Would Like to Meet

by Rachel Winters

  “You have been my person to lean on when I’ve needed it most, and you’ve brought more love into my boys’ lives than I thought possible.”

  Maria handed us tissues. Jeremy tried to wave her away and then took one anyway, dabbing his eye. “Dust,” he whispered.

  “And I promise I will spend the rest of my life loving you,” Jim continued, “through thick and thin, and every PowerPoint presentation.” There was knowing laughter from at least half the guests. My friends and I smiled at one another.

  Sarah exhaled slowly. “Jim,” she said. “You and your boys are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I never thought I could love someone so much . . . who has such terrible taste in clothes.”

  Jim laughed, wiping his eyes and squeezing Sarah’s hands. Unobtrusively, Ben caught the moment.

  “When I pictured my perfect family, it wasn’t this,” she continued. It was Jeremy’s turn to squeeze my arm as we all wondered what she was going to say. “Because,” she said, “I never imagined I would be this lucky.”

  “My heart,” Jeremy uttered. And my eyes went, completely unthinkingly, to Ben.

  * * *

  Ben was taking photos of jiving grandparents on the dance floor. His usually serious face was alive as he moved around them, grinning at the show they were giving for his camera. I sipped at my drink, not realizing that my glass had got caught in a ruffle until the material was in my mouth. There was laughter from nearby.

  Jeremy and Maria were both resting their chins on their hands with faux-dreamy looks in their eyes. Anette was grinning at me. We were sitting at the high table, gearing ourselves up to attempt to dance in these dresses—and, in Jeremy’s case, that hat—the tablecloth strewn with crumbs from our dinner, and tiny crystals that caught the candlelight.

  “What?” I asked.

  Jeremy made a sign with his hands and Anette passed him the wine.

  “Jeremy,” Maria reprimanded. She was mollified when she saw Anette was clearly loving it. Jeremy did the sign for “thank you” and clinked his replenished glass against her juice.

  “Show her, kiddo,” Jeremy said. Anette hopped off her seat and leaned against me so she could show me the picture she’d taken.

  It was me, looking at something across the room, my expression open, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling.

  “What?” I asked again, baffled.

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Jeremy said, “but Sarah was right. She picked you one hell of a plus-one.”

  I looked at Anette pleadingly. “Jeremy doesn’t mean it like that.” Sarah had confessed that Ben had no idea he was my “plus-one.” If he thought this was a setup, it wouldn’t go down well.

  “I know,” Anette said. “We’re your plus-two.”

  Before I could say more, the opening chords to “Love Machine” by Girls Aloud blasted across the dance floor.

  “Oh, God,” Jeremy said as Sarah materialized in front of us, grinning determinedly, somehow still looking elegant, even with the diamond crown.

  “Come on, you boring lot. Time to dance.”

  Gamely, and not a little tipsily, we let Sarah pull us up to the busy dance floor.

  Maria and I tried to outswirl each other, throwing the material of our dresses around in lieu of being able to move our legs. Sarah stood in the middle of us, lifting her skirts and swaying. Jeremy did a twirl with Anette, who was now wearing his hat, and ended up bumping up against Sarah, causing her tiara to fall off and roll away along the floor.

  Jeremy raced after it, returning it with a sheepish expression. Sarah took it from him and set it on her head, purposefully askew. “What?” she asked, seeing our surprised expressions. “We got married, didn’t we? This is the part of the wedding dedicated to fun. Did any of you read my presentation!”

  There was a flash of white in the crowd and Sarah tracked it like a hawk after prey.

  “Beth!” she called, following her work colleague. “I want to introduce you to someone. His name’s Roger . . .”

  The song switched to something softer.

  “Come on.” Maria took my hand and we made a good go of twirling in our dresses until David tapped her on the shoulder, towering over everyone on the dance floor. “Can I steal her?” he asked me.

  “She’s all yours,” I said. He gently pulled her away. I looked for Jeremy, but he and Anette were shimmying toward the bar, where a cute barman was serving.

  I was on my own. I moved to the edge of the dance floor, enjoying the way Maria and David had eyes only for each other as they danced.

  Then Ben was next to me, taking a photo of them.

  “They look so happy, don’t they?” I said. If I could find someone to look at me the way they looked at each other after twelve years together . . . I hadn’t forgotten what Maria said at Sarah’s hen do, but that look meant they were doing something right.

  Ben hung his camera around his neck, turned to me, and held his hand out. It took me a second to register what he meant.

  “Oh,” I said. “Yes.”

  As we stood on the LED flooring, the music changed to Frank Sinatra’s “The Way You Look Tonight.” Ben fumbled around with the ruffles on my back, trying to find somewhere to put his hand. I laughed a little. “I’m not sure this dress was exactly what Frank had in mind when he sang this.”

  He stepped a little closer and tripped. “Sorry!”

  “It’s okay.” I yanked the material from under our feet.

  David and Maria danced up to us; Maria was standing on David’s toes to avoid tripping over her own ruffles. “Don’t mind me. I just need to make a quick alteration to Evie’s dress,” she said, as David leaned her in toward us. “Your mother told me this should work.” Her fingers touched a point at my neck, my waist, and somewhere on my back. Then she reached under my arms. “Maria!” I gasped, as she yanked hard and David pulled her back, taking the entirety of the top layer of my dress with them.

  I looked down. I was now wearing a pale gold A-line dress that hugged my waist perfectly, the skirt swinging against my legs. “That’s better.” Maria grinned. “To the bar!” she ordered David, who danced her away from us.

  The music switched to Elvis Presley’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” I narrowed my eyes in suspicion. Sure enough, Jeremy and Anette were at the DJ’s booth, grinning at us. I shook my head at them both.

  When I turned back to Ben, he was holding out his hand again. He pulled me to him, placing his other hand in the small of my back. All my nerves were concentrated on the weight of that hand, and his fingers against my skin, as if there was no material there at all.

  “You were right,” Ben said. “About today. Being here. Taking photographs. Thank you. I . . . I don’t think I would have done it without you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “Though I suspect Anette played a big part.”

  He smiled. “She made one very persuasive point.”

  “Which was?”

  Ben’s fingers tightened on mine. Ever so gently, he pulled me closer, the gap between us becoming an inch, a centimeter, a breath. His mouth started to form a word. But I never got to hear it.

  “Red.” The shout rang out across the dance floor. There were annoyed gasps and the crowd parted to make room as someone pushed their way through.

  My heart shoved its way into my throat.

  “Red, babe,” NOB called, approaching us. He was wearing jeans and a leather jacket, his hair all over the place. “Your meet-cute is here. Better late than never, right? DJ! My song.”

  “Lady in Red” started playing. Every single person on the dance floor was watching as NOB held his arms wide, waiting for my embrace.

  Ben’s hands dropped away, leaving me cold.

  “Ben . . .” I willed him to see I hadn’t planned this, but his attention was on NOB. His jaw set. He didn’t say anything,
just nodded as if he shouldn’t have expected anything different, and walked away.

  “Bye, Ben,” NOB said to his retreating back.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

  “I’m getting it right this time. I couldn’t stay away from you, Red.”

  “You think you can just turn up at my friend’s wedding after what you did?”

  He stepped closer to me, lowering his voice. “I know I owe you a huge apology.”

  What could he possibly say to explain himself about the script?

  “You have to know,” NOB said. “Everything I said to you, it was all real. I’m sorry I didn’t get things right at the premiere. I should have told you then, but I just couldn’t deal with how I was feeling about us.” He paused, searching my face. “The truth is . . .” He raised his voice again. “I love you, Red.”

  And that’s when I saw that my friends had shuffled to the front of the crowd, their faces full of horrified disbelief.

  Chapter 37

  Splat

  INT: THE BAR, ROSEHILL MANOR—SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 9:03 P.M.

  EVIE pulls NOB through a set of double doors at the back of the room. A heavy set of curtains divides the room. She pushes through them into an empty bar area. There’s a table stacked with champagne glasses and bottles of prosecco, and a vast cake on a plinth next to the table. The cake stands almost two meters tall. Between all eight of its vast tiers are lavish, intricate layers of icing flowers that trail down its sides. The cake culminates in an icing castle complete with figurines—a princess and a prince, kissing. Both EVIE and NOB are momentarily distracted by it.

  It was quieter in here, away from the music, though it sounded like things had picked up again in our absence. Thank goodness. I’d deal with NOB, then go and apologize to my friends.

  And Ben.

  “What the hell are you doing here? Really?”

  “I love—”

  I held up my hand. “Cut the crap, Ezra. Despite what little you did manage to write, you are not my romantic lead.”

  A muscle in NOB’s jaw flickered, as he clocked what my words meant and considered how best to play this.

  “You know, then,” he said, finally dropping the pretense. “I’m here for the ending. Monty sent me. He thinks we’ve had some sort of lover’s quarrel and suggested I surprise you.”

  “Because the last time went so well?”

  “I didn’t want to see you get fired, Red,” he insisted, almost convincingly.

  “I already quit.” I gritted my teeth. “Don’t pretend you’re doing this out of kindness. You stole my work and faked falling for me to get me to finish it. You’re an arsehole. I can’t believe I ever thought you could be any different.”

  NOB pulled a face and grabbed a bottle of the prosecco to pour himself a glass.

  “I want the ending, Red.”

  “It’s Evie,” I spat. NOB flinched. “You came all the way from London just to tell me this? You’ve wasted a journey. I’m not giving it to you.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Red . . . Evie.” He held up the bottle and champagne flute in mock submission. “First I went to Monica’s, but she wouldn’t have me, so I came here.” He finished his glass, then plonked it on the side and drank straight from the bottle. His eyes traveled to the eight-tiered cake. “Tacky weddings aren’t really my scene.”

  I clenched my fists. There was something different about him. The messy hair, the sneakers. “Are you drunk?”

  NOB shrugged. “It’s a free bar. What’s your problem, anyway?” Something ugly passed over his beautiful features. “Your writing is the reason the producers love the script so much. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  “They don’t even know it’s mine!” I exhaled slowly, trying to keep my voice down. “Why did you steal it, Ezra?”

  NOB chugged at the prosecco, wiping his mouth. “You really want to know?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “When you came to me with the addendum that day, I was working on another script. I’ve been writing it this whole time.”

  It took a moment for this to fully sink in. “Another script? But . . . But you had writer’s block,” I said. “I thought I was helping you with the meet-cutes. Sending you inspiration.”

  “You thought I had writer’s block?” NOB’s tone was incredulous. “Me?” He took another swig of prosecco. “Okay, I did, a little. But not for long.”

  “It was three years,” I said.

  “Whatever. It’s why I signed on for that rom-com. I needed something. I admit it, I was desperate. Then it was like I relaxed or something. The moment I signed Intrepid’s contract, an idea for a film hit me that was so good, so much more my brand, I knew I had to write that instead. Once I sold the script for it, I’d be able to pay back Intrepid for the rom-com. Everyone would be happy. Except,” he sighed heavily. “Monty was too hung up on the rom-com deal to see my vision clearly.”

  He waved the bottle widely. “Then you came along and offered to secure me the three months I needed to finish working on my script. When the producers kept bugging me for my rom-com idea, I gave them yours—a rom-com with not just one meet-cute, but all of them.” He laughed. “I never thought they’d actually buy it. Giving them what you wrote about the meet-cutes was only meant to keep them off my back. When they loved the pages, I just kept giving them more. It bought me time to get my script ready to take out to L.A.”

  “Your writer’s retreat,” I said drily as the pieces fell into place.

  “If it helps you feel better . . .” NOB tipped his bottle, finding it empty. He picked up another. “No one wanted my script. It’s Monty’s fault. I had to put the script out under a pseudonym so he wouldn’t know I was shopping it behind his back. No one took me seriously. Me. Ezra Chester.”

  As I rubbed my forehead wearily, a memory came to me.

  “That night in the Ash,” I realized. “The cheap Ezra Chester knockoff screenplay Jodi was talking about . . . it’s yours.” Then I remembered Monica’s cryptic comment on New Year’s Day. You really have no idea, do you? She’d known all about it. The plagiarism. His other script. I wondered if it was why she’d broken up with him. I let out a laugh. “I honestly didn’t think I’d find any of this funny.”

  He sneered. “That knockoff being rejected is the reason I had to pretend to fall for you.”

  I sobered. “How so?”

  “When I came back from L.A., the rom-com was all I had left. Then you said you were done with our deal. I knew you were bluffing, but I still needed the ending. I had to make you believe that you’d already won, so I faked falling for you. You were so desperate to meet someone, I thought you’d buy it far quicker than you did.” He sidled close to me. “We had fun, didn’t we? It wasn’t all lies.” I looked at him sharply. “Look, Evie. You need this script just as much as I do. Just write the ending.”

  “Only if you give me credit,” I said.

  “Sure. If you write the ending, I’ll name you as cowriter,” he said.

  “Full credit, Ezra.”

  “I can’t,” he whined, his eyes begging. “I need this too much. Come on. Your career is down the toilet. It will take you a day at the most. Just write the damn script!”

  The words rang out across the room and the whole thing suddenly struck me as spectacularly ridiculous. I started to laugh, quietly at first, then found myself unable to stop.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You.” I gasped, holding my sides. “Shouting at me to write the script. Now you know how it feels, at last.”

  NOB was giving me a look that suggested he thought he’d finally broken me.

  I composed myself, straightening my dress. “Come on, Ezra. Time for you to go.”

  “No way.”

  “You heard her.” I turned to find Ben standing near the curtain.
<
br />   “This has sod all to do with you, Dull Dad. Go home.”

  Ben’s eyes darkened.

  “Leave. Now.”

  “Why does he even care?” NOB asked me. “Didn’t he reject you? In the meet-cute,” he explained to Ben.

  “Ezra, don’t,” I said, desperate to stop him talking.

  “You know, the one with the school play.” His words filled the curtained room, making it seem suffocatingly small.

  Ben turned to me, brows raised, silently asking if this was true.

  “I was mad at you,” I said softly. “I wrote it before . . .” Before the cottage, before the Valentine’s Day rescue, before we danced.

  “And now it’s part of my film,” NOB said.

  “Your film?” Ben said quietly.

  “He submitted what I wrote about the meet-cutes for the script, but I swear I had no idea that’s what he was doing.”

  “I heard that much.” Ben’s expression was impenetrable as his eyes slid to NOB. “So it’s not part of ‘your film,’ it’s part of Evie’s. You stole it.”

  I stared at him. He didn’t blame me?

  NOB just rolled his eyes. “She’s an assistant, isn’t she? She assisted me. That’s what she does.” He returned to his prosecco. “And she really goes above and beyond, if you know what I—”

  “You absolute nob.” I stepped toward him, but Ben stood in my way.

  “He’s not worth it, Evie.”

  “It’s okay, Ben,” I said, glaring at NOB. “I can handle him.”

  NOB grinned, delighted. “She sure can,” he goaded, slamming the bottle down. Now it was Ben’s turn to take a step toward him. “Come on, Dull Dad, show us you’re not just a boring twat.”

  I forced myself between them. “Stop it!” I demanded.

  But NOB danced around me and pushed Ben’s shoulder.

  “I’m not doing this with you,” Ben said evenly. “Get out. Now.”

  NOB shoved him again, harder this time. I called out a warning as Ben skidded back toward the mountainous cake. There was a thud as he knocked against the plinth.