Would Like to Meet

by Rachel Winters

  “I noticed.”

  “And another thing!” Silence. I looked back to find Graeme fast asleep, head resting on the mound of Ziggy’s back.

  “I already said thank you, didn’t I?”

  “Thank me with your report,” he replied.

  I rolled my eyes. Still NOB.

  Once I could feel my hands again, I messaged my mum, followed by JEMS, to let them know I was delayed but okay.

  MARIA: Evie, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it. I’ve just got his mother to talk. She said he’s been fired. Something about drunken misconduct in the workplace and a Twitter rant

  JEREMY: Sarah, don’t you dare say it

  SARAH: Evie has been through hell. I’m hardly going to mention that Paul was clearly the better choice, now, am I?

  JEREMY: that’s it. No more hen do. I think we can all agree that’s fair

  MARIA: how are you getting home?

  EVIE: you’ll never believe me

  “Don’t take this the wrong way,” I said to NOB. “But why the rescue?”

  “We have a deal, don’t we?”

  “As far as I know it doesn’t involve roadside assistance.”

  “Red, you needed help. I was close by.” A pause. “I’m really not that much of an arsehole.”

  “Graeme would disagree.”

  He laughed. I busied myself by letting my hair out of its braid so that it could dry in frizzy ringlets, wondering at these new versions of him. NOB, the dog owner. NOB, the rescuer.

  “What?” I asked, when NOB glanced over at me.

  “Nothing.” This time, his eyes lingered a little longer. “You look good with your hair down.”

  “Thanks,” I said, startled. What is going on? It meant nothing. To NOB, flirting was like breathing. If that’s even what it was.

  The music dipped as his phone connected with Bluetooth. Babe calling, said the display on the dash. NOB’s mouth flattened, the perfect line of his jaw tensing. He canceled the call.

  I wondered at this as I patted Ziggy. “Is he Monica’s?” The dog hadn’t been at NOB’s house when I’d visited.

  NOB snorted. “Monica can’t stand him. He’s been in quarantine since L.A., and she’s not that happy he made it out. I’m taking him to a kennels, where at least he’ll have a better Christmas than me.” NOB reached around and ruffled Ziggy’s ears. Babe calling, the dash told us again. Another jab of his finger to end the call.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “Peachy,” NOB said, his tone short. I let the silence stretch. “You’re insufferable, you know that? Fine. Monica’s kids are spending Christmas with us. She sprang it on me this morning.”

  “And they’re . . . how old?” I was unable to resist asking.

  He arched an eyebrow at me. “Old enough to think their mother could do better than a ‘one-hit wonder.’”

  “They’ll have plenty to be impressed with soon,” I said. “The producers loved your idea. Just wait until you have the script to show them.” His beautiful features held an expression that looked an awful lot like doubt, and I felt a flutter of anxiety. “We should talk about the meeting in January.”

  “I got your meet-cute this morning,” he said, sidestepping. “I knew straight away you were wasting your time with Dull Dad.”

  After everything that had happened, I’d almost forgotten I’d sent it. “He’s called Ben, and you can just ignore that one,” I said, flushing with guilt. The playlist was tucked up safe in my pocket.

  “Don’t worry,” NOB said. “The guy was pretty forgettable. So, when will I get your report for the road trip?”

  “As soon as you send some pages to Monty,” I said, more irritably than I’d intended.

  Silence. He kept his eyes firmly on the road. “That idea I sent Monts,” he said at last. “The truth is, Red . . . I couldn’t have come up with it without you.” He shook his head. “It’s those damn meet-cutes. They’ve helped more than you could know.” He’d said something similar before. And yet, if this were true, then where were the pages? “But”—he looked over at me—“I just get the sense . . .”

  “What?”

  “That you’re holding back when you write them.” He shrugged. “Don’t. You’re a good writer, Red. If you want to have any hope of getting me to finish this thing, you need to be all in.”

  I eyed his chiseled profile, wondering at his words. I’d been telling myself that I was the only one taking our deal seriously, and NOB—NOB—had seen right through me.

  Because he was right. Even though I’d felt myself loosening up more and more with each report, there was still a voice in my head telling me I wasn’t a real writer, reining me in. I’d made this deal with NOB to get him to write. If he was telling the truth, and the reports were genuinely inspiring him, then what was I so afraid of? That I’d find out NOB was mocking me when he said how good my writing was?

  Or that I might actually enjoy writing again?

  “Okay,” I said, and his smile was strangely relieved. I put steel in my voice. “But you need to deliver some pages first.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  Ziggy stuck his head between our seats, whining for attention.

  “Sorry, buddy,” NOB said, patting him. “We’ll catch up after Christmas.”

  I buried my fingers in the dog’s fur, sad to think of him alone over the holidays so soon after being in quarantine. “You know, I could look after Ziggy for the week,” I said slowly. “It’s the least I can do, after you rescued me. At Christmas my mum’s policy is the more the merrier.” Though Ziggy was probably a little more than she’d be expecting.

  Heaven forbid NOB be grateful. “At your mum’s?” he asked, clearly skeptical.

  “Well, it’s not the Four Seasons, but it’s hardly Emmerdale,” I shot back.

  He let out a laugh. “You have to know what you’re taking on, that’s all. Ziggy is a dog that needs a lot of space. And he’s vegan.” There was tentative hope in his voice.

  “Anything for my savior,” I said, patting Ziggy.

  “Savior! I like that.”

  “I meant the dog.”

  * * *

  I found myself blinking back tears when I saw my mother’s little end terrace all lit up with twinkling lights. Home, they said with each blink. NOB killed the engine and the temperature drop felt like a bubble had burst.

  “Are you sure you’re going to be all right with . . . ?”

  Graeme let out a large fart mid-snore. There was no follow-up cough this time.

  “I’ll get sleeping beauty home.”

  “You’ve got his mum’s address.”

  I realized I was dragging this out. It felt like we’d established some sort of truce over the last few hours, one that I thought would end when I got out of his car.

  “Ziggy’s stuff is in the bag in the back.” We left it unsaid that he could have moved that bag to make more room for Graeme. “Send pictures so I know he’s alive.”

  “Every day,” I promised. “Right, I guess I’d better . . .”

  NOB leaned toward me. I briefly caught a scent of honey and cream before he pressed the button for the trunk.

  “It’s been fun,” he said.

  As I pulled my case from the trunk, it bumped against the backseat.

  “Evie!” Graeme poked his head above the headrests, startling me. “Wait. I . . . I’m sorry. It’s been a bad time. I’m a good guy, really, I promise. Can I help you with your case?”

  “Graeme,” I said. “You’re about to witness firsthand that women don’t always choose the arsehole.” His bloodshot eyes filled with hope. I slammed the trunk shut.

  As I turned toward my mum’s house, I found NOB standing in my way. Flakes of snow began to drift down from silvery clouds.

  “Forgetting something?” NOB asked.


  “Am I?”

  He handed me Ziggy’s lead and pushed a vast black bag onto my shoulder. I stumbled forward under the sudden weight, grasping NOB’s chest. He caught my forearms and leaned in so his lips were beside my ear.

  “Are you falling for me, Red?” he said, and grinned. Snow landed on my upturned face, melting on my lips. As his eyes searched mine, his cocky expression faded. It was the first time I’d seen him anything less than certain.

  He blinked, pulling back first. “Don’t forget,” said NOB, and this time his smile seemed forced, “to send me your report.”

  “No problem,” I told him, oddly shaken. “You know exactly what to do to get it.” I yanked the handle up on my case. “Thanks again for the rescue. Don’t worry about Ziggy, he’ll be fine. Fatter, probably, but fine.” I turned and walked away.

  Opening the front door, I stepped into the warmth and familiar smells of my mum’s house and snapped on the hall light.

  Maria, Sarah and Jeremy were all standing in my mum’s hallway with huge grins on their faces.

  “Mary, she’s home!” Jeremy called into the living room. “And she’s brought some kind of hairy beast.” Before I could react, they all rushed toward me at once.

  This, I thought, hugging them fiercely, all thoughts of NOB chased away, this is Christmas.

  Chapter 16

  A Hot Brunette

  From: Evelyn.Summers@WJM.co.uk

  To: TheEzraChester@ezrachester.com

  Subject: HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL: Merry Christmas

  December 25, 7:39 p.m.

  Dear Ezra,

  You’ll notice in the attached picture that Ziggy really enjoyed (our) Christmas dinner. We took our eyes off him for one minute and the next thing we knew he was mounting the turkey.

  I thought you said he was vegan?

  Happy Christmas. I hope the kids are treating you well. And if not, just think, in less than two months you’ll have a script to show them.

  Must go before Jeremy finally kills Sarah. They’re playing Pictionary despite our strict No Pictionary Rule, instigated after “Boobgate 2015” when Sarah drunkenly misread the card and instead of a beast drew a breast. Jeremy still celebrates the anniversary of her shouting “It’s a BOOOOB” at the end of her minute.

  Evie x

  * * *

  From: Evelyn.Summers@WJM.co.uk

  To: TheEzraChester@ezrachester.com

  Subject: HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL: Ziggy Stardust (are you even reading these?)

  December 26, 3:02 p.m.

  Dear Ezra,

  Apologies for my email yesterday. I blame the bucks fizz.

  I am attaching today’s photo of Ziggy. Yes, my mum has dressed him as his namesake, David Bowie. You’ll be glad to hear he took it all in his stride.

  Best wishes,

  Evie

  * * *

  From: Evelyn.Summers@WJM.co.uk

  To: TheEzraChester@ezrachester.com

  Subject: HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL: Furry fiend (Remember: January 2)

  December 27, 2:56 p.m.

  Dear Ezra,

  We are officially in countdown-to-deadline mode. I know I don’t need to remind you when Monty and the producers are meeting (it’s January 2). And I especially don’t need to remind you that I won’t send my Road Trip report until you deliver those pages. I really mean it, Ezra.

  Before I write this next bit, my mum wants me to assure you that we have loved having Ziggy here.

  You’ll notice today’s picture of Ziggy features a sign that says THINGS I HAVE EATEN.

  Here’s a working list:

  ham

  a brand-new sneaker (the left one)

  a turkey

  two pairs of slippers

  Jamie Oliver’s 15-Minute Meals

  a Victoria sponge cake

  more ham

  the majority of a throw pillow

  next door’s garden gnome

  next door’s letter of complaint

  even more ham

  Things Ziggy did not eat:

  anything remotely vegan

  All the best,

  Evie (and Mary) Summers

  P.S. January 2

  * * *

  From: Evelyn.Summers@WJM.co.uk

  To: TheEzraChester@ezrachester.com

  Subject: HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL: Christmas Limbo (SEND THE DAMN PAGES ALREADY)

  December 28, 8:04 p.m.

  Ezra,

  I WAS going to write to tell you about how my mum introduced Ziggy to our tradition of “Christmas Limbo,” which she does evry year between Christmas and new year. She gets pople around, makes a shed ton of margaritas and challenges everyone to a limbo competition. As you’ll see frm the picture, Ziggy enjoyed his go and made off with the stick!

  INSTEAD, what I’m going to say is this, because it’s Christmas, and because TEQUILA.

  I know EXACARLY what you’re doing, Mr. Oscar-winning Screenwriter. You’re using the fact that I’m being super-chill and withholding my latest rapport as an EXCUSE NOT TO WRITE.

  So here’s my belabored Christmas present to you: it’s the Road Trip meet-cute. I wrote it on Christmas eve because sober Evie is a big greek. You’re a brilliant write, so WRITER ALREADY. Doesn’t even have to be loads. Just send Monty SOMTHING.

  No more excuses.

  Bye,

  Evie Xx

  * * *

  From: Evelyn.Summers@WJM.co.uk

  To: TheEzraChester@ezrachester.com

  Subject: HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL: Apologies

  December 29, 10:02 a.m.

  Dear Ezra,

  I just wanted to apologize for the content of my email yesterday. It was unprofessional and, if it’s any consolation at all, I am absolutely mortified and I feel dreadful—both because of the content of my email and the sheer volume of tequila.

  I’d be very grateful if you could please disregard it completely. Apart from the bit about the pages.

  You really need to deliver those.

  All the best,

  Evie

  * * *

  From: TheEzraChester@ezrachester.com

  To: Evelyn.Summers@WJM.co.uk

  Subject: You’re an absurd human being, you know that, don’t you?

  December 30, 3:20 a.m.

  I’ve sent Monts Act One.

  Call it a belabored Christmas present.

  E.x

  Chapter 17

  Sleepless in Sheffield

  INT: EVIE’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM—MONDAY, DECEMBER 31, 7:34 P.M.

  EVIE is wearing a nightgown and is halfway through styling her hair with a curling iron. The walls are covered in peeling film posters—Waitress, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, You’ve Got Mail, Brick Park, Singin’ in the Rain, Tootsie, Sleepless in Seattle. The old, disused fireplace is piled high with DVDs.

  My mum pushed the door open with her slippered foot, holding two glasses of fizz. She passed one to me. Ziggy padded in after her, huffed into my lap, and lay down heavily on my feet.

  “Happy New Year’s Eve, pet.” We clinked. “Did you get everything booked for Sarah’s hen do?”

  “Pretty much.” I still had the manor booking to confirm, but that only required a quick email.

  “Great.” My mum sipped her prosecco. “Then we can chat about your next meet-cute.”

  I groaned. “I’m running late, Mum. The taxi will be here soon.”

  My friends and I were spending our New Year’s Eve in The Wick, in honor of our student days. Maria had insisted we all dress exactly as we’d have done at university. I was wearing an old blue-and-white polka-dot 1950s dress with huge underskirts. I hadn’t styled my hair for years, but back t
hen I went full 1950s pin-up in Dorothy Taylor fangirl mode.

  “Maybe I can help you plan it.”

  Before I could protest, my mum picked up my curling iron and began to separate the back of my hair into sections, just like she used to. She caught my eye in the mirror and smiled.

  When I was dropped off before Christmas by NOB himself, bane of her daughter’s working life, my mother had eagerly pried every detail from me about the deal I’d made with him and the meet-cutes. Any normal mother might focus on the fact that her only daughter was, for a very questionable reason, trying to meet a man. The only thing my mum had said was “I don’t care what sort of man you meet, my pet, as long as he has kind eyes.” Then she’d asked me when I’d be going back to the erotic fiction book group. When I’d explained that I’d gone only for the meet-cute, she’d said, “Evie, my pet, some of the best friends I ever made after your dad passed were in my book group. They loved a bit of smut too. All the best people do.”

  As she tried to coax my curls into slightly sleeker ones, my phone lit up with its own bit of smut.

  UNKNOWN NUMBER: Hey found yr number in a John Grisham, would luv to get 2 know u better. Will u be my xmas ho ho ho?

  For the last week I’d been getting almost daily messages from strangers who’d found my cards. Apparently, Christmas made a lot of people extremely horny. Which I guess explained Love Actually.

  I deleted the message before my mum could read it and tell me I should give him a chance. We had very different approaches to life in general. She was always trying new things and avoided routine as much as possible. I, on the other hand, valued my safety and sanity. Or, at least, I had. As soon as these three months were up, my life could go back to normal. All Netflix and no chill. Is that really what you want? a little voice asked.