Would Like to Meet

by Rachel Winters

  “Please, I have to get across the restaurant without being seen.”

  The blond waiter clasped his hands, his smile bland and practiced, well-versed in handling the eccentricities of the Ash’s clientele. “Miss Summers, I appreciate you’re Monty’s assistant, but this is highly unorthodox. We wouldn’t want to disturb our other guests.”

  Monty was a founding member of the club, hence the first-name basis, so the staff knew who I was even though he wouldn’t pay for an additional membership fee. As a nonmember, my rights were limited. I tried my best to look like someone worth helping.

  Given that I was currently wrapped in a curtain, this was a struggle.

  From my vantage point I could see Sam-and-Max sitting at a table on either side of an empty chair I assumed had been Monty’s before he’d spotted them coming into the room and hidden in the nearest restroom.

  If the producers saw me, they’d know for sure that Monty was still in the building. Somehow, I needed to get past them and help Monty escape without them noticing.

  “You’re welcome to sit in the bar while you wait for Monty.”

  I hugged the material closer to me, trying desperately to decide what to do. The producers could be here for only one thing. Eighteen months ago, Ezra Chester had signed a contract with Sam-and-Max’s up-and-coming film company, Intrepid Productions, to write their next film—a romantic comedy. They’d wanted the hottest new talent behind their project. Enter Ezra and his Oscar-winning kudos. The fact that this rom-com would be the first follow-up to his major success, the ultimate tearjerker A Heart Lies Bleeding, made him all the more alluring.

  When the original deadline whizzed past with no sign of the script, they’d been very understanding, especially when Monty had explained to them that Ezra’s grandmother had just passed away. But then Ezra missed the next deadline, and the next . . . and the producers had stepped up their game.

  Since then Sam-and-Max have been pursuing the script with a cheerfulness bordering on aggression. Looking at them now, dressed in identical blue suits, worry on their blandly good-looking faces, I wondered why they wanted to meet with Monty so badly they’d broken his cardinal rule (no surprise meetings). Was it because what Ezra had managed to write was actually terrible? The tiniest part of me hoped this was true . . .

  Because there was something Sam-and-Max couldn’t know about their beloved screenwriter. The same something I would never tell the Jodis or the Geraldines of the world.

  The truth was that Ezra Chester—Academy Award winner, charitable heartthrob, and industry darling—was an arrogant, insufferable arse.

  My friends had taken to calling him Number One Boychild (NOB for short) after he’d stormed out of a meeting because I’d gotten his coffee order wrong, and then refused to return until Monty promised him cocktails. The meeting had been about his charity for underprivileged children, several of whom had been in the room at the time. It was a testament to Monty’s PR skills that NOB’s charity work had anyone fooled about his real nature. Now I had to be incredibly careful never to call him NOB to his infuriatingly beautiful face.

  Thinking about him gave me an idea. “I promise I’ll move, if you wouldn’t mind doing one small thing for Monty,” I said, because the waiter wouldn’t be able to refuse one of the Ash’s founding members.

  He looked both relieved and concerned. “I can’t do anything that will upset the other patrons,” he cautioned.

  “Look.” I tried to keep the desperation from my voice. “The truth is if I screw this up, my boss will use it as another reason not to promote me. Please.” I shuffled toward him as much as the curtain would allow. “Do I look like the kind of woman who has other options?”

  He shook his head—insulting—and I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile before explaining exactly what I needed him to do.

  * * *

  “Is Mr. Montgomery here? Mr. Chester has just arrived and is waiting in the VIP area downstairs.”

  The waiter was standing within earshot of Sam-and-Max while talking to his colleague.

  “Come on, come on,” I prayed.

  I saw them sit up straighter, exchange a look, stand, and head as one toward where I was hidden. I shrank back behind the curtain, one of its tassels tickling my nose.

  Their footsteps faded away down the stairs and I counted to ten before slipping out and heading for the door on the opposite side of the room, trying not to feel as out of place as I must have looked with my mussed hair and Doc Martens.

  The women’s toilet was lit by a vaguely apologetic kind of lighting designed to make you feel you were stepping into something illicit. I could just about make out beveled pink tiles, a lot of chrome, and products that probably cost more than a month’s salary.

  There was only one stall in use. “Monty?” I called hesitantly.

  “Evelyn? What took you so long?” Monty’s cut-glass accent held an edge of hysteria.

  “You can come out now, it’s clear.”

  “Yes, why didn’t I think of that?” He rattled the door from the inside. “That’s right—I’m stuck.”

  For a moment we both pushed back and forth, which only succeeded in establishing that he was right. “I think it’s the lock,” said Monty.

  “I’m going to have to get someone.”

  Monty made a strangled sound. “I’ll be the talk of the club! Can’t you jimmy it a bit . . . ?” He went quiet as the main door opened. An older woman breezed in. I smiled at her and pulled out my phone to send a quick message to JEMS, hoping someone would be up after midnight.

  EVIE: does anyone know how to unjam a toilet door?

  Jeremy worked as an attorney and often kept odd hours. Maria was an editor for a monthly food magazine, a job that rarely necessitated an all-nighter, apart from when she left dough to rise. Sarah worked in HR and finished at 5:30 p.m. on the dot, because her time-management skills were a force to be reckoned with. She was probably fast asleep.

  I saw a response pop up and almost sagged with relief—until I read it.

  JEREMY: why would it be covered in jam?

  EVIE: Are you still working?

  JEREMY: just for some of my freebie clients. Homeless guy arrested for begging outside M&S. Thank goodness a diligent officer prevented such a terrible crime

  JEREMY: wait, are you stuck in a toilet?

  EVIE: not me. Monty

  JEREMY: . . .

  EVIE: stop laughing, please. This is serious

  JEREMY: sorry. If Sarah was up she’d probably have some annoyingly useful solutions. Have you tried putting soap on the hinges?

  EVIE: right now, I’ll try anything

  JEREMY: you could try leaving him there

  “Do you mind?” I looked up from my phone to find the woman smiling and gesturing to my sink. Now I recognized her. She was a Dame, over seventy, and fiercely chic. Ramrod-straight neck and shoulders, cropped white hair, and loose, flowing clothes, with a silk scarf draped elegantly over one shoulder. She exuded grace and poise. I blinked at her in awe, then realized she was still waiting.

  I stood back. “Sorry, I’m just waiting for my friend.”

  The unmistakable sound of a man urinating filled the room. The lady looked up from reapplying her lipstick and I studied the end of my braid intensely. The noise continued.

  Of course Monty would get stuck in the one place where needing the toilet wasn’t actually a problem and still choose to go at the worst possible moment.

  And he really was going. And going. The woman was basically film royalty, and right now she was having to listen to Monty emptying his bladder with gusto.

  The tiniest of trickles from the stall echoed around the room. Finally, finally, the sound trailed off. The lady capped her lipstick before turning to go, tucking her bag under one stylish arm.

  She paused with a hand on the door. Oh, God. />
  “Sometimes,” said the Dame, “you just need a really good piss.”

  As the door closed behind her, I relaxed against the sink, a snort of laughter finally escaping me.

  “I fail to see how this is funny,” said Monty.

  “Sorry, I’m just getting soap to put on the hinges, but—”

  “Whatever you’re doing, do it quickly. There’s a good girl.”

  “But is soap really our best—”

  “Now, Evelyn.”

  I plucked the expensive-looking bottle of liquid soap off the shelf and returned to the stall. As I looked for the door’s hinges, I decided to take advantage of the fact that I literally had a captive audience. “Monty,” I said. “Why don’t you want to meet with Sam-and-Max?”

  Silence from the stall.

  “Is it the pages?” He’d told me NOB was making progress. Not that he’d let me read the draft for myself.

  “Actually, you can call someone after all.”

  “Sam-and-Max are out there, but if you think that’s the best thing to do—”

  “No, no,” he said hastily.

  “What do they want to meet about, Monty?” I asked gently, pumping the liquid on the hinges.

  A long pause.

  I rattled the door, muttering, “It’s just so stuck. I really should go and get help . . .”

  There came a heavy sigh from the stall. I heard the toilet creak as Monty took a seat. “They want Ezra to sign an addendum stating he’ll deliver the full script within three months. They won’t accept the partial; I’ve tried. They’ve mentioned lawyers.”

  It was a generous offer, as far as ultimatums went, especially considering they’d been getting the runaround for over a year. Monty had assured everyone that NOB was writing, so what was the issue? Perhaps NOB had taken offense at the formality. Every other extension had been a “gentleman’s agreement.”

  “Is Ezra being resistant?” There was the tiniest of gaps between the door and the frame where the lock was, and I could just about see the bolt. I pumped some soap in there too.

  Another pause. “I didn’t want to risk stifling his creativity by mentioning the new deadline.”

  Translation: Monty had wimped out of telling NOB he could no longer take his sweet time. I took a deep breath. “He doesn’t know he only has three months to finish the script?”

  “It’s worse than that, Evelyn,” said Monty, irritable now. “If he doesn’t deliver, they want their money back, all of it. If that happens, we’re screwed.”

  I frowned. Could it really be that bad? For the last few years, as Monty devoted more and more of his time to maintaining NOB’s benevolent public image, I’d been handling most of the agency’s negotiations. I had a good idea how much we were bringing in, even though Monty kept most of the company financials to himself. “I thought we were doing fine,” I said, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. If he’d made me an agent, I could have been helping more.

  “You really should know more about how the business works by now, Evelyn.” I pushed my indignation down, knowing from experience that there would be nothing gained from pointing out that he purposefully withheld information from me. “We’re being squeezed out by bigger agencies every day. There’s no room for the little man anymore. Ezra’s our one ace, and without him, we’re done. We are both out of a job if he doesn’t deliver.”

  “We’re what?” I squeezed the bottle too hard and the pump head came off in my hands. The whole thing slipped from my fingers, bouncing off the dark slate tiles and spraying its contents everywhere.

  “No script,” enunciated Monty, “no job.”

  For a moment I just stood there, absorbing this, soap dripping from my fingers. After this long, the agency felt like home. I knew that my friends thought I had Stockholm syndrome, given all the stories they’d heard me tell about Monty over the years. Yet to me, my job was more than dealing with Monty’s eccentricities. It was being able to make the perfect pairing between one of our writers and a producer or an incredible production company. It was the hours I’d spent in that cramped office editing scripts, completely lost in helping a writer find their way. The edits that weren’t strictly a part of our service—I just loved doing them. It was a demanding job, but I’d made it my own. I didn’t know what I’d do without it. I didn’t know who I would be without it. Now, that was a sobering thought.

  “Ezra needs to sign that addendum,” I said without thinking.

  “Does he?” Monty’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “Whatever would I do without my sage assist—” He stopped abruptly. “You know,” he said, his tone suddenly airy, “it’s a shame. Before all this unpleasantness, I was going to talk to you about stepping up.”

  What was he saying? Had he been considering making me an agent?

  Rap rap rap. I jumped.

  “Hello? Miss Summers? Are you still in there?” I recognized the voice of the waiter I’d spoken to earlier. He was outside the door. “I have two gentlemen here who are asking to see Monty.” He coughed. “For some reason, they were under the impression he might be in our VIP area, and the maître d’ is rather touchy about uninvited guests.” I winced guiltily. “I’m terribly sorry, but he’s really quite insistent that you help us resolve the . . . misunderstanding, so that they can leave.”

  “They can’t see me stuck in here. Get me out, get me out!” Monty hissed.

  “Just one minute!” I called to the waiter. “Monty,” I said more quietly, “I’m going to need you to push from your side when I say. Okay? Just trust me.” I steadied my feet.

  Rap rap rap.

  “Hurry up, will you!”

  “Okay,” I told him. “On three. One. Two . . .”

  “Madam! I must insist you come out now, or I’m going to have to come in.”

  A few things happened in quick succession.

  First, Monty panicked. Rather than waiting for me to say “three,” he shoved forcefully against his side of the door. Completely unprepared, my hands slipped off the handle and I had to catch myself against the next stall. As if on cue, the blond waiter rushed into the room, flanked by Sam-and-Max. Which of course was when the stall door sprang open and Monty flew out, gliding across the wet floor like he’d been shot from a cannon.

  He tripped and sprawled onto the tiles, landing at the waiter’s feet. To his credit, Monty leaped up impressively fast. He was a sweaty mess, but he brushed his waistcoat down, smoothed his hair back, and tried very hard not to look like he’d just exited a women’s restroom stall at thirty miles per hour. He almost pulled it off.

  “Sam, Max, what a surprise. I was just helping my assistant. Toilet troubles,” he said, sotto voice, gesturing to where I stood.

  I turned so pink I blended in with the wall.

  “Glad we caught you,” said possibly Sam, shock melting away as his default positivity took over. “Almost literally, eh? Ha, ha. We just wanted to chat about the addendum, as you promised you’d have it signed by today.” By today? How long had Monty been sitting on this?

  Monty waved a hand as if it was nothing. “My assistant is handling it. She has a meeting with Ezra first thing Monday. He can’t wait to share the pages.”

  I stared at him. I do? There had to be a mistake. NOB wouldn’t listen to me. For him, I had only two functions: 1) Book the meetings, and 2) Force him to attend them. After getting him there, my job was done, leaving Monty to swan in for all the expensive meals and drinking sessions he used to slip boring things into the conversation, like when might the script NOB had been paid to write actually materialize.

  Monty’s smile was full of easy reassurance. For the producers’ benefit, not mine. “I’ve already got him to agree to sign, so don’t worry, it’s only the paperwork,” he said to me, the very image of a wise, benevolent agent placating a nervous underling. Part of this job was not reacting when your
boss told a blatant lie. “All you need to do is hand him the pen.” His pale blue eyes flashed. “It’s all good practice for your next step.”

  “Next step?” I repeated. Almost imperceptibly, Monty nodded. “Of course,” I said smoothly as my heart sped up. He’d been serious earlier. He might actually promote me. If the agency survived.

  “Now, was there anything else?” Monty said, tugging at his shirt cuffs and giving Sam-and-Max his signature smile as if everything was settled.

  “Just one more thing.” Sam-and-Max looked Monty up and down. “What’s that you’re covered in?”

  Monty’s smile faltered as he looked down at his sopping-wet front.

  The waiter picked up the empty bottle from the floor. It was squashed from being under Monty’s foot. “That would be body oil, sir.”

  Silence followed this statement.

  In the light filtering in from the restaurant, I could see a glistening snail trail leading from the toilet door to where Monty now stood, drenched in oil. Oh, no. I had picked up the wrong bottle. Why would a private members’ club have body oil in the rest—Ugh. I shuddered. Judging by the deeply uncomfortable expressions on Sam-and-Max’s faces, they were clearly a few steps ahead of me.

  “You know what?” one of the producers said. “This looks like a bad time.”

  At that, Monty recovered himself. “Then maybe next time,” he said, with as much dignity as he could muster, “you’ll call first.”

  Chapter 3

  NOB

  EXT: A BEAUTIFUL TREE-LINED STREET IN SOUTH KENSINGTON—MONDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 8:55 A.M.

  EVIE is holding two takeaway coffees in a tray as she squeezes past a gleaming red sports car parked across the pavement. She climbs up stone steps to a large dark green front door and glances back at the car, rolling her eyes. Her cheeks are flushed as she squares her shoulders, puts on a determined expression, and prepares to knock.