NOB snorted, clearly mistaking my expression for misty-eyed whimsy.
“That’s cute,” he said. “I don’t do cute, and that’s all those hack producers want. I write movies about the kind of love people recognize. Obsessive, needy, toxic, real love, not meet-cutes.”
Movie. One movie. Singular. But this wasn’t the moment to remind him of that.
“A Heart Lies Bleeding is beautiful, but it’s not the only kind of love story out there,” I insisted, aware of how painfully earnest I sounded.
“You watched my movie,” he said, leaning back against the unit. “And you liked it?”
It ended with both characters unable to admit that their relationship has disintegrated beyond repair and staying together anyway. It had made me sob so hard I had to follow it with a Disney marathon just to feel like there was light left in the world.
“Of course. But people need The Proposal just as much as they need A Heart Lies Bleeding. A good meet-cute shows us it’s possible for a single moment to change everything for the better.”
NOB shook his head. “Please. No one’s ever met anyone the way they do in those movies. The coincidences. The clichés. In real life if someone spilled a drink on you, you’d be pissed off, maybe sue them if it’s a hot one, not fall for them. Real love can’t be contrived.”
“Tell that to Tinder,” I said tiredly. Not for the first time, I marveled at the irony of a bunch of men appointing NOB the new Nora Ephron.
He slid the creased addendum pages back toward me. “Tell the producers I’m not signing. I’d rather return the money than risk my reputation on this trash.” NOB turned away from me, pouring himself another smoothie from the machine. “My life coach will be here at ten. You can let yourself out.” As quickly as that, I’d been dismissed. It was like a spotlight had been turned off.
I picked up the papers, knowing I had no choice but to tell Monty I’d failed to even get us three more months.
“I told Monty from day one I didn’t want to do this,” NOB said as I walked away. “He shouldn’t be surprised.”
“Then why agree to write it in the first place?” I snapped, turning. The words were out before I could stop them, and I found I didn’t care. If the agency was going under anyway, what did I have to lose?
NOB ignored me, leaving me to stand there, getting angrier and angrier. It was his stupid ego that had got us all into this mess, agreeing to write something when he couldn’t actually . . .
Wait. Was that it? Could it be that the great and powerful NOB had writer’s block after all?
It made a terrible sense. What if he’d had every intention of writing the rom-com . . . but couldn’t? NOB had been hailed as one of Hollywood’s hottest new talents, yet in the three years since he’d won his Oscar he hadn’t given Monty a single script to sell. Monty would excuse him, saying that greatness couldn’t be rushed. But then Sam-and-Max had come along offering him their next project. What if he’d signed on to show Hollywood he was still hot property . . . only to find rom-coms weren’t the easy ride he’d imagined?
Time to test this theory.
“I know how you can write this rom-com.”
NOB glanced around as if in surprise. “Oh, you’re still here?” he said.
“Just listen. In three months’ time, you could have a finished script, just like you originally agreed. You keep the money. Sam-and-Max sing your praises in Hollywood. We all walk away happy.” NOB rolled his eyes. “Or,” I said, going straight for his weak spot, “we cancel the contract and send out the release before the end of the week.”
“Release?”
“To get ahead of any announcement from Intrepid,” I said airily. “The producers will want to publicize that they’re looking for a new writer and that Ezra Chester is off the project.”
NOB wouldn’t just be the award-winning screenwriter with no follow-up. He’d be the man who couldn’t write a rom-com. It doesn’t seem like such a silly genre now, does it?
For a few seconds, he said nothing, his eyes going distant. Then his attention snapped back to me.
I held my breath.
“I know I’m going to regret saying this,” he said. My heart did a preemptive victory jig. “But I’m listening.”
Thank you, NOB’s ego.
The genre wasn’t the real problem, it was his excuse. I just needed to find a way to get him writing. I’d start with coaxing him to admit he was wrong about rom-coms. Given his scorn for meet-cutes, all I had to do was show him it was possible to meet someone exactly the way Harry met Sally . . .
How hard could that be?
“If I prove it’s possible for people to meet exactly like they do in rom-coms, you can sign the addendum and write the script secure in the knowledge that the genre is realistic and completely on brand for you.”
He narrowed his eyes. “How exactly would you do that?” I walked carefully toward him across the kitchen, as if he were a wild animal and not a screenwriter refusing to admit he has writer’s block. Same difference.
“The producers want a new kind of meet-cute,” I said slowly, thinking it through. “I’ll bring you real-life examples of couples meeting each other just like in a film.” I was sure I could find stories. When you were single, the Internet was full of them. “Ones that will show you you’re being . . .” Arrogant. Willfully ignorant. An asshat. “Short-sighted about the genre.”
NOB was thoroughly unimpressed. “Anyone can Google, Red.” As I glared at the nickname, an idea started to form. A ridiculous, totally foolish idea.
Because he was right: What I was offering wasn’t enough. It wasn’t just about getting him to sign the addendum so he could put off the inevitable humiliation for three months. I had to get him to write. For that, he’d need inspiration. And lots of it.
“I’ll do it, then,” I said.
He blinked. “Do what, exactly?”
“I’ll be your living proof. Sign that addendum and I’ll meet someone exactly like they do in rom-coms. I’ll re-create the meet-cutes from those films. The road trips. The holidays. The chance encounters. I’ll keep going until one of them works.”
But you can’t even meet someone through Tinder, my voice of reason pointed out. I shushed it.
NOB looked me up and down with a sly smile. “So what you’re saying is, if even you can meet someone that way, I have to believe it’s possible.”
I put the addendum down on the breakfast table. “So what you’re saying is we have a deal?”
His golden brows quirked. “Steady on, Red.”
“Evie.”
“Signing that will just give me three more months of the producers and Monty being on my back, distracting me.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” I said, trying not to sound too eager. I’ll show Monty what I’m capable of. “Tell them I’m assisting you. I’ll keep them at bay.”
NOB studied the wall behind me for a moment. “Say you do meet someone. How will I know you’re telling the truth? You could just bribe someone to say he fell for you. And you’d have to find someone pretty quickly to give me time to write a whole script.”
“All valid concerns,” I said, quickly retrieving pad and pen from my bag. “So let’s talk terms.”
“Isn’t that what the addendum’s for?”
“The addendum is for your deal with Intrepid. This is for the deal between us.”
I wrote down, If Evie Summers (“The Assistant”) can prove to N Ezra Chester (“The Screenwriter”)—
“What did you just cross out?”
“Nothing.”
—that the “Romantic Comedy” genre is realistic by meeting someone the same way people do in rom-coms (i.e., through a “meet-cute”), then he will submit the full script to Intrepid Productions by their deadline of February 18 of next year.
NOB leaned over my shoulder. “Y
ou have to fall in love with them too.”
Surely he’s not serious? “This is about meeting someone.”
“Exactly.” He was clearly enjoying himself. “You meet someone, and you both fall in love. Isn’t that the rom-com way? You have to find Mr. Happy Ending. Otherwise, no deal.”
My fingers tightened on the pen. This is your life he’s talking about. It had been a year since Ricky. I didn’t know if I was ready to meet someone, never mind like this.
But surely NOB was only trying to make things difficult. Right now, I just needed him to sign. Then I’d get him writing. Worry about the love part later.
“Fine.” I made the amendment with a flutter of apprehension. Though if he was going to get his way, I’d get mine.
The Screenwriter agrees to start work on the script from the moment he signs the addendum, I wrote. And will send his pages to The Assistant on a regular basis.
The amusement faded. “What?”
“Just making sure you can get it finished on time,” I said. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be responsible of me to let you sign this. Plus, I’ll need proof you’re actually writing.”
He folded his arms, something unreadable slipping into his eyes. “I’ll start writing, but there will be no happy ending from me until you get yours. And the pages will go to Monts. He’s my agent, last time I checked.”
I faltered, then made the change. As long as he writes the script, that’s all that matters. The agency would be safe, and so would my promotion.
“Here.” He plucked the pen from my fingers. With brisk strokes he wrote, The Assistant agrees to write detailed reports on every meet-cute for The Screenwriter.
“I’ll need proof you’re actually doing it,” he mimicked me, right down to the accent.
Snatching the pen back, I went to cross the line out—and hesitated. This could work in my favor. He probably thought the reports would keep me busy and off his back. But maybe one of these “reports” would be exactly what he needed to kick-start his writing.
“There’s just one more thing,” I said, and wrote: The Screenwriter and The Assistant agree that the above arrangement will never be disclosed to Monty.
If Monty ever found out how tenuous the agreement was—an understatement, if there ever was one—he’d be furious. He’d assured the producers that he had everything under control. If he discovered that the deal was resting on his assistant’s love life, he’d be humiliated. Forget about the fact that I’d succeeded where he had failed. I’d be fired before NOB even had the chance to miss the new deadline. Better that he believed NOB was writing of his own volition. It would be one less thing for me to worry about.
“Keeping secrets from your boss, Red? You’re just full of surprises today.” NOB considered me. “You know you’re only going to prove that rom-coms are bullshit, don’t you?”
“A lot can happen in three months,” I said.
“Agreed.” An expression flitted across his face, but it was gone too quickly to catch.
“Are we done?”
I held out my hand. He took it. “I need to hear you say it.”
“Red,” said NOB. “If you can prove it’s possible to fall in love like they do in those movies, I’ll write the damn script.”
I pushed our handwritten agreement and the copies of the addendum over. He hesitated, just a little, before signing them.
“Maybe I was wrong about you, Red. You’re not so boring after all.”
That’s not the only thing you’re wrong about, I thought.
Because whether he liked it or not, I was going to get him to finish that damn script. No matter what it took.
Chapter 5
The Moral Support
EXT: EVIE’S FLAT, EAST DULWICH—FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 23, 8:30 P.M.
EVIE rushes up the tiled path in her tiny garden and opens her front door, shrugging a canvas bag higher on her shoulder. It clinks. A bunch of basil and a baguette are poking out of the top. Once inside the compact hallway, she wriggles her key into the lock of a second door while hastily scrolling through her phone messages.
MARIA: Evie darling, we have arrived at your flat. We’re just outside
JEREMY: why aren’t you answering? Tell us you’re in there. This weekend is going to be painful enough planning She Who Must Not Be Named’s hen do without having to deal with your flatmate alone
SARAH: did my instructions come through?
JEREMY: oh, hi, Voldemort. Yes, we received the 19-page PowerPoint presentation and reading list. Thrilled to be included in the acknowledgments section
MARIA: let us innnnnnn
YOU HAVE 10 MISSED CALLS FROM MARIA NOWAK
MARIA: hello, it’s your best friends here, who are hoping you are just around the corner because Jane is in and it sounds like she has company. Whoever she’s with is having a VERY good time
JEREMY: we’re guessing it’s not you
MARIA: Evie Doris Summers where ARE you?
JEREMY: don’t do this to us, Evie. Oh, God, Jane is coming
JEREMY: and now she’s heading toward the door
I’d tried so hard to be on time for their visit. When they’d been here last, Monty had declared a Code Red (out-of-town client lost in Underground) and they’d been halfway through dessert by the time I’d made it to the restaurant.
This time I was late because Sam-and-Max had confirmed receipt of the addendum, and Monty had wanted to talk to me about it. He hadn’t hidden his surprise when I’d returned to the office with NOB’s signature on Monday, even holding the (slightly wrinkled) pages up to the light as if checking their authenticity. “You’ve taken on a lot of responsibility, Evelyn,” he’d said eventually, smoothing out the paper. “See that it pays off and in three months’ time, we’ll be celebrating more than the finished script.” He’d smiled at my hopeful expression, then brought me down to earth by giving me half a dozen contracts to check “urgently” before I left.
I entered the living room to see Jeremy, head in hands, his curly hair falling over his forehead and his usually crisp clothes rumpled on his slender frame as if to echo his despair. And Maria, nodding at whatever my flatmate Jane was saying, thick dark hair pulled back into a ponytail as she clutched an empty wineglass like it was the only thing nailed down in a storm. An expression of forced politeness wrestled with wide-eyed horror on her pretty face as Jane finished a particularly animated story that involved the kind of miming you don’t see at kids’ birthday parties.
“—and that’s when it fell out on the floor!”
Maria flinched.
I shook the bag so they could hear telltale clinking, and Jeremy leaped up. “Oh, Evie, thank God, I hate you, you goddess.” He bent to embrace me. “Jane was just explaining why she took so long letting us into the flat.” Jane smiled behind him. I grabbed Maria next, trying not to show the tears that sprang to my eyes at seeing them. I wished Sarah could be here too, but this weekend was for planning the hen do we all had to pretend she hadn’t already planned herself.
I hid my expression from Jeremy, but Maria, being Maria, caught sight of it and held on to me a little longer.
“It’s so good to see you never do this to us again,” she said in one breath. Jeremy had already taken the bag from me and was filling a spare glass.
“Jane,” I said, taking it from him gratefully, “you have a date to get to, don’t you?”
Jane stood in one sinuous movement, her black hair gleaming under the light. “I do. He’s in the bedroom. I’ll see you later.” This last part was aimed at Jeremy, who raised his wineglass.
“Still gay, Jane.”
“Still interested.” She smiled, then slunk out.
Jeremy shook his head. “Does anyone else feel both appalled and slightly confused about themselves?”
“Are you still working late every night?” Maria asked me, her
tone casual.
Jeremy poured more wine. “I mean, obviously I’m going to drink enough to forget most of what she just described, but part of me still hopes to be Jane when I grow up.”
“Just tonight,” I said to her.
“Evie,” she reprimanded, seeing through the fib. I knew Maria wasn’t mad at me; she was hurt. We barely saw each other, and I hadn’t been there to greet them on time. Again. I’d promised them a meal after their journey, and now it was after eight and the vegetables I’d bought at lunch were wilting in the bag. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I’d been finishing off the pile of contracts so I could please Monty. She’d insist, again, that I needed to leave the agency. Maria was full of all kinds of love, and her tough love packed a punch.
“I’m fine, I promise,” I insisted.
Out of all my friends, Maria had known me the longest, and at times like this, those years showed. I still remembered the day the little girl with the thick, dark hair and huge gray eyes helped me up when some other kids had pushed me over on the playground. She’s been my protector ever since. Two became three in high school, when we had Jeremy’s acerbic wit to get us through. Sarah joined us when we all started at Sheffield University. She lived with us in student halls and—possibly because no one else could cope with her—she became a firm part of our group. The four of us were close, but Maria probably knew me better than I knew myself.
To my relief, she didn’t push further. She sat down next to Jeremy, and I eased into my favorite chair, hoping that would be the end of it. I rested my wine on the well-worn arm, where it slipped on something. When I wiped at whatever it was, Jeremy let out a gagging sound. I looked over at him, wondering what was wrong as I rubbed my fingers together. My friends both sat there with vaguely guilty expressions. “What?”
Maria grimaced. “Oh, sweetie. You missed the beginning of Jane’s story. The part that took place on that chair.”
Jeremy tipped back his wine. “It was bad. As in burn-the-chair bad.”
“RIP chair, good knowing you.” They clinked their glasses.
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