Would Like to Meet

by Rachel Winters

  “Where’s Anette?”

  “She’s feeling well enough to have a sleepover at her grandparents’ tonight.” Ben’s voice was friendly but bland. Like we were passing acquaintances.

  “She’s been ill?” I asked, crab-walking around the wet towels.

  “Didn’t you get the—” He paused. I turned back. He was staring at a brown clump perched on the damp carpet.

  “It’s cake,” I said.

  Ben looked deeply relieved.

  He headed inside the bathroom first, bare feet splashing on the tiles. I hovered behind him.

  “Can I help?” In reply, Ben placed his toolbox into my arms.

  “Do you know what the problem is?”

  To give myself better odds of him actually turning up, I’d told him only about the flooding, not the cause. I flicked the handle of the toolbox.

  “If I had to hazard a guess,” I said nonchalantly, “it’s full of cake.”

  The only sound to be heard was the steady falling of water from the edge of the toilet bowl.

  “Right,” said Ben evenly. I decided it was best not to tell him about Belinda too. She might have been dislodged by the toilet brush, a chance I was willing to take.

  Ben cocked his ear, listening to the choking noises the cistern was making, his face thoughtful. He pulled on some rubber gloves and I raised my brows.

  “Don’t worry, I can fix this. It won’t take long.”

  “Don’t tell me,” I joked, shifting my knee against the toolbox to keep it from tipping off the bath. “You’ve seen this kind of thing before.”

  He almost smiled. “You name it, Anette has probably stuck it down a toilet at some point.”

  We were both being very adult about this. I kept ahold of the box as Ben searched for the valve to turn the water off (there wasn’t one) and said things like “I’m going to have to rig the float to stop it,” and I nodded like I understood.

  “So . . . this cake,” he said after a while, a hand deep in the cistern.

  I sighed, changing which leg I had propping up the toolbox. We could have gone this whole time without ever having to talk about it.

  “It was stupid, I know.”

  “What happened?” he asked mildly.

  The man was elbow-deep in my toilet, what more harm could the truth do at this point? “I went on the date with NOB. It turned out to be a mistake. And not just because of his terrible taste in gifts.”

  His warm brown eyes met mine. “And the script?” he said softly. “Is your job okay?”

  It was nice of him to ask, considering where his hand was right now. “I’m not sure.” Maybe NOB would still write the ending. Maybe everything would be okay, and I would become an agent just like I always wanted. I just wished I felt happier about that prospect.

  Ben nodded and returned his attention to the tank. “There you go.” He stepped back. It was such a relief to see the water had finally stopped running.

  “Now I just need to remove the clog,” Ben explained. Ah. That.

  He set to work with the plunger he’d brought with him, the overflow sending little brown islands spinning across the floor. He stepped back. A wodge of date cake bobbed on the surface.

  “We have a floater,” he said. I pulled my face. “Sorry, dad humor. It’s ingrained.” He scooped it out and deposited it in the bath.

  “There’s something still in here.” He peered into the bowl. I winced, clutching the toolbox and preparing myself for the worst.

  “Are you absolutely sure?” I asked, plaintively. Oh, please just sod off, Belinda.

  Ben considered the toilet regretfully. “I’m going to have to go in.” He bent down low, pushing his hand in. Water poured over the side, soaking his T-shirt through. I found myself observing the interesting way the material stuck to his chest before remembering it was loo water.

  Then he leaned over too far and slipped, his chin dipping perilously close to the surface.

  “Ben!” Unthinkingly, I jerked forward to help him and a wrench fell out of the toolbox onto my bare toe.

  “Shit!” I hopped on one foot and slid, feeling the whole room tilt and the toolbox leaving my fingers. “Ooof!” The breath was knocked loose from my body. Firm hands were at my back.

  Ben had caught me.

  He gently lowered me to the edge of the bath, ignoring the toolbox that had upended inside it.

  “Owww.” Tears burned my eyes.

  “Let me look.” Before I could stop him he was crouched, one knee on the wet floor, tugging his gloves off so he could hold my foot. My leg shot out on reflex, knocking Ben square on the jaw. He went backward, grabbing my ankle and taking me with him as he slid down onto the wet tiles.

  We were lying nose-to-nose, with me on top, both slightly out of breath.

  “What did you do that for?” I yelped.

  “You kicked me!”

  “You tickled my foot!”

  Unexpectedly, Ben started to laugh, his entire face lighting up. And there, shivering, as I lay on top of him, my heart began to pound so hard I was sure he could feel every beat. But this was Ben. The man who’d run a mile every time it looked like he might be caught up in one of my meet-cutes. Who’d left me sitting in Gil’s last Sunday alone.

  “Ben,” I said, suddenly feeling something.

  “It’s the plunger,” he said quickly, extracting it.

  Bzzz. We both looked toward the toilet.

  “Evie,” he said. “What is that?”

  I blushed furiously, pushing myself up to standing. Fantastic. As if Ben needed any more reasons to judge me. “I bet you aren’t even surprised by any of this,” I said, raising my voice over the buzzing.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, standing too. And just like that, I was mad.

  “I heard what you said about me to that woman, Samantha, before Christmas.” Bzzz. “‘She’s always making a public spectacle of herself,’” I said, mimicking his deep voice. “Well, here’s your validation.” I flicked wet cake from my ruined dress to the floor.

  “I remember what I said,” Ben replied, remaining annoyingly cool. He tugged the gloves back on.

  “You’re not even denying it!”

  He sank to his knees, cocking his head and listening.

  His voice strained a little as he reached back into the U-bend. “That woman keeps trying to get me to prevent Anette from taking her hearing aids out in public so she has a chance to be ‘normal.’ Right from the very first time you met Anette, you’ve always treated her like she’s just how she should be. And because of the things you do, when she looks at you, she sees that it’s okay not to care about what people think. Around you, she doesn’t have to be ‘normal.’ She’s just herself. That’s the conversation you were overhearing. Screwdriver.”

  I scrambled to straighten the toolbox and handed him the first thing that looked like one.

  “But . . . you don’t really like me. I keep messing things up.”

  “Now, where,” said Ben, frowning as he used the end of the screwdriver to try to dislodge the clog, “did you get that idea?”

  Bzzzzzzzzz. Bzzz. Bzzzzz. Bzzzzz. Oh, God. He’d switched her to some kind of turbo function.

  “You weren’t at Gil’s last week,” I said, somewhat weakly.

  “We messaged you,” he said. “What else can possibly be in here?” he mumbled.

  “You did?”

  “We sent photos,” Ben said. He cocked his head. “Aha!” He yanked his hand out, wielding something triumphantly. It took him a full two seconds to realize he was brandishing a vibrator at me, on the maximum setting.

  * * *

  While Ben took a shower, I sat on my bed to update my friends on Clog Gate, as it would henceforth be known.

  Ben is in my shower.

  I pushed the rather distracting thought
to one side on seeing I had over fifty messages.

  SARAH: EVERYTHING IS RUINED. I’M CANCELING THE WEDDING

  EVIE: what’s happened? Is everything OK?

  SARAH: the stupid photographer has broken his stupid leg, dancing at someone else’s stupid wedding! He’s canceled with two days to go!! Jim is threatening to have one of his cousins step in!!!

  EVIE: I’m so sorry, Sarah. Isn’t there anyone else?

  I pressed a hand over my thundering heart. While I couldn’t have been more relieved to find Sarah was just being Sarah, I would also like to live to a ripe old age.

  Without looking, I knew what Sarah’s response would be.

  SARAH: Evie, you have to ask Ben

  EVIE: it might not be as easy as that

  JEREMY: Hot Widower!

  SARAH: I’m begging you. Remember how you ruined my hen do? You owe me big time. He’s far more talented than an actual wedding photographer

  MARIA: I agree this does seem like a perfect option if he’s free, but didn’t Evie say he was camera shy these days?

  I slipped a pair of jeans and a jumper on as I considered what to do. Ben had already done so much for me.

  He might have said he was no longer a photographer, but I knew part of him still loved it. Which meant there was still a chance he could find his way back to it, regardless of what had happened to make him stop. As small as it might seem, maybe this wedding could help. This could be my chance to return his kindness.

  I’d do it.

  I decided I’d show up for Ben.

  EVIE: OK, I’ll try

  SARAH: great! That’s all sorted then. Good thing I didn’t overreact

  JEREMY: !

  EVIE: I can’t promise anything

  SARAH: it’s fine, I know he’ll say yes to you

  MARIA: good luck, my love

  I hovered outside the door of the loo, listening to Ben singing the title song from Singin’ in the Rain.

  “Do you want a hot chocolate?” I called, before realizing I was offering him more brown liquid.

  The singing stopped. “Yes. Thank you,” he called.

  Clearly he had a strong stomach. “I’ve left a top on my bed for you.”

  A few minutes later, Ben padded into the kitchen behind me, his dark hair wet and fluffy from where he’d half dried it with a towel. He was wearing my old Sheffield University hoodie, and it looked far better on him.

  “Is that a Brick Park quote on your wall?” he asked. “‘Make it mean something’?”

  “Yes,” I said. “My dad had it made for me.” So Ben could quote my favorite film, no big deal. I added extra marshmallows to his drink.

  “Your hair,” Ben said.

  I touched it self-consciously. It had gone straight back to its natural curl as soon as the water had hit it. “The styling’s all come out,” I said ruefully.

  “I like it that way.”

  I smiled, handing him the Gil’s-branded mug. “Here. Happy Valentine’s Day. Thank you for spending it unblocking my toilet.”

  He laughed, then swapped his mug for mine. “Chip,” he said, pointing at the one he was now holding.

  Once we’d settled on the sofa together, I spooned marshmallows into my mouth for strength before I began.

  Here goes.

  “There’s something I want to ask you.”

  Ben blew on his drink, watching me with his steady eyes.

  “Are you busy this weekend?”

  He stopped blowing. “Just the usual. Why?”

  “It’s my friend Sarah’s wedding.” I got my words out as quickly as possible. “I know it’s not what you’re used to, and it’s just a wedding, well, it isn’t ‘just’ a wedding to my friend, which is why this would mean so much, and of course Anette is welcome too.”

  Ben sat up straighter, something like hope on his face. I carried on, encouraged. “Sarah will reimburse any costs, and pay you, of course, and the accommodation is already sorted because the original photographer had a room.” I glanced at my phone. Sarah had been firing details at me for the last fifteen minutes.

  “You’re asking me to be the photographer,” he said slowly, sinking back into the chair.

  “You’d be doing me another huge favor, and I know you’ve already pulled a sex toy out of my toilet this evening, but it would really mean a lot to Sarah.”

  And the thing is, I willed him to know, I think it might be exactly what you need.

  Ben remained very still. Come on, Ben, take a chance. Please.

  He stood.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  “Wait, Ben . . .” I called after him. He was already backing out of the door.

  “Thank you for the drink.”

  I stayed curled up on the sofa as he collected his things, wondering if I’d done the right thing. He passed by the living room on his way out and stopped. For a moment, I thought he might say something.

  “Ben?”

  But the only response was the front door closing.

  It was close to midnight when I received his message.

  BEN: I’ve spoken with Marc. Here are his contact details. He’ll appreciate the work. I’m sorry, Evie.

  Chapter 35

  Full Monty

  INT: THE ASH—FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 15, 6:23 P.M.

  EVIE sits at a table in the third-floor bar, a guarded look on her face. There’s a dress bag hung over a suitcase next to her. MONTY is by the bar on his phone, waving a waiter toward where EVIE is sitting. It’s JOHN, who slows down on seeing EVIE.

  I’d almost said no when Monty told me to meet him in the Ash. I was traveling to Sheffield tonight for Sarah’s wedding tomorrow. But my mind started churning with possibilities. Monty had never taken me for a drink before. Perhaps this was his version of an exit interview after I’d hung up on him yesterday. Or maybe NOB had been so pissed off with me he’d told Monty everything. Or perhaps he’d refused to write the ending after all because I hadn’t sent him “our” meet-cute. All in all, Monty had any number of reasons to fire me. I couldn’t go to Sarah’s wedding with it hanging over my head.

  When John appeared, presenting a bottle of champagne at me before pouring, I allowed myself to relax. It seemed doubtful that Monty would celebrate firing me, at least not with me there. We were three days out from the official deadline. Was it too much to hope that NOB had delivered? If only Monty would end the call and tell me already.

  John finished pouring in silence. Something told me he was still sore about what happened last time I was here. “I just wanted to thank you,” I said. “You always handle things so beautifully, no matter what we throw at you. I promise less drama from now on.”

  He seemed to soften a little. “Don’t worry,” he said, turning to go. “In this place, you’re not even the worst of it.”

  Monty still wasn’t finished, so I took out my phone and once again checked the photos that had come through this morning. The first was a selfie: Anette with flushed cheeks, a snotty nose, and Ben’s hand holding a temperature gauge to her forehead as she drank from a steaming mug. The next picture was of Ben on a white chair next to her bed, relaxed and unguarded with his head down, dark hair drifting into his eyes as he read aloud from the copy of Peter Pan I’d given her for Christmas. The image made my heart ache a little.

  Apparently Anette had been in charge of sending them last Sunday, but hadn’t. My gut told me it was because I’d gone on the date with NOB. Anette had been so keen on setting me and Ben up, she probably saw it as a betrayal. The toilet incident had been good for something at least. There’d been a message from Anette along with the photos this morning. “I’m sorry NOB gave you a cake that looked like poop.” Which was mortifying, given Ben must have told her what happened, but, on the whole, worth it if it meant she’d forgiven me.

  Monty sat back down,
belly easing over his belt. There was a sheen to his forehead as he snatched up the champagne flutes and thrust one into my hand.

  “Chin up,” said Monty. “We’re celebrating.”

  “Celebrating what?” I asked, desperate to hear him say it.

  “Your script, of course,” Monty said, and I wondered if all the pressure with the agency had finally got to him.

  “Ezra’s script, you mean,” I said.

  Monty wiped at his top lip and rocked forward in his seat, giving me a wink. “I confess I didn’t see it at first.” I gulped my champagne. “You were both very cunning, submitting it all through Ezra. You really do go above and beyond for your job, Evelyn. It was when he sent the part about the hen do that finally did it for me. I remembered you saying something about why you were out of contact for the weekend, and then the next thing, I’m reading about a girl on a hen do that’s clearly you. Ezra’s a genius, but characterization has never been his strong point.” The bubbles popped like cap-gun pellets in my throat. “So I fished that old script you wrote out of my filing cabinet, and the styles matched.” Monty hit the table with the meaty part of his palm. “That’s when I knew.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’ve been giving him the scenes,” said Monty, as if pleased as punch he’d figured it out. “You know. The hen do. The drink spilling. The smutty book group.” What did he mean? The meet-cutes?

  No, no, no. This wasn’t true. NOB had used me for inspiration. He hadn’t taken my words. Why would he? He was an Oscar winner. He was . . .

  He was a man who’d pretended to fall for me to get me to write him his happy ending. My breath came out in short bursts, like I couldn’t draw in enough air.

  Monty carried on, oblivious. “If I hadn’t already twigged, the ending would have given it away. The one he’s given me for the producers is miserable. He’s clearly tried to write it by himself. It’s missing a woman’s touch, if you know what I mean. He needs you to sprinkle your magic on it before our meeting at Intrepid on Monday.”