Dread surged through me.
Slowly, I moved the cursor over to the drafts folder and clicked.
Dear Marjorie,
I am writing to confirm our booking with the deposit. And yes, I did mean prosecco. If you remember, I asked whether we could have the bride’s favorite cocktail, Pornstar Martinis, but you didn’t seem too keen . . .
Oh, no. Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no, oh, no.
I had to remain calm. There was every chance the rooms were still reserved. I raced outside to call the manor, squeezing past Ben and Anette as they arrived. Anette had a friend with her—a little girl wearing a woolen hat with ear flaps.
“That’s our friend Evie,” I heard Anette tell her friend as I scurried past. “Is she okay?” she asked her dad. I didn’t catch his response, but it didn’t take me long to find out the answer to that question.
I was most definitely not okay.
* * *
I sat back down at my laptop, staring unseeingly at the Shrewksbury Manor website with its unobtainable opulence. The manager had informed me that someone else had booked our suite—and they’d paid full price, she’d emphasized. There was nothing else available.
What have I done?
Ben looked up from his book. His dark brows rose, silently asking if I was all right. I nodded, knowing I must look ill. Anette tugged at her friend’s hand-knitted jumper when she saw me. Despite myself, I was suddenly glad of them being here.
“Happy New Year, Evie! This is Bea. She just started drama club with me. Bea, this is our friend Evie.”
I stuck a big smile on my face. “Hi, Bea, lovely to meet you.”
“Enchantée,” Bea said. Her hair was full of multicolored clips.
“How was your Road Trip meet cute? Did the playlist help?” Anette asked, barely pausing between questions.
“Worst one yet, unfortunately. Thank goodness I had your playlist. I don’t know what I would have done without it. Thanks, Anette.”
Anette appeared relieved. “Dad helped,” she said generously.
“Then you both saved the day.” The corner of Ben’s mouth quirked up and I felt a rush of warmth.
Until I remembered what I’d done. Oh, Sarah. I’m so sorry.
“Anette, why don’t you teach Bea Bad Lamp Random?” Ben suggested.
I shot him a grateful look and pulled up Sarah’s presentation, racing through alternative options to the manor. Even if I booked elsewhere, my friends had spent over a month organizing all the activities in the presentation, and they were all in Shrewksbury village. How was I going to tell them? And how was I going to face Sarah? Her Mathers Meltdowns™ had been infamous at university, but it had been years since anyone had seen one. That’s because all of the witnesses are dead.
I put my head in my hands, closing my eyes and breathing deeply.
“Evie,” Ben said.
“Yes?”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, my voice muffled. Sarah was going to kill me. Maria would be furious. Jeremy . . . Well, Jeremy would probably throw a parade in my honor.
My phone buzzed. I turned to check it.
NOB: No more excuses. Where’s my meet-cute?
I shoved the phone, sending it skidding to the other side of the table. There was movement in my periphery. Anette and Ben were having a rapid, silent conversation. Anette made a winglike shape with her arms. Ben nodded at her—Okay, okay—he signed, and she stopped, turning back to her friend.
“What is it, Evie?” he asked me. The back of my throat stung at his unexpectedly gentle tone.
“It’s fine, really,” I told him. “I’ve just ruined my best friend’s hen do and I’m the world’s worst friend, that’s all. Please, go back to your book.”
“Maybe I can help.”
I raised my eyes to his. “You don’t even know what I’ve done.”
“Then tell me.”
So I did, then waited for the inevitable judgment.
“When is it?”
“Next weekend.”
“Where is it?”
“Shrewksbury.”
“That’s the middle of nowhere,” said Ben.
“Yes,” I said heavily.
Ben closed his book.
“I meant that you could have the hen do anywhere, as long as it’s similar to Shrewksbury. Is that correct?”
“With Sarah, nothing’s ever quite as simple as that.” I pushed the presentation pages across the table toward him. He started to riffle through the top ones. He paused, then flipped through to the end, where the checklist of activities was. I couldn’t look at it.
“Right,” Ben said. Then he simply stood up and walked away. So much for being less of a doofus. I buried my head in my hands again.
“Do you want a hot chocolate, Evie?” Anette asked me a few minutes later.
“I’m okay, thank you,” I mumbled into my sleeve.
“Too late,” Ben said. There was a light thud and I looked up. He’d bought them for all of us.
“Do you have all the contact details for the bookings?” he asked.
I nodded, eyes still on my drink, then pulled up Maria’s spreadsheet. “They’re all here.”
“And there definitely isn’t an alternative venue nearby?”
“I’ve looked. The only way we could still do all the activities we’ve planned is if I hired a camper van, and my friend Sarah banned any form of camping back in 2006 after the four of us nearly drowned in a field in Scotland. Long story.”
Ben leaned forward and retrieved my phone, handing it back to me. “Then brace yourself,” he told me. “Are you ready? Here, take this.”
He pushed the hot chocolate into my hands.
“You’re going to cancel everything, the sooner the better.”
I groaned loudly, though pressed my fingers gratefully around the warmth of the mug.
“There’s good news.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“You’ve got this,” he said simply. I looked at him. “From what I’ve seen, you can do anything you set your mind to. You’re going to find somewhere new and rebook it all. And if you need help, I’m here. I’ve done this before.”
“Organized hen dos?” I said, briefly stuck on the idea of Ben thinking I was capable of anything. But you think I’m ridiculous. Surely all this should just be compounding his view of me.
“Photography crews, mainly. Getting them places. Keeping them entertained. It was a lot like herding cats.” Who was this man? “Trust me,” Ben said. “Itinerary is my middle name.” I gave him a small smile and he lifted a shoulder. “So, can I pitch in?”
Before today, Ben would have been the last person I’d want witnessing me be a complete catastrophe. Yet, he’d made it all sound so doable. Having an alternative weekend already lined up would certainly help when I delivered the news to my friends about what I’d done to the original. And Sarah’s hen do wasn’t going to be saved by wallowing.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s do this.”
“Then let’s get canceling.”
Less than an hour later, the perfect hen do that Jeremy and Maria had spent months organizing was no more. The only issue had been the Sunday spa treatments at Shrewksbury. They’d been paid for up front and were nonrefundable. Ben had tried too—and I’d heard him on the phone, brisk, polite, and impressively hard to say no to. Shrewksbury was firm. It meant that I’d need to save for the next few months to pay Jeremy and Maria back, but it was the least I could do.
“Now the fun part,” Ben said lightly. I must have looked dubious. “We find a new venue. Then we each take half of the activities and rebook like for like. Where would your friend Sarah like to stay?”
Anything other than Shrewskbury Manor would pale in comparison for her.
“She’s a littl
e particular,” I understated. “It would need to be absolutely perfect, like something out of a fairy tale.” I shrugged apologetically. “That’s her wedding theme,” I clarified. “Bonus points if it’s called something like Loganberry Lodge.”
“Or Foxgloveington Hall,” Ben offered.
“Honeysuckle Cottage,” I smiled. Wait. I’d heard that somewhere. I racked my brains. My mum had told me about it on New Year’s Eve. I’d been too distracted by Anette Sleepless in Seattle–ing me, I hadn’t even looked it up.
What had she said? It was exactly how you imagine a cottage should be. There were only five of us, including Beth. We didn’t necessarily need a manor . . .
Ben was now absorbed in dividing up the pages of the presentation. A curl of dark hair had fallen onto his forehead. It was longer than I’d seen it before. My fingers twitched, as if urging me to brush it back from his eyes. Whoa, Evie. Where had that come from? The man thinks you’re a fool, remember? He’s probably helping you out of pity for Sarah.
To distract myself, I searched for the cottage my mum had mentioned. It must be somewhere in Yorkshire . . . Aha!
The photos on the site were a little blurry, but the cottage itself was exactly as my mother had described. Picture-perfect. Built from roughly hewn gray stones, it had a snug thatched roof, beautiful sash windows, and a merry wooden door painted duck-egg blue. There were pale pink roses all up one side of the house, like it was delicately blushing. It was small—two up, two down—but still had enough rooms for all of us, and it really was “cheap as chips,” as my mother had promised. It couldn’t have been more ideal for a Holiday Romance meet-cute.
Hen do, I caught myself. This is for a hen do. This wasn’t about me. This was about saving Sarah’s weekend.
And it would be ideal for Sarah’s hen.
Hope cautiously bloomed inside me. The cottage was, aptly, in Little Thrumpton, a village just like Shrewksbury. We could bring the luxury with us. Sarah was going to be disappointed about the manor, and I’d still have to face Maria and Jeremy, but it was either this or a field. It could just work. Plus, a little voice said, you can kill two birds with one stone and keep NOB writing.
Before I could change my mind, I said, “I’ve found it.”
“See?” Ben said distractedly. I noticed the slide he was reading was the “no penises” policy. “You’ve got this.”
While I was sorting the booking, Ben made two piles from the presentation slides. He pointed to the one nearest me. “Saturday activities.” And the one near him. “Sunday.”
I made a third pile with the accommodation slide page. “Booked,” I said, and we shared a moment of joint appreciation for a good system.
Ten minutes later, Ben had found a replacement for the Olympic trainer Sarah had requested for our morning exercise class—Barbara’s Bootcamp, he told me as he’d placed the page on the middle pile—and a woman who’d come to the cottage to do our nails and massages—Shelley’s Shellacs. Little Thrumpton apparently prided itself on being twee.
I was still plotting out a new scavenger hunt. Luckily, the village boasted a large plot of land that was used for a maize maze (It’s Amaizeing!). It was out of season but still open. Beth could just give Sarah a prize when she reached the middle. It wasn’t a manor garden, but it would keep them occupied while we set up the cottage.
Ben glanced over at my phone, which had been buzzing relentlessly while we worked. I snatched it up.
NOB: I can’t believe you’re reneging on your side of the deal
NOB: Clearly you aren’t taking this as seriously as I am
Not taking it seriously? Maybe I’d get more done if I didn’t have to deal with the world’s biggest ego needing attention every five seconds. Enough interruptions.
RED: I’m doing the Holiday Romance meet-cute this weekend at my friend’s hen do. You can get back to your writing
NOB: You’re using your friend’s hen do for a meet-cute? Pretty ruthless, Red
NOB: I like it
I turned my phone over so I didn’t have to see the screen. Was NOB right? I fully intended on making the entire weekend about Sarah—except, when we went for drinks in the evening I might happen to bump into some locals.
“How are you doing?” Ben asked.
I jumped, trying not to overthink how guilty I felt. “I think I’ve found a restaurant,” I said, showing him the website.
“The Hangman’s Daughter? Is it Michelin-starred?” He leaned over to look at my laptop. He smelled like fresh air and cinnamon.
“It’s award-winning,” I said.
Ben checked his tablet. “It’s also the only one in the village that serves food.”
“Then it’s perfect,” I declared, tossing the page of the presentation onto the growing “booked” pile.
Next, I found a local drawing class. Sarah had chosen Shrewksbury Manor not only because it was luxurious but because a local artist, Martine (no last name), held painting classes there on an extremely selective basis. Sarah wasn’t remotely artistic, but Martine had once given a lesson to Kim Kardashian. The artist in Little Thrumpton couldn’t claim that honor, but he was very relaxed when it came to alcohol being drunk during his class.
“Done!” Ben dropped his last page onto the pile. “What’s next for you?”
“The cocktail class,” I replied. “I thought I’d ask the restaurant if they could help.”
As I made the call, he pulled up the website for the restaurant—did it look like more of a pub?—on his tablet. The drinks menu was just a photograph of the blackboard over the bar. “It does everything from Sex on the Beach to . . .” He paused. Someone picked up on the other end. “Slippery Nipples.”
“Excuse me?” the person asked. I waved Ben quiet so I could ask about the private cocktail class.
“I don’t suppose it’s too late to look elsewhere?” he wondered aloud when I’d finished the conversation.
“Extremely,” I said, adding the page to the pile and double-checking just to be sure. It was my last one. “I don’t believe it . . . We’ve actually done it!” I held up my palm and Ben had already high-fived me before I could stop to think about who it was I was asking.
Who knew? I mused, turning my attention to the new itinerary. Having this to present to Jeremy and Maria would, I hoped, soften the blow. Maybe then they’d stop speaking to me for only five to ten years or so . . .
“Don’t worry,” Ben said, as if sensing I was starting to spiral. “It’s going to be okay.”
“All thanks to you,” I said.
“Are you kidding? You’re the a-maize-ing one.” He smiled when I groaned, his hooded brown eyes lighting up. I smiled back, a few seconds passing in easy silence.
Then I spotted something over his shoulder. Anette, grinning at us. I hastened to gather up the pages. It was best not to encourage her. Ben turned away too, rubbing the back of his neck.
When I opened up my bulging satchel to pack the pages inside, I saw the box I’d put in there. I’d completely forgotten that I’d intended to spend some of this morning putting together a surprise for Sarah.
Well, I’d certainly achieved that.
I pulled the box out and the lid came loose, a picture falling to the floor. “Wait!” I said, but it was too late. Ben had picked it up. The photo was of me and my friends, aged eighteen, at a fancy-dress party. Of course it had to be that one. We’d gone as Pretty Woman. Sarah was dressed as Julia Roberts before she took the blond wig off. I was the “after,” in a dressing gown with red curls and a shy grin. Jeremy was our Richard Gere, sporting a thick gray wig. Ben’s mouth twitched.
“I was going to do a collage for Sarah,” I explained, taking the lid off the box to slip the photo back inside. I caught him glancing at the rest of them, a curious expression on his face. Anette and her friend leaned in too. There were more nights out. A series of me bent ove
r my laptop, writing, completely oblivious to whichever of my friends was pulling their face behind me. Holidays we used to all go on together. “Though I’ve run out of time.”
I had some work to do this afternoon. One of our writers, Simon, had begged for a call to go through all the reasons why his current project was both the best thing he’d ever written and completely unsalvageable (he was a fifty-fifty client: fifty percent ego, fifty percent neurosis).
Anette waved her hands as though trying to signal something to Ben, but he didn’t see her. “Actually . . .” he said. She stopped still, staring at him with a pleading expression. “I might be able to help with that too.”
His daughter beamed.
Chapter 21
Cover It in Glitter
EXT: A DETACHED HOUSE, A CUL-DE-SAC, SHEFFIELD—SATURDAY, JANUARY 12, 7:30 A.M.
SARAH runs out of the door, pulling a bright pink suitcase behind her. Her fiancé, JIM, wearing his dressing gown, leans out for a kiss. She stands on her tiptoes and pecks his cheek, then, spotting her friend BETH arriving in a hot-pink Audi TT, she throws her hands around Jim’s neck and snogs him. JEREMY pulls up next to Beth in his boxy Vauxhall Corsa and stays seated, leaving MARIA and EVIE to get out of the car to greet SARAH.
“Happy hen do, Sarah!” called Maria, as we huddled to hug our diminutive friend.
“It’s finally here!” Her grip was iron-tight with excitement. With Sarah, it’s like someone took a very large person and condensed them down to make one that packed more of a punch. She was a neutron star of a woman.
Sarah introduced us to Beth, who had the kind of highlighted blond waves that sold hair products. The two of them were dressed in identical pink velour tracksuits.
“For the journey,” Sarah said, in response to our looks. She waved at Jeremy, who rolled the window down. “Let’s get this show on the road! I can’t wait to find out where we’re going.”
“Yes, wherever could that be,” Jeremy intoned.
Would Like to Meet Page 16