘Jim it is,’ I say, adding him to my cast list.

  ‘So, we have Jim enter the bar and get straight into the conversation Harry is having with George about marriage.’

  ‘Right, which gives us an opportunity to develop a conversation around does marriage ruin a perfect relationship?

  ‘Jim definitely thinks it does,’ says Ben.

  ‘And Harry, even though he’s about to go through a third divorce, isn’t convinced.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he still loves Sally,’ I say, stating the obvious. ‘He thinks he can win her back and have what they used to have together.’

  ‘Do you think he does?’

  ‘Maybe not in a conscious way, but yes, I think so.’

  ‘And what about George?’

  ‘George is young and naïve and passionate. He’s definitely pro-marriage.’

  ‘But he’s just broken up with Jules…’

  I shrug. ‘She wasn’t the one. Just because you’re pro-marriage doesn’t mean you’re happy to be with any old person. Have you wanted to marry everyone you’ve ever dated?’

  ‘Good point!’ He reaches for the peanut butter cookie. ‘Is it okay?’ he asks, when he sees me glancing in the direction of the plate.

  ‘Absolutely. I’ve never understood the American fascination with putting peanut butter in every bit of home-baking and candy.’

  ‘Peanut butter is an American staple. My mom put it into everything, even roast chicken.’

  ‘Wow. That sounds horrible!’

  ‘You might be surprised.’

  ‘I think I would be.’ An image pops into my mind of Ben as a little boy, with his hair in bowl cut and short shorts. I can’t help wondering when he began to grow into the image-conscious individual that he is today, and why.

  ‘Didn’t your mother cook anything weird?’ he asks, breaking my musing.

  ‘My mum only knows how to defrost things.’

  ‘A woman after my own heart!’ He breaks the cookie into two and takes a bite. ‘Anyway, George and Jules, we need to rework their storyline to build bigger roles for them.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, my first thought is that maybe Jules has been dumped by someone else and George is seizing the opportunity to comfort her in the hope he might get some bridesmaid action.’

  ‘I don’t want to make George nasty.’ I sample the raspberry and almond tart, which is rich and buttery and frankly, not big enough.

  ‘Not nasty…real.’

  I recoil at that word again.

  ‘All young guys are looking to get laid, even the ones who are looking for something more serious. Guys see sex as part of the game, the show. It’s all about prowess.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, weighing him up a bit. ‘Do you include yourself in this generalisation?’

  He shrugs casually. ‘Well, maybe not now, but a few years ago? I guess so.’

  ‘What changed?’ I ask, intrigued by this admission.

  ‘Who can say?’ he says, and I get the impression it isn’t something he wants to talk about. ‘I must be getting old!’

  ‘Hardly!’ I laugh.

  ‘Wiser?’

  ‘That I very much doubt.’

  Ben’s eyes soften, and for a split second there’s a moment between us of what feels like genuine affection. Suddenly self-conscious, I brush the moment aside, saying, ‘Whatever the reason, don’t you think it would be nicer if George was genuinely comforting Jules, that he likes her and wants to make her happy?’

  ‘It might be nicer, but it wouldn’t be funnier,’ says Ben, brushing a bit of cookie from his computer.

  ‘Ephron’s movies weren’t out-and-out comedies, you know.’ I feel myself rile up again. ‘They were more understated than that.’

  ‘Understated really isn’t what’s selling at the moment.’

  ‘I—’

  I’m about to challenge him when Ben raises a finger to suggest I hold my thought, trust him for a little while to see where it leads. It surprises me when I let him.

  ‘How about we have George making moves on Jules but they keep being interrupted. Then I was thinking, and bear with me on this, that later that evening Marie could hit on George.’

  ‘No,’ I say immediately, shaking my head. ‘Absolutely not. That isn’t who Marie is.’

  ‘Oh, come on, it would be funny.’ His eyes twinkle at the idea. ‘We could do with a bit more humour amid Truman’s anxiety and Harry and Sally’s navel-gazing about their relationship.’

  ‘Navel-gazing!’ I say with mock hurt.

  ‘Yeah, you know, we’re almost in picking-the-fluff-out-of-our-belly-button territory.’

  He mimes pulling something small out of his navel, making me laugh.

  ‘I can pick more than fluff out of this belly button!’ I say, taken aback with how unguarded I’m being.

  ‘I once found a whole doughnut in mine, and an entire sub in a fat fold,’ he says, pushing out his paunch, which barely exists, but it’s funny regardless.

  ‘Nice,’ I giggle, surprised at Ben’s self-deprecation.

  ‘But seriously,’ he says, after we’ve both stopped giggling. ‘A few more laughs wouldn’t go amiss.’

  ‘I just think Marie’s classier and too interesting a character for that. I’m not comfortable playing her for laughs.’

  ‘Let’s sit on it for a while.’

  We spend the next half hour playing around with ideas about how George might pursue Jules, now heart-broken over someone else, and how once he’s charmed her, Truman then gives his big speech to Anna about just how much he loves her. At the end of the scene both couples are seen kissing.

  I’m enjoying a moment of satisfaction at how it’s all coming together when Ben looks at his watch and says, ‘Crap!’

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘I’ve got another meeting, I didn’t realise the time. I’d rather not leave but…’ he begins to pack his things away. ‘Can I leave you to work on building the premise into more scenes and thinking about the voice, getting that grittiness we spoke about?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, feeling much more positive about things than I did yesterday.

  ‘Good.’ He puts his laptop into his manbag and does up the buckles. ‘Ping it over to me when you think it’s ready and I’ll read it through before it goes back to Mike.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘And have another slice of cake, a large one,’ he says, with a smile and a glint in his eye, before turning and heading into the night.

  20

  ‘This was such a good idea,’ I say to Astrid a few weeks later, looking out from behind our bookstall into the garden of St Matthew’s Church in Brixton. The sound of the steel band carries across the bustling summer fair.

  ‘Mornin’,’ says Doreen, pitching up beside us with her walking-stick seat. I swear the thing sinks two feet into the grass when she sits on it, leaving her with the ap
pearance that she’s levitating above the ground.

  Astrid casts me a glance that asks, ‘Is she here for the rest of the day?’

  Doreen reaches into a Tesco bag and produces a giant bag of cheese puffs. ‘‘Fuckin’ hot. I’ll be in me bra soon.’

  I’m wrestling with that image when I catch sight of Tilly, charging straight towards us, past the jewellery, earthenware and drum stalls, followed swiftly by Henry and, not quite so swiftly, by Narissa.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ I say to my sister as Henry shows off his new Lightning McQueen by bumping it over the Horrid Henry books. Tilly eyes Doreen cautiously, standing a safe distance away.

  ‘I read in Elle Décor that Brixton is the new urban revival,’ says Narissa, with no hint of how ridiculously middle class she sounds. ‘I thought it might be good for the children to experience some…’ she looks around before saying, ‘Cultural diversity.’

  ‘Right,’ I cringe.

  ‘You know it’s a shame you didn’t buy a flat here instead of renting. I don’t see the appeal myself, but others seem to like and it and you’d have seen a big return.’

  ‘That’s only relevant if Nina doesn’t intend on staying,’ says Astrid.

  ‘Well, she’s hardly going to live here for the rest of her life.’ Narissa inches away from Cowboy Steve, who’s loitering at the corner of the stall next to Doreen. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because one day she’ll meet someone and have children and want those children to go to a good school in a smart neighbourhood where they’ll mix with people like themselves.’

  ‘As opposed to…?’

  Narissa looks at Doreen, shaking her massive bag of cheese puffs at the kids, and then back at us with an expression that reads, Need I say more? Henry hides behind his mother; Tilly reaches politely for one then examines it as if about to consume a live bug. When the kids are done Doreen rustles the bag at Steve, who sits down beside her and takes a handful.

  ‘Did your mother seriously give birth to both of you?’ Astrid says.

  ‘It’s incredible, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘Not only did we come from the same womb but the same home and education system.’

  ‘And yet here we are, like the before and after of a rags-to-riches story,’ laughs Narissa.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ says Astrid. ‘Oh, and here’s the woman responsible.’

  I look up to see my mother, her face as tight as Melanie Griffiths’, waving excitedly at us.

  ‘Mum, what a surprise!’

  Mum lifts up Tilly, who strokes her skin. ‘You look like a fish, Granny,’ she says, admiringly, as only a five-year-old can.

  ‘I thought you were practising Botox on others, not yourself?’

  ‘It doesn’t hurt to advertise, and it detracts from the ageing neck, don’t you think?’ She turns her head this way and that for us to decide. If anything, it makes the neck thing look worse. ‘Your father thinks it’s ridiculous but I love it!’ She smiles a smile that fails to move anything on her face other than her lips. ‘I can happily look in the mirror again!’

  ‘Good for you, Imelda,’ says Astrid, without a hint of sarcasm. I swear she’s been smoking something funny.

  Narissa shakes her head and mutters, ‘Jesus.’ For once I have to agree. ‘I think we’ll go find the food stalls. Come along, Tilly, Henry, let’s see if we can find some jerk chicken for you to try.’

  ‘Ooh I love beef jerky,’ says Mum. ‘I didn’t know they did a chicken version.’

  ‘Not the same thing, Mum,’ I say, but she doesn’t hear me. She’s off, trotting after Narissa, followed by the kids who are dancing along behind her singing ‘Under the Sea’.

  ‘I think Narissa might be getting divorced,’ I tell Astrid, watching them disappear through the crowd.

  ‘I can’t pretend to be surprised. She is super high maintenance. Toby must be a relation of Gandhi’s to tolerate her on a daily basis.’

  ‘There’s super high maintenance and then there’s Narissa. She takes it to a whole new level,’ I say, watching Doreen and Steve, who places his hand in hers. As much as I’m happy for them and their fledgling romance I can’t help feeling the tiniest bit envious, that it might be nice to have someone in my life again.

  ‘Talking of high maintenance…’ says Astrid. I follow her line of sight. Aidan has just pitched up.

  ‘Harsh.’

  She screws up her face at me, her expression saying, It isn’t all that far off the mark.

  ‘Awright, Nina,’ he says, kind of flat, not greeting Astrid in his usual affectionate way and muttering about it being too busy and too hot. ‘Can I talk tae Astrid?’

  They mosey off to a quiet corner behind the stalls just as Bat Shit Crazy appears. I greet her cheerfully; she gives me nothing. I watch as her lace-covered fingers tickle the cover of Woody Allen’s latest contribution to film-making.

  ‘That’s an interesting read,’ I say casually, trying not to make her feel conspicuous.

  ‘Difficult little man,’ she says, quietly, one hand over her mouth the other picking up an origami book. She says it as if she knows he’s difficult from experience. Bat Shit Crazy, I think, and a succession of customers draws my attention away from her. Before long Astrid is back.

  ‘Everything okay?’ I ask.

  ‘Aidan’s going home.’

  ‘He’s still not better?’

  ‘Worse.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘The doctor thinks he’s depressed.’

  ‘I thought it was exhaustion.’

  ‘So did I, but this diagnosis seems to fit better. You remember, he went through something similar when we were students when he was stressed out about exams?’ I nod, vaguely recalling an incident. ‘We figured then that the weed was the cause of it, but he barely touches the stuff any more. Now he’s anxious about the future and the unknowns in life, he’s not eating or sleeping properly, and I can’t remember the last time he was out with the boys. Some days I think he’s depressed about being depressed. I tell you, it’s like living with Jack-bloody-Dee.’

  ‘Is he back at work?’

  ‘Nope. He can barely drag himself out of bed.’

  I take a book from a customer. ‘It sounds dreadful.’

  ‘La-dee-dah,’ says Astrid, her favourite line from Annie Hall, loosely interpreted as, what can you do? I hand the book back to the lady and am astonished to find that that the next customer is Ben.

  ‘Hi!’ I’m surprised at how pleased I am to see him.

  ‘Hey, Nina.’ He checks out the name above the stall.

  ‘What brings you here?’ I ask, waving the back of my hand over the display of books like I’m a bimbo showing off the prizes on some 1980s game show. I catch sight of myself in the dark lenses of his classic Ray-Bans. My hair is a mess from the humidity and my skin pink from the heat. I wonder why I find myself attempting to tidy myself.

  ‘I’m trying to explore the “real” London.’ He takes off his shades and tucks them into his light checked shirt that has the top three buttons undone, exposing a small amount of chest hair. He’s less styled today and something is different but I can’t place what exactly.

  ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place for that,’ I say, as he accidentally bumps into Bat Shit Crazy.

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am.’ There is a momentary double take between them before Bat Shit Crazy picks up her dozen bags and hurries away.

  ‘This is Astrid,’ I say, once Astrid is done making change from her money apron. ‘Astrid, this is Ben.’

  ‘Ben?’ she asks, unable to place him.

  ‘Ben Scriber. Screenwriter.’

  ‘Oh, you’re that Ben,’ she says, with a slow nod, looking him up and down. ‘Nice hat.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He takes off his straw fedora to give it a twirl on his finger. ‘It’s one of my favourites.’

  ‘Nina’s big on man-fashion, particularly the hipster look.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘I…’ I shake my head and sc
runch my nose, wanting to push Astrid off her stool. Then it dawns on me what’s different about him. ‘You shaved off your beard.’

  ‘I did.’ He rubs his cheeks with both hands.

  ‘It looks good. I can see your face.’

  ‘It is my face!’ I wonder if he knows he’s just quoted Harry.

  ‘I like it.’ A moment passes, not completely uncomfortably, where neither of us knows quite what to say. Astrid whistles on her stool.

  ‘Can I interest you in anything? The new Tom Black is a good read.’

  Before he can answer a tall, beautiful, auburn-haired American says, ‘Ooh, I love Tom Black.’

  ‘Jen!’ Ben sounds caught off guard. ‘You found me.’

  ‘Sure did,’ she says, placing her chin on his shoulder and looking at the books. Ben steps aside to extricate himself from the chin-on-shoulder scenario, placing his hand briefly on her back instead. I wonder if he is going to introduce her. He doesn’t. I can understand why – Jen and Ben, I mean, really?

  ‘How are you getting on with the next draft?’ he asks, as Jen reads the book blurb of Tom Black’s Nemesis. ‘Mike’s keen to see something in the next month or two.’

  I rub my earlobe. ‘I’ll have it to you in the next few weeks.’

  ‘Great, I’ll look forward to that.’

  ‘Great!’ I say, far too keenly.

  ‘Let’s go check out the craft stalls,’ says Jen, taking his hand.

  ‘Nice seeing you,’ he says, holding onto his hat as Jen whips him around and leads him away.

  ‘Nice seeing you too,’ I call after him, but he is already lost in the crowd.

  ‘What was that about?’ asks Astrid.

  ‘What?’

  She rubs her earlobe, impersonating me. ‘I know you, Nina Gillespie. Rubbing your ears means you’re not telling the truth.’

  ‘Does not!’

  ‘Does too.’

  She’s right. I’ve done it since the day I was caught stealing pennies from my parents’ coin jar when I was eight years old so I could buy Hubba Bubba with my friends at the corner shop.

  ‘Spill!’

  I tell her about my anxieties over the premise of the script – does marriage ruin a perfectly good relationship.