From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL: The Drink Spill
November 26, 11:00 a.m.
Dear Ezra,
As per our agreement, I am delighted to be attaching my first meet-cute report. I’d be grateful if you could please confirm receipt and let me know that you’ve started writing.
Best wishes,
Evie
EVIE SUMMERS
ASSISTANT TO WILLIAM JONATHAN MONTGOMERY III
THE WILLIAM JONATHAN MONTGOMERY & SONS AGENCY FOR SCREENWRITERS
* * *
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL: The Drink Spill (WTF?)
November 27, 2:34 p.m.
Dear Red,
This was so fucking boring. Do we really have to go through three months of you spilling drinks on strangers and apologizing to them to prove I’m right?
Kind regards,
E
* * *
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL: The Drink Spill (haven’t you seen Notting Hill?)
November 27, 7:46 p.m.
Dear Ezra,
I’m sorry to hear you found it boring. Please remember there is still plenty of time for me to meet someone and prove you wrong. I’ll send my next report shortly. Looking forward to seeing your first pages.
EVIE
* * *
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL: The Drink Spill (why would I have seen that?)
November 28, 1:06 p.m.
Red, I’m not joking, I’m not writing anything if this is the kind of drivel you’re going to send me. Please remember that even dramas have to keep their audience awake. I assume from this that rom-coms don’t have the same standards.
* * *
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL: The Drink Spill Take 2 (has the package I sent you arrived?)
December 2, 2:56 p.m.
Dear Ezra,
Given the disappointment you expressed at my first attempt, I have given this meet-cute another go. Please find it attached. It’s not long, so you could at least try to stay awake.
Fingers crossed,
Evie
* * *
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL: The Drink Spill Take 2 (yes, but no one owns a DVD player anymore so I put it in the trash)
December 2, 3:06 p.m.
This is more like it, Red. When the kid spewed, I honestly thought this had to be bullshit so I rang the café. Fairly sure they’ve put you on a watch list.
I changed my mind. I can’t wait to hear about your next “meet-cute.”
Humbly yours,
E
* * *
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Progress update
December 3, 11:45 a.m.
Dear Evelyn,
Can you give me an update re: the script? I’m stepping back to allow Ezra the space to create. You should see this as an opportunity. There could be a great future ahead of you.
Of course, for that to happen, the agency does need to still be here.
Best,
Monty
WILLIAM JONATHAN MONTGOMERY III
THE WILLIAM JONATHAN MONTGOMERY & SONS AGENCY FOR SCREENWRITERS
* * *
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL: The Drink Spill Take 2 (www.netflix.co.uk/nottinghill)
December 3, 1:15 p.m.
I’m sure the pages you’re about to send Monty will make the whole thing worthwhile.
P.S. I’ve attached a comprehensive list of the best rom-coms for you to watch to address your alarming lack of cultural knowledge. Consider this an education. I trust you’ll find them inspiring.
Chapter 8
The Other Shoe
EXT: GIL’S COFFEE HOUSE, EAST DULWICH, SUNDAY, DECEMBER 9, 10 A.M.
It’s pouring rain. EVIE hurries past the door to Gil’s, holding a red umbrella but still soaked through. The café next door is closed for refurbishment. She spins around, looking for another option. The torrential rain makes it all but impossible to see, so she dashes back to Gil’s. Despite the weather, she hesitates at the door.
It had been only a week since I’d made a child projectile-vomit in this café. Could I really go back? An ice-cold droplet of rain found its way down my neck, and I had my answer.
It wasn’t like I could go home, I reminded myself as I opened the door. In the territory negotiations for the flat, I’d got sex-free Saturdays and Jane had claimed Sundays so she could have sleepovers. Not that anyone did much sleeping. I needed somewhere I could write up my latest meet-cute “report” for NOB in peace. He hadn’t sent Monty any pages even after approving of my second Drink Spill, but I wasn’t panicking yet. It had been only a few weeks, and I hadn’t expected him to break through his writer’s block straight away. NOB needed more inspiration to get him going, and that’s what I was giving him. Even if, so far, that had entailed humiliating myself all over London.
I headed to the counter, telling myself no one would recognize me. My dad always said that everyone was too busy worrying about themselves to give a damn about anybody else. I kept this in mind as I checked to make sure the Yummy Mummies had stuck to their promise never to return. They weren’t there. Thank God.
Xan was serving. I ordered a coffee and toast, my heart kicking up a beat.
“Sure, mate, coming right up.” Xan smiled. I was fairly sure he was the type of person who used “mate” indiscriminately. If the guy who’d had to clean up the mess didn’t remember me, no one would.
While he made the coffee, I scoped the café for a free table. There were two familiar faces at the back. Ben and Anette were sitting where they’d been the week before, both with their heads down, reading. I exhaled slowly.
The sound of a cup hitting the counter made me turn back around.
It was an orange juice.
I looked at it for a long moment.
Xan stood behind it with a big grin on his face.
“I thought you might like to try our new special.” He produced a blackboard with a handwritten message on it.
The “Not Suitable for Children” Surprise!
(spoiler: contains egg)
His expression wavered as he caught sight of mine and he quickly replaced the juice with a coffee.
“It’s given us a break from the pumpkin-spice lattes,” he said, slightly apologetically.
I took the coffee with the tiniest of thank-yous. I’d made a mistake. I should never have come back here. A throat cleared behind me.
Anette and Ben were both standing there. They were holding juice. Anette nudged her dad to hold his up higher. She grinned, oblivious to his discomfort.
“We’ve come to help you find this funny,” she said.
* * *
Anette insisted I join them again, leaving me with no choice but to set up my laptop next to them at the table. I had the distinct impression the invite wasn’t mutual when Ben immediately opened his paper. He was wearing a shirt beneath his jumper, which seemed overly formal for a weekend. I concentrated on writing my latest report, determined to show him I wasn’t here to intrude on their breakfast.
Anette didn’t have the same concerns. “Have you done anot
her meet-cute yet?”
I tried not to look over at her dad. I’d told them the absolute bare minimum last week after Ben had called me out on what I was doing.
Before I could reply, Ben said, “Anette, leave Evie alone.” He made a movement with his hands and I saw his daughter track this and pull a face. Her small hands moved in response, and he lifted the edge of his mouth. Anette tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear and the hearing aid there.
“Okay, I’ll play,” Ben replied out loud. “But I get to choose this time.”
They put their heads together and spoke in hushed tones, occasionally punctuating their conversation with more sign language.
I turned back to my report. It was a recap of the Damsel-in-Distress meet-cute (not the most progressive rom-com trope but it worked in The Wedding Planner). Like my first two attempts, it hadn’t exactly gone to plan. I could already picture NOB’s reaction. So far, the meet-cutes had served only to amuse him. All this humiliation better be worth it.
It wasn’t just the act of doing the meet-cutes that was proving tricky; it was writing about them. I hadn’t considered that sending NOB the reports would feel like anything close to writing again. Yet when NOB had said he was bored by my first attempt, an old hurt had flared. I used to lose hours to writing, whole days going by in a blink. My dad would always be my first reader, his measured feedback helping me to polish off the edges. Then Dad died, and that agent had rejected the first script I’d written without his help. Maria used to say the urge to write would come back to me eventually. But every time I faced the blank screen, all that returned were the agent’s words. You just don’t have what it takes. Now I had no choice but to write without my first reader there to guide me. And every word I put on the page felt like taking tentative steps out onto ice.
My phone buzzed, yanking me back into the café. I turned it over, expecting it to be JEMS, but then I saw the message, and the nickname.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: So, Red, have you made any more children vomit? I have to say, I found that incredibly motivating. More so than the list you sent of all the rom-coms I’m never going to watch. Eagerly awaiting the next update
He was just as infuriating by text as he was in person.
RED: who is this, sorry?
NOB: Just how many devastatingly attractive screenwriters do you know, Red?
RED: none
NOB: Very funny, Stevie
RED: oh. It’s you. Shouldn’t you be writing?
NOB: So demanding. I want more of these reports from you first. I like seeing you inflicting yourself on people other than me for a change. Plus, your writing isn’t half bad, Red
RED: neither is your distraction technique. We had a deal
NOB: Exactly, so what’s next?
I glanced up as Anette giggled. She was holding what looked like a professional camera. I would have assumed it was her dad’s, except the strap was rainbow-colored, and there was something in the way she handled it that told me it was hers.
She took a picture of Ben. He smiled for her, willing but awkward. I dropped my gaze back to my phone, wondering why they were here alone again. Maybe Sunday breakfast was their official father/daughter time. They seemed so close. They were strangers to me, but there was something about them that felt familiar.
Flash. I blinked to find Anette lowering her camera, grinning at me. “Do you want to play too?”
Ben opened his mouth as if to protest, but I got there first. “What’s the game?” I asked, not entirely sure what had come over me. It was painfully clear her dad didn’t want me to join them. For some reason, this made me want to more.
Anette beamed. “It’s called Bad Lamp Random,” she said. Then she repeated herself without any sound.
“Bad Lip Reading,” Ben supplied quietly.
“Here, we’ll show you. You have to pick someone, like those two over there.” Anette pointed toward an elderly couple a few tables over. Ben gently pushed her extended finger down. “Watch this.” She squinted over at them. I could see the couple talking, but across the crowded café, it was impossible to hear them.
“Oh, I am going to the shops to buy cheese,” Anette said, deepening her voice. There was a pause. “Dad,” she urged.
“Do I always have to be the woman?”
“Yes,” she said. “And do it properly.”
He glanced at me, before shifting his attention to the couple. “Why are you obsessed with cheese?” he said, his voice higher than usual. I held a hand over my smile.
“Cheese is great,” said Anette in that same deep voice. “And so are bees,” she added, when the old man carried on talking.
Ben and Anette were perfectly matching the couple’s exchange, speeding up their own responses or slowing them down to coincide with the movements of their mouths. You could almost believe they really were lip-reading, except it was complete nonsense.
“You’ve never mentioned bees before,” said Ben in his falsetto.
The man made an irate gesture toward a waiter. “Get me some bees!” Anette shouted, leaving Ben to wince as the couple looked over and we all ducked our heads.
“That was brilliant,” I said under my breath.
“Dad made it up.”
Ben shook out his paper, indicating the game was over, the tips of his ears pink.
His daughter took the opportunity to edge closer to me, a gleam in her eye. “So, did you do another meet-cute for NOB?”
Had I really used NOB’s nickname last week? I’d been so flustered, I could barely recall exactly what I’d told them. No wonder Ben didn’t want me there.
“His name’s actually Ezra,” I said hastily, looking over at Ben. He turned his page, oblivious. Fine. “Your mother is going to think I’m a bad influence,” I said to Anette.
Now Ben’s head snapped up. What did I say?
But Anette was smiling at me. “I think she would have bloody loved you,” she said.
It took me a second to register the past tense, and then, with a jolt, I knew why Anette and Ben were here alone.
“Anette,” Ben reprimanded. “Remember what we said? You may swear only in French. I want people to think we’re cultured.”
“Merde,” said Anette.
“Better.”
“I’m sorry,” I said softly to Ben. Maybe there was something in my tone that let him know, in my own way, I understood. He lifted his eyes to mine and, for the first time, smiled at me. He placed a gentle kiss on the side of Anette’s head.
Watching them both, an impulse struck me. “I know it’s not strictly a breakfast drink, but what would you say to a hot chocolate?” My dad and I used to drink them together all the time.
“A big fat yes!” Anette said, at the same time as Ben replied, “We’re fine, thank you.”
Anette jutted her chin at her dad and spoke to him with her quick fingers.
“Yes, that would be very kind, thank you,” he amended.
It felt something like progress. I emailed NOB the meet-cute and went to order.
* * *
The woman in front of me in the queue had a long, honey-blond ponytail that she kept swishing in my face. It took me a second to register that she was one of the mums who’d been here last week. She caught sight of me and I froze for a moment, unsure what to say.
“Samantha,” she said, adjusting the strap on the yoga mat slung over her shoulder.
“Evie,” I replied, warily.
“Oh, don’t worry about that little thing last week. That wasn’t the first time Justice has cleared a room.” Her laugh was high and fluting. I gave her a weak smile.
She ordered a skinny flat white from Xan. “I can’t help but notice you’re sitting with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding over there.”
I forced myself not to look back at my table. “I’m sorry?”
“Oh, it�
��s just a little joke between me and some of the other mums. Our kids all go to the same school.” She chewed her lip. “Can I give you some advice?”
“Sure.” I doubted I could stop her. I ordered the hot chocolates from Xan, requesting extra marshmallows on one of them.
“He’s not really dating material.” Her tone was almost apologetic. “I went for a drink with him once after my divorce, and it was super awkward. He barely said two words the whole night unless it was about that little girl of his. Not that I’m judging. Maybe he just wasn’t ready, you know? Especially after how his wife died. Or maybe he’s just like that. Some men are.” She plucked her flat white off the counter. “Just thought I’d save you some time.”
Before I could tell her she’d got the wrong impression, she’d flounced off, ponytail swinging. I lifted the tray of hot chocolates. How had his wife died? a small part of me wondered, before dismissing the thought. Definitely not my business.
“So,” Anette said, once I’d divvied out the hot chocolates. Ben looked at his with a little frown before carrying on reading. I’d given him the one with the most marshmallows. He seemed like he needed it. “Now can you tell us about your last meet-cute?”
Describing it to NOB was one thing—there was something about writing it down that at least put some distance between myself and the humiliation. The idea of saying it out loud was different. And yet Anette’s expression was wide open. There wasn’t a trace of judgment to be seen.
I glanced over at Ben—he was once more absorbed in his reading, his mug now pulled close. When he didn’t protest, I told her about the Damsel in Distress, describing how I’d walked up and down the street for half an hour in heels that pinched my feet before spotting a mark—checked shirt, woolly hat, beard. Not quite Matthew McConaughey, but far more my type. I’d waited until he was a few feet away, then I’d stepped onto a sewer grid cover and jammed my heel between the slots.
Would Like to Meet Page 7