His eyes widened as he spotted me and nudged the girl he’d been chatting with. She wasn’t quite as quick to hide her interest. Oh, God, does everyone know about what happened in the toilets?
The waiter stepped forward, hands behind his back. “Miss Summers,” he said. “What a delight to see you again. We’ve put you in the Director’s Booth.”
The Director’s Booth? It was only one of the most exclusive locations in the club, after the VIP area. Was all this because of my date? I felt a surge of excitement.
Who on earth would warrant this reaction? What if Peter was some big shot, and that’s why they’d let him up here? I tried to think of famous Peters as I followed the blond waiter through the crowded restaurant. I doubted Peter Capaldi would message a stranger and lie about his age.
Peter Andre? He might.
Booths lined each side of the restaurant; the waiter led me to the only one that had a privacy curtain. It didn’t bear thinking about what that privacy might be used for, considering this was a club that kept body oil in the loos.
At first, all I saw was the broadsheet-sized menu held up in front of the man’s face.
“Miss Summers has arrived, sir,” said the waiter.
For a wild, bewildering second, I thought: What if it actually is Ben?
My heart convulsed as the menu was lowered.
What. The actual . . .
“You,” I said to him.
“Red.” NOB grinned.
He folded the menu with tanned hands. He’d been the cause of everyone’s excitement? He might be the Ezra Chester, but he wasn’t that exciting. Not once you got to know him, at least. My heart was still hammering. It’s the shock, I told myself. Nothing to do with what I’d been thinking just a moment before.
“Oh, hang on.” NOB tapped his phone to light up the screen and then balanced it against a striped popcorn box in the center of his table. “That’s better.”
The screen had a title page on it.
It read:
PETER PAN
“I’m John,” the waiter said to NOB, and received zero response. “Right, then, I’ll just . . .” He started to tug at the curtain, realized I was standing in the way, and pulled it around me. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” With a last, lingering look for NOB, he did the professional melt-away.
I rounded on NOB. “Where have you been? You’ve ignored every message I’ve sent you. You tell me to work harder, then make me believe you aren’t bothering to write. When you finally do deliver, you don’t even let me know!”
“Not every message,” NOB said, ridiculously blue eyes sparkling. Have his teeth been whitened? He was wearing a gray suit so well cut that it folded around his chiseled edges like it was an envelope and he was the card it was made for. “You look stunning, by the way.”
“I . . .” He had a way of disarming me that was just downright annoying.
“Sit down, Red.”
My knees wobbled and I caught the table, pulling myself into the booth opposite him.
“Is this a joke?”
“I got your text,” he said calmly. “‘I’m done’?”
Had he done this to punish me for my message? He’d catfished me?
“Did you bring me here just to humiliate me?”
“I wasn’t sure you’d even come.”
“Well, I didn’t know it was you, so . . .” I gestured to my dress. It was the nicest one I owned. Forest green, with a black lace overlay. And I’d wasted it on an arsehole.
“You said you were done with our deal, Red. Though, given you’re here, I’m assuming that wasn’t strictly true.”
“You didn’t give me much choice,” I said, refusing to feel guilty for my fib. “I can see your tan, Ezra. You’ve been on holiday, leaving me to deal with Monty and the producers on my own. I did the only thing I could think of.”
“It was a writer’s retreat,” NOB insisted. “After Monica and the breakup, I had to get away. I actually wanted to get those pages done for you. The longer I was away, the more I realized why that was. I knew I had to tell you. This seemed a fitting way to do it. Peter. Peter Pan. The book you took from the bookstall, remember?”
So the name did have significance.
“Tell me what, Ezra?” I asked. A writer’s retreat? Could I believe that? He had delivered the pages.
He fiddled with his glass. “You . . .” he began, and trailed off.
“What?” I asked irritably. NOB shifted in his seat, his smooth forehead glistening ever so slightly. Wait . . . was NOB nervous?
He took a steadying breath. “You’re not wrong about rom-coms, Red. Because, if you were, then I wouldn’t have fallen for you.”
It took me a moment to remember to breathe. “Don’t be cruel, Ezra.”
“You don’t believe me,” he stated, as if unable to believe it himself. “Okay, let’s start small. ‘I’m just a boy, standing in front of . . .’”
“Stop it.”
“Red, I’m serious. Evie,” he said as I stood, yanking the curtain back. I was a few feet away when he called out, “Please.”
There was something so plaintive, so un-NOB-like about the word, that it stopped me. Other diners were staring. I turned around to find that NOB had followed me out of the booth.
“I really do like you. Do you need me to shout about it? Because I will.” He threw his arms wide and raised his voice. “I like you, Evie Summers. I’ve fallen for you. In fact”—he lowered his voice—“I’ve been falling for a while.”
I saw John the waiter eyeing us from across the restaurant, a look of Here we go again resignation on his face. The same waitress who’d passed us earlier was beside him. She had her hands over her mouth, eyes round and doelike, like she’d never seen anything as romantic.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” I pushed NOB back into the booth and onto the seat, yanking the curtain closed before sliding in next to him. “That was mortifying.”
“That was pure rom-com.” NOB grinned. The smile fell away when he saw my thunderous expression. “Why is it so hard to believe that I like you?”
“Because you’re Ezra Chester. You date the Monica Reeds of this world, not Evie Summers from Sheffield,” I said. It wasn’t that I thought I was particularly hideous, but this was NOB. He was all about status and appearances. He wouldn’t even let me read his script because I was just an assistant.
And yet he was staring at me like he couldn’t understand what I was saying. “I’m not with Monica. I’m here, with you. Telling you that I like you. Go on a date with me. One date. That’s all I’ll need to convince you.”
He seemed so sincere, and he wasn’t giving up. Exactly how far was he willing to take this? Could I somehow use this to get him to show me the script?
“Just one drink,” I said grudgingly. “And we’ll do it right now.”
“It’s a start.” As NOB flashed that Hollywood, all-is-right-with-the-world smile of his, John stuck his head through the curtain. He didn’t look happy.
“Just in time—we’ll have just one bottle of your merlot,” NOB told him.
“Okay, let’s hear this,” I challenged him when the waiter had retreated.
“You’re adorable. You make me laugh. And you’re just about the only person who doesn’t take my shit,” NOB reeled off, a little more easily than I’d been expecting. “And,” he said, “you like me. Admit it.”
I found him attractive, but I was hardly alone in that. It didn’t mean I liked him.
Even if, I had to concede, there was more to him than I used to believe there was. The roadside rescue. Ziggy. If pressed, I might even admit that his messages weren’t entirely infuriating.
“No,” I said anyway. “I really don’t, Ezra.”
He flinched, and I felt a flash of guilt.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t enjoye
d these last few months. I have. Talking to you has been the one highlight of a crappy start to the year. You like me, Red.”
I wanted to deny it, but the truth was, there was a small part of me that at the very least appreciated him. As maddening as he was, there was something very straightforward about Ezra Chester. What you saw was very much what you got, and it was appealing.
He inched closer to me along the booth, as if sensing weakness, blue eyes eager.
“I think we might have something here, Red. Tell me you don’t feel it too.”
I remembered being in his kitchen the day we’d made our deal, when he’d looked at me as though really seeing me for the first time. It had been like standing in a spotlight. Compared to that, the look he was giving me now was a tractor beam, pulling me in.
Someone made a brisk gap in the curtain. John. He placed a tray with glasses and wine on our table with a flourish and started to uncork the merlot.
“We need a moment here,” NOB said to him.
“Oh, it won’t take long, sir.” John poured a drop of wine into NOB’s glass, clearly in it for the long game, only to find the bottle plucked from his fingers.
“Thank you, John,” I said, as NOB fluttered his fingers to usher him away.
The waiter snatched his corkscrew back and didn’t bother to close the curtain behind him.
“You were saying?” NOB said to me.
I glanced away from him across the restaurant, needing a moment.
A new arrival caught my eye.
“Oh my God,” I said. “Ricky.”
“That’s not my name.”
“No,” I said, lowering myself down in the seat. “Ricky. My ex. He’s here.”
Chapter 29
Dicky
INT: THE DIRECTOR’S BOOTH, THE ASH—SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 2, 8:13 P.M.
NOB lounges against the purple leather of the booth, lit by a miniature spotlight. Beside him, EVIE sinks down so her chin is level with the table as NOB looks at her in amusement.
“There’s a story here. Tell me.” NOB started to rise to his feet. “Or I could just ask your ex.”
I pulled him back down. “Okay, okay.”
Glancing back over to Ricky, I saw who he was with. Jodi.
“Oh, shit.”
If she saw me out with NOB alone, she could have the entire industry believing we actually were dating. Come to think of it, why were she and Ricky here alone . . . ?
“Still waiting.”
“Fine.” I kept it short. “Ricky’s my ex. We were together for two years. He got a job as an assistant at our rival agency and left me. He told me . . .” I stopped.
“What, Red? Here.” He slid my drink toward me and I took it with sweaty palms. I’d managed to avoid Ricky for over twelve months. My job was everything to me, and yet I’d purposely missed events I knew he’d most likely be at. Still, in an industry this small, we were bound to bump into each other sometime or other, and the Ash was the industry’s nexus point. Especially for someone like Ricky, who wanted to be seen. “Breathe,” said NOB. I took his advice and inhaled the wine.
“He told you . . . ?” Did he really care about this?
“He told me that he wanted a bigger life. A more exciting one.” I swallowed more wine, cheeks burning. It’s not like NOB is learning anything he doesn’t already think himself. “And he couldn’t have that with me. I wasn’t enough. So he left me.” It took only seconds to say the words that had haunted me for a year. I just want more, he’d told me, and in that instant the boy I’d loved became just another person telling me I wasn’t good enough.
NOB cocked his head at me.
“Ricky is a dick weasel.”
My laugh was strangled. “My friends call him Dicky.”
“Well, don’t look now, but Dicky’s spotted us. He’s coming over. Up you get.”
I straightened. Oh, no, oh, no. NOB topped up my glass just in time for Ricky and Jodi to appear at the edge of our table.
“Evie! I thought that was you. Ritchie wasn’t sure, but you’re hard to miss, aren’t you?”
I forced a smile at Jodi and made myself look at my old boyfriend. He’d upgraded his round tortoiseshell glasses for designer ones, and he’d changed his hair so that it was parted on one side and curled. Is that a perm? He smiled at me, showing the small, gappy teeth he’d always said he hated but which annoyingly made him look mischievous and fun.
“Evie,” he said, like I was an old acquaintance. “Where’s Monty? Don’t tell me—he’s got you keeping his seat warm while he gets here.” Ricky’s small eyes were merry, like we were sharing an in-joke.
“I’m here with a client, Ricky,” I returned, satisfied to see him twitch at the name.
He looked from me to NOB, and his curiosity was clear even through his studied nonchalance. Jodi was less subtle, moving closer to the table, eyes on the prize.
“It’s Ritchie,” he said, holding his hand out to NOB. “And of course I know who you are. No introduction needed.” This was pointed at me. “So great to finally meet you, Ezra.” Once he became an assistant, he’d stopped joining in with using NOB’s nickname, saying it didn’t feel right.
“Sure,” NOB said, picking up his glass.
Ricky swiftly dropped his hand, not yet defeated. “Can I be a total geek and say how much I loved A Heart Lies Bleeding? I know you shouldn’t share your number with someone you’ve just met. Okay, it’s fifteen. I saw it fifteen times.”
Ricky’s “I’m such a geek for you” act normally worked like a charm. Though I knew he rarely watched a film more than once. “Really, Ricky?” I couldn’t resist saying. “Fifteen times?”
His eyes narrowed but remained focused on NOB, waiting for his reaction.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if your real number was far lower,” NOB said.
The fight-or-flight sirens in my head trailed off as Ricky tried to decide how to respond to this. Before our deal, NOB had done this kind of thing to me countless times. He was an expert at making you feel like you had to earn his attention, not the other way around. Seeing him do it to Ricky was, I had to admit, kind of fun.
“Jodi, FTD,” Jodi cut in. She used her agency’s initials, expecting NOB to know of its prestige. If he did, he certainly didn’t look like he cared. She stepped close to Ricky and squeezed his arm, her blond hair floating around her shoulders. Wait, were Ricky and Jodi a thing? Could this get any worse?
“We’re actually out celebrating Ricky’s promotion to agent,” Jodi said. Ricky’s eyes met mine.
“Congratulations,” I told him, feeling like I’d somehow set myself up for that one.
It shouldn’t have stung this much. His promotion had always been inevitable. Once he set his mind to something, there was no stopping him. When we’d met, he’d been a barista called Ricky. He’d loved attending work events with me, I thought to be supportive. Then he started talking to more people there than I did, always seeming to know everyone’s name in the room. Six months before he’d broken up with me, he got his first job at our rival agency and became Ritchie. Ricky told me it was just business, nothing personal. That it shouldn’t affect our relationship. He always, I was realizing, knew exactly what to say.
“Oh, it’s not that exciting,” Ricky dismissed. “To be honest, I’ve been doing the job for a while.” He shrugged, enjoying himself. “Once you’ve saved a few deals, got to know a few producers, people assume you’re already an agent. Now I have the business card, I guess that makes it official.”
He produced a card and offered it to NOB, who ignored him and took out his phone. It was so rude, I almost loved him for it.
“Ritchie’s already signed his first client,” Jodi said. NOB stifled a yawn.
“I’m so giddy about him. Alessandro. Insane talent.” Ricky had been the agent to snatch Alessandro away from me? I’d been tryi
ng to convince myself that Alessandro was Monty’s loss, but this time it didn’t work. I’d found him, and Ricky had gotten there first. How dare he? “He’s the kind of top-tier talent I’ll be representing. Of course,” he said directly to NOB, “I’m always looking for more.”
Is he really trying to poach NOB right in front of me? As rage kindled in my chest, I noticed a small smile playing on NOB’s lips, as though he found Ricky amusing.
“You know, it’s funny we should bump into you,” Jodi said. “There’s a hilarious cheap knockoff Ezra Chester script going around at the moment. Someone’s blatantly tried to rip off your style.” The amusement vanished as NOB’s mouth thinned. When he didn’t respond, she looked irritated. “If I didn’t know any better . . .” She eyed me up first, then NOB, her meaning crystal clear. “I’d say we’d just interrupted something.”
“You have, actually,” NOB said, leaving her stunned. Insulting. “We were just about to go through to the VIP area to celebrate Evie’s invaluable help on my latest script. I really couldn’t have done it without her.” I flushed a little at this, pleased. Ricky looked green. “You should join us. Let’s make it a double celebration.”
“Good assistants can take years to train,” Ricky jumped in. “So no wonder Evie is the best.”
I flinched. Did he really just say that? This was the boy who would talk me down whenever I was nervous. I used to adore his way with words. He always made it sound like we were meant to be together. So when he’d told me I wasn’t enough for him anymore, I’d been floored. Just as he’d known you would be. I blinked back tears, but I wasn’t upset, I was fuming.
Before I could retort, NOB threw something at Ricky. “Here.” Unfortunately, it was his VIP card and therefore wasn’t big enough to do any significant damage. “We’ll catch up with you. You should get in a bottle of”—he glanced at the menu—“the Ash special-edition Dom Pérignon.”
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