Would Like to Meet
Page 20
“My what?”
Monty used his sleeve to dust a framed photograph of him with Richard Attenborough. “Do I really need to spell this out? At Ezra’s request, I’m handing temporary responsibility for him over to you. This does of course mean that you need to free up more of your time to spend on helping Ezra. As I’m sure I don’t have to emphasize, he needs a certain amount of attention. Until his deadline, I’ll be keeping an eye on your workload, and I’ll even . . .” He mumbled something.
“I didn’t quite hear—”
“I’ll take on some of your work.” Monty wheezed, as if I’d wrestled the words from him. “We really need him to keep writing, Evelyn. He’s all we’ve got. With Alessandro out of the picture . . .” He trailed off.
“I thought things were going well?” I’d been relieved to see Monty going after someone new, even if I’d been the one to find him. Signing up Alessandro could have taken some of the pressure off us. I’d seen his short films—he was a talent to be reckoned with.
“He was being courted by another agent,” Monty said, closing his eyes. This kind of thing happened all the time in the industry—if there was buzz around a new talent, agents would vie to represent them. Yet I could see this one had hit Monty hard. Part of me wondered whether things would be different if I’d been able to speak to Alessandro myself. Next time. “It turns out he didn’t care enough about his career. He’s signed with Geoffrey and Turner.”
That explained it.
“I’m sorry, Monty,” I said softly. Our mutual dislike of Geoffrey and Turner was always something we could agree on.
“He’s gone with what’s shiny. He’ll soon learn his lesson.” He seemed to shake himself out of it. “Hand me the Miller contract and your to-do list.” It was one thing him saying he was going to do my work; it was another seeing him follow through. “Don’t just stand there gawping, Ezra needs you.”
I tried not to look too happy as I deposited the large stack of contracts on Monty’s desk. He stared at the teetering pile with barely disguised horror. Then he took my pad from me and peered over my task list. “It’s been a while since I’ve done any of this stuff. Then again, it’s not exactly rocket science.”
“That’s just the first page,” I said, leaning across the desk and flipping through the notebook for him.
He paled, then pushed his sleeves up. “You’re witnessing a real agent at work. Now go on, get out of here.”
“Just one thing,” I said, pausing. “If I’m working with Ezra, I will need access to the expense account.”
* * *
There was a message waiting for me when I got back to my desk.
NOB: You’re welcome
RED: now you talk to me? You should have asked me first
NOB: I was keeping up appearances for Monts. I haven’t forgotten what you said about your job being on the line. Only one month to go. You need to step it up if you want me to finish the script. How else are you going to meet someone on time?
I resisted the urge to throw my phone at the wall. He’d got so much praise for the script—surely he should want to finish it without the need for me to embarrass myself first?
NOB: You must know how much your reports are helping me by now. From now on, I need you to do at least two meet-cutes a week so I can get this done. You should be grateful. I’m doubling your chances of falling in love . . . and you need all the help you can get
I sat down heavily. Two meet-cutes a week? One had been more than enough. I wasn’t sure I could handle doubling up on the humiliation. I waited for the familiar dread to appear at also having to double up on writing, only to find a prickle of anticipation there instead. That’s new.
I wondered at NOB still insisting I had to fall in love. When I’d agreed to this deal, I’d thought if I could just get NOB to start writing, he’d finish and forget about the rest. But here he was, writing for the first time in years and still holding that part of the deal over me. He’d clearly broken through his writer’s block, so why did I have to jump through that particular hoop? At least I had more time now. My friends had always said I’d meet someone if I worked less. I guess now I could find out if that was true.
RED: agreed . . . IF you send me your pages weekly from now on
NOB: How many times? I’ll send them to my agent, Red
RED: correct me if I’m wrong . . . but isn’t that me?
The three dots appeared and disappeared a few times, as though NOB had started his response and then changed his mind. Until finally:
NOB: When all this is over, we should go for a drink and work out all this sexual tension between us
I rolled my eyes at this. He was clearly trying to sidestep. And yet I couldn’t help but think back to that moment we’d shared just before Christmas when NOB had dropped me off at my mum’s. I’d slipped and he’d caught me, and, just for a second, it had almost seemed like there was something between us. I shook the memory away. I’m clearly overtired.
RED: two meet-cutes a week in exchange for sending me your pages weekly
NOB: Fine. I’ll send them weekly. To Monty
He was promising weekly deliveries. No more anxiously waiting around until he deigned to share his pages with anyone. I’d got what I wanted here. Ultimately, to get my promotion, I just needed him to deliver. And to find Mr. Happy Ending.
RED: we have a deal
TAP TAP TAP. Monty was at the window, using two fingers to peer through the diagonal blind. He gestured at me and then toward the door. “Go on, go,” he said, his voice muffled by the glass.
I wasn’t sure what he expected me to be doing for NOB at nine a.m. on a Tuesday, but I collected my things anyway. I thought back to the list my friends and I had cooked up. If I could cope with two meet-cutes a week, could I push myself further? If I was to have any hope of fulfilling NOB’s ridiculous stipulation of meeting Mr. Happy Ending, then the more meet-cutes I did, the better. It was time to take back control. And, I thought, sliding Monty’s Amex card into my purse, I might as well enjoy it.
Chapter 25
Out of Office
From: Evelyn.Summers@WJM.co.uk
To: TheEzraChester@ezrachester.com
Subject: HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL: The Queue Jump meet-cute
January 16, 7:03 p.m.
Please find attached my attempt to re-create the meet-cute from Fools Rush In.
To sum: I spent all day asking men if I could jump the queue in front of them and trying to strike up conversations. There are definitely some types of queue this works better for than others. For example, the queue for the men’s toilets. At least you have a good excuse. Have you seen the queues outside women’s toilets?
I tried to jump the queue at the post office. Unfortunately, the guy who let me in was trying to find out if it was possible to post a live animal via recorded delivery. It is very hard to flirt with a man carrying a snake in a box that he’s determined to send to Australia.
Just in case you are wondering: yes, it is possible to send live animals via Royal Mail. It’s just a shame waiting times at the Post Office are so long they’re unlikely to survive the queue.
Best,
Evie
* * *
From: Monty@WJM.co.uk
To: Evelyn.Summers@WJM.co.uk
Subject: Pitch query—URGENT
January 17, 1:45 p.m.
Dear Evelyn,
I’m pitching Michael Mayhew’s latest to some producers this afternoon and I haven’t got time to read it. I’m going with The Handmaid’s Tale for fans of Top Gear. I’m keen to push the boundaries with this one.
Does this sound about right? Let me know before 2 p.m. if not.
Kind regards,
Monty
* * *
From: TheEzraChester@ezrachester.com
To: Evelyn.Summers@WJM.co.uk
Subject: Mu
st try harder
January 17, 5:43 p.m.
It isn’t quantity over quality, Red. You’re still holding out on me. You promised you wouldn’t do that anymore, remember? You really aren’t half bad. You should have more confidence. So quit with all the description and give me more dialogue already.
I’m going to need another meet-cute on my desk by the end of the week.
E
* * *
From: Monty@WJM.co.uk
To: Evelyn.Summers@WJM.co.uk
Subject: Simon—URGENT
January 18, 11:32 a.m.
Dear Evelyn,
I have been on the phone to Simon for two hours now. I am literally typing this while he’s still talking. He only has one more scene to write and he’s having some kind of existential crisis.
What do I do, Evelyn?
He’s cataloging every negative comment he’s ever received, and he hasn’t made it through his high-school years.
Help.
Kind regards,
Monty
* * *
From: Evelyn.Summers@WJM.co.uk
To: TheEzraChester@ezrachester.com
Subject: HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL: The Trip
January 19, 5:15 p.m.
Is it really too hard for you to say “please,” Ezra?
Please find attached the meet-cute from The Lady Eve. Not a rom-com, but it has a meet-cute that demanded to be honored. Though I’m not sure that’s exactly what I did. It did enable me to try some of London’s finest restaurants. What a pity I won’t be allowed back to most of them.
It turns out that if you’re going to try to trip someone in a restaurant, you need to stick your foot out quite far. I had my whole leg in the aisle before I got a man to trip over it. It makes it much harder to explain afterward, I can tell you.
In hindsight, I wish I’d chosen a restaurant without tablecloths. Because when people fall, they tend to grab everything they can on their way down. It was like one of those tablecloth tricks, except instead of all the food staying where it is, it ends up on the magician, who’s just landed face-first in a seafood risotto.
I’ve documented every attempt I made at this meet-cute. The report is mainly dialogue. I trust it’s more to your liking.
Best,
Evie
* * *
From: TheEzraChester@ezrachester.com
To: Evelyn.Summers@WJM.co.uk
Subject: PLEASE
January 20, 1:12 a.m.
Yes, better. More like this, please. And now, please.
Ex
* * *
From: Evelyn.Summers@WJM.co.uk
To: TheEzraChester@ezrachester.com
Subject line: HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL: The Lift (AKA bonus meet-cute)
January 22, 6:34 p.m.
Please find attached the 500 Days of Summer Lift meet-cute.
This took most of the day, three department stores, and approximately 57 lift rides to achieve.
It’s very hard to find someone listening to The Smiths loud enough to sing along to, and (spoiler) I didn’t.
I just had to go with what I got.
Here’s a precis:
Me: taps man on shoulder Oh my goodness, is that . . . Gloria Estefan?
Him: blushing furiously It’s a Spotify mix. Looks around at other people in the lift. It’s completely random.
Me: persisting I LOVE this song
Guess what? It turns out his ideal woman isn’t someone who knows all the lyrics to “Rhythm Is Gonna Get You.”
You might not know this, but some older lifts still have emergency stop buttons. And if an elderly fellow passenger in said lift is, for example, prone to panicking, it doesn’t take much for them to press it. A woman randomly bursting into song certainly does the trick.
It’s been a week now. You’ve had three meet-cutes from me.
Time to send your pages.
Evie x
* * *
From: TheEzraChester@ezrachester.com
To: Evelyn.Summers@WJM.co.uk
Subject: Re: HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL: The Lift (AKA bonus meet-cute)
January 24, 2:20 a.m.
Your writing really is evocative, Red. Truly. It was like I was right there with you in the lift. Especially the part where the guy turned his music off and you still decided to finish the song.
I really felt exactly how long it took for the engineer to get you out.
Ex
P.S. Pages will be sent when they’re good and ready.
* * *
From: Monty@WJM.co.uk
To: Evelyn.Summers@WJM.co.uk
Subject: Email inbox full??? URGENT
January 24, 11:32 a.m.
I think there’s something wrong with my inbox. It keeps telling me it’s full. I had to delete emails just to send this one. Why are there so many?
Also, I’m not sure what your filing system is, so I’ve been putting contracts in any spare space I can find.
* * *
From: Evelyn.Summers@WJM.co.uk
To: TheEzraChester@ezrachester.com
Subject: HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL: We had a deal
January 24, 1:22 p.m.
Send them now, Ezra. No more meet-cutes until you do.
Though I am attaching the Department Store meet-cute from Serendipity, because when you’ve spent an entire day standing behind men who are clothes shopping and declaring you want to buy what they’re buying, you want the humiliation to be worthwhile.
I know you can do this.
Evie
* * *
From: TheEzraChester@ezrachester.com
To: Evelyn.Summers@WJM.co.uk
Subject: OUT OF OFFICE
January 24, 1:22 p.m.
Hi, I’m currently drinking margaritas in an infinity pool and definitely won’t be answering your email.
E
* * *
From: Evelyn.Summers@WJM.co.uk
To: TheEzraChester@ezrachester.com
Subject: Re: OUT OF OFFICE
January 24, 1:23 p.m.
This out-of-office better be a joke, Ezra! Our deal is that you send those pages. I’ve been embarrassing myself all over London, so the LEAST you can do is send Monty something.
Don’t you dare ignore me.
Evie
* * *
From: Monty@WJM.co.uk
To: Evelyn.Summers@WJM.co.uk
Subject: URGENT
January 25, 12:42 p.m.
Dear Evelyn,
I’m sure you don’t need me to remind you that the deadline for Ezra to submit the rest of Act Two to the producers is Thursday.
I’ve noticed that you’ve been using the expense account, so I assume all is going well.
Normally I’d offer to step in, as I do have a little more experience with these things. However, I must say I have been very impressed with you over the last few months. I’m starting to believe you might actually be capable of pulling this off after all.
I see great things ahead for you, Evelyn.
Best,
Monty
P.S. Unless the £100 gloves were bought to protect Ezra’s hands while he typed, it would be prudent to return them.
* * *
From: Evelyn.Summers@WJM.co.uk
To: TheEzraChester@ezrachester.com
Subject: Undeliverable: Re: Re: OUT OF OFFICE
January 25, 8:45 p.m.
Your message to TheEzraChester@ezrachester.com has been blocked by the user’s profanity settings.
Chapter 26
Mr. Judgy
INT: THE LORDSHIP PUB, EAST DULWICH—SATURDAY, JANUARY 26, 10:30 P.M.
The pub is rammed. EVIE and STEPH are at the packed bar, waiting to be served. They both wriggle out of their wet coats in the crowde
d space, shouting to each other over the noise. They’re almost at the front.
“Is it always this busy?” Steph called to me. I was jostled from behind and Steph and I surged closer to the bar, like flotsam on a tide.
I shrugged happily. “I’ve never been here before. Saturday night is usually prime Netflix time.” I flushed. Clearly the wine we’d had with the meal had affected me more than I’d realized.
Steph grinned at me, tucking her straight, dark hair behind her ear.
“Oh, honey, thank God we got you out tonight.”
It was strange, being out on the weekend, doubly so with someone new. After listening to my mum’s typically sage advice about the book group, I’d gone back, having read the book this time (Game of Bones). Steph had once again provided the wine and made me feel welcome. It had taken me the best part of last week to pluck up the courage to ask her if she wanted to go out this evening. I was determined to make the most of having the time, for once. Making new friends as an adult is as nerve-racking as asking someone on a date. Getting their number is hard enough. Then you send that first message, hoping to hook them in with a bit of humor, and when they reply you hug yourself with joy and then hold off responding for an hour so you don’t sound too needy.