* * *
I sat bolt upright in bed.
“Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.” I scrambled for my phone to check, just in case it had been a dream, but the evidence was in the call logs. I’d rung NOB ten times—ten—before he’d finally picked up just after three a.m. The conversation came back to me in pieces. I’d called him NOB. I’d said I would lose my job if he didn’t write. I’d all but told him to make sure I did.
There were a ton of unread messages. Some were from my friends. The rest were from Monty.
MONTY: You promised you’d get him to send his pages on time, Evelyn. Where are they?
MONTY: I should never have let you handle this responsibility. If we don’t have anything by tomorrow, it’s all over.
Oh God, the meeting with Sam-and-Max. I threw myself facedown on my sheets. Then I lifted my head, remembering. NOB was coming over today to collect Ziggy. I’m going to have to face him.
No. It was a good thing, sort of. I could talk to him, maybe even salvage this mess.
The doorbell sounded.
“Evie, your friend’s here!” my mum called.
“Shit! Shit, shit, shit!” I yanked on some jeans and a jumper and hurtled down the stairs, stomach lurching.
My mum was waiting by the door with Ziggy. I gave the big hound a hug, burying my face in his fur. “I’m going to miss him.”
“Me too,” she said.
“Promise you’ll behave,” I told her, standing.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
There was a funny feeling in my stomach that was one part hangover, two parts dread.
My mother hovered eagerly behind me. I counted to three before opening the latch.
It wasn’t NOB.
Standing on the doorstep, in a fur gilet over a dark purple jacket, was Monica Reed, looking tall and regal like a misplaced royal. She was wearing sunglasses, presumably in case anyone was expecting to spot the Oscar-winning actress on New Year’s Day in Crosspool.
“Oh, my,” my mum said, leaning forward. “It’s an honor.” Oh, no. She wasn’t, was she? She was. Mary Summers was bowing. I turned to Monica and smiled.
“I’m here for the dog,” said Monica, holding out her palm. I gave her Ziggy’s lead before my mum could attempt to kiss the back of her hand.
She grimaced. “What’s that?” My mum had gone back inside and was now waddling toward us with the huge black bag. I hurried to take it from her.
“It’s all his things. I’ve packed a snack. It’s sausages,” my mum said helpfully, holding out the clear plastic Baggie.
Monica pulled a face. “I’m vegan.”
“They’re for the dog,” my mum replied, baffled.
“He’s twice the size he was before Christmas. Ezzie will be furious.” It was hard to tell with the glasses, but it seemed like the thought gave her a lot of pleasure.
“I’ll give you a hand,” I told Monica, shouldering the bag.
“Great.” She handed Ziggy’s lead back to me and spun on her booted heel.
“So lovely to meet you, pet,” my mum called after her.
I followed Monica, still hoping for a quick word with Ezra. A gleaming white Land Rover was parked at the curb.
“Where’s Ezra?” I asked, an unpleasant twist in my stomach that had nothing to do with my hangover.
“Ezzie’s already gone ahead to London,” Monica said. Ezzie’s what? She opened the passenger door. I gave Ziggy one last rub before he climbed into the footwell. “Aren’t you the assistant?” she asked. I saw her slip him one of the sausages. “Shouldn’t you know this?”
“Know what?” I asked.
“Ezzie wanted to meet with Monty before seeing the producers tomorrow.”
Cold dread surged through me. Surely Monty would have told me if I had to organize a meeting for today? I tugged my phone from my pocket.
There was a new message from him, sent only minutes ago. It simply said: Code Red.
There weren’t many things that would lead NOB to willingly organize his own meeting.
One. An assistant had told him that if he didn’t deliver, he could tell Monty he’d never wanted to sign the addendum in the first place.
Two. Our conversation last night had convinced him to write some pages after all.
Three. Oh, God. NOB’s telling Monty everything.
The world took on a soft edge. My vision narrowed to a point, like I was an old TV set shutting down. If Monty found out that the script—and the agency—depended on my love life, I could forget about a promotion; I’d be lucky to work in agenting again at all.
“Are you okay?” Monica asked, somewhat reluctantly.
The world snapped back into focus. She was climbing into the car.
What had NOB said last night? You think you’re the only one driving me nuts about my writing? Maybe Monica wanted NOB to get the script done just as much as I did. “I hope Ezra’s writing didn’t get in the way of Christmas too much,” I blurted out, hoping she’d tell me something.
She lowered her glasses, revealing light green eyes the color of vintage gems. “Ezra’s writing?” she asked.
“The script.” The words stuck in my throat, panic fluttering in my chest. “For Intrepid Productions.”
“You really have no idea, do you?” There was pity in her voice. She dropped her glasses back into place. “Right,” she said, as if to herself. “That’s enough.” The door slammed shut before I could respond.
Well, that was hardly reassuring.
Chapter 19
A Cheeky Nando’s
EXT: CHINATOWN, LONDON—TUESDAY, JANUARY 1, 7:30 P.M.
EVIE yanks her suitcase over the cobbled street, passing closed restaurants, mittens dangling from her cuffs. Overhead, lanterns swing in the breeze. There are a few people around, but the streets are mostly empty. Her eyes are glued to her phone. She just about manages to avoid colliding with a tourist.
I skidded around a corner, sliding a little on black ice. Right, Evie, probably time to calm down. NOB hadn’t responded to any of the messages I’d sent on my train ride here. The only message I’d received had been another Code Red from Monty, telling me I had to come straight to the office.
There were any number of scenarios that would explain why Monty could possibly want to see me at this hour. They all ended with Monty wanting to fire me.
My phone lit up again.
It was NOB. Oh, thank God.
NOB: Where’s the fire, Red?
RED: didn’t you get my messages?
NOB: All 300 of them, yes
RED: then you know our deal is still on
NOB: That’s not what you said last night
Shit. I rattled my keys in the lock but the door wouldn’t budge. Monty had slid the dead bolt across on the inside. What is going on?
EVELYN: hi Monty, I’m here, but I can’t get inside
EVELYN: it’s very cold out! Are you still there?
EVELYN: hello?
MONTY: I NEED YOU TO GET SOME THINGS FROM TESCO.
EVELYN: didn’t you want to talk to me first? You did say Code Red
MONTY: BLEACH. AND CARPET CLEANER.
MONTY: AND SOME PAPER TOWELS. AND GLOVES.
MONTY: AND AIR FRESHENER.
He was going to fire me. Or worse.
EVIE: guys, I think my boss is going to murder me
MARIA: are you at work?!
EVIE: in Tesco, buying Monty the things he needs to clean up when he’s done with me. The checkout assistant is giving me the eye
JEREMY: ask her for some tarpaulin
EVIE: NOB had a meeting with Monty today. I think he’s told him about our agreement. My heart might explode
MARIA: try not to worry. It could be absolutely anything
EVIE: OK. I’m back at the office
now. Wish me luck
SARAH: can everyone just take a second to appreciate the fact that I’M GETTING MARRIED THIS YEAR
JEREMY: Evie, send us proof of life as soon as you’re done
Monty had removed the dead bolt this time. I pushed open the heavy front door, calling out a cautious “Hello?”
There was no response.
I left my case in the hall and headed slowly up the stairs with the bag of cleaning supplies, treading softly on the worn brown carpet. Usually the creaky old stairs gave me a sense of comfort and familiarity, but tonight they filled me with dread.
Creeeak. You’re going to get fired. Creeeak. Monty is waiting upstairs and he’s furious because NOB hasn’t delivered and it’s all your fault. Creeeak. You’re carrying the stuff he’s going to use to remove the evidence and they’ll never find your body.
The main hallway was dark, lit only by the light in Monty’s office. It had a window that looked out onto the corridor where my desk was, but the blinds were closed.
There was a smell that hadn’t been here before Christmas. One that hit the back of my throat and stung my nostrils. With every step toward Monty’s office, it grew stronger.
“Monty?”
My poor hungover stomach could barely handle it.
I held my breath and pushed open the door.
Monty was sitting on the floor, hands clasped, staring at an upturned Nando’s bag between his splayed legs. There were two open bottles of champagne on his desk. One had red lipstick on the rim.
He looked up at me with unfocused eyes. “EVELYN, THANK GOD. I’M AFRAID I’M IN A BIT OF A PICKLE.”
Well, that explained the messages. Drunk Monty always spoke in caps lock.
“What happened?” I asked, trying my best not to breathe through my nose.
“MY DATE.” He saw me wince and lowered his voice to a whisper. “My date. I wanted to . . . ‘show off’ the office, but it turned out she very much had—hic—other plans.” Other than the lipstick on the bottle, I couldn’t see any sign of her.
“Why did you want to see me?” I asked.
He lurched suddenly to his feet. “I had a meeting with Ezra. He told me the news.”
“News?”
“Then we went for a cheeky Nando’s.”
“You and Ezra?” I asked, mystified, trying to imagine them eating chicken together.
“Me and my date.”
“And what happened before then, Monty?”
“Well, we were getting on really well. She kept checking I was okay with getting frisky.” I closed my eyes briefly. “She was helping me celebrate the brilliant news.”
Wait. “What brilliant news?” I asked, hardly daring to hope.
“Aren’t you listening? Ezra’s written the first act. And the pages . . .” Monty raised his voice and threw his arm out as if addressing a crowd. “The pages are STUPENDOUS. He’s outdone himself.”
For a moment, I couldn’t respond. Was this true? I sank to the rug, leaving Monty standing.
“I wouldn’t sit there.”
“But . . . the Code Red.”
“It is VERY hard to find a decent restaurant that’s open on New Year’s Day.”
That was it? That’s the emergency I’d spent all day fretting about?
On the plus side, I hadn’t lost my job. NOB was writing. Our deal was working.
“Can I read the pages?”
Monty’s expression performed several acrobatics before landing in a frown. He waggled a finger at me. “You have to wait. He said he’s at a delicate . . . a delicate junction. Top-level eyes only until it’s done.” Will Monty ever see me as more than just his assistant? “Right now, you have an important job to do.”
“I know, get him to finish it,” I said. Monty frowned at this. “Wait, if everything’s fine, why the second Code Red?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Monty huffed. He leaned over the Nando’s bag, hands on his hips. “My date.”
I suddenly dreaded finding out what was beneath that bag.
“If ANYONE asks if they can ‘cop a feel of you,’ say no,” Monty advised gravely. “Of course I said: Why not? Then we started to . . .” He waggled his fingers. I blanched. DO NOT PICTURE MONTY NAKED. “Just when I thought we were going to get down to it, she pushed me out of the way and—” He bent down and, in the manner of a waiter lifting a tray to reveal a hot dish, whipped off the bag. “Got down to it.”
There was a poo nestled in the white fur rug.
“Funny old world, eh?” said Monty. “You know,” he added thoughtfully, “maybe she wasn’t saying ‘cop a feel of ya’ after all.”
The bag of cleaning products helped me guess where his thoughts had gone next. Is this all he thinks I’m useful for? I’d always wondered what my limit would be when it came to doing exactly what Monty asked of me. As I looked at the rug, I thought, This is it.
“You,” Monty said abruptly. He swayed and I stood to steady him. “You are so good. I never say that, do I?” Was he . . . complimenting me? Now? His voice went very high. “Whhhy don’t I say that? You are so good at cleaning up my messes.” He nodded, eyes closing as he leaned into me and I nudged him upright with a heavy sigh. “It’s good to know,” said Monty sleepily, “that I can always rely on you. Funny thing is . . . I didn’t have anyone else to call.”
Oh, Monty. I looked at his nodding head, the paunch that hadn’t been there a few years ago, the gray in his hair, and I knew I was going to do what I always did.
I was literally going to take Monty’s shit.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get you home.”
MARIA: hey lovely, is everything OK?
EVIE: yes, it’s all fine. My job is safe for now. NOB’s writing and Monty celebrated a bit too hard, that’s all
SARAH: so you’re not dead??
EVIE: god no, sorry! No casualties—unless you count the rug. Quick question. Do you know the term for someone with a poo fetish? It’s coprophilia. Jane helpfully confirmed
MARIA: OK. Firstly, YOU GOT NOB TO WRITE! I hope you’re proud of yourself, my love. Secondly, I know you don’t like me saying this, but you work for total shitbags
Chapter 20
Anywhere, or Shrewksbury
INT: GIL’S COFFEE HOUSE—SUNDAY, JANUARY 6, 10 A.M.
EVIE sits at her usual table with her laptop open and a spread of papers around her—printouts from SARAH’s hen do PowerPoint presentation. She picks up pages and checks them while firing messages off on her phone.
JEREMY: did Linda RSVP?
SARAH: for the last time, Jeremy, not everyone who works in HR is called Linda
EVIE: Beth’s coming, don’t worry!
SARAH: good. She’s my biggest work rival, and she’s still single. I love her, but if she doesn’t spend the whole weekend sick with jealousy, what’s the point? And I’m not worried!! I know you guys will have done everything you can to make sure my hen do is absolutely perfect
JEREMY: I think I speak for all of us when I say how much we’re looking forward to this weekend
Everything was sorted—largely thanks to Jeremy and Maria. I’d budgeted to buy them many thank-you drinks throughout the weekend. Hopefully the Michelin-starred restaurant had some affordable house-wine options. The only thing I had to do now was make sure I didn’t have to work during the hen do. Which meant no meet-cute this week.
Unfortunately, NOB hadn’t taken “I’m busy” as an acceptable excuse for skipping one. Now that he’d finally delivered, he was taking immense pleasure in reminding me that I was now the one holding him up. No meet-cutes, no writing, he’d said, echoing my drunken declaration. He’d been demanding the next one ever since the meeting with the producers last week, which I hadn’t been “top level” enough to attend (“Next time,” Monty had told me, with a wink). Luc
kily, I’d received live updates:
NOB: FYI, Monty’s taking the credit for getting these pages out of me. You’ll be relieved to know I’m not correcting him
NOB: Red? Are you still mad at me? I would have just told you I’d written the pages, but it was more fun this way
NOB: Are you sure you don’t want Monts to know about our deal before things get really embarrassing for him?
RED: don’t you dare
NOB: There you are. Where’s my next meet-cute? The producers want Act Two before the end of the month. What should I tell them, Red?
I told myself it was fine that Monty had taken the credit. If anything, it meant he thought I was doing a good job. So good in fact, he happily passed it off as his own work. His mood had greatly improved since NOB had delivered. Not only was NOB writing with very little effort on his part, but Monty had discovered a brilliant new talent, Alessandro Russo, on the slush pile. Or, as it’s more commonly known, his desk. Where I’d put his script with the rest of my suggestions. This won’t happen again once you’re promoted. I just needed to suck it up and wait a little bit longer.
I sent Maria and Jeremy a quick message.
EVIE: thanks so much for sorting everything
MARIA: you got us Shrewksbury Manor for a steal, all is forgiven
JEREMY: wine also helps with forgiveness
I pulled up the manor’s website to look at our rooms again. Despite the cost, I was looking forward to spending a weekend in luxury with my friends. And Linda. Beth.
Damn it, Jeremy.
I might not have helped with the planning anywhere near as much as I should, but at least I’d negotiated a third off when I’d booked . . .
When I’d booked.
My heart slammed against my rib cage. Frantically, I opened my emails and scrolled through them. Please, please, please, please. Aha! There was the email from the manager questioning whether I’d meant champagne rather than prosecco on arrival. I knew I’d replied. Hadn’t I?
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