They all looked at me. “He’s not my boy,” I said. “I’m serious!”
“I can’t believe it!” Sarah exclaimed. We all looked at her. “The Benjamin Michael Williams took my wedding photos!”
“You didn’t know who he was until one minute ago,” said Jeremy.
“Still,” Sarah preened. She put a hand on my leg. “Evie, one day, I might even forgive you for destroying my cake,” she said generously.
“Thanks, Sarah.”
Jeremy was still fiddling with his phone when he went very still. “There are some articles here,” he said, his tone serious.
“What is it?”
“They’re about his wife.”
“I want to see,” I said. Somehow I had the feeling Anette wanted this too.
He handed the phone to me. Tragedy in the Alps. The article was dated just over three years ago. As I read, the final pieces of the Ben puzzle clicked into place. Chloe and Anette had been traveling with him on a shoot. Ben had been up in the mountains on the day it happened, and Chloe and Anette had stayed behind in the village where the crew were based. He was late coming back, and Chloe and Anette had gone to get some dinner. It was no one’s fault. They were crossing a road and a Jeep slid toward them, brakes useless on the ice. Witnesses said that Chloe managed to get Anette clear before the car hit her. She died right there on the road. Ben wouldn’t even have known until he’d returned, hours later.
My dad had died on his way to see one of my short films. It hadn’t been my fault, I knew that now, and yet it was one of the reasons I’d stopped writing. Chloe had died while Ben was taking photographs. This was why he’d stopped. Until I’d pushed him to start again.
“I called him a coward,” I said, numbly. Jeremy gently prized the phone from my trembling fingers. “I said really awful things to him. Unforgivable things.” My friends all squeezed me tightly.
“You did. But you meant well,” Sarah said.
“Thanks, Sarah.” I knew she meant well too.
“What are you going to do?” Maria asked.
“How can I expect him to forgive me?”
“You know how I feel about love.” Jeremy pulled back from the huddle. “You can keep all the flowers and the heart-shaped boxes of chocolates. When a man comes over to unblock your toilet, that’s romance.”
“What do you mean?” I sniffed.
“He might surprise you,” said Jeremy.
* * *
After my friends had left, I curled up on my mum’s sofa holding Anette’s camera. I turned it on again, curious about the photos she’d taken at the wedding, wondering if there was one of me and Ben before it all went so horribly wrong.
I must have clicked back to the beginning of the memory card because the photo that came up was a few years old. It was of Anette, Chloe, and Ben, grinning into the camera. Chloe’s hair was lighter than Anette’s, but their smiles matched. They looked so happy, so unaware that their little family was about to change.
They were sitting in Gil’s.
My hands felt too rubbery to keep holding the camera.
My mum stuck her head into the room. “Is it too soon for cake?”
“Yes,” I said.
She gave me a plate with a little brownie on it and sank into the sofa beside me. She lifted her arm so I could lean into her.
We both looked at the photo.
“What a beautiful family,” she said.
“I was so terrible to him,” I said. “I said he was stuck in a rut. I didn’t even mean it, not really. I love our breakfasts in Gil’s. Why did I say that?”
She took my brownie and bit into it. “Sometimes, when you’ve had a trauma, you try to control whatever you can to prevent it from ever happening again.”
“You didn’t,” I said. The sofa was draped in a throw she’d made. There was a keyboard along the back wall so she could practice for her lessons. The brownie was from her latest baking class. For as long as I could remember, my mum was always trying new things, always moving, never staying still.
“I did, in a way,” she said. “I did everything I could to make sure any change that happened in my life after your dad passed was down to me, and me alone. It helped, but it also took a long time for me to come to terms with the fact that there will always be things that are out of my control. You have to learn to embrace that.”
I thought about my life before my deal with NOB; how much time I’d dedicated to work, to a job that I loved and resented in equal measure. About how I still had the same friends, whom I loved, but that I hadn’t tried to make new ones in London. How I’d taken fewer risks with love after Ricky. How I’d stopped writing after Monty had told me I didn’t have what it took.
“After Dad, I chose the Ben route, didn’t I?”
“Oh, love. We all do what we have to in order to get through things. But I hoped that one day you’d be more open to life again. I just want you to be happy, and I feel like these past few months you’ve been happier than I’ve seen you in a long time. Change can be a very good thing.”
She offered me the rest of the brownie and I took it. “I still wish I could change what I said to Ben yesterday,” I confessed. “But I can’t help believing he really does need to start taking chances again. Do you think he could ever learn to do that?”
“Who knows?” said my mum. “Maybe he already has.”
MARIA: have you decided what you’re going to do about your script?
EVIE: I have. It turned out to be an easy decision in the end
JEREMY: and Hot Widower?
EVIE: him too
SARAH: you’ve got this
EVIE: I know. But knowing you’re all here for me helps. You make me feel very lucky.
SARAH: that’s sweet, but you’re still paying for my cake
Chapter 39
The Ending
INT: BOARDROOM, INTREPID PRODUCTIONS—MONDAY, FEBRUARY 18, NOON
MONTY, NOB, and SAM-AND-MAX are seated at the end of a large table. The walls are all made of glass and you can see through into the next room, where there are colorful round chairs, people playing table football, and a margarita machine. Everyone has a copy of the script. MONTY looks confident. NOB is wearing sunglasses. The door opens, and EVIE enters.
“. . . just a bit of polishing, that’s all, but I think we can all agree this version is more than acceptable—” On seeing me, Monty fell silent. He wrestled his face back into his usual easygoing smile, though his eyes were like nail guns, pinning me from across the table. I could see him desperately trying to figure out why I was here.
NOB tilted his chin downward, dipping his glasses to look at me as if he couldn’t believe my nerve. I held his gaze, daring him to say something. Instead, he flipped his glasses into place and leaned back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling. He hadn’t shaved for a few days and he was wearing a cap—designer, but still very un-NOB.
Sam-and-Max, on the other hand, were all smiles as they welcomed me in and gestured me to a seat.
“Was there something you wanted, Evelyn?” Monty asked, as though slightly embarrassed for me.
“She’s here to discuss the ending,” one of the producers said, leaning back in his chair, fingers interlocking across his chest. “She emailed us yesterday to say she had a solution, one she’s already discussed with you. We’re all ears.”
The look on Monty’s face was pure relief. She’s come to her senses, it said.
“Actually,” I said, heart hammering but determined, “I’m here to discuss the whole script.”
The relief flickered between panic and uncertainty before professional calm took over. “I’m afraid this is my fault,” Monty said smoothly. “I gave her some extra responsibility and it went to her head. Evelyn, this is no longer your concern. This sort of behavior is exactly why I had to let you go.”
“You’re no longer with the agency?” one of the producers asked, focusing on me.
“I’m—”
“She’s been sacked,” Monty said, cutting me off.
Sam-and-Max looked at each other. One of them steepled his fingers on the table. “Then I think we’re all wondering why you’re here.”
Monty looked grimly satisfied as he stared at me across the desk. “Why waste our time? Let’s call security now.”
I stood. It was now or never.
“I’m here because this is my script,” I said, picking up a copy. The calmness in my voice surprised me. “I wrote it. And it should have my name on it.”
My old boss turned an off shade of puce. “Call security! I’ll do it, shall I?” He strode to the door and yanked it open.
“Wait.”
Monty looked around wildly for who’d spoken. It was NOB. He was standing up, his sunglasses in his hands. “She’s telling the truth.”
What? NOB looked like he might actually throw up, but he remained standing.
“Don’t be so modest, Ezra,” Monty said, his voice pitchy. “Perhaps it’s time you took a break. All the big names do, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Starting right now.”
“That script is Evie’s. At best, I assisted on it.” He managed a smile; it looked painfully raw. “And not particularly well.”
Sam-and-Max were frowning. They looked to each other, some silent communication passing between them.
“He’s tired. The deadline was too much. He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” said Monty, half leaning on the door. “That,” he said, pointing to the pages in my hands, “has an Oscar winner’s name on it, just like you wanted, not some assistant’s.” He eyed the producers. “Isn’t that what’s important here?”
“If you need proof,” I said, “I can tell you how it should have ended.”
“Security!” Monty cried down the hall.
“Sit down, Monts, you old fool,” NOB snapped. “The script is Evie’s, and you know it. She did it.” He addressed the producers. “All that warmth you loved? Those characters? The fresh voice you couldn’t get enough of? It’s all Evie. You could have given me another three years and I wouldn’t have accomplished anything half as good as what she did in three months. She’s a natural. Only some arsehole stole her words so she has no idea.”
“She clearly did her job too well,” Monty tried, refusing to give in. “She has you believing she’s done the hard graft. I ask you, can anyone really quantify how much help writers receive?”
“I have all her emails, Monts,” NOB said to him. He turned to the producers. “I’ll send you everything she sent me. You’ll find I pretty much lifted what she wrote word for word. I’ll return the money too. It was time I downsized anyway.” Finally, he looked at me. “For what it’s worth, Evie, I’m sorry.”
His honesty didn’t completely make up for what he’d done, but I nodded at him.
NOB mimed dropping a mic, slipped his glasses back on, and left.
Monty’s eyes were locked on his client’s retreating back, face slack. Sam caught Max’s eye and drummed his fingers on the table, and, after a heavy pause, Max nodded.
“The ending,” said Sam to me. “What were you thinking?”
* * *
“Evie,” said Max, welcoming me back into the room. After I’d laid out a version of the script where the assistant got her happy ending, they’d sent me away so they could discuss their options. The excited expression on Monty’s face was disconcerting.
“We don’t choose our partners lightly,” Sam began. “We wanted Ezra Chester’s name on Intrepid Productions’ next project.”
I nodded. It was what I expected.
“But we keep coming back to the fact that we adore this script.”
Hope unfurled in my chest, almost painful in its intensity.
“And that we started this business taking chances,” Max said. “We chose the name Intrepid for a reason.”
They smiled at me.
Sam held out his hand for me to shake. “Welcome to Intrepid, Evie. We’re sure the news that we’re bringing on brilliant new female talent for our rom-com will be met with relief.”
I could barely breathe. In an instant, that pile of papers on the table became a future I hadn’t dared to imagine. And there was one person I wanted to share it with most. Unfortunately, unlike the assistant in the script, I’d realized my feelings too late.
Monty was nodding furiously. “What better publicity could we ask for than ‘the assistant wrote the movie’? It’s a real rags-to-riches story.”
“We’re going to need to speak to your agent.”
“I always knew she had it in her. I was the one who discovered her, you know. No need to ask me twice.” Monty laughed, waving his hand. “Yes, Evelyn, I will represent you. And at William Jonathan Montgomery and Sons, you’ll be our number-one client. All-star treatment.”
“Thank you,” I said to the producers, those two words holding so much weight I almost buckled. “And I represent myself.”
“Surely you don’t mean that, Evelyn,” Monty blustered. “This is what you’ve always wanted. I remember what you said all those years ago. I’m your dream agent. You can’t say no to that.”
I looked at him. “Maybe I was a little hasty back then,” I said.
At this, Monty finally slumped into his chair, defeated.
EVIE: guys . . . guess who’s finally going to be an agent. Though I only have one client
SARAH: I can’t keep up. I thought we could all stop pretending you don’t want to be a screenwriter now?
MARIA: tell me you did it!! Aljsdkajdklajs!!
JEREMY: come on, Evie, the suspense is killing Maria
EVIE: I did it! My name is going to be on the script. I’m a writer!
MARIA: that’s our girl
JEREMY:
SARAH: FINALLY
EVIE: there’s still one more thing I need to do
Chapter 40
Gil’s Take One Two Three
INT: GIL’S—SUNDAY, MARCH 10, 10 A.M.
EVIE enters the café, eyes zeroing in on her usual table. There are strangers sitting there. She bites her lip and heads to the counter. XAN is serving.
I stood in the queue, occasionally looking around for two familiar faces on reflex. There’d been no sign of them for three Sundays in a row. They used to come in during the week now and again, Xan told me, but recently he hadn’t seen them at all. Still, I’d been here every weekend, buying hot chocolates and waiting. Just in case.
You’re stuck in a rut. Going to Gil’s every single Sunday.
Ben hadn’t replied to any of my messages so I’d tried calling, only to hear an automated “This number is currently unavailable” message. Which probably meant that all my messages had been flung into a void.
It was time to accept that Ben and Anette didn’t come here anymore.
“Three hot chocolates?” Xan asked me.
“Actually,” I said, “just a takeaway cappuccino today.”
I headed to the end of the counter to wait, trying to dispel the sadness that had settled over me like snow. I had so much to be happy about. These last few weeks had been a complete whirlwind. I’d signed my contract with Intrepid Productions (after a few solid rounds of negotiations, of course). They’d given the script the go-ahead. I’d polished it until it shone, just like I’d been doing for years at the agency, and when I was finished, I finally admitted to myself why editing had been the best part of my old job. It had been as close to writing as I thought I’d ever get. I’d miss the writers, but leaving the agency had been like letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
The money I’d negotiated for the script was good enough that, if I wanted to, I could buy somewhere to live. I’d paid Jane until the end of the month, but
now I had options. My future was wide open; all I needed to do was take the first step. After all, writers can be based anywhere. Even Sheffield. I could go home.
And yet, so far, I hadn’t. The only thing I had done was buy my mum a dog, which, in honor of Ziggy (i.e., the best part of NOB), she’d named David.
“Cappuccino for you, Evie,” Xan called. He slid the takeaway cup along the counter.
“Xan, this is empty.”
“Is it?” said Xan, his eyes widening.
Frustrated, I pulled the lid off to show him. There was something curled inside. I tugged it out.
It was a film ticket for a showing of Brick Park at the Prince Charles Cinema in Soho at noon today.
Chapter 41
The Meet-Cute
EXT: THE PRINCE CHARLES CINEMA, SOHO—SUNDAY, MARCH 10, NOON
EVIE looks up at the white box sign above the glass doors. It bears the letters BRICK PARK—SOLD OUT. She frowns, then walks into the foyer and heads to the counter. When she shows her ticket, the staff nudge one another and smile, some standing on tiptoe to see her. One of them asks her to follow him downstairs.
I trailed down the stairs after the boy, wondering if I’d imagined the reactions to my arrival. Maybe the team here, like me, was curious about other Dorothy Taylor fans. There were criminally few of us. I’d been baffled but touched when Xan had given me the ticket, trying to remember when I’d mentioned loving the film to him.
“I know you guys love your cult classics,” I said, handing my ticket over. “But no one has ever heard of this film. No one.”
“You’d be surprised.” The boy pushed the doors to the theater open for me. “Step this way.”
Every seat was empty.
“Isn’t it sold out?” I asked.
“Yes,” the boy said, closing the doors behind me.
I took my seat, choosing the very center, i.e., the best spot for perspective and audio. Though I was the first to arrive, the lights dimmed straight away. I wished I’d had the sense to buy popcorn.
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