Would Like to Meet

by Rachel Winters

  We smiled at each other. His teeth were slightly crooked at the front.

  “I didn’t quite know what to expect when I arrived,” he admitted.

  “Fewer wands,” I said.

  “You didn’t read the book, did you?”

  “Do you think anyone noticed?” I joked.

  “There’s always next time,” he replied.

  “Will you be back?” I was genuinely curious.

  “Maybe,” he nodded. “Would you come again?”

  “Maybe,” I echoed with a smile. “A part of me is a little curious to read the book.”

  “I really hope you like it.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  We were interrupted by Meagan calling everyone’s attention to her. “Thanks again for coming, everybody.” Laughter, which I now understood. “We didn’t want to say anything at the beginning in case it stymied the conversation, but I am thrilled to say that the author himself, Mr. T. Mingle, has been with us all evening. He’s here to answer all your burning questions.”

  I looked at Tom in alarm while everyone gathered around us. “It’s okay,” he said as I was elbowed farther back by eager members. “Even my girlfriend thinks it’s weird. I’ve lost count of the number of wands I’ve been asked to put my signature on.”

  Chapter 10

  Mash-Up

  INT: GIL’S COFFEE HOUSE, EAST DULWICH—SUNDAY, DECEMBER 16, 10 A.M.

  EVIE enters the café, glancing around for a spare table. She spots BEN and ANETTE at the same table they were at the week before and ducks her head, making her way to a bench occupied by laptop users.

  “Evie!” Anette’s piping voice cut clear across the café. There was no way I could ignore it.

  I braced myself, then found myself smiling. She was holding up a mug of hot chocolate. I signaled that I’d head over after I ordered breakfast.

  If Ben saw fit to pass further judgment on my activities this week, next Sunday I’d try somewhere new. I needed somewhere to write up my meet-cutes. Not that they were getting me anywhere yet, romantically or otherwise. NOB still hadn’t sent any pages to Monty, and it was making my boss twitchy. Last week, he’d advised that I “at least attempt” to get NOB to send us proof he was writing. Stating, without any trace of self-awareness, “That’s what any good agent would do.” To keep Monty distracted, I’d sifted through the agency’s ginormous slush pile—the mountain of screenplays sent to us by writers hoping for representation. He was seldom happier than when he was explaining to me exactly why the ones I’d chosen weren’t up to the agency’s standards (i.e., they were by women). It cheered him up at least, and allowed me time to concentrate on the meet-cutes.

  Ben didn’t look up when I reached their table. He was absorbed in an issue of National Geographic. Anette had saved me the chair between them.

  “Hold it right there . . .” Anette said as I opened my laptop. She was holding her camera. I stuck out my tongue for the photo. “Now chop chop,” she told me, opening her book. “That meet-cute isn’t going to write about itself.”

  The blank page. One of the biggest obstacles a writer has to face, along with everything on the Internet. NOB was still pushing me to use more dialogue and it was making the writing process even more of a challenge. Come on, Evie. You’ll never get NOB to keep reading these if you don’t use a boychild-friendly format.

  I began the Bookshop meet-cute like I was delivering bad news, jabbing reluctantly at the keys. Then, when I got to Meagan’s lines as she tried to catch me out for having not read the book, something happened. It felt like catching up with myself, as if I’d been lagging behind. It wasn’t exactly like it used to be, but I found a rhythm that helped the words come a little easier.

  When I checked the time, almost an hour had flown by. I became aware of someone looking at me. Anette, I thought.

  It was Ben.

  “What?” I asked, startled.

  “Nothing,” he said quickly, and went back to his magazine, the tips of his ears now pink.

  When I next looked up, Ben was resting his chin on his upturned palm; his other arm was draped over his long legs, completely engrossed in an article. Good, I thought.

  I couldn’t help but notice a smudge of red glitter on his nose. His face wasn’t quite as somber when he was lost in concentration. Dark brows, intelligent eyes, crooked smile—not that I’d seen it very often—an angular, neatly shaved jawline and near-black hair that looked like it might curl if it was allowed to grow longer. Teamed with his clothing—a shirt and jumper again—it was like he was trying his best to be a stock image for “A Sensible Adult Man.”

  My phone lit up. I tugged my attention away from him.

  MARIA: did you sort the manor for Sarah’s hen?

  EVIE: all done! Just need to confirm it with our deposit, if you guys don’t mind dropping your share into my account

  MARIA: you star! I’ll nudge Jem. How are the meet-cutes?

  EVIE: mortifying as ever. And guess who’s back in Gil’s?

  MARIA: Ben? His daughter sounded lovely, though. Maybe you caught him on a bad day

  EVIE: that’s every Sunday so far.

  I’d told my friends about Ben after his interrogation last time had caught me off guard and I’d needed a reality check. Was what I was doing okay? They’d told me not to let his reaction prevent me from doing the meet-cutes. I suspected they really meant “Don’t let his reaction stop you from meeting someone.” At least this week he’d spoken even less than usual.

  I glanced up from my phone, frowning, sensing something was a little off. I observed Ben and Anette for a moment, trying to figure out what was bothering me. They were both reading, but there was something strained about the silence. Anette had been all smiles for me, but now her mouth was set in a stubborn line. She had her back turned to Ben, who was also angled away from her.

  Ben and Anette weren’t speaking to each other.

  None of your business, Evie. I tried to go back to the message I was writing to NOB, but the silence grew too loud.

  “Is everything all right?” I asked.

  They both looked up in unison.

  “It’s totally fine,” Anette smiled at me. “By the way, Evie, please could you ask my father if I can have another drink?”

  “That depends on whether she’s going to apologize,” Ben said coolly.

  “Is he going to let his only daughter die of thirst?” Anette said.

  Ben turned his page. “He’s certainly considering it.”

  “How about Evie doesn’t do anything until someone tells her what’s going on,” I said in my best no-nonsense voice.

  “Nothing, except he wants my whole school to laugh at me.” Anette folded her arms, tucking her chin into her chest.

  Her dad scowled. “It’s not my fault. I did my best.”

  “I’m not doing it.”

  “Doing what?” I asked.

  “The stupid school play,” Anette said.

  “Anette,” Ben said levelly. “It’s a great part. Everyone else has to wear a costume.”

  “Yeah, but not this costume.”

  “I give up,” he said, exasperated.

  “What’s the play?” I asked. I shouldn’t intrude, but seeing them at odds just felt wrong.

  When Anette didn’t answer, Ben replied for her. “Peter Pan.”

  Anette made a furious sign, which Ben returned.

  They glared at each other before both jutting their chins in opposite directions. I hid a smile.

  “I love Peter Pan,” I said.

  Anette raised her dark eyes to mine.

  “Really?”

  Now I did smile. “My dad used to read it to me all the time. I still have the book. It’s one of the greatest stories ever written, and you’re going to be in the play?” I poured awe into my voice. “What
part?”

  “Tinker Bell,” Anette said, her tone unimpressed.

  “Tink.” I sighed. “That’s lucky.”

  “Why?”

  “She gets all the cool lines, and she swears a lot.” I couldn’t think of anyone better to play the tempestuous fairy I’d loved growing up.

  “See, you’re already halfway there,” Ben told his daughter.

  She set her chin. “I’m signing my lines. What if everyone’s looking at me in that stupid costume and I mess up?”

  Ben’s brown eyes softened.

  “Do you know the sign for ‘silly ass’?” I was rewarded with the tiniest of smiles.

  “Mrs. Clarke doesn’t like swearing,” Anette said.

  “Does Mrs. Clarke know the sign for ‘silly ass’?” I asked.

  The smile widened as she shook her head. I thought I saw some of the tension leave Ben’s broad shoulders.

  “There’s just one huge problem.” She tossed her dad a look. “Tell her.”

  Ben cleared his throat. “The play’s a ‘mash-up.’” Ben used the term like it exhausted him. “They’ve made it into a musical.”

  “Not the Disney one.” Anette covered her eyes. “Show her.”

  Ben gave his daughter a look before reaching into a dark bag by his feet.

  I understood where the streak of red glitter had come from as he extracted what must surely be Anette’s costume. It was a very sad-looking pair of glittery wings and a raggedy tutu stiff with glitter glue. Handmade, by the looks of it, with a certain try-hard enthusiasm if not a great deal of skill.

  “Chloe was better at this stuff,” Ben said, picking at a particularly large clump of glitter. His wife, I assumed, noting how easily he spoke of her—it took a long time to turn that corner. “I was hoping her grandmother might be able to salvage it.”

  “It’s definitely creative,” I assured him. “The colors alone . . .” For some reason, he’d chosen red, white, and blue rather than the traditional Tink green. As I squinted, I realized it was a pattern.

  The wings each bore a wobbly glitter-glue Union Jack.

  “What’s the other half of the mash-up?” I asked.

  Ben’s reply was resigned. “It’s the Spice Girls.”

  * * *

  “Mum, I have a clothing emergency,” I said. I was standing in the back entrance to Gil’s, where it was quieter, my duffel coat done up against the cold.

  “My favorite kind!” my mum exclaimed down the phone. It was one of the many things I loved about Mary Summers: no preamble required.

  I explained about Anette’s costume, and how she might feel more confident if it was beautiful. “Her dad really tried,” I said. “But we’re in need of an expert.” My mum made most of my dresses. Her skill with a needle was unparalleled, and had not been passed down through the gene pool. I preferred super glue to thread.

  “I’d love to, pet. Though isn’t there anyone else around to help?” That was my mum: subtle as a brick.

  “He’s a widower, mum,” I said.

  “A lost cause, then.” My mum’s voice was wry.

  “That’s not what I meant,” I said, hastily. “Besides,” I continued, before she got any ideas, “it’s for Anette. There’s just one more thing . . .” I explained what I had in mind, and my mum crowed with delight. “And they need the costume by Friday morning. Is that possible? I’ll pay for the material.”

  “Pish posh. I’ll have it to you by Thursday. That gives me time to finish off Aunty Margaret’s Dorothy outfit. She’s having a Wizard of Oz party for her sixty-fifth.”

  * * *

  When I headed back inside, there was a woman with a yoga mat talking to Ben, her hand occasionally reaching out to touch his shoulder as if they were friends. Samantha. She didn’t appear to be heeding her own advice from last weekend. Anette was now in the chair next to her dad, head down reading, seemingly oblivious to the woman’s presence. Her hearing aids were now in the open case on the table. I decided to hover a few tables back until Samantha had gone, not particularly eager to encounter her again.

  Plus, it gave me a chance to deal with NOB.

  RED: what have one book group, dragon erotica, and a case of mistaken identity got in common?

  NOB: Don’t tease me, Red

  I was taking a leaf from Monty’s Big Book of NOB. So to speak. NOB was a master of evading difficult conversations. I’d have to force him to see me in person if I ever wanted to get anything out of him. Of course, NOB thrived on making that impossible. I couldn’t afford to lure him in with a twenty-course tasting menu, but I did have something else he’d enjoy: my potential humiliation.

  RED: the report is in your inbox. If you love my meet-cutes so much, it’s time you joined me on one

  “I really do think you should take my advice.” Samantha’s words cut across the café. “It’s absolutely fine at home, just not in public.” It was harder to hear Ben’s quiet response. Not that I was trying to, of course.

  “Thanks, but it’s like I said all those other times. No.” His tone was flat. You could have drawn a straight line with his back. Samantha reached for him again but seemed to think better of it. I dropped my eyes to my phone, curious but wary of intruding.

  NOB: unlike you, I have better things to do with my time

  RED: I’m planning to do something that is highly likely to result in my very public humiliation

  NOB: I can do next Friday morning at ten

  RED: perfect. Dress warmly

  Got you.

  “I only want to help, Ben. But perhaps you’re too busy focusing on other things, now you’re dating again.”

  I looked up.

  “Dating . . . ?” Ben trailed off. Samantha was eyeing my chair meaningfully, and I was very glad I wasn’t in it. “I’m not dating her,” Ben said abruptly, catching on. Ouch, Ben. Try not to trip as you race to deny it. “She’s Anette’s friend.”

  “Really, Ben, this is exactly the sort of thing I’m talking about. This is the same woman who caused absolute havoc in here a few weekends ago. After what happened with Justice, poor Suze hasn’t been able to show her face anywhere since. Is she really the best influence for Anette? You daughter’s never going to be—”

  “Anette,” Ben interrupted, a sharpness to his voice I hadn’t heard before, “is going to be friends with this woman whether I like it or not. Even if she does insist on making a public spectacle of herself. In fact, that’s exactly why she’s—”

  I didn’t get to learn what I was, because a man chose that exact moment to try to squeeze past me and one of the toggles on my coat caught on his bag strap, carrying me along with him. By the time I’d extracted myself, Ben was ending the conversation.

  “Goodbye, Samantha,” he said, returning to his magazine. She looked affronted, then pretended to check the time on her phone and walked away like she had somewhere to be. Part of me almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

  After Ben’s questions last weekend, I shouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he thought I was ridiculous for doing the meet-cutes. Public spectacle, indeed.

  If I already knew, why does it sting?

  Because after this morning I’d been thinking I might actually be getting somewhere with him.

  I made a beeline for the table and started packing my things. “My mum will have the costume here by Thursday, will that work?” I said coolly.

  “Perfect. The play’s Friday afternoon,” Ben said, closing his magazine. He looked tense. “Please pass on our thanks to your mother. Anette will be very grateful. She’s just having some quiet time.” He indicated his daughter, who was still reading. His attention remained on me as if waiting for something. I nodded my understanding, and his shoulders seemed to relax. “Let me know how much it comes to.”

  “It’s for Anette,” I said. “I’ll drop the costume off here first
thing Friday morning.”

  “Evie,” Ben said, as if to get my attention. “Thank you. This means . . . It means a lot to Anette. She was nervous about more than the costume. This is a big help.”

  “It’s fine,” I said tersely, just wanting to leave.

  Anette looked up, a frown on her face. I opened and closed my hand in the sign for goodbye. She signed quickly to her dad; I caught a bit of what she said, as I’d been trying to learn a few signs, but not enough to understand. A line appeared between Ben’s dark brows as he turned to me.

  “Would you like to come to Anette’s play?” he asked.

  I looked between them both, at Anette’s hopeful expression and Ben’s guarded one.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, quite certain he wouldn’t want me to go, and yet still finding myself wanting to.

  He frowned, as if confused by my question. “Yes,” he said.

  I gave Anette a big smile and signed Thank you. She looked thrilled; Ben’s feelings were less clear as he studied me. Not that it mattered what he thought. I’d be going for her.

  Besides, it’s not every day you get to see a Spice Girls/Peter Pan mash-up.

  Chapter 11

  Not-a-Pervert Paul

  SARAH: I don’t think you should do it

  JEREMY: DON’T LISTEN TO HER, EVIE

  SARAH: so far she’s made a child vomit and accidentally joined an erotic book group—what makes you think doing a road trip with an ACTUAL STRANGER will be any better? Get the train home for Christmas like everyone else

  EVIE: the Road Trip meet-cute has to be a long car journey with a guy. I know the meet-cutes have been a bit of a disaster so far, but if I’m going to get NOB writing, I need to hold up my end of the deal

  JEREMY: you mean the part where you meet someone and fall in love?

  EVIE: thanks for the recap, Jem. Guys, will you help me find my Harry?