Would Like to Meet

by Rachel Winters

  I focused on my feet. How many incredible writers had trod this same path? People who’d helped make the world a little brighter, a little easier to understand. I used to imagine what it might be like to attend my own premiere the way other people dream about their weddings. To sit in the red seats. Feel the reaction of the audience around you, knowing it was for your story, your words. It had been all I’d ever wanted.

  A woman wearing a dark bomber jacket and an earpiece told us to keep moving. I stepped out from under the weight of NOB’s arm at my waist. He called after me, but I spotted someone I recognized from an HBO series. The actors were arriving. I hadn’t missed the screenwriter, had I? I hoped I’d recognize them, whoever they were.

  I stood on tiptoe. “Can you see them anywhere?” I asked NOB, who’d hurried to catch up.

  “Who?” He whipped his head round, checking behind us.

  “The screenwriter!”

  “He’s right here.” NOB pulled me close. “And I only see you.”

  “That’s another fine line.”

  His lips curved. “But I walk it so damn well.”

  “Move along, please,” the same woman said to us as she passed. I tried to, but Ezra’s—NOB’s—arm was still around my waist.

  “What would be so bad about us being together, Red?”

  She returned to us. “Sir, madam, you need to move.”

  “Just a moment,” NOB said to her. “I’m trying to understand why this stunning, infuriating woman still refuses to believe that I’m mad about her.”

  “I see,” said the woman, bemused. “Madam, might I suggest you accept that sir is smitten, so we can all get on with our lives?”

  His blue eyes searched mine, desperate for an answer. Despite myself, I felt goose bumps rise. Could this be real? Could Ezra Chester genuinely like me? He wasn’t running away at the prospect of having a meet-cute with me. He was the one asking me to stop running.

  “Red, I know that Dicky made you feel like you’d never be good enough for anyone. But, frankly, fuck that guy,” NOB said, flashing me a grin. “He’s an idiot. And so is that Dull Dad. You are more than enough, Red. You’re everything. I’m standing here, wanting to be with you. You can have everything you’ve ever wanted. All you have to do is say yes.”

  There were a lot of things I hadn’t anticipated when I’d entered into our deal. That someone would genuinely fall for me. That Ezra Chester would fall for me.

  Or that there would ever be the slightest possibility that I, Evie Summers, might even think about falling for him.

  The security guard’s walkie-talkie buzzed and she spoke into it urgently. “She’s here?” She looked at us. “Yes, we’re clear here. Aren’t we?” she shot at us.

  “We are,” I said.

  Ezra smiled—not a Hollywood grin, but an open, honest smile, full of relief.

  “Are you ready for your surprise now?”

  Hope danced in my chest. It was the script, it had to be. You can have everything you’ve ever wanted.

  “Definitely.” He pulled me closer to him, sliding his hand along the silky material at my back. Without warning, he dipped me, Hollywood style, and kissed me right there on the red carpet. It was—in so many ways—the perfect kiss.

  So why, as lights exploded around me, did I hear Ben’s voice saying “I really hope it’s what you want”?

  Somehow, the noise around us intensified. I broke away from Ezra and tipped my head back, to see the world topsy-turvy. Ahead, a space had cleared for the actor who had just arrived.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  Standing only meters away, dressed in a floor-length red lace gown, poised and stunningly beautiful, as always, was Monica Reed.

  She’d seen the whole thing.

  NOB pulled me upright, and I stepped away from him in shock.

  “It’s her film,” I said, the force of the realization driving all the breath from my lungs. I searched his face. “Was all of this for her? The makeover. The kiss. Was it to make her jealous?” Tell me, I willed him. Tell me it’s not true.

  “Red . . .” There was a flash of something in his eyes. Guilt.

  I blinked away sudden tears, not knowing if they were hurt or humiliation or both.

  “This is just what I promised you,” Ezra said, swiftly recovering. “Your surprise, remember?”

  “Kissing me in front of your ex-girlfriend?” I asked, incredulous. It couldn’t be further from what I’d wanted. “She was right. You’re a child, Ezra. Grow up.”

  His eyes became flinty. “I did this for us. For the script. Surely you get that? I told you how much I needed your meet-cutes to keep me going. I just needed the final one so I could finish, and you weren’t doing so great on your own. I’ve been nothing but honest with you. I’ve given you something to write about. This was our deal, Red. It’s not like you aren’t getting exactly what you want, either. I’m saving your job.”

  Every breath was painful, like I had something sharp wedged in my lungs.

  Someone cleared their throat. It was the security guard.

  “Are we done here?”

  “Oh, we’re done,” I said.

  I took one last look at NOB and lifted my dress to walk away. A move that had all the potential to look fantastically dramatic, if my ankle hadn’t chosen that exact moment to give way, sending me sprawling across the carpet.

  I considered just lying there until everyone had gone into the cinema, but someone took my hand and pulled me up.

  Monica.

  Her eyes were unyielding, almost challenging. “Come on. Falling’s the easy part. Show them how you get back up.”

  I leaned on her as I took my heels off. Cameras flashed around us. “Thank you,” I said. “And I’m sorry. Congratulations on the film.”

  Gathering what little dignity I had left, I fled.

  NOB: What do you want me to say, Red? I didn’t think you’d react that way. It was supposed to be a great happy ending for you

  NOB: Red, what’s the difference between tonight and what I did for you with Dicky?

  NOB: Do you need me to admit I made a mistake? Fine. I made a mistake

  NOB: You’re in luck, Red. Even though you didn’t meet anyone, I have decided to finish the script. You’re welcome. All I need is for you to write about our meet-cute as if it ended how it should have done. That’s “happily ever after,” if you’re still unsure

  NOB: Red, just give me the damn meet-cute

  YOU MISSED A CALL TODAY AT 8:03 P.M. FROM NOB

  YOU MISSED A CALL TODAY AT 9:45 P.M. FROM NOB

  YOU MISSED A CALL TODAY AT 11:03 P.M. FROM NOB

  RED: no more meet-cutes. I’m finally done

  Chapter 33

  Piece of Cake

  INT: EVIE’S BEDROOM—THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 6:42 P.M.

  EVIE sits slumped on her bed, eating a tub of ice cream, in the same dress she wore to the premiere. It’s loosely tucked into her pajama bottoms. Her hair is slightly flat on one side. She’s removed most of her makeup, but there are black smudges under her eyes.

  I’d called in sick today for the first time in years. After everything that had happened last night—and the three months preceding it—I needed a break to figure it all out.

  I’d had a call from Monty earlier, informing me that NOB had complained about my lack of commitment. Didn’t I know that the deadline was four days away? He needed the ending for the meeting with Intrepid Productions on Monday. The one he hadn’t invited me to. Didn’t I realize the consequences if he turned up empty-handed? I confirmed that I did indeed fully comprehend, and then put the phone down.

  I’d existed in a state of constant anxiety since learning the agency could go under, every day being wound tighter and tighter, and last night, after what NOB did . . . Something in me had snapped. I was a disconnected phone l
ine as far as my worries were concerned. Try again later, caller. Evie isn’t home right now.

  I ate another spoonful of cookie-dough ice cream and saw another message had arrived.

  MARIA: I thought you’d want to see this, my love

  Even from almost two hundred miles away, Maria’s friendship spider sense was second-to-none. I clicked the link, my half-formed smile faltering. It was a Bitch About It column:

  RED CARPET RAT

  There are some things you just don’t do. Get engaged at a friend’s wedding. Upstage the star of the movie at their own premiere. Yes, Bitches, that’s what Monica Reed’s desperate ex Ezra Chester, 33, attempted last night when he brought a mystery date to her premiere. “It was a pathetic attempt to get her back, but it fell flat—literally!” a close source said, referring to the moment his blond date landed face-first on the carpet. And who helped her up? Only Reed herself. What a queen.

  The only shot of me was, of course, one where I was facedown on the carpet at Monica’s feet. At least I was unrecognizable in that smoky dress with my new sleek hair. Blond indeed.

  MARIA: you’re going to think I’m crazy for asking this, but is this you?

  I stared at her message. I’d promised myself I’d tell my friends the truth, and I wanted so badly to go to them for comfort—if I even deserved it after hiding everything from them. But after what happened, I couldn’t face them knowing I’d actually let myself believe even for a second that NOB liked me. Not when they’d never have let me go in the first place if I’d checked in with them. I’d been such a fool. A blob of ice cream fell onto my dress, trailing a milky-white line down the dark green silk. I wiped at it before answering.

  EVIE: what?? Of course not! I was at home watching Netflix, you know me

  MARIA: I just wanted to check. You know you can tell me anything, right?

  EVIE: I know

  Crisis averted. My spoon hit the bottom of the tub. I rolled off my bed in search of more.

  There was nothing left worth eating in the freezer. I opened the fridge, willing to take anything as long as it was bad for me.

  My eyes landed on the date cake NOB had sent me. I pulled it out and slammed it down on the counter. A choked sob escaped me. I put a hand over my mouth, blinking away tears.

  I wasn’t crying for NOB. It was what he’d done, and the fact that I’d responded to it. I had finally been starting to drop the defenses I’d built after Ricky. NOB had said a few kind things, and for the first time in a long time, I’d been open. It had taken a moment, but I’d been willing to let him in. NOB shouldn’t get to be the example for what would happen if I dropped my walls.

  My breathing steadied and I was left staring at the stupid so not an actual cake. It didn’t even have the decency to be bad for me. I picked it up anyway and took it with me to my bedroom, breaking off a chunk as I went and shoving it into my mouth.

  Oh.

  Oh, God.

  It was so . . . dry, and yet, at the same time, moist. With a chemical aftertaste. Like trying to eat furniture foam dipped in wallpaper paste.

  I ran to the loo and spat it straight into the toilet, heaving. As I straightened, I caught sight of myself in the mirror.

  Tear-streaked face. Flat hair. Mascara smudges. Half my freckles still covered by makeup. I barely recognized myself. I’d been so proud of myself for getting NOB to write. In the end, NOB had got exactly what he wanted. He’d broken through his writer’s block. Despite what he said, he didn’t really need me to finish the script. Soon enough, people would once again be singing his praises all over Hollywood. And what did I get? My job. A promotion. I should really be happy.

  I flushed the toilet, feeling a rush of satisfaction as the cake was sucked away down the U-bend. So long, NOB.

  That felt . . . good. I threw another chunk down. It landed with a lovely, heavy thunk. I pushed the button. Flush. Goodbye, arrogant arsehole. Thunk. I should be proud of myself. Flush. I’d got NOB to write. Thunk. The meet-cutes had led to so much more than I could have dreamed of. Flush. The book group. Thunk. Steph. Flush. Writing again. Thunk. Ben and Anette . . . Flush.

  Another piece landed. Thunk. So take that, you arrogant. Flush. Number one. Thunk. Boychild! Plick!

  I pushed the button down again. No resistance, no flush. I tried a few more times. Nothing. The last bit of cake squatted at the bottom of the bowl, refusing to budge. Closing my eyes, I tried again. Flush.

  Oh, thank God.

  Wait.

  Why were my toes wet?

  I looked. The bowl had filled all the way up to the top and water was pouring over the edge, that last piece of cake now bobbing on the surface like a little brown log.

  I leaped back, holding the plate like a shield.

  Surely the water should have stopped pouring out by now.

  The cistern groaned alarmingly.

  I kicked off my soaking slippers and stood barefoot in the water.

  “Oh, ew.” Grabbing the towels off the radiator, I tucked them around the bottom of the toilet. They’d barely soaked up the water before more poured out.

  “Stop!” I shouted at the toilet. “Please, just stop! I’ve had a really bad time and I really, really don’t need this.”

  It didn’t respond to emotional pleas. What do I do? I searched around wildly for something—anything—that might help. Relief hit me when I spotted the handle of the toilet brush sticking up from beside the toilet.

  I grabbed it and was so startled when it started to buzz that I dropped it straight into the bowl.

  Then watched as Jane’s Ourgasm 3000™ disappeared down the U-bend.

  * * *

  I paced the hallway. The toilet was still pouring out water and I’d done everything I could to extract Belinda, including using the actual toilet brush, which had at least managed to turn her off. It was time to call someone for help. A plumber would be the obvious choice. Hi, I need a plumber because my toilet is blocked. With what, you ask?

  I shuddered. No way. After three months of meet-cutes ending with a red-carpet nosedive, I was at maximum humiliation. That left Jane. Maybe she had some friends who’d know what to do. Even if I did have to explain that her pride and joy was now stuck in the U-bend.

  Each attempt to call sent me to voicemail. “If you need me, I’m probably tied up somewhere. Later, my duck!”

  The list of people I knew in London suddenly seemed very small. There was Steph, but I doubted she wanted to spend her Valentine’s Day with her hand down my toilet. And, sadly, Monty, who was two up on me when it came to toilet messes he’d needed rescuing from, and still wouldn’t see that as a reason to reciprocate.

  Which left only one option.

  EVIE: I’m in trouble

  As mortifying as it was, I explained the whole situation, even saying that the cake had been a gift from NOB. I just left out exactly why.

  EVIE: I am so sorry for interrupting your Valentine’s Day with this

  SARAH: we’re between courses of our M&S dine in for two. Jim said he’s just glad he didn’t choose the chocolate pudding

  EVIE: you told him?!

  SARAH: I still don’t really understand why NOB would get you a cake

  MARIA: David said you should call a plumber

  EVIE: does everyone know?? I can’t! What will they say when I explain that my loo’s blocked with cake and a vibrator??

  JEREMY: you are a single girl alone on Valentine’s Day, they probably get calls like this all the time

  EVIE: viable alternatives please

  JEREMY: who ya gonna call? Hot Widower!

  EVIE: not helpful, Jeremy

  MARIA: actually, I think he might have a point. Doesn’t he live near you?

  EVIE: he doesn’t want to see me

  SARAH: trust me, that man will answer your call

  The poo
l of water had now reached the hall. Unappetizing clumps of cake had washed up onto the cream carpet, looking exactly like something that would emerge from an overflowing toilet. Sarah was wrong about Ben. He’d left me alone in Gil’s last week and hadn’t even responded to the photo of the hot chocolates I’d sent. I didn’t know if I could handle being let down by Ben again. Especially when he already thought everything I did was a spectacle. This would just show him he was right. The proof was literally in the pudding.

  Chapter 34

  Round the Bend

  INT: EVIE’S FRONT DOOR—THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 8:23 P.M.

  EVIE tucks her dress more securely into her pajama bottoms and straightens her cardigan. Her hands fly to her hair before she shakes her head, clearly deciding it can’t be salvaged. Taking a few deep breaths, she opens the door. There’s a tall, broad-shouldered man standing on her front step with a toolbox in his hand, facing away down the street.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  Ben turned, eyes widening as he caught sight of me. I hadn’t expected him to get here so soon and there’d been no time to do more than slip a cardigan on. What must I look like?

  “No problem.” He held up his toolbox. “I’m sure this won’t take long.”

  I stepped back to let him in. “Best take your socks off too,” I advised, as he shrugged out of his thick navy jacket and hung it on the “come hither” finger hook in the hall. He pulled his jumper over his head. He wasn’t wearing his usual shirt. Just a simple blue T-shirt that stretched over his broad shoulders.

  “Shall we . . . ?” Ben said, and I startled.

  “Oh, yes, sorry. It’s down the hall.” I turned and led the way, hurriedly trying to tuck more of my dress into my pants.