“Of course.” Ricky’s gappy teeth showed. “And then we can talk about your career options.” Ask for forgiveness, not permission: That was Ricky’s motto.
“Can’t wait,” NOB deadpanned.
When they were out of sight, I prodded him. “You’d better be up to something,” I said.
“That was just step one.”
He snapped his fingers to call the nearest waiter over. John, who searched around desperately for another colleague to take his place. When it was clear he was on his own, he slowly made his way to us and switched on a smile.
“Yes, sir?”
NOB started to pat his pockets. “My VIP card has gone missing. I had it when I came in, but I’m wondering if I left it in the gents . . . There was a guy in there with a perm. Maybe he knows where it is.”
John paled, his eyes flicking to me. I shrugged, wondering where NOB could possibly be going with this.
“I’ll . . . I’ll speak to the maître d’,” he said, defeatedly. “Deepest apologies, Mr. Chester.” The curtain swished in his wake.
“Exactly what are you up to?”
“Come on, Red. Don’t you want to pay Dicky back just a little bit?” His eyes flashed.
Ricky’s parting words had haunted me for a year. I was just starting to shake them off, and now he was back in my life again, happily using me to make another connection.
Would I like to see him get some comeuppance?
“Let’s do it.”
* * *
The second floor of the Ash was separated into the Projection Booth bar and the Screening Room, the impenetrable VIP area. The Screening Room’s thick metal door had started life in a bank vault. It was flanked by staff who filled their suits like they moonlighted as cage fighters.
We were waiting in the Booth as John entered, trailing behind the maître d’.
“So much for this place being exclusive,” NOB said, gesturing toward the doors.
“I can assure you, Mr. Chester,” said the maître d’ in a broad Huddersfield accent. “If anyone was in there using your card, I’d know about it.”
On cue, a waitress stepped between us all to get to the doors, carrying the champagne and NOB’s pass. We all watched as NOB plucked the black card off her tray. The maître d’s face turned bone white. John started to move discreetly toward the staircase.
“Well, I’m certainly not in there,” said NOB. “Step two,” he muttered to me as the maître d’ pulled out his walkie-talkie.
“We have a Code Black situation. Can all staff with Interloper protocol security training please make their way to the Screening Room now.”
A minute later, we’d been pushed back to a “safe distance” and NOB had claimed the champagne bottle “for the distress.” About five staff members had assembled in front of the metal vault door, standing straight-backed. The maître d’ indicated to them to turn their flashlights on and then put his finger on his mouth. He held his arm up straight and then swung it low toward the VIP area.
The bouncers heaved the door open.
“Go, go, go!” the maître d’ shouted, and they all filed through after him one by one, swinging their flashlights.
We spied Jodi and Ricky inside the dimly lit room, cowering as the spotlights hit them and the staff huddled around them.
Ricky called out in relief when he spotted us in the doorway. NOB waved at him.
“See,” I heard Ricky say. “We’re with him.”
When the crowd of staff members turned to us, NOB went from waving to an exaggerated shrug, as if he had no idea what Ricky was talking about.
Jodi took a step away from my ex, distancing herself. Seeing the confidence slide off Ricky’s face was priceless.
“What now?” I said to NOB.
“Now for step three.” He grinned. He took a swig of the champagne, pulled me in close, and kissed me.
Chapter 30
Ezra
INT: GIL’S COFFEE HOUSE—SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 3, 11:30 A.M.
BEN and ANETTE are sitting at their usual table, reading. The door to Gil’s opens. They both look up, see that it’s a stranger, and drop their gazes again. There are two empty mugs of hot chocolate in front of them. BEN glances at the third mug by the chair next to him. It is still full, though the whipped cream is now puddled on the table. He drags his attention back to his copy of National Geographic. ANETTE looks up briefly from her book, eyeing her dad with a knowing expression. The door to Gil’s opens. Both father and daughter look up.
I relaxed when I saw Ben and Anette were still here. I made sure they’d seen me, then fired off a message to JEMS. I’d overslept this morning. It was as though everything over the last few months—the agency being at risk, the meet-cutes, then encountering Ricky—had finally caught up with me. Once the thrill of seeing my ex get his comeuppance had faded, last night had become yet another failed meet-cute—despite what NOB had insisted, I hadn’t been convinced by our drink. Or that kiss. And with only two weeks to go until the deadline, I was running out of chances to find Mr. Happy Ending. I’d fallen into bed utterly spent, waking late to find JEMS full of unread messages about my date with Peter, two missed calls from Maria, and a photograph from Ben’s phone: three hot chocolates, sent just after ten a.m. After that I’d rushed all the way here.
EVIE: I’m so sorry guys! I slept in
SARAH: finally! You had us worrying. I do have wedmin to be getting on with, you know
JEREMY: when you add “min” to words it gives me a mingraine
MARIA: I’m glad you’re OK, but in the future an “I’m not dead” text after a blind date would be appreciated. So . . . was he Mr. Happy Ending?
EVIE: he was NOB
MARIA: WHAT??
EVIE: he told me I could stop searching. He said he’d fallen for me
JEREMY: what a dick
MARIA: that man. He will do anything to stop you from finding someone just so he doesn’t have to finish his own bloody script!
SARAH: how many times do I have to tell you, Evie? You CAN stop searching. I’ve already found you the perfect plus-one for my wedding!!
It should have been reassuring to see my friends instantly jump to the same conclusion that I had last night—the one that had made me head straight home after the Ash. Of course NOB had been lying to distract me from meeting someone. He was dragging his heels about finishing the script, and my lack of success with the meet-cutes was the perfect excuse. The smoking-hot screenwriter doesn’t fall for the assistant in real life. And yet a part of me wished my friends hadn’t been quite so certain he wouldn’t.
Enough with the self-pity. I had to focus on finding my real Mr. Happy Ending so I could prove NOB wrong about rom-coms and then rub his face in it. No more distractions, no more excuses. I’d do two meet-cutes a day if I had to.
So why are you still thinking about that kiss?
As I reached the table, Ben stood up. He waved and I lifted my hand—before seeing Xan return Ben’s gesture from across the room.
“I’m so sorry I’m late! You’re not going, are you?”
I quickly lowered my arm.
“We waited for you,” Anette said, pointing to the now-cold mug of hot chocolate left on the table. The flake listed in the melted cream. Ben raised his dark brows at me.
“It’s still good,” I said, sitting down and sipping the cold, sweet liquid. I tried not to gag. “Yum.” I looked up at Ben. He really was quite tall. “Could you stay for another round?”
“I don’t know. What do you think, Anette?”
“It wouldn’t be much of a celebration without us.”
I was staring at them both, utterly confused, when Xan appeared at our table with a ginormous frosted cake full of rainbow-colored sprinkles.
Anette slipped on a brightly colored paper cone hat. “Congratulations, Evie!”
>
“Whatever for?” I asked, astonished.
“For getting NOB to finish the script!” Anette grinned. “We knew you could do it.”
Ben blew on a party blower he’d produced from somewhere.
“This is amazing, thank you.” I’d told Ben last week that refusing to do the meet-cutes had worked. He must have thought it was all over. I was so touched I almost didn’t want to correct them. “But NOB hasn’t quite finished yet.”
Ben removed his party blower. “You still have to meet someone?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. For such a little word, it felt strangely hard to say.
“There’s still time,” Anette said. I very much hoped Ben hadn’t noticed the look his daughter gave him when she said that.
“I’ll just leave this here, then,” Xan said, placing the cake down. “Can I tempt any of you with my latest orange smoothie mash-up? This time, I’ve used avocado and raw—”
“No,” all three of us said.
“Coffee it is, then.” Xan did a “to each their own” shrug as he left.
“Make a wish,” Ben said, handing me the knife. He pulled Anette close, resting his chin on her shoulder, hooded eyes on me. It was kind of adorable.
I thought about what I wanted. To meet someone, surely. If this was a rom-com, two weeks would be more than enough for two people to fall for each other. One Fine Day. Two Weeks Notice. Moonstruck. In real life, it felt like an impossible time frame. And even if I was successful, after Ricky, I didn’t want to risk actually falling for . . .
Why am I still thinking this way? Sod Dicky. I’d spent a year believing I wasn’t good enough for him. After his behavior at the Ash, it was time to start accepting that he wasn’t good enough for me. I had two weeks left. NOB was so close to the finish line. My promotion, saving the agency—it was all within reach. And all I had to do was meet one single man and I could have everything I’d always wanted. That’s what I should wish for.
But is that all you want?
“I’m aging here.” Anette giggled as her dad tickled her.
“Okay, okay, I’ve got one,” I laughed, slicing into the cake and seeing it had rainbow layers.
I wish I could be a writer again.
* * *
“Red! Hey, Red!”
I looked up in shock. NOB was waving at me from the doorway.
What was going on? NOB? Here? In Gil’s? That just felt . . . wrong somehow. How had he even known where I’d be? Then I remembered my excuse for leaving last night—that I had to be up early to write up the meet-cute, as awry as it had gone. He’d pressed me for details—I thought to make sure I was definitely writing my report—but I hadn’t imagined for one second he’d turn up.
Yet here he was, standing over us, grinning that dazzling, too-white smile of his.
“Ah, the famous Gil’s. This is the place you do my reports? It’s so . . . provincial. Hard to believe we’re still in London.”
“What do you want?” I asked, seeing Ben and Anette’s identical scowls.
NOB held his hand out toward Ben.
“I’m Ezra, awesome to meet you. And you are?” After a pause, Ben shook his hand. It was like that moment in Ghostbusters when the streams crossed.
Anette was gaping at Ezra with frank fascination.
“I know who you are, you’re N—”
“Ben,” said Ben quickly, saving me.
“Why are you here, Ezra?” I asked. “I’m with my friends. Can’t it wait?”
“Sorry to interrupt your . . . lunch?” NOB said, taking in the half-eaten cake. “I’m here about our date, Red. You left last night before we could put something in the diary.”
Ben’s eyebrows shot up.
“There is no date, Ezra,” I told him, wondering at Ben’s reaction. I had complained about NOB frequently, it was probably that.
“You’re the screenwriter,” Anette said, apparently undeterred.
“My reputation precedes me,” NOB said, pleased.
“The one that can’t write.”
Ben choked on his coffee.
Anette ate a forkful of cake, humming to herself. NOB looked at her, perturbed. I gave Ben a pleading glance. After a moment, he nodded, retrieving Anette’s book out of her backpack, along with what looked like a photographer’s autobiography for himself. NOB was frowning at them both, then his eyes widened. He turned his head toward me. Oh, no, don’t you dare . . .
Silently, he mouthed the words Dull Dad?
Oh, no. He remembered the report about Anette’s school play. Streams well and truly crossed. He had to leave.
“Don’t you have a script to write?”
I mouthed Behave to him and checked to make sure Ben hadn’t seen. He was studying his book with an intensity it probably hadn’t done anything to deserve.
“That’s why I’m here.” Before I could protest, NOB slid into one of the chairs opposite us like he owned the place. “Ah, perfect,” he declared, eyeing the remains of cake. “May I?” He helped himself to a huge slice without waiting for a reply. When Anette signed furiously at Ben, he tapped her book, then concentrated firmly on his own.
“First of all, that wasn’t for you,” I said, tugging the plate from NOB’s hands. “Second, you do realize that cake is one giant glutenous carb, don’t you?”
“That’s kind of the point.” He scooped the slice from the plate, took a deep breath, and pushed half of it into his mouth.
“What are you doing?” I said, exasperated.
A throat cleared. It was Xan, with a large coffee. He looked between NOB and Ben and then at me. NOB gagged as he swallowed. “That’s full-fat milk and caffeinated, right?”
“That is what you ordered,” Xan replied, heading off with a roll of his eyes.
“What’s going on, Ezra?”
NOB took a huge gulp, shuddering at the taste.
“I’m showing you I’m serious about my feelings for you.”
Ben’s page tore a little as he turned it.
“You really don’t have to,” I said. It wasn’t going to get him anywhere.
“Come on, a guy would have to be a total loser not to notice how great you are.” NOB glanced over at Ben and winked. Why did I have to send him that stupid report? Because I’d been mad, and embarrassed, and I hadn’t known then that Ben and I might become friends.
And if NOB didn’t leave soon, there was a chance we never would.
“There’s only one way I’ll stop,” NOB said as he took another bite. “Agree to go out with me.”
“I said no, Ezra.” He held up a finger, swallowed, and pulled at the waistband of his jeans as if they were already getting tighter. I’m sure it was just chance that this allowed him to flash his abs. I saw Ben move as if to place a hand on his own stomach, then shake his head before returning to his book.
NOB banged a fist against his chest to dislodge the cake, chugging more of the coffee and groaning like it was toilet cleaner. At this, Anette tugged her hearing aids out and placed them, pointedly, on the table, before leaning back over her book. How had our lovely celebration come to this?
“Please, Red. I can feel my arteries clogging. Forget about your doubts for a moment and remember it’s just me, Ezra, asking you for one little date.”
What had Maria said? That he was just distracting me from finding Mr. Happy Ending? This seemed like an awful lot of effort to go to.
Of course, a small voice said, if it turns out NOB is telling the truth about his feelings, that would prove I was right about rom-coms. He’ll have to finish the script.
And saying yes would also get him to leave.
“You’re killing me, Red.” He wiped his mouth. “Have it your way.” He readied himself for more cake and I held up my hand. Anette glanced up.
“Okay,” I said, and she watched m
e say the word. Ben stopped, mid–page turn. Anette seemed like she was about to speak and Ben caught her eye, shaking his head pleadingly at her.
“You’re serious?” NOB said, swallowing.
“One date,” I told him, wondering at Ben and Anette’s exchange.
His multicolored grin was one part triumphant, two parts relieved. “That’s all I’ll need,” he said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to purge.”
Nothing escaped Anette. She signed something to her dad that I was fairly sure was “Me too.”
As I watched him stride through the café, drawing no small number of stares, there was the tiniest part of me that felt . . . curious.
Movement caught my eye. Ben was helping Anette into her coat before putting on his own.
“You’re going?” I asked.
“Anette wants to see her friend Bea,” he said. Anette’s next signs were brisk. “She says thank you for a lovely morning.”
From her expression, I doubted that was a direct translation. I felt like I’d disappointed her somehow. I tried to thank her in return, but she was refusing to look at me.
“If there’s even the slightest possibility he’s telling the truth, I could get him to finish the script,” I said, desperate to explain but feeling I was somehow making it worse. “If there wasn’t only two weeks left . . .” Anette still wasn’t looking at me.
Ben took her hand. “Good luck with your date,” he said. “I really hope it’s what you want.”
I was left alone to puzzle over what that could possibly mean.
Chapter 31
Makeover Montage
INT: EVIE’S KITCHEN—WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 9:55 A.M.
EVIE is leaning on the kitchen unit, looking at a pink cardboard cake box with a dubious expression on her face. There’s a delivery slip taped to the side. She pulls it from the envelope to read it.
Red. I’ve never been one for flowers. You’ve subjected me to what passes for your “food,” I thought I’d treat you to mine. Behold, in honor of our date today, this gluten-free vegan date cake from Soho’s best bakery. It’s a revelation.
Would Like to Meet Page 24