He reached for his bag and slipped the script out, placing it in front of me. There it was. The thing I’d all but begged NOB to show me.
The script I’d apparently already read.
I held it, barely feeling the paper against my fingers as I peeled back the first page. The Drink Spill. It was the opening of my meet-cute, complete with NOB’s (largely insulting) tweaks.
FADE IN
INT: COFFEE HOUSE, EAST DULWICH—SUNDAY, DECEMBER 2, UNGODLY HOUR (10 A.M.)
CHERYL—midtwenties, blond hair down to her shoulders, a long dress, heels—stands in front of the counter tapping her foot, full of nervous energy.
All of my meet-cutes were here. The drink spill at Gil’s. The bookshop. The road trip. Every excruciating moment of the last few months. All of it. It had been reformatted into a script, some liberties had been taken with the narrator’s appearance, but that dialogue, the description, was almost all mine. Pages will be sent when they’re good and ready, NOB had told me, buying himself time to make any necessary changes. After the first few reports, NOB had pretty much encouraged me to describe every meet-cute like a script. Each time demanding more dialogue. The second half of the script was almost word for word what I’d sent to NOB, but with a new character wedged in: him.
“How does it end?” I heard myself asking, but a part of me already knew.
“Terribly,” Monty said. “The screenwriter tells the assistant he’s fallen for her. He sweeps her off her feet with a kiss on a red carpet and she breaks his heart. It’s like he’s never seen a romantic comedy. Given the photos from Monica Reed’s premiere, I suspect he might be writing from experience.” He gave me a knowing look and I tensed, waiting for the blame. Only finding out his assistant got involved with his client and caused a public scene wasn’t Monty’s concern. “The producers hate it. They want a happy ending. We wouldn’t want a lover’s quarrel to tip us off course now, would we?”
The room spun, my vision tunneling. A few pages slipped to the floor. NOB had fashioned himself as the romantic hero and me as the woman who broke his heart. And this was why Monty assumed I hadn’t written the ending?
“The producers have asked for a more satisfying finale before they’ll accept it, and it all needs a bit of a polish,” said Monty. He was eyeing me, realizing, perhaps, that his assistant wasn’t reacting quite how he’d expected. “You’ve taken the script so far, Evelyn, it’s time to close this. Ezra really appreciates everything you’ve done. If only agents could get writing credits, eh?”
Everything came back into sharp focus.
“But I can’t write,” I said. “You told me that yourself.”
Seven years had passed and the memory of that meeting was still painful. Fresh to London at twenty-two, I’d sat in front of William Jonathan Montgomery the Third, feeling like I was teetering on the brink of a great change, and knowing how proud my dad would be. Here I was, at Dorothy Taylor’s old agency. A poster of Brick Park hung on the wall.
Monty had wanted to meet me to discuss the script I’d sent him. The one I’d poured my heart and soul into and burned through my savings to finish. It had been a film for all the girls who, like me, had taken their emotional education from the school of Nora Ephron; it was about a father who knew the moment he was going to die, and lived his life as if he didn’t. It was sentimental and needed more work, and maybe that script wouldn’t have been the one that sold, but it was a first step. One I would have taken, had Monty not said the words that broke me. Seven little words that had reached into the fissure that appeared when my dad had died, and cracked it wide open.
You just don’t have what it takes.
It turned out he’d only called me in to offer me the role as his assistant because his last one had just walked out. He told me he admired the enthusiasm I’d displayed in my cover letter for the agency. I’d been desperate and still reeling when I accepted.
I’d thought of Monty’s words so many times over the years it had become a mantra. As I sat in front of Monty now, I wondered how much power they still had over me.
He downed his champagne and poured more. “Maybe I was a little hasty back then.” His words were flippant, unhurried, like they meant nothing to him.
I wanted to fold time. Bring together this moment with the one where he’d stripped away my confidence, so they were touching. Don’t give up, I wanted to tell my younger self. Don’t put your self-worth in someone else’s hands when you’re at your most vulnerable. Listen to the people who love you.
“You should be proud of yourself,” Monty said, going to give me more champagne and seeing that I’d barely touched my glass. “The producers love your script so much they only want your ending, not Ezra’s. Not that they’ll know it’s yours, of course. You’ve seen to that. Ever the professional, red-carpet mishaps notwithstanding. All grist to the mill!”
The enormity of what NOB had done fully sank in. He’d been manipulating me from the start. He’d stolen my words and passed them off as his own. As my anger built, I kept coming back to the question why. He couldn’t have known when we made that deal that I’d end up sending him the material he could use for the script.
“Don’t think there won’t be rewards,” Monty said. I knew that tone. He thought my silence meant I was holding out on him, as if this was a negotiation. “Of course, once the agency’s back on its feet . . .” He knocked his glass against mine. “Evelyn Summers: Junior Agent. How does that sound?”
His words barely registered.
“It’s my script,” I said quietly.
“Yes, well, you’re my assistant. About to take the next step, if you keep playing your cards right. Helping writers is what you do.”
“No, this is actually my script, Monty,” I said, my voice growing stronger. “Ezra stole it.”
His hand shook as he tipped the last of the champagne into his glass, and it dawned on me that Monty knew exactly what NOB had done. “Evelyn Summers: Agent, then. How about that? And what the producers don’t know won’t hurt them.”
He really believes I’m going to do exactly as he says. And why wouldn’t he? I always had before.
I thought of everything I’d been through, all the work I’d put into my career over the last seven years, constantly trying to prove myself to a man who’d said I wasn’t good enough. And now, after three months of neglecting everyone I loved, the humiliations, the constant attempts to “put myself out there,” believing it was all worthwhile because NOB was finally getting somewhere, only for him to pass my words, my life, off as his own . . .
Now it was time to Be More Evie.
“I’m done,” I said. As soon as I heard myself say the words, I knew they were true.
I was finally done taking Monty’s shit.
“But you haven’t even finished your champagne!” Monty said, eyeing my glass.
“No, I mean, I’m done,” I said calmly. “Tell Sam-and-Max the truth, or I quit. I’ll get a job somewhere else.”
There was a heavy pause. When Monty spoke again, all the joviality was gone from his voice. “That hasn’t worked out well for you before. It’s so hard to get on without a good reference.”
I stared at him. All those jobs I’d gone for, and no one had wanted to hire me. I thought it was because I wasn’t ready. But it was because of Monty.
“What?” Monty shrugged. “You were a good assistant, Evelyn. Do you know how hard that is to come by? I wasn’t about to just let you go. You should be flattered.”
I knew then that I was never going to be made an agent, no matter what I did. Monty didn’t want to work with an equal.
“I deserve credit for my script,” I said flatly. “Give it to me and I’ll finish it.”
“That just isn’t possible,” said Monty. “I’m sure we can ask about getting you a script-editing credit. Your name could still be on the big screen.”
I stood, pulling
the handle up on my suitcase.
“Monty,” I said calmly. “You know what I want. I have a train to catch.”
“You’re being childish, Evelyn.”
John was standing behind the curtain. He’d heard everything.
“Wait,” I heard Monty say. I turned back. He straightened his tie and ran his fingers through his graying hair, tugging at his jacket as if it would cover his protruding belly. “If you leave now, that’s it. You know I can make sure no one will hire you. You are nothing without—”
“No, Monty,” I cut in. “You’re nothing without me.” I turned back to John, who was looking at me anew.
“Miss Summers,” he said grandly, draping my duffel coat around my shoulders as if I were one of the club’s celebrity clientele. He leaned in, gave me a little wink, and said, “Bravo.”
Chapter 36
Plus Two
INT: ROSEHILL MANOR, SHEFFIELD—SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 1:15 P.M.
EVIE and MARIA stand in front of a wide floor-length mirror in a room with large arched windows. They’re wearing their bridesmaid dresses and studying their reflections with a resigned air.
We fussed with each other’s ruffles, trying to pat them down, to no avail.
“Does my dress look okay to you?” I asked Maria, turning very slightly for her by shuffling my feet one way and then the other. For dresses with this much material, they were awfully constricting.
Maria cocked her head, examining me.
“I guess,” she said finally, “it depends what you mean by ‘okay.’”
I snorted. My mum had passed the dress along to Maria to give to me this morning, and had clearly worked her magic. It looked exactly as it should, except it felt even heavier than before, and it was certainly easier to zip up.
Maria’s gray eyes were sharp. “Are you okay, Evie?”
“Of course.”
Other than confirming NOB had delivered his ending, I hadn’t breathed a word to her or any of my friends about anything else that had happened. Not about the date with NOB, or his betrayal, the stolen script, quitting my job, or the fact that I was going to have to move back into my old room at Mum’s at the end of the month . . . But I will, I told myself. This weekend belonged to Sarah. There would be plenty of time after for talking about how I’d blown my life up.
“Is it NOB?” she pressed. NOB had turned up at my flat this morning after I’d ignored his repeated demands for the ending, refusing to leave until Jane told him I was out of town at a wedding.
“It’s this dress, actually. I’m worried I’ll fall face-first going up the aisle.”
My eyes slid to hers, remembering the Bitch About It article she’d sent me.
“I’m here if you need to talk about anything,” she said, tucking a dark strand behind her ear. “No judgment.”
“He’s hit the deadline.” I forced a smile. “There’s honestly nothing left to say.”
I was saved from further questions by two boys screaming as they tore down the hallway.
“If anyone can deal with those two terrors, it’s Sarah,” Maria said. They were cute as anything, with their big brown eyes and dark twists of hair like their father’s, but definitely a handful. We both had a moment of thinking back to the hen do.
“And she has us to provide the wine if it gets difficult,” I added.
Maria held on to my shoulders, our ruffles catching on each other like Stickle Bricks. “Evie Summers,” she said, eyes on mine. “You’re going to be just fine.”
I nodded, blinking away tears.
We both jumped as a woman I recognized from Jim’s side of the family burst into the room. “It’s Sarah!” she said, and I knew that look of fear all too well. “You’re needed.” The woman clutched her pearls and withdrew, presumably in search of a stiff drink.
“Are you ready for one last Mathers Meltdown™ before she becomes a Johnson?” I said.
“Let’s go help our girl.”
We hiked up our ruffles and hurried as quickly as the dresses would allow.
“Shuffle, shuffle, shuffle,” Maria instructed me. “Quickly!”
I stifled laughter, even as I broke out into a sweat in the smothering material.
“Move like your life depends on it!” Maria told me, elbowing me quiet.
We burst through the double doors into the room where Sarah was getting changed.
“What’s the matter?” Maria panted. We both frantically searched the light, airy space for signs of catastrophe.
There was only Sarah, standing in front of a long mirror, looking absolutely stunning. Her hair gleamed white gold in its bun. Her gown brushed the floor, the beautiful expanse of ivory accented only with the slim band of sparkles at her waist. Every inch of her was elegant and tasteful, apart from, just maybe, the diamond crown.
“Just having a bit of fun.” Sarah beamed. She opened her arms wide. Maria and I exchanged looks before stepping into her embrace. “Thanks for putting up with me through this,” she said, holding her head back to protect her hair. “I know I can be a tad neurotic.”
“You? Never,” Maria said. I buried my smile in a ruffle.
The boys tore past again, roaring at the tops of their voices.
“Oliver, Adam, what did I say to you?” Sarah hollered. The noise immediately ceased.
“Sorry, evil stepmother,” they chorused.
Maria and I were both braced for her reaction. “Stop looking so worried!” she said. “I told them to call me that. And I’ve threatened to take them with us on our honeymoon if they don’t behave.” Her smile grew wider. “Jim’s surprised me with a very romantic luxury week away in the Maldives. We aren’t going to Center Parcs! Well, not until the summer, anyway.”
“Knock, knock.” Jeremy stuck his head around the door.
“Jeremy,” Maria said, aghast. “What on earth is that on your head?”
Jeremy adjusted his peach hat without comment. It looked an awful lot like it had been made from one of the ruffles on our dresses.
Sarah’s smile was beatific. “I wanted him to look as adorable as you guys!”
“What?” Jeremy said. He arranged the hat over his curls, and, against all odds, it suited him. “Consider my lack of complaint my wedding present.”
“Is he here now?” Sarah asked him, suddenly all business. He nodded and she turned to me, eyes glittering with excitement. “Evie, remember how I promised you a plus-one?”
“Vividly,” I said, heart sinking.
Sarah nodded toward the door. “Well, go on, then. He’s out there waiting for you.”
I looked to my friends for help, but Maria and Jeremy studiously avoided eye contact. So they’d known about this. Straining to hide my lack of enthusiasm, I lifted my dress and slowly shuffled into the hall.
Standing in front of the entrance, looking a little nervous and wearing a gray shirt with a matching tie, was Ben. He held his old camera in one hand; holding on to his other hand, and beaming, was Anette. She wore a beautiful red-and-white dress with a big red ribbon around the waist that matched her glasses. I couldn’t help but notice she was also wearing her Union Jack wings from her school play.
Ben was my plus-one? I could have protested. Said all the usual excuses. He wouldn’t want to date me. And yet, seeing them both, the words caught in my throat. Everything was upside down right now, but Ben and Anette being here somehow made sense. When Ben lifted the edge of his mouth in a smile, my heart lifted too.
“He got in contact this morning,” Sarah said quietly from behind me. My friends had all gathered at the doors so they could watch. “Marc gave him my number.”
“Okay, but who was the real plus-one?” Jeremy muttered.
“Shut up,” Sarah replied. She whispered, “Jim’s youngest cousin, Roger. I’ve moved him to the kiddies’ table.”
“Isn’t
he married?”
“Twice divorced. Well, nearly.”
“Shhh,” Maria urged them softly.
I walked to meet Ben and Anette, trying extremely hard not to waddle.
“You came,” I said.
“I had a little help with changing my mind,” Ben said.
Anette grinned at me and winked.
* * *
Maria, Jeremy, and I waited at the head of the aisle as the string quartet played Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Anette went first, the honorary flower girl, tossing gold rose petals and prancing as the guests all cooed in delight at her.
“Here we go,” Maria breathed. We fixed our smiles in place. Every guest’s eyes turned to us and their ooohs trailed off as our dresses came fully into view. I caught sight of a self-satisfied smirk in the crowd: Beth, in a long white dress (which Sarah was no doubt going to kill her for).
“Come on, you tragic beauties.” Jeremy stood between us and linked our arms so we could lean on one another. “Let’s get this over with.” I had a sudden image of us all doing this at age eighty, and, despite everything that was happening, my life seemed less terrible.
A flash lit up the aisle. Ben. Our eyes met briefly. Even from here, I could see the tense set to his shoulders. I noticed Anette keeping a close watch on him as she scattered rose petals. Okay? she asked him. His face cleared. Okay, he signed back, and carried on. Photo by photo, I saw the tension start to fall away. Okay, I thought.
When we finally reached the top of the aisle, Sarah had appeared. Unlike our awkward shuffle, our friend glided down the aisle like it was a stage built for her. She radiated light as she basked in everyone’s attention as though fueled by it. Then she reached Jim, and it was like no one was watching at all.
“Sarah Mathers,” Jim said, looking down at his petite bride. “When my friends told me to try dating again”—a few whoops, mainly from men holding babies—“never in my life did I think I’d meet someone as incredible as you.”
Sarah’s pale cheeks turned a wedding-appropriate shade of rose gold.
Would Like to Meet Page 28