“It was supposed to be the Holiday Romance meet-cute,” I told her, trying not to pay this thought too much attention.
“Oooh.”
“But I can’t afford to go away.”
“Ah.”
I’d been really hoping to book a beautiful cottage somewhere. A break and a meet-cute in one. But I’d used all my savings for Sarah’s hen do.
“How about staying somewhere in the Yorkshire countryside?” my mum suggested.
“My budget might just about cover a tent, and that’s hardly rom-com material.”
“Did you know that the cottage in The Holiday was a set? It was basically cardboard!” my mother said.
“Well, I couldn’t afford to stay in that either.”
My phone buzzed. Dreading more messages from London’s bookish sex pests, I flipped it over.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: hi Evie. I found one of your cards in a book.
No mention of what they wanted me to do to their candy cane. I considered it for a moment before deciding to reply. I really did need another meet-cute.
EVIE: thanks for getting in touch
I bit my lip, then wrote:
EVIE: if you don’t mind me asking, what book did you find it in?
It would have been impolite to ask outright if they were a weirdo. Unknown Number is typing flickered on and off.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Peter Pan.
I didn’t remember putting a card in the book before I’d returned it to the book stand, but I’d been flustered after accidentally stealing it when NOB and I . . . Don’t think about NOB. He’d sent his pages to Monty—that’s what mattered. The meeting in two days’ time was going to go fine. My friends and I were going to celebrate tonight with champagne.
Just don’t think about your email. Do NOT think about that email . . .
EVIE: may I ask your name?
“I stayed in a cottage just like the one in that film with some girlfriends a while back,” my mother mused as she tugged at a stubborn curl. “Absolutely perfect for a holiday romance,” she winked. “And cheap as chips.”
“A cottage?” I said distractedly.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: it’s Ben.
What? Ben? Surely not Ben Ben.
Of course it wasn’t. It was a coincidence, that was all.
EVIE: hi Ben. Nice to meet you
“What was it called now? Honeysuckle Cottage,” she said, answering her own question. “It was exactly as you imagine a cottage should look, if you know what I mean.” My mum took my phone and peered over her glasses as she did a quick search for it. “Oh,” she said, holding it away from her. “Ben is sorry for how he acted at his daughter’s play. Was he disappointed with her costume?”
“What?” I read the message.
BEN: I wanted to tell you how much I liked you and that I’m sorry for being super-rude at my daughter’s play.
I caught my breath. It was him. What was going on? Was he drunk? Not that I could judge after my recent antics . . .
EVIE: are you OK, Ben?
BEN: I’m great! When we see each other again I might not say we spoke. I’m very mystrious.
“Pet?” My mother broke me out of my daze. Ben liked me? I wasn’t quite sure how I should feel about that. Relieved?
More like puzzled. He might have made me a playlist but that didn’t explain him suddenly wanting to be friends.
“Anette’s costume was perfect,” I told her, still trying to figure him out. My mother made an interested noise and I shot her a glance. “He was referring to the fact that he made absolutely sure I knew he wasn’t the man I was looking for with my meet-cutes.”
“Did he? So why is he messaging now?”
An excellent question.
EVIE: are you sure you’re OK?
BEN: a big fat yes.
“Well, he’s certainly put a smile on your face.”
“It’s not him,” I told her, still grinning.
BEN: Anette, are you using messenger on my tablet?
BEN: merde.
I could picture them both at home: Anette sneaking the tablet into her room, Ben probably reading somewhere, seeing the app on his phone light up.
BEN: I’m sorry to have bothered you. Don’t worry, my daughter will be suitably punished. Anette, no catfishing for a week.
EVIE: Ben, it’s me. Evie
A few seconds passed. Either he was wrestling the tablet away from Anette or he didn’t want to respond.
BEN: Anette said she’s very sorry for SLEEPLESS IN SEATTLE-ing you.
That’s what she was doing. The widowed dad. The kid. Anette was still trying to set me and her dad up. It was sweet, if completely and utterly misguided.
BEN: she found a card of yours in the book you gave her. I wanted to talk to you about that.
My grin faltered. A flush spread across my skin. I’d been finding those stupid cards all week. Did he seriously think I’d somehow orchestrated this after what he’d said to me at Anette’s play?
“Urrgh!” I groaned, jabbing out a reply as my mum put the finishes to my hair, humming to herself.
EVIE: that was an accident, Ben. I can promise you I’m not going to rope you into having a meet-cute with me anytime soon
BEN: I just wanted to thank you for the book. It meant a lot to Anette.
Oh. Merde. Outside, my taxi beeped its horn. My mother kissed my hot cheek.
“I’ll just tell the driver you’ll be a few more minutes,” she said, taking Ziggy and leaving me to it.
EVIE: you’re welcome. I’m very glad she liked it
BEN: was it yours?
At first, I hesitated. Then:
EVIE: yes
I wriggled into my dress, trying to imagine what Ben was thinking right now. That it was silly? I loved that book. It meant more to me than anything else I owned, and yet giving it to Anette had felt right. I looked at the framed photo on my vanity table. My dad with his arm around my shoulders, a proud grin on his face. It was taken on my fourteenth birthday, and in it I’m gripping a boxed laptop, cheeks flushed with both happiness and the reluctance of having to pose.
BEN: you made her Christmas.
I caught sight of my smile in the mirror—almost silly with happiness.
BEN: and I really am sorry about being super-rude at Anette’s play.
EVIE: apology accepted. Safe to say we’re both good at jumping to conclusions. Did you have a good Christmas, Ben?
BEN: we ate far too much and watched all the films you recommended.
BEN: it was the best one in some time.
My breath caught. There was something about the thought of just the two of them laid out on the sofa in front of the TV, watching all my favorite films on Christmas day, that squeezed at my heart. Another message popped up when I was halfway into my duffel coat. It was a link to “You Were Meant for Me” from Singin’ in the Rain, one of the films on the list. I shook my head.
EVIE: hi Anette
BEN: hi Evie!
BEN: say goodbye, Anette.
BEN: we’ll be back at Gil’s again from next week!!
EVIE: I’ll see you both then
BEN: see you soon, Evie.
As I got into the taxi, my phone buzzed in my hand. Was it Ben again? But it was just a message from Monty.
MONTY: I could have sworn you said you had everything under control, Evelyn. So where the devil are Ezra’s pages?
Chapter 18
New Year’s Evie
INT: THE WICK AT BOTH ENDS—MONDAY, DECEMBER 31, 11:45 P.M.
EVIE and MARIA are sitting at a table full of empty glasses in the packed-out bar. There’s a DJ playing. Green lights strobe over people’s heads as they dance. EVIE is clutching her phone. MARIA, dressed fully in black with heavily kohled eyes and dark lips, rests her head in her hands.
“Have you seen this?�
� I shouted over the music.
I was thumbing through NOB’s Instagram.
“How long have those two been at the bar?” Maria asked, sounding tired.
I scrolled past images of an impeccably dressed Christmas tree. Mountains of perfectly wrapped presents with foiled paper and elegant gauzy ribbon. NOB in a yoga pose, balanced on his head, bare-chested, muscles tense and glistening . . .
“It’s only four shots of tequila,” she grumbled.
I stopped at a slightly out-of-focus shot of a woman with her face partly obscured by a white mug. Soft waves of strawberry-blond hair falling to her shoulders, long woolen socks pulled up to her knees, a gray cashmere jumper on her slender frame. Monica. The image was tagged #loveofmylife #blessed #bestchristmasever.
I shoved it beneath Maria’s nose.
“If he’s had enough time for daily posts, he could at least write one page—one measly little page—of the script. Instead, he’s living a hashtag blessed life while I’m stuck with receiving messages from perverts. You know, it’s not even that he hasn’t written anything.”
“It’s that he lied,” intoned Maria, her black fingernails pressing into her cheek as she rubbed her face wearily.
“Exactly!” I said, picking up my glass before remembering it was empty.
“Don’t let him stop you from enjoying yourself tonight.” There was a note of warning in my friend’s voice.
“How can I when he’s swanning around Yorkshire doing yoga with hashtag gazelle legs?”
“Oh my God, Evie,” Maria said, exasperated.
I looked at her. “Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Is she still going on about the cockhat?” Jeremy appeared with a tray, towering over Sarah, who had her arm around his waist. The pink and yellow glitter that had been on her eyelids at the start of the night had now migrated to her thick blond hair.
“My heroes,” Maria said, reaching in. “It’s your turn to deal with her.”
“No, you don’t.” Sarah slapped her hand away and allocated us each a shot and a slice of lime, placing the salt dead center on the table.
“I’m not that bad, am I?”
“Evie, we are moments away from midnight. We’re all together. You’re I Love Lucy. Maria’s Wednesday Addams. Sarah’s dressed as a fairy—did you really use to wear that?”
“At least I’m not in spandex!” Sarah said, tugging at her wings. Jeremy’s lean figure was encased in head-to-toe neon, like a cyclist who’d gone clubbing.
“It was a phase. Let’s just enjoy this,” he insisted. The DJ lowered the music and began the countdown. Ten.
There was a roar of noise as everyone shouted along with him.
“Is everyone sick to death of me?” I asked, looking at my friends.
“Not you.” Maria linked my arm. “But I am hashtag done with deconstructing NOB’s latest Instagram post.”
My friends were poised with their shots. In that moment, in these outfits, we could have been us from ten years ago.
Nine.
Jeremy was right. I was wasting precious time.
Eight.
“Lick,” Jeremy commanded. We did and all dutifully held out the backs of our hands as he made a circle of salt over them.
Seven.
“To still being young. Ish.” Jeremy held up his shot.
Six.
“To having the best friends who plan me the perfect hen do, and to single-handedly pulling off the wedding of the year.” Sarah paused. “And to becoming a stepmummy.”
Five.
“To . . .” I thought about what it was that I really wanted. Jeremy fluttered his fingers to hurry me along. “To getting NOB to write that damn script.”
Four.
“To falling in love,” Maria said, holding her shot high. “Just like in the movies.”
“Three. Two. One,” Jeremy finished before I could protest. We all tossed back the tequila.
“Happy New Year,” I said, wondering what it would bring.
* * *
“Hey, hey you, do you know what you are?” I was in a stall, sitting on the toilet lid, skirts bunched up around me, the cold plastic sticking to the backs of my thighs. I had a number of tequila shots in me, all competing to be the one that convinced me this would be a good idea.
“Do you know what time it is?” NOB’s voice was tired.
“It’s definitely after midnight,” I said. He wasn’t going to change the subject that easily. “And you’re a NO—annoying.” I stopped myself just in time.
“You’re . . . drunk, aren’t you?” He perked up. “How drunk?”
“Drunk enough!” I hollered. There was a flush from the stall next to me.
“Are you in a toilet?”
“No.” The hand dryer came on.
“Really, Red—” NOB’s voice became muffled. “It’s nothing, just Eddy, you know what he’s like. I’ll be right back, babe.” A door closed. “Have you only called to tell me I’m annoying?” he asked. “I’m picking Ziggy up tomorrow. Couldn’t it have waited?”
“No!” I’d forgotten that. “I’m also calling because you haven’t delivered—” I held my mouth close to the speaker. “LIKE YOU PROMISED. You lied to me.”
“You wouldn’t leave me alone. What else was I supposed to do?”
“Deliver the pages!”
“No one works over Christmas.”
I heard some girls giggling and lowered my voice. “I do!”
He sighed. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ve had a rotten holiday.”
“Liar.” It did, a little.
NOB didn’t reply straight away. There was a soft grating sound, like he was running his hands over his designer stubble. “You think you’re the only one driving me nuts about my writing?”
I screwed up my nose. “Monty?”
“Him too.”
None of this mattered. “I started writing again, properly, for you, and you promised to write the pages,” I insisted. “So what’s the problem?”
He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “You should be concentrating on getting someone to fall for you, not hassling me.”
“Why is everyone so hung up on that?” I gripped the toilet seat. I felt like a kid in a wave pool, only instead of water, it was tequila.
“Isn’t it the whole point?” NOB reminded me. I hiccuped sadly. “Look, your last meet-cute report was your best yet. I knew there was a great writer in there somewhere. Is that what you need to hear?”
“What I need to hear is that you haven’t just been stringing me along this whole time. Because . . .” I leaned my head against the graffiti-covered cubicle, the fight leaving me on my next breath. “Because I’m going to lose my job if you don’t deliver.”
A pause. “Is that true?”
“Yes,” I said, with a prickling certainty that I wasn’t supposed to have told him this. “Surprise! Mr. Center of the Universe discovers he’s exactly as important as he thinks he is. Without you, the agency’s toast. It’s time to bring home the bacon. Monty’s meeting with the producers on . . .” I squinted.
“The second,” he prompted.
“Send him some pages by then.”
“It’s New Year’s Eve, Red, when am I supposed to—”
“Enough!” I pushed myself upright, not wanting to hear another excuse. He’d promised me. If I write more, he’d write too. Suddenly, everything seemed crystal clear. I was doing the meet-cutes to get him to write. He wasn’t writing. Ergo: no more meet-cutes. Brilliant logic, Evie, I congratulated myself, trying to ignore the feeling I was missing something vital. “No more meet-cutes!” I declared out loud, and it felt good. “I’m serious.”
“Seriously drunk, you mean,” he dismissed.
“I’m both,” I assured him. “If you aren’
t going to write, what’s the point? No writing, no meet-cutes.”
“We still have an agreement, Red.” There was an edge to his voice. “You’re not even close to winning this yet. And what about your job?”
Ah. That.
“What job?” I asked, on a bit of a roll. “No script, no job.” Alarm fluttered wonkily in my chest, as if it were drunk too. This is going well, isn’t it? I was sticking it to NOB, showing him he couldn’t mess me around any longer.
“What would the producers say if they found out you’d got me to sign under false pretenses?”
“If you don’t deliver, you can tell them everything for all I care. Including the fact that their writer is an irritating, contract-breaking, egotistical, selfish NOB!”
With that, I hung up, trembling with adrenaline. I’d done it. I’d finally told NOB exactly what I thought of him. And I definitely felt better for it.
“Evie?” It was Jeremy. “It’s time to go! Maria’s started singing, and we all know what that means.”
I opened the door, still shaking. My friends were standing in front of the sinks, all supporting one another. They grinned blearily at me.
“One maca, two maca, three macarena.”
“I don’t think those are the words, darling.”
Maria stopped singing. “Swevie, are you okay?”
The triumph was draining away like a tide pulling out, gradually, and then it was gone.
I held on to the doorframe. “I think . . . I might have just lost my job.”
Would Like to Meet Page 14