Would Like to Meet

by Rachel Winters

  “Just a sec.” Steph put a card into Marc’s coat pocket, patting it. “My number. Let’s actually get to know each other.”

  Then she kissed my cheek, smelling of strawberries and rum. “We should do this again. You good getting home?” I told her I was just around the corner and she breezed out of the pub, trailing her red scarf. I stared after her, slightly in awe.

  Ben ushered Marc along, pausing briefly at the door. “We won’t be at Gil’s tomorrow, just so you know. I’ll be picking Anette up from her grandparents’,” he said. His expression was shuttered.

  “I’ll see you next week, then,” I said, with an unexpected pang of disappointment. I tamped it down before he could see it on my face.

  He nodded just as the door closed behind him.

  What just changed? But I knew. The moment Marc had mentioned this being a meet-cute, Ben had shut down. Again. I yanked my mittens on. It wasn’t like I was trying to have a meet-cute with him, so what was his problem?

  As I pulled my duffel coat from the back of my chair, I saw the camera propped on Ben’s seat. Oh, no you don’t. If nothing else, I would reunite Ben with his camera. I grabbed it and hurried outside. It was pouring with rain. I shook out my red umbrella and stepped onto the street, squinting through the downpour. There. Ben had hailed a taxi and was trying to coax Marc into it. The rain had swept his dark hair into his eyes.

  “Ben.” I hurried up to him, placed the camera in his hands, then turned away before he could respond.

  I’d taken only a few steps when I heard him call my name.

  “Evie.”

  I turned around, shivering beneath a streetlamp as I clutched my umbrella, wondering what he could possibly want.

  Flash. The whole street lit up, the rain slick and glittering. As I blinked away the light, I saw Ben lowering the camera. He looked down at it for a moment before lifting his eyes to meet mine.

  “Small steps,” he said.

  Chapter 27

  Bridesmaids Revisited

  INT: EVIE’S BEDROOM, WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 30, 5:34 P.M.

  EVIE is wearing tights and a nightgown as she takes a garment bag out of a cardboard delivery box and hangs it up on her wardrobe door. Her room is tiny but neat. There are framed film posters on the walls: Brick Park. When Harry Met Sally. Lost in Translation. The Champ. A Room with a View. Thelma & Louise. Juno.

  The bridesmaid dress felt heavier than I imagined it should. Sarah had chosen them before Christmas, but I hadn’t been around, and rather than send me a picture, she’d wanted me to see it in person to “really get the benefit.” She’d posted it out to me so we could both try on our dresses at the same time today, albeit at a distance of almost two hundred miles.

  “Does it look okay?” Sarah’s voice sounded tinny through the speakers of the laptop balanced on my bed. The camera quality from Jeremy’s propped-up tablet was a little fuzzy, but I could see Jeremy and Maria both sitting on the small heart-shaped sofa at the bridal boutique in Sheffield, holding glasses of prosecco while they waited for us both to get ready. I wished I could have afforded to be there with them in person. Still, at least I had my own (plastic) glass of prosecco to get me through this.

  “I’m still unzipping.”

  “It’s so weird seeing you outside of work at this time,” Jeremy said, his arms draped across his knees as he peered into the camera.

  “You too,” I told him. Now we all knew how crazy his hours had been getting, we’d been checking in with him more. “Monty’s still taking work off me. Almost everything but my edits.” It was almost like a dream job, except I was living a nightmare in which I hadn’t told Monty that NOB was still out of contact. Or that I’d refused to keep doing the one thing that had apparently got him writing again.

  I determinedly shook off my worries and grabbed the plastic flute from my desk. This was about Sarah, not me. I sipped the prosecco before approaching the bag. Jeremy’s hints and Maria’s stoicism implied that the bridesmaid dress had to be seen to be believed.

  “So you told NOB that you’re done?” asked Maria, as I yanked the zipper down and peeked inside. “Just like that?”

  “Yep. Oh, my,” I said. It was very . . . peach. Not exactly the tasteful rose gold Sarah had promised. At first I couldn’t quite see the dress for ruffles. Then I realized the dress was the ruffles. I maneuvered it out of the bag and stepped back.

  Maybe it would look better on.

  “It must be nice having free time.”

  “I’m enjoying the break, actually. I forgot how many things there are to do in London. And,” I added, a little shyly, “I’ve had time to think about how much I’ve enjoyed writing again. Even though it’s only about the meet-cutes.”

  “Oh, Evie.” This was from Jeremy, as Maria clung to his arm looking cautiously hopeful for me.

  “Are you trying on that dress?” Sarah called from off-screen.

  Obediently, I stepped out of camera range and shrugged out of the nightgown.

  “I’m so, so pleased for you, Evie,” Maria said.

  “Same, but can we go back to the bit where Hot Widower took your photo?” Jeremy asked. I leaned in to the screen so he could see the look I was giving him.

  “Has she got it on yet?” Sarah asked.

  “Just a moment.” I grunted as I attempted to locate the zipper. I felt like Katherine Heigl in 27 Dresses, only I was wearing all of them at once.

  “What’s happening?” I heard Sarah’s voice rising. “If it doesn’t fit now, it’s too late and I don’t want to hear it.”

  “If you shimmy it round to the front, zip it up halfway, then twizzle it back round, it’s easier.” Maria’s face was scrunched up in sympathy. I did as she said, wriggling and panting, then jumped up and down to coax the zipper upward.

  “We can see you,” Jeremy said. “As can our lovely assistant, Shannon.” I spotted a dark-haired woman pausing as she topped up their glasses.

  “Shit!” I waddled out of sight, pressing myself against my desk.

  “So what happened after he took your picture?” Maria urged.

  I winced, remembering how Marc had stumbled back out of the taxi, doubled over with cheeks bulging. “His friend threw up on his shoes.”

  “Lovely,” Jeremy intoned. “And then?”

  “Then Ben said, ‘We should really stop meeting like this.’”

  Maria sighed.

  “Hot Widower,” Jeremy said appreciatively.

  “Do I need to remind you he thinks I’m a ridiculous human being? And with good reason,” I muttered.

  “Do I need to remind you that this moment is about me?”

  “Of course not!” I sang out to Sarah. The zipper moved another few inches and I did a slightly restricted victory dance. Just a little bit more and I was in. It snagged.

  I was most definitely not in.

  Sweat broke out on my forehead. What was this dress made out of, insulation?

  “Have you considered the possibility that Hot Widower might be intimidated by the Hot Screenwriter you keep obsessing about?” Jeremy asked.

  I paused at his words. “I am not obsessing about him, am I?” Silence from my laptop. “In three weeks’ time I’ll never speak his name again, I promise.” I breathed out as the zipper finally slid all the way up. “Besides, you guys are assuming Ben likes me, and he doesn’t. Not like that. We’ve barely made it to friendship stage.”

  More silence. I bent down to check that we were still connected. My friends looked out at me, expressions skeptical. They were too caught up in the fact that he’d all but saved Sarah’s hen do. They just didn’t know him like I did. It was like Marc said: Ben was the guy who showed up. He’d do it for anyone.

  “Let’s just focus on NOB,” I told them.

  “Let’s focus on the dress,” Sarah shrieked. “No, Shannon, I do not want to wear a head
band on my wedding day.”

  “Welcome to our hell,” Jeremy said to the camera.

  “It might be a good idea to show Sarah your dress now,” Maria added.

  My phone buzzed.

  “Just a moment.” I smoothed some damp strands of hair from my forehead and read the message.

  MONTY: Check your email, Evelyn.

  Oh, God. Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.

  A bolt of absolute certainty shot through me: I’d blown it by telling NOB I was done. He’d spoken to Monty about the deal. He wasn’t going to finish.

  I opened the email.

  * * *

  From: Monty@WJM.co.uk

  To: Evelyn.Summers@WJM.co.uk

  Subject: FW: Re: WLTM

  January 30, 5:04 p.m.

  Just the ending to work on now, Evelyn.

  Well done.

  M

  * * *

  From: samandmax@intrepidproductions.com

  To: Monty@WJM.com

  Subject: Re: WLTM

  January 30, 2019, 10:42 a.m.

  This is GENIUS!* From all of us here at Intrepid Productions, a huge hand to Mr. Ezra Chester for lighting up our lives with such a big leap forward on the script.

  The team has a poll going to guess who the lead’s going to end up with.

  Waiting eagerly on the happy ending.

  Atb,

  Sam and Max

  Intrepid Productions

  *Small suggestion—are we sure on the title?

  **One more suggestion: has he reconsidered that opening scene yet. Bit far-fetched???

  “Holy shit.”

  “You okay, hon?” Jeremy called to me.

  “Is it the dress?” Sarah said.

  “It’s NOB,” I replied, feeling light-headed. “He’s just sent more pages to Monty. He’s almost finished the script.”

  I read the email again. Did this mean pretending to quit had worked? Shaking my head in wonder, I sent a quick message.

  EVIE: you were right. He’s sent the pages. Thank you

  “Congratulations!” Maria cheered. “So are the meet-cutes back on?”

  Ah. My euphoria faded. “I guess so,” I said. Though NOB still hadn’t been in touch. I supposed I should just be happy he was writing. It occurred to me that I should reply to the WLTM message from Saturday. Besides, who knew? Maybe that stranger could be my Mr. Happy Ending. I was trying to ignore my inner cynic’s laugh when my phone lit up.

  BEN: it was all you. I knew you could do it.

  I smiled. Could it be that, despite all our misunderstandings, Ben and I had finally made it to the friendship stage after all? Take that, Harry; Sally was right.

  “Are you actually checking your phone right now? Is it a message from your dress, telling you whether it fits?” Sarah’s voice was slippery with hysteria, a reminder of just what Jeremy and Maria had been dealing with in my absence. I put my phone down. After the hen do, I was still on probation as far as Sarah’s forgiveness was concerned. Time to show her I was all in.

  I sprang up off the bed.

  Riiiiiiiip.

  I froze, half bent over, my foot still on the trailing ruffle. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing it to be fine. Shit!

  The entirety of the back of the dress had peeled off like the skin of an orange.

  On the screen, Jeremy’s eyes were wide, his glass part way to his mouth. “Oooh, are you in trouble now,” he said.

  “What, what is it?” Sarah asked.

  “Nothing,” Maria and I called. I got up close to the camera.

  “Jeremy, if you dare breathe a word . . .” I hissed. I could see him thinking about it.

  “No, not that veil. I said a bit of bling, not visible from space. Maria!”

  My friend hopped off the couch to help Sarah.

  Jeremy grinned. “Evie’s ready,” he said loudly. “And doesn’t she look absolutely stunning?” It could be that he was still holding me accountable for the rat.

  “I’m going first,” said Sarah. “Turn the camera on me.”

  I hastily threw the trailing ruffle behind me. My mum would fix it for me before the big day, I told myself. Sarah would never know. I hoped. Because I couldn’t let her down again.

  Jeremy picked up the tablet and Sarah came into view, blurry at first and then in sharp focus. Her sleek blond hair was done up in a bun, a few artful wisps escaping. Thankfully, the bridesmaid dresses were bearing the brunt of Sarah’s fairy-tale theme. Her dress was as elegant as I’d imagined. Ivory, with simple lines, strapless, hugging her compact figure and flaring out at the bottom in a fishtail, accented by a band of glittering crystals around her waist.

  There was a moment of complete silence.

  “Well, what do you think of me?” Sarah asked. “That’s not your cue for a smart remark, Jeremy.”

  “Actually,” I heard Jeremy say, his voice soft, “I was going to say you’ve never looked more beautiful.”

  I could hear Maria sniffling and a rustling sound, as if Jeremy had moved to put his arm around her.

  “Oh, Sarah,” I sighed, goose bumps dancing up my arms. Sarah had always said she’d be the first one of us to get married. Looking at her now, I couldn’t have been happier for her that this was true. “It’s perfect.”

  She preened. “I know.” There was movement, and the camera was briefly compressed between my friends’ bodies as they all embraced. I drank a bit more prosecco, feeling a million miles away.

  I could just make out Sarah briskly wiping at her eyes before she shooed them away.

  “Now, are you done messing around, Evie? Let me see you.”

  All three of my friends squeezed into view to assess me.

  “Why don’t you give us a twirl?” suggested Jeremy innocently.

  A frayed edge of material had drifted to my hip. I did a little dance on the spot like I couldn’t be happier, using my swaying arms to shift it behind me.

  “I just love it so much!” I said.

  Sarah’s eyes glimmered. “I’m so glad. You know, I was thinking about my backup bridesmaid dress options all week, but you’ve decided it for me. Plus, these dresses go better with the cake. You look adorable.”

  I stopped dancing. Maria gulped her prosecco and Jeremy beamed.

  “Speaking of options,” I said, “have you decided on Jeremy’s outfit yet?”

  Chapter 28

  The Boy Who Never Grew Up

  INT: THE ASH—SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 7:30 P.M.

  EVIE stands in the foyer of the Ash. There’s a giant Oscar-style award statue lounging in one of the fluorescent-green spring-back cinema chairs in the waiting area. The front desk is a cinema ticket drop box. A girl with pristine makeup stands behind it, wearing an approximation of an usher’s uniform and a well-practiced smile.

  I placed my recently purchased copy of Peter Pan on top of the front desk while I retrieved my brand-new membership card. Monty had ceremoniously bestowed it upon me last week after NOB had delivered, telling me I’d be using it soon enough for my own meetings. I should have been pleased, except it was an expensive reminder that I still hadn’t heard from NOB. Yet here I was, doing another meet-cute, because it was the only way I could keep him writing.

  When the attendant saw the name on the card, her eyes lit up. “Your guest is already upstairs waiting.”

  That was unexpected. They normally made the guests wait in the lounge. I checked my card as I put it back in my purse. Was this some sort of platinum membership package? It looked pretty regular to me. I thanked her and hurried away before she could realize she’d made a mistake.

  I was meeting Peter in the Ash because most of the staff there knew me. There was nowhere safer in London, and, more important, less likely to judge you. We were using the book symbol to help us recognize each other. Just like Tom Hanks and Meg Rya
n in You’ve Got Mail. Given that his name was Peter, the choice had been obvious.

  Peter had been sweet but brief over the last few days of messaging, insisting he made a much better impression in person. He’d told me he was thirty-two (good start), and that he’d found my card in a 1999 Pokémon annual (slight red flag) that he’d bought for his nephew (a relief). All in all, I could allow myself to feel optimistic.

  I checked in with the JEMS chat like I’d promised.

  MARIA: have you got there OK?

  EVIE: I’m just heading up the stairs now. He’s already here

  JEREMY: who do you think it is?

  EVIE: Peter?

  SARAH: didn’t you go to see Hot Widower’s daughter in Peter Pan before Christmas?

  EVIE: is that relevant?

  SARAH: I’m just saying. Peter. Peter Pan. A bit of a coincidence if you ask me

  I paused on the corner of the staircase. Was she seriously suggesting it might be Ben?

  He does have your number.

  And hadn’t Ben been at the bar when the message arrived? I found myself thinking of how pink his ears had been on his return, almost like he was worked up about something . . .

  I shoved the thoughts away. Of course it wouldn’t be Ben waiting there for me. We’d only just ventured over the line into friendship, a miracle in itself. Sometimes I genuinely had to remind myself that I wasn’t actually living in a rom-com.

  EVIE: it’s not Ben. We’re just friends. Besides, I wouldn’t even want it to be him

  MARIA: so you’re friends now. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it even a little bit

  I headed into the third-floor bar. There were a couple of staff members huddled together at the curtain, giggling and peeking through into the restaurant. You never knew when there might be a celebrity at the Ash. Normally, however, the staff tended to remain pretty cool about it. As I approached, I saw one of them was the blond waiter who’d witnessed Monty sliding out of a women’s bathroom stall headfirst like a seal. Oh, no.