“Oh, God.” I sprang up and flew to the door. “Jane!” I hollered as I hurried down the hallway to the kitchen to scrub my hands.
Her music dipped. “Yes, my duck?”
Before responding, I ran through my calming mantra: She hasn’t increased the rent in three years. She hasn’t increased the rent in three years. Jane’s lifestyle wasn’t usually an issue. We’d set some ground rules early on to avoid any mishaps. Namely, I got sex-free communal spaces and Jane could have her nightly visitors, which I’d know about only through her jaw-droppingly filthy stories and on those occasions when she used the dishwasher to sterilize her sex toys. She had a reassuringly high bar for hygiene, but that isn’t a comfort when you reach in for a cup first thing in the morning and pull out a dildo.
“You promised no sex in the living room.”
She leaned out of her bedroom wearing some extremely complicated-looking underwear. “Of course, my darling! We only began in the living room.” Well, that was some relief, at least. “We finished in the kitchen.”
I recoiled, then grabbed the sponge to wipe down every surface.
I could hear the rumbles of a deep baritone drifting from Jane’s open door.
“One more thing,” Jane sang out. “Trev promises he’ll replace the sponge.”
* * *
“Are you really going to do it?” Maria leaned forward over her plate to bite into her takeout pizza. The moment they’d heard the full story about my deal with NOB, Sarah’s military-grade hen do presentation had been abandoned (“Absolute No-Nos for the Perfect Hen!! 1) NO penises. Jeremy: That’s me out. (a) not on springs, (b) or inflatable, (c) especially not edible. (d) Jeremy, your penis doesn’t count. Jeremy: Exactly which category does she think my penis falls into?)
Jeremy waved his wineglass. “Just so we’re clear: You’re going to try and fall in love within the next three months by re-creating meet-cutes from rom-coms?”
“This is for my career, Jem, not my love life. I just need to get NOB through his writer’s block. I’m hoping then he won’t be as hung up on the love thing.” Silence. “In case there’s any doubt, I do know this is completely bonkers.”
“He’s such a . . . a nob!” Maria said forcefully. She was the sweetest, kindest, most forgiving person I knew. And she hated NOB with a fire even I couldn’t muster. “Evie, are you absolutely sure you want to go through with this? Don’t let NOB force you into something you aren’t ready for. He’d never ask this of a guy.”
“Yes, put yourself first. Be careful,” Jeremy intoned dutifully.
“I know how it sounds, but aside from the love part, the deal was entirely my idea. It’s not just about saving the agency. Monty’s promised to promote me to agent if NOB writes the script.”
“He really said that?” Maria asked.
I nodded, understanding the doubt in her voice. “He’s never even hinted at it before.” It was part of the reason my friends found it so hard to understand why I stayed working for him, but agent positions were rare, and though I’d gone for interviews, I’d never made it to the second round. I had to prove to Monty—and, if I was being honest, to myself—that I was good enough before I could move on. Ricky had always got that. I wished they could too.
Jeremy exchanged a look with Maria. I suddenly got the feeling they’d been discussing me at length on the journey here.
“What?” I said, feeling a little ambushed.
Maria went first. “Ever since Dicky, we’ve noticed that you’ve been putting even more of your energy into work.” They’d been calling Ricky that since the night of the Breakup. I loved them for it, even if I couldn’t bring myself to do the same. “We want to make sure you have time left for yourself. Maybe even for real-life dating.”
That gave me pause. I hadn’t realized my lack of dating had them concerned. They came from two different ends of the dating spectrum from me. Jeremy was rarely without a date, and Maria had never been on one. She and David had been together since they were sixteen. To her, the dating jungle was more of a well-maintained patio.
Though from the sounds of things, it was my complete lack of anything post-Breakup that worried them.
“We know how much your career means to you, and having this job helped you at a really bad time,” she said, ever so gently. I’d started at the agency not long after my dad died, and she was right. It had filled up the worst of those days. “But maybe a break would do you good. You could do anything you wanted to. Even start writing again.” After Dad, my friends had tried to keep me writing. They’d never fully understood why I couldn’t get back to the version of me who’d stay up all night feverishly typing, who’d push all her favorite films on them, encouraging them to treat dialogue like it was art. I’d never found the right way to tell them what that agent had told me. It was just too awful. “We’re concerned you aren’t taking care of yourself down here.”
I busied myself by grabbing another slice of pizza. Sometimes I worried that my friends believed I existed in a state of arrested development. Like there were still some tick boxes I hadn’t checked in order to become a full-fledged adult, as they had with their mortgages, savings accounts, and sensible life choices.
Maria sensed my distress. “We’re just saying that you don’t have to spend what’s left of your spare time outside of work doing this. You don’t need to put your personal life on the line for a man like NOB, or for Monty. He should be the one doing everything he can to save his agency.”
Jeremy leaned over and put his hand on my head. “What Maria is saying, dearest Evie, is that we only wish you knew your worth. Because to us you are priceless.”
My eyes filled with tears for the second time that evening, and I nodded, swallowing a few times before finally speaking. “Thank you for caring. It means a lot, really. But I want to go through with this. I am going to get that promotion. Plus”—I gave them a small grin—“anything is better than Tinder.”
My friends pulled me in for a hug and I held on tightly to their arms.
“Right,” Jeremy said, sitting back. “Have we finished with the considerate-friends bit for now?”
“To due diligence,” said Maria, raising her glass.
“Great.” Jeremy scooted forward, grabbed his overnight bag from the side of the sofa, and pulled out a large rolled-up notepad. “Because we made you a list.”
Moments later, he had the pad propped up with a series of colored markers laid out on the coffee table. The first sheet said Sarah’s Hen Do! in Maria’s handwriting.
“Ugh. No.” Jeremy flipped over the page.
I felt a flash of guilt at our absolute lack of planning.
“If you’re determined to do this,” explained Maria, “then we are here for you a hundred percent. You will get that NOB to write the script.”
“Evie,” Jeremy said grandly, uncapping a pink marker and turning the pad around to reveal what was written on it. “We are going to help you fall in love.”
Chapter 6
The List
INT: LIVING ROOM—FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 23, 10:15 P.M.
EVIE is sitting on the carpet, leaning against the black velvet couch, a glass of wine halfway to her mouth. JEREMY is kneeling in front of a large notepad with The Challenge! written on it, arms splayed in a ta-da gesture. MARIA is sitting on the sofa behind EVIE. She’s giving little encouraging gestures to JEREMY that EVIE can’t see.
“Not that I don’t fully appreciate your efforts, but I meant what I said. I only agreed to the love part to get NOB to sign. I have no intention of actually falling for someone.” Not after Ricky.
“Sure, we know that,” said Jeremy, glancing behind me at Maria. He drew a line under The Challenge! “But hear us out. Evie Summers, from the very moment you agreed to this deal with NOB, you entered the Challenge meet-cute. As seen in 10 Things I Hate About You (RIP Heath Ledger, too beautiful for this world), She�
�s All That, and How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. To the uncultured, very different films. But they each come down to the same thing: a challenge is issued, followed by inevitable misunderstandings, brutal betrayals, and, ultimately, love.” He wrote Love on the pad. “The Challenge meet-cute often overlaps with the ‘love to hate you’ rom-com, but then we realized the only person you hate is NOB.”
“It’s funny to think,” Maria chipped in, “but if this was an actual rom-com, you’d end up with the arrogant writer who, it would turn out, was only using his massive ego to hide an endearing lack of confidence.” There was a moment of stunned silence in which we both stared at her. “I’m kidding! You’d never fall for that cockhat.”
“Drunk Maria, everybody,” toasted Jeremy.
I raised my glass too, as my brain helpfully reminded me of NOB’s sculpted chest. Stupid brain.
Jeremy powered on. “Now, as per any self-respecting Challenge meet-cute, there’s a deadline. You’ve got three months. You said you need to send regular ‘progress reports’ to NOB to keep him inspired. To help you stay on track, I present to you your carefully curated meet-cutes, chosen by the experts.” He waved the tip of the pen between himself and Maria. I gave him a pointed look. Jeremy was the biggest cynic I knew. “What? So I have watched a few rom-coms, no big deal. Your choices are . . .” He hit the board with the tip of the marker. “The Road Trip: When Harry Met Sally. Elizabethtown. Thelma and Louise.”
“Pass on that last one. I want to meet someone, not drive with them off a cliff.”
“Isn’t that all relationships?” Maria and I both rolled our eyes. “Okay, fine, but no more vetoes.”
“It’s not even a rom-com!”
“Hush, now, remember your gratitude.” That told me. Jeremy flipped the page. “Then there’s the Holiday Romance. Also doubles as the Christmas rom-com. Most famously: The Holiday. Love Actually. Bridget Jones’s Diary. A Christmas Prince. Don’t give me that look. I wasn’t one of the people Netflix called out for watching it twice a day for two weeks.” He avoided our eyes as he revealed the next page.
It bore the words Big Finale?? in giant letters. “We’ll come back to that.” He turned over to a list that looked a little more “drank wine on train.”
“‘Stalk Someone’?”
“While You Were Sleeping. A stone-cold classic,” said Jeremy.
“I don’t intend to get arrested, Jem.” I moved on to the next one. “‘The One Where They Meet in a Bookshop’?” I read out.
Jeremy started to tick off on his fingers. “You’ve Got Mail, When Harry Met Sally—”
“You’ve already used that one.”
“Venn diagram,” called Maria. Jeremy flipped to a very complicated-looking series of overlapping circles with headings like “Christmas” and “Hugh Grant,” filled in with various rom-coms from pre–golden age to now. It was a work of drunken genius. “There’s some overlap.”
“I can see that,” I said, beginning to smile.
The living room door flew open. “Darlings!”
Jeremy reached for the wine bottle.
“Jane!” I said loudly, aware of how the room must look. “How was your date?”
“I’ll tell you in the morning.”
A pair of arms snaked around her slender waist and a dark-haired man peered over her shoulder into the room. He was gorgeous, like a young Antonio Banderas. All three of us gawped. Sometimes I thought Jane’s relationship spectrum was like a beautiful prism, albeit one that had to be dishwasher-safe.
“I’m Trev,” he said in a broad East End accent. “Jane’s told me loads about you.” One might think he’d be talking about me, Jane’s flatmate, but he was looking at Jeremy when he spoke.
“Not as much as we heard about you,” Jeremy muttered into his glass.
“We just wanted to pop in and ask you about the courgettes you’ve put in the fridge.” Trev nudged her. “And the aubergine. Are you planning on using them . . . ?”
I held up some pizza. “We decided to stay out of the kitchen. You’re welcome to eat them.”
Jeremy, who’d been busy rolling up a slice, stopped to shake his head vigorously at me. “Duck,” said Jane. “We won’t be eating them.”
It took me a few seconds to get it. “But they’re organic,” I said, as if that mattered.
Trev nibbled Jane’s ear. “Be right back.”
Jane’s eyes slid to the pad. “What are you darlings up to?”
Maria gamely stepped in. “We were just trying to think of ways Evie could meet someone in a bookshop,” she said.
“You’re dating again?” Jane asked me. “How thrilling! Though hardly anyone meets organically anymore.”
Speaking of organic, Trev had returned with my vegetables and—unaccountably—a spiralizer.
“What about a book group?” he suggested, munching on the end of a carrot.
Jane tugged it away from his mouth. “Don’t waste them. Oh, I know! My friend raves about the one in the Dusty Bookshelf in Peckham. Says it’s an absolute scream. It’s got such a fun name. What is it . . . ?”
I exchanged looks with my friends, but what was the worst that could happen? It was a book group. Jeremy wrote it down.
“How did you two meet?” Maria asked her. Jeremy switched his pizza for more wine.
“Mustache dating app,” Jane said promptly.
We all looked as one to Trev’s bare upper lip. “Must Dash,” Jane enunciated. “It’s an app for commuters who want a quick fu—”
“How lovely,” Maria interjected.
We were treated to a live demonstration of the “dash” part of the app as Trev chased Jane down the hallway with the courgette.
I closed the door so we couldn’t hear anything. “Okay,” I said, returning to the list. “So I’ve got my list of meet-cutes for inspiration. Now show me your plan for the big finale.”
I don’t think I’d ever seen two people look more pleased with themselves.
Jeremy held up his phone, showing he’d been busy on JEMS.
SARAH: is this hen do-related? Tell me you’re not getting distracted!
“Wait, not that one.” He scrolled down.
SARAH: got it. Right, count me in for the wedding one.
“What does she mean?”
“That Sarah’s wedding is finally going to be useful for something.”
“Jeremy,” Maria chastised automatically. Still our conscience, even when tipsy.
Jeremy pointed to the middle of the Venn diagram, where the word Wedding! was made barely legible by the overlapping circles. “Approximately ninety-five percent of rom-coms feature a wedding, maybe more, I haven’t actually done the math. The Wedding Planner. 27 Dresses. My Best Friend’s Wedding. Having the wedding as your end point is literally the most rom-com thing you could possibly do. This,” said Jeremy, spreading his hands, “is your grand finale.”
Maria was beaming encouragingly. “Sarah’s going to find you the perfect date.” She paused at my expression. “She’s going to find you a date.”
“It’s Sarah’s day, I can’t make it about me!”
Jeremy snorted. “Every day is Sarah’s day. With this one she’s just legitimized it. The wedding is just before your deadline, Evie. It’s perfect timing. If you haven’t succeeded by then, who better to make sure you do than an obsessive, aggressively organized control freak? Our questionable friendship is finally going to pay off. Evie, my dear, do it for all of us.”
I looked to Maria, who shrugged. “Sarah seems happy about it . . .”
“Okay, okay, you win.”
Jeremy came back to sit between us on the sofa and we all looked at the word Wedding! at the center of the pad.
“I’m really doing it,” I said, slightly dazed. “I’m going to live as if I’m in a rom-com for three months.”
If I was tru
ly honest, I knew I feared the very thing my friends believed this challenge might be good for. Am I risking falling in love again? Ricky’s final words to me were at the back of my mind. I think you’re great, Evie, he’d said. It’s just me. I want more. It was the ultimate “It’s not you, it’s me” breakup, only I was still left feeling like I’d failed to be what he wanted. I wasn’t grieving anymore, not exactly; but some things linger.
“To Evie,” Jeremy declared, as we clinked our glasses, “and her love life.”
“Career,” I corrected. “And here’s to my brilliant friends proving, with a little manipulation, real life can be like the movies.”
Jeremy held two books from the coffee table over my lap like they were a director’s clapper board, bringing them together with a snap. “Action.”
Chapter 7
The Drink Spill Takes One and Two
From: [email protected]
To: JEMS
Subject: IT WENT REALLY BADLY WRONG
November 26, 10:30 a.m.
Hi guys, so I’m about to send You Know Who the details of my first meet-cute attempt—The Drink Spill.
I’ve attached what I’ve written. Do you think it reads okay? I’ll be honest, I chickened out a bit. I was sitting at one of the communal tables. I had a cup of water and I was next to a guy I think was my age (he was a hipster, but who’s judging?).
FYI, spilling your drink on a complete stranger is MUCH harder than it sounds. It took me two attempts to knock it all the way over, I was so nervous (DO YOU REALIZE HOW INSANE THIS MAKES YOU LOOK?). When I did finally get the courage to tip it, it went all over his vintage Rubik’s cube and some of the colored stickers peeled right off. MORTIFIED.
Much love,
That person in the café you don’t want to sit next to
xxx
* * *
Would Like to Meet Page 6