“What’s all this, then?”
The whole pub fell silent, the music ending abruptly as a police officer pushed his way through the room to examine the questionable “stage” setup with his flashlight.
“Officer,” said Lawrence of a Labia, the epitome of dignity. “However may we help you?”
“I’m not here for you,” the man replied.
Beside me, Jeremy made a curious sound.
Which is when I saw the flashlight was sticking out of the officer’s pants.
“Sarah Mathers,” he shouted, yanking said pants off with one tug. “You’ve been a very naughty girl. Get up against the wall and spread ’em!”
* * *
My friends gathered behind me as I opened the door to the cottage. We stepped into the dark hallway.
“Now, Sarah,” Jeremy said, stumbling a little. “You’re about to see that Linda had the right idea, staying at the pub.”
“Linda didn’t have a choice,” Sarah said darkly. “She knew my No Penises policy.”
“Ready?” Maria and I reached for her hands, taking one each.
“I’m ready,” she said bravely.
I took a deep breath and turned on the light.
Sarah breathed in sharply. “Oh, you guys.”
The living room had been filled with rose-gold helium balloons, obscuring the damp ceiling, creating a forest of curling ribbons.
We all slowly stepped into the room.
Maria’s face was full of awe. “What is this?” she asked me quietly.
Ribbons tickled my cheek. “I have no idea.”
I turned the projector on, clearing the balloons that had drifted in front of the screen. The first picture was of us in our Pretty Woman fancy dress. Jeremy dimmed the lights. The balloons all took on a soft glow.
Who could have done this? The only other people who knew about this cottage were NOB and Ben. And NOB had come to my rescue before . . .
EVIE: was this you?
This time I sent the message to both men. Maria covered one of the sofas with a bedsheet, and my friends all gathered on it in front of the screen.
“Come on, Evie. We have wine.” They oohed and aahed at the photographs, and I checked my phone.
BEN: the owner took delivery. You should be getting a refund for the cottage.
“It was Ben,” I said wonderingly. I’d hoped that was true, though he hadn’t said anything about balloons when I’d picked up the projector from Gil’s the day before. Why would he . . . With a sickening jolt, I realized he still believed I blamed him for the ruined hen do. With everything that had happened, I’d forgotten to explain myself. The balloons were an apology. Oh, God.
“I knew I liked him,” Jeremy said.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I warned, as he pulled me down to sit beside him. “All this proves is that I really am ridiculous.” I was going to have to explain myself to Ben. Dread twisted in my stomach, mixing with the alcohol.
EVIE: I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Ben. Sorry you felt you had to do this. I meant that message for stupid NOB, not you. NONE of this was your fault. If it helps at all, you’ve made Sarah’s weekend!
“Ben is typing” reappeared and disappeared a few times.
BEN: NOB? So the weekend was a meet-cute?
My first reaction was shame, then I immediately felt annoyed. It was one step forward, two steps back with him. Why did he have such a problem with me doing the meet-cutes?
EVIE: I’m grateful for the balloons. And the photos. And for all of your help . . . But there’s no need to get all Mr. Judgy
With that, I tossed my phone onto the carpet and turned back to my friends and the photos. Ben hadn’t arranged the images in chronological order. As we watched, holding each other slightly tighter with each passing photo, themes started to emerge. Holidays, celebrations, graduations, mid-laughter shots, me and my laptop . . . Somewhere in the part of my brain that remained a few millimeters above alcohol level was the thought that this slideshow didn’t look like something that had taken Ben “no time at all.”
* * *
Knock knock knock.
We all stirred beneath the bedding on the sofa.
“What is it?” asked Maria. She held on to her head. “Are we moving?”
Jeremy was on the chair, wrapped up in a bedsheet like a chrysalis. He blinked sleepily at us.
“Evie, what heinous part of your plan is this?”
“It had better involve Deliveroo-ing a sausage butty,” Sarah said.
Knock knock knock.
I frowned, struggling to recall the itinerary. “Oh, God, no,” I realized. “It’s Barbara’s Bootcamp.”
“No. Absolutely not,” Jeremy said.
Pushing the duvet aside, I scrambled up, then braced myself as the room swayed.
“Evie,” said Sarah. “I cannot cope with any more of this hen do. Tell them to go away.”
“You wanted an exercise class!” I said, dismantling the pillow barricade we’d built last night to cover the gap beneath the door to prevent a visit from Jeremy’s rat friend. “Anyway, you’ll get pampered afterward. We have Shelley’s Shellacs coming at eleven.”
Jeremy cocked his head. “Do any of these sound like real things?”
I shot him an exasperated look as I pulled back the dead bolt on the front door.
“Evie.” Sarah snuggled down into the duvet. “For all I care, you can tell Barbara to shove her bootcamp up her arse.”
A man in a smart coat stood on the doorstep. Behind him, a black car idled in the road. He smiled, nose pink in the cold.
“Can I help you?” I asked, thinking, for one foolish moment, of that part in The Holiday when Jude Law appears on the doorstep.
“I’m here to take you to Shrewksbury Manor.” His smile widened. “We should leave now if you want to make your spa appointments. Unless,” he said questioningly, “you would prefer that I shoved them up my arse?”
Sarah scrambled to my side. “Spa?” she gasped. “Shrewksbury Spa? I don’t care how you did this, Evie, but you finally got something right. Everyone, get your butts in that car!”
My woolly brain took its time putting it together. It was Ben again. Ben had done this. Rather than book replacement appointments, he’d hired a driver. Shelley’s Shellacs indeed. That meant Sarah’s entire Sunday was exactly as she’d hoped for.
“Hot Widower,” whistled Jeremy from behind us.
Yes. Hot Widower. And how had I thanked him last night? By calling him Mr. Judgy. Oh, Evie.
Chapter 24
Turtles All the Way Down
INT: WILLIAM JONATHAN MONTGOMERY & SONS AGENCY FOR SCREENWRITERS—TUESDAY, JANUARY 15, 7:24 A.M.
EVIE is at her computer, lost to the world as she types. The only light comes from her desk lamp. At the end of the corridor, MONTY’s office is still dark. She picks up her coffee and goes to take a drink, only to realize the cup is empty.
I sighed, putting my cup back down again and scrolling through my inbox. There were still more than a hundred unread emails, not counting the hundreds of new queries from screenwriters hoping Monty would represent them. Or the pile of contracts on my desk that was now up to my nose. I’d spent yesterday writing up the Holiday Romance meet-cute, and, despite much of the weekend being a complete disaster, writing about it had felt like penance. I’d promised NOB I’d stop holding myself back when I wrote. I didn’t have my dad to check my scripts anymore, so the only way I could let myself go was by pretending that no one else would see, that I was writing just for me. At some point, something must have clicked. Before I knew it, I’d lost an entire day to writing. As strange and wonderful as this was, it meant I was now playing catch-up with my work. It was going to take a week of late nights to get anywhere near back to normal. I just wished NOB understood. To him, my full-time job was an inconvenience. The
moment I’d sent him the Holiday Romance meet-cute, he’d demanded the next one.
NOB: It’s your move Red
RED: this isn’t a game
NOB: Then how come I’m winning?
Maddening though he was, he wasn’t exactly wrong. The producers wanted Act Two from him by the end of January. I should be doing everything I could to ensure NOB sent it to them. Especially if I ever wanted my job to be anything more than answering all the emails Monty preferred to avoid.
My inbox pinged. Sarah. On the drive home, my friends had all volunteered new meet-cute ideas, so I was fairly sure everything was fine between us. Still, I opened her email with caution.
Evie, I want you to know that I’ve thought long and hard about this. I’ve decided to forgive you for ruining my hen do. You have your friend Ben to thank for my generosity, of course.
And the flowers you sent. I know they’re probably from the money you saved on my weekend, but I appreciate the gesture all the same, what with you being so poor.
“You’re welcome, Sarah,” I murmured. I’d messaged Ben to thank him profusely for everything he’d done for Sarah, offering to reimburse him for the balloons and the Shrewksbury driver. His response had been “Don’t worry about it.” Which, try as I might, I couldn’t decipher. It had felt like we were just getting somewhere with each other, then I had to go and prove his first impression of me entirely right.
Also, I found another album on the USB stick with my photo collage. I assume it’s Ben’s, as it’s his memory stick. You didn’t say he was a photographer. From what little you have said, he seems to value his privacy. So to save you having to agonize over it, I’ve already looked at all the photos. You have a very talented friend!
There was a file-share link at the end of the message. I hovered my cursor over it. Despite Sarah’s thoughtfulness, it still felt like it would be prying if I opened this folder. It could be personal—there might be old photos of his wife on there . . . I should respect his privacy.
I bit my lip.
The idea of finding out something—anything—about Ben was just too tempting.
I clicked. The file was huge. I set it to download in the background, jiggling my knees as I waited.
“Finally.” It contained over a hundred images.
The first photograph was of a frozen lake. I relaxed a little. There was no reason to feel guilty about looking at a photo of a lake. It was hardly personal. As I clicked through to the next one, and the next, my relief sharpened into something like disappointment. Ben wasn’t in any of them. The photographs looked like they’d been taken in Iceland, from the geysers, icy fjords and dark, rocky terrain. As I carried on clicking, I propped my chin on the palm of my hand, disappointment fading, lingering a little longer on each image. Through Ben’s lens, the landscape had a life of its own.
“Oh, Ben,” I murmured.
Every image was infused with a fierce love for the wildlife and landscape he’d captured. There was courage in the shot of the waterfall cascading over a crescent cliff into foaming waters. Awe for the blue icebergs slung along a black sand beach. I’d been wrong when I assumed they were just professional shots; all of these photographs were personal for Ben.
Why had he given up on this huge, incredible gift? Looking at these photos, I felt like I was finally getting to know the real him. Though, after the way I’d messed things up this weekend, there was a chance I’d never get to find out more. The thought made me inexplicably sad.
The sound of the front door opening shook me from my thoughts. Voices floated up the stairs. I went back to the album, thinking it was the accountants who shared our kitchen. Then I heard an unmistakable plummy tone. Monty.
I checked to see if I’d somehow lost track of time. It wasn’t even eight a.m.
What? In seven years, the only time Monty had been in the office before ten was when he hadn’t realized the clocks had changed. What possible reason could he have for being here at this time? It was early, even for me.
Monty reached the top of the stairs. “Good morning,” I said, a little too late.
“Really, Evelyn, you could try to look a little less surprised,” Monty said drily as he pushed past my chair.
Then his companion appeared, and my jaw slackened in shock.
“N . . . Ezra,” I said, flustered at my near slip. I caught myself staring. With his expensively disheveled blond hair, ludicrously high cheekbones, and Hollywood smile, he seemed so out of place in our dingy office. I spent so much time being annoyed with him, it was easy sometimes to forget how absurdly pretty he was.
NOB didn’t even look at me as he passed by. It was as if our relationship had reverted to where it was before our deal. It struck me how much it had changed over the last few months for this to actually sting. I used to think NOB was nothing more than an arse. Now I understood that he was just uncompromisingly himself with everyone. Of course, that did mean he was often just an arse, but he’d proven there was more to him than that. So, what was he playing at?
I sank low in my chair, tapping my pen furiously against my pad and glaring at his retreating back as if it could somehow give me the answers. What could the pair of them possibly be meeting about at this hour? And why didn’t I know about it?
Just before he closed Monty’s office door, NOB glanced back at me and winked.
I pretended to be typing, keeping one eye on Monty’s window. NOB came into view, pacing the office and gesturing as he spoke. I could hear the occasional word through the thin walls. I thought I caught my name.
After my scare over the New Year, I’d made NOB promise once again that he wouldn’t tell Monty about our deal. Given that drunk Evie had already let it slip to NOB that my job was at risk, I’d told him Monty would most likely fire me if he found out. He’d sworn he wouldn’t say a word.
So what the hell was he doing?
NOB disappeared from sight and I leaned farther back in my chair. If I could just see Monty’s reaction to whatever it was he was saying, I might have a clue about what was going on. I pushed my toe against the wall, tipping myself back a little. Just a little bit farther . . . A little bit more. There. I could see NOB again. He had something in his hand.
My chair wobbled alarmingly. I teetered, just for a second, before gravity took hold. NOB’s gaze slid to the window and he watched as I tipped over backward, my headrest catching on the wall behind me and leaving me wedged at a ninety-degree angle with my legs in the air.
Monty stepped into view and scowled as if I’d done this on purpose. He pulled the cord on his blind. It fell halfway and stopped. He yanked it up and tried again. NOB stood behind him, amusement in his blue eyes as the blind seesawed up and down and I remained lodged in the corridor like an upended turtle. While Monty was distracted, I caught NOB’s eye, smiled, and discreetly stuck two fingers up. NOB’s brows shot up, and I gripped the arms of my chair before Monty could catch sight of his assistant flipping off his number-one client. Was that really worth the risk, Evie? Monty had managed to get only half the blind down when he gave up and stormed away.
I was upright and answering emails by the time NOB emerged from Monty’s office. Once again, he didn’t even look at me as he passed by. I stared after him, cold fingers of trepidation on my neck.
“Evelyn?” Monty called. “My office. Now.”
* * *
When I entered, Monty seemed mesmerized by a small stack of paper on his desk.
“Is everything okay?”
He looked up, fingers dancing around the edges of the pages, as if checking that they were still there.
“It’s Ezra,” said Monty. “He’s delivered Act Two.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak. Then I heard myself saying, “But . . . he’s early.”
“Well, it’s not quite complete yet.”
Ah. He’d at least delivered something though. “How is it
?”
“Excellent,” Monty replied, somewhat dreamily. I let out the breath I’d been holding. I should have been happy, and I was, but why did NOB have to be so infuriating about it? He could have at least told me he was writing. Instead, he’d once again cut me out. “I must confess, I didn’t realize quite how much you were helping him.” I was so distracted by the thought of beating NOB over the head with his own Oscar, I almost missed this. Monty. Praising me. His face brightened. “It’s entirely different to A Heart Lies Bleeding, of course, but I think he really has something here, Evelyn.”
Seeing Monty like this, it was easy to imagine him in the same chair fifteen years ago, back before years of indulgence had set in and the shine had worn off for him.
“I’d really love to read it,” I said.
His attention snapped back to me, and I swear there was a hint of guilt in his expression. “He hasn’t shown it to you?”
I shook my head.
Monty tightened his fingers around the edges of NOB’s script. “All in due course.” He pulled it closer to him. “We . . . We need to talk, Evelyn. Ezra has expressed some serious concerns about you.”
I was too stunned to respond.
“About your workload.”
“My . . . workload?”
Monty cleared his throat. “Ezra is concerned you might have distractions.” By “distractions,” I assumed NOB meant other writers, along with what little personal life I had left. That arrogant, insufferable boychild. “He’s making good progress with the writing, and he wants to protect your time so you can spend more of it assisting him. Which is why I’ve made a decision.” Monty paused. I held my breath, readying myself for whatever was to come. “I don’t need to remind you how much is riding on this script. I’m counting on you to make sure he delivers the rest. Without distractions.” Monty straightened a pen on his desk. “So I’ll be making sure you can concentrate on your client.”
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