NOB: How’s the road trip? Is Garry as thrilling as he sounds?
RED: it’s Graeme. And haven’t you got more pressing things to be concerned with? A script, perhaps?
NOB: I take it that’s a no.
I tucked my phone under my thigh, frustrated. NOB still hadn’t told me what his script was about, and I couldn’t bring myself to ask Monty. I didn’t want my boss to lose faith in me. Given that I was supposed to be the one helping NOB to write, it might seem a little surprising that I didn’t know what he was actually writing. At least the producers were happy. Sam-and-Max had been so thrilled with NOB’s idea, they’d scheduled a meeting for January 2 to discuss what he’d written so far. Of course, as NOB hadn’t yet produced any pages, this was set to be a very short meeting.
I tried to relax. Having an actual idea put NOB one step closer to finishing the script. I just needed to keep doing everything I could to find Mr. Happy Ending so NOB had no excuse not to write. And, if that failed, I’d chain him to his desk, professionalism be damned.
There was a rustling, followed by a stench so godawful, I gagged.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, do you want some?” Graeme asked, his left hand stuck in a plastic bag that contained something that had surely been dead for a while. “It’s dried fish. I’ve just been to Iceland. I love traveling, don’t you?”
I wound down the window, gulping in the fresh air.
* * *
Half an hour later, Graeme was still sulking about having to throw out the fish. I hadn’t been able to stop heaving, and he hadn’t wanted to risk his upholstery.
“Maria said you’re a data analyst,” I said to soothe him. “What does that involve?” This was not on my list of conversation topics, but I doubted Graeme was in the mood to decide whether he’d rather have nipples for toes or toes for nipples (Jeremy’s contribution).
“This and that,” said Graeme. “Maria said you had an interesting job. A film agent, or something. What’s that like? Have you met George Clooney?”
He was trying, at least.
“I’m an assistant,” I replied.
“Behind every great man and all that,” he said, flipping the radio on to a preset channel. I eyed him. Had he meant that?
He’d put a chat show on. The host was one of those professional dissenters who enjoy taking vile standpoints and watching Twitter explode. The moment they mentioned “undesirables” I switched it to a pop radio station. Graeme turned it straight back, using a button on the steering wheel.
“Driver’s choice,” he said, with clenched-teeth joviality.
EVIE: Maria, my darling, how well do you know Graeme?
MARIA: I know his mum—she’s lovely. Is everything OK?
EVIE: I’m sure it will be fine
I remembered what was in my pocket. I’d been late this morning because I’d gone to Gil’s to write, determined not to be put off by Ben’s attitude toward me. I’d even sat next to him and Anette (at her request, of course). After his assumption at Anette’s play, I’d decided it would serve him right if I wrote NOB a report as if I had intended it to be a meet-cute after all, with Ben in the starring role. It had been cathartic, almost like how writing used to feel. Then I’d put together a list of films for Anette to watch over Christmas, while pointedly ignoring Ben—the closest we’d come to interacting was when he’d reminded Anette that she had a Christmas present for me.
It was a USB stick containing a road trip playlist.
“May I?” Not waiting for permission, I stuck it into the slot on the dash.
“Hi, Evie, it’s Anette here,” came her lilting voice through the speakers.
“What is this?” Graeme asked.
“It’s a gift from—”
“And Ben.” I stopped, astonished as his deep voice rolled through the car.
“Meet your cute road trip playlist,” Anette continued.
“Is there a small chance Evie might miss your meaning?” Ben cleared his throat. “Because, sometimes, people can misunderstand.”
“And then they act like giant doofuses.”
“Thanks, Anette.” His tone was wry but assenting. “I promise to be less of a doofus from now on.”
Was I hearing this right? Ben no longer thought I’d concocted an elaborate scheme to kiss him? I wished he’d said something at Gil’s this morning. Though, to be fair, I had been ignoring him. Speaking of fair . . . I felt a flash of shame, remembering that I’d sent NOB the meet-cute report.
“Is this guy one of your exes?” Graeme asked, intruding on my thoughts.
“No,” I said. “He’s . . .” It was too complicated to explain. “They’re just some friends.”
“Playlists are Dad’s specialty,” Anette continued. “So lie back.”
“Keeping your eyes on the road,” said Ben.
“And who knows what might happen.”
I sang along to the entirety of “The Circle of Life” and Meatloaf’s “Objects in the Rear View Mirror May Appear Closer Than They Are” before realizing I was waiting to see if there were any more messages from Ben between the songs.
What am I doing? Playlist or not, the man clearly thought I was completely bonkers for doing the meet-cutes. Right now, I thought he might be right.
“Can you reach into the back for my water? I really need it,” said Graeme. “If only I’d brought my earplugs too! Ha, ha.” I handed him the bottle and got my phone out to distract myself and give Graeme a break from my off-key warbling.
NOB: Entertain me. My hot brunette is proving beauty is only skin deep. Absolutely zero conversation. No fun at all
Had Monica dyed her hair? It seemed such a cruel thing to say about her, but that was NOB for you. Maybe the gossip columns were right after all and they were going through a rough patch. She really could do better.
EVIE: Graeme’s a total riot
NOB: Bull. You’re stuck in the same traffic I am and you ran out of conversation 10 junctions back
My first thought was Traffic? Graeme would be thrilled. Followed by Hang on a minute.
EVIE: you’re on the M1??
NOB: I’m spending Christmas at Monica’s, remember? You never listen. Tell me about your meet-cute
So much for that rough patch.
EVIE: it’s going brilliantly. Have you picked your lead character’s name? I’m thinking Graeme
NOB: No woman in the history of rom-coms has gone weak at the knees for a Graeme
EVIE: Jude Law in THE HOLIDAY. Ha!
Outside, the sleet turned to rain. Fluorescent ribbons of rear lights trailed into the distance ahead of us.
“Traffic.” Graeme smiled triumphantly. “I told you so.”
“You certainly did.” Come on, Evie. Give him a chance. “How will you spend Christmas?”
“Helping my mam. She’ll be wondering why I’m so late. She’d have no one without me.” Graeme slurped his water. “Being single means I have time for her,” he continued, glancing over. He coughed. “Not that I wouldn’t make sacrifices for the right person. The problem is”—he waved his bottle, face ruddy in the glow of the brake lights—“there’s a reason so many women are single.”
Now, there’s a statement that’s never ended well.
“Will you just look at that rain,” I said. The raindrops were fat, full things that burst against the window, sending great cascades of water over the glass. “Kissing weather,” I murmured softly.
He coughed loudly. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.” It was movie rain. The kind that soaked you through. When there’s no point using an umbrella because there isn’t a single part of you that isn’t drenched. Four Weddings and a Funeral popped into my mind, and that infamous line from Andie MacDowell.
Graeme shook his now-empty bottle and plonked it into his lap, sighing. “What
’s that?” he cried suddenly, shooting forward in his seat and straining against his belt.
“What?” I asked, alarmed, searching the traffic ahead of us.
He sat back. “It was a bird,” he said, as if it were obvious.
“Are you okay?” I eyed him warily. His hair was all over the place and I was starting to think the redness in his cheeks wasn’t entirely down to the glare of the traffic.
Graeme’s eyes went wide and he tossed the empty bottle into the back. “I’m fine, why?” He thought for a moment. “I do need a wee-wee.” I’m sorry, the grown man just said what? “Let’s pull into the next service station. Aha!” He bounced up and down. “This one coming up is my favorite.”
My breath hitched as a smell filled my nostrils.
“Are you eating more of that fish?” I asked, glancing to check for the bag.
He coughed. “You made me throw it away, remember?”
“Then what’s—”
A loud noise ripped through the car, followed, just a second too late, by another cough.
I closed my eyes briefly, understanding. This cycle continued for a few more minutes, each time Graeme getting worse and worse at timing his coughs until he might as well have given up altogether.
I wound down the window. The GPS had corrected its estimate of when we’d arrive. Our destination was now five hours ahead of us. Until then: hell.
MARIA: how’s it going?!
EVIE: we’re at his favorite service station
MARIA: so he’s quirky
EVIE: it’s Milton Keynes, home of the concrete cows
SARAH: give him a chance, Evie
EVIE: he’s also a misogynistic arsehole
MARIA: oh god! I’m so sorry, Evie. I thought he was a good one. I even told him you were single
EVIE: to be fair, I think romance is the furthest thing from his mind. He just announced he was going to “clear the pipes”
I shouldn’t be mad at Maria for setting me up with Graeme. It’s just that she wasn’t the one who was stuck in a car with a man who genuinely believed he had successfully disguised his farts. I sent my mum my new arrival time, thinking longingly of the moment I’d be pulling onto my old street. We weren’t getting back before nine. I shivered, turning the heat up.
Rat-a-tat-tat.
A very damp-looking Graeme waved at me through the glass. Thinking we were swapping seats, I got out and stood back to let him past.
Which was when Graeme grabbed me by the shoulders and snogged me like his mouth was a plunger trying to unblock a drain.
My response was pure reflex and entirely justifiable.
Graeme jerked back. “You bit me!” he said, astonished. He stuck his tongue out. “Is it bleeding? Why would you do that?”
“You shoved your tongue into my mouth!” Was that . . . dead fish? Ugh!
“I was being romantic. You were the one going on about it being kissing weather!”
Great, so now that was ruined for me. “Consent is romantic, Graeme.” I wiped the drizzle from my eyes, breathing hard and seriously considering leaving him there. “Just get in the car,” I said finally, climbing into the driver’s seat. A minute later, he got in beside me.
He produced a new bottle of water, moaning as he sipped it. I turned the music up. His fingers moved toward the radio.
“No,” I said shortly. He dropped his hand. Twisting away from me, he curled up in his seat, clutching his water like a teddy bear. Unbelievably, he started to snore.
I enjoyed almost an hour of relative peace before he woke up. “The problem with women like you,” he declared, startling me, “is that you never go for the nice guys. It’s always the arsh-holes. Then you complain to ush when they treat you badly.” His tongue must really be swollen. Good.
I checked the GPS again. Four hours to go.
A sensible person would have kept the peace. I wasn’t feeling particularly sensible. “The problem with nice guys, Graeme,” I said, “is that they don’t realize they’re the arseholes.”
“The problem with—”
“See?”
He glared at me, gulping his water like it was an act of defiance. Ahead of us, the traffic was finally starting to break up. I accelerated, feeling freedom was at last on the horizon, when the car engine let out a rattle.
What was that?
The whole car shuddered. Was something burning?
“Graeme, when was the last time you checked your oil?”
“Shorry, Mum. ‘Graeme, have you checked your oil?’ ‘Graeme, why are you making your female colleagues uncomfortable?’ Women always ashk such irritating questions.”
Black smoke billowed out from under the hood and all the warning lights went off on the dash.
“Whoopsh!” Graeme said. The car juddered and his hand jerked, spilling his drink over me. Which was when I realized the water was, in fact, vodka.
Chapter 15
The Arsh-hole
EXT: THE HARD SHOULDER, M1—SUNDAY, DECEMBER 23, 5:42 P.M.
A fire engine’s flashing lights turn the night an artificial orange as police officers wave a slow procession of cars past the hard shoulder. An ambulance pulls away from the scene just as a tow truck arrives. EVIE is wrapped in a silver space blanket and is talking to an officer. GRAEME is also wrapped in a blanket, arguing with the firemen.
“Are you okay, miss?” asked the concerned police officer, her eyes on Graeme. “Your partner seems agitated.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” I said, shivering in the drizzling rain. “And he’s not my partner.” I hadn’t told her that we were actually complete strangers and that I’d orchestrated the road trip to get a screenwriter to write a rom-com. She already suspected I was drunk.
I returned the Breathalyzer. She checked it. “Thank you, miss. Everything looks fine. We just had to be sure.”
“I completely understand,” I said. I had, after all, been covered in vodka.
She left me to go and rescue the firemen from Graeme. I sat down heavily on the barrier, exhausted and wanting nothing more than to be with my mum eating homemade mince pies with steaming-hot mulled wine. It was looking highly unlikely that I was going to get home now, and tomorrow was Christmas Eve.
My cold fingers could barely type.
RED: you were right
NOB: I know. Wait. Have you tried faking an orgasm?
NOB: Red?
RED: I’m on the hard shoulder on the M1, while Graeme—who’s drunk, by the way—shouts at a fireman for hosing his engine because it was on fire. So in short: no
NOB: you’re not the ones driving that blue piece of crap, are you?
My heart hammered as I glanced up at the blue Skoda, which Graeme was currently draped over, much to the annoyance of the people from roadside assistance. Yes, why? I typed out. No response.
The Skoda had been successfully attached to the tow truck and Graeme scraped off its hood when the red sports car pulled up onto the hard shoulder.
I squinted at its tinted windows, wondering what kind of person drove their car onto the scene of an emergency.
The passenger window started to slide down, revealing blond hair styled to look effortless, achingly blue eyes, and an irritatingly beautiful, extremely welcome face.
“Hey, Red.”
Am I really seeing this? NOB. On the side of the M1. My heart was a hummingbird in my chest.
He grinned and leaned over the empty seat to open the passenger door.
“What are the odds that you were the pain in my arse in all this traffic, Red?” he said, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Get the hell in.”
“Are you really here to pick me up?” My voice shook as I leaned into the warm interior.
“What else?” he said. “Hurry up, you’re dripping on the leather.”
“Is there r
oom for one more?” I pointed at Graeme, who was sitting a little farther down, hugging his luggage. The tow guys had refused to take him with them. He was an arsehole, but it was late, and it was Christmas, and his mother was waiting up for him.
“That depends.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Am I dropping him off at yours?”
“Two streets over.” Five at the most.
“Fine. If my hairy friend doesn’t mind.” NOB indicated the backseat. If it could even be called that. It was a minuscule leather shelf made all the smaller by the absolutely ginormous hound occupying it.
“What’s that?” My frozen brain couldn’t keep up. It definitely wasn’t Monica.
“Red, meet Ziggy. Ziggy, Red.” NOB grinned at me. Wait. So this was his “hot brunette”? Did he know what I’d been assuming?
The mocking grin suggested he did.
* * *
It had taken so long to wrestle the drunk middle-aged man and two sodden pieces of luggage into NOB’s sleek yet tiny car that when we finally set off, the traffic was almost clear.
“Thank you,” I said, wondering if those two words could possibly be big enough to contain my gratitude. Christmas felt like it was back on, and it was all thanks to NOB. “This really means—”
“So you must be the arsehole,” Graeme piped up from the back.
NOB raised his brows. “What?”
I angled my head to glare at Graeme. He was pushing at Ziggy to claim some more room. The dog barely even noticed. “Women always choose the arsehole. You.” He jabbed a finger at me. “Just don’t come crying to me when he dumps you.”
“Ziggy,” said NOB calmly. “Down.”
With a great huff of air, the giant hound lay out flat, smothering Graeme, who yelped and scrambled upright, gasping for air.
I couldn’t look at NOB. “He’s drunk,” I explained.
Would Like to Meet Page 12