INT: THE LORDSHIP PUB, EAST DULWICH—SATURDAY, JANUARY 26, 10:30 P.M.
The pub is rammed. EVIE and STEPH are at the packed bar, waiting to be served. They both wriggle out of their wet coats in the crowded space, shouting to each other over the noise. They’re almost at the front.
“Is it always this busy?” Steph called to me. I was jostled from behind and Steph and I surged closer to the bar, like flotsam on a tide.
I shrugged happily. “I’ve never been here before. Saturday night is usually prime Netflix time.” I flushed. Clearly the wine we’d had with the meal had affected me more than I’d realized.
Steph grinned at me, tucking her straight, dark hair behind her ear.
“Oh, honey, thank God we got you out tonight.”
It was strange, being out on the weekend, doubly so with someone new. After listening to my mum’s typically sage advice about the book group, I’d gone back, having read the book this time (Game of Bones). Steph had once again provided the wine and made me feel welcome. It had taken me the best part of last week to pluck up the courage to ask her if she wanted to go out this evening. I was determined to make the most of having the time, for once. Making new friends as an adult is as nerve-racking as asking someone on a date. Getting their number is hard enough. Then you send that first message, hoping to hook them in with a bit of humor, and when they reply you hug yourself with joy and then hold off responding for an hour so you don’t sound too needy.
“So, if you met someone in this bar, would it count as a meet-cute?” Steph asked. I’d told her everything about NOB and the challenge, including how he’d gone AWOL. I still had no idea where he was or when he’d be coming back. Act Two was due this Thursday, and he still wasn’t responding to any of my emails or messages. I pushed my worry down.
The one good—great, amazing, incredible—thing from all of this was that after spending two weeks straight writing about meet-cute after meet-cute, I hadn’t had the time to dwell too much on the fact I was writing again. I’d just written. And it had felt really good. I wasn’t thinking about what this might mean quite yet. I didn’t put too much pressure on this new, fragile, hopeful feeling.
“It would need an extra twist,” I said. “Like in Going the Distance when Justin Long and Drew Barrymore find out they’ve been trying to beat each other’s high scores on the arcade game in the bar.” A space cleared in front of us and we eagerly forced ourselves forward. “Though, to be honest, I’m starting to worry I won’t ever meet anyone.”
“Trust me, I know the feeling,” said Steph, flashing the bartender a smile. “My Tinder date last week asked me if I’d be interested in lactating.”
Someone knocked heavily into us. “Sorry,” I heard a man say in an Irish accent. “I’m usually far more coordinated. While I’m here, this is really none of my business, but I couldn’t help overhearing that you’re both dating the wrong kind of men.” He was standing behind us with two overflowing pints in his hand, half of his chin-length blond hair pulled up in a bun.
“Thank goodness we had you to tell us.” Steph dismissed him with a glance. “A bottle of rosé, please,” she told the bartender. “House.”
We made our way through the pub. Me clutching the wine to my chest and Steph holding the glasses up like they were beacons guiding our way through the crowd.
“I see a table!” But when we reached it there was already someone sitting on one of the four seats. Mr. Dating the Wrong Kind of Men.
His eyes brightened when he saw us—or, more specifically, Steph, who immediately turned on her red-booted heel.
“Hang on,” he called. “We have two chairs going spare. You’re welcome to them. Honestly, that was a bad first impression. You should really see my second.”
Steph checked for my opinion. “It’s this or standing,” I said. She turned back around and placed the wine on his table.
“All right, let’s see it, then,” she said as she perched next to him.
The man grinned and sat up straight. “Marc. Recently single. Photographer. Top-notch guy when sober. Would never dream of asking you to lactate. That stool there is for my friend. One of those annoyingly handsome-and-doesn’t-know-it-boy-scout types.” He gave me a pointed look. “He’s just helped me move out of my ex’s.” This last part was purely for Steph’s benefit, and yet, completely on reflex, I started weighing up the situation for meet-cute potential. Perhaps if I spilled my drink on the (presumably age-appropriate) boy scout . . . Of course, NOB would have to be reading his emails for it to be worthwhile. “Now your turn. Tell me your names and the most interesting thing about you.”
Steph poured wine up to the brim of my glass, suppressing a smile. “I’m Steph,” she said. “I’m doing a thesis in feminist literature, which I fund by writing erotic fiction.” Marc looked as impressed as I had earlier in the evening when she’d told me. “This is my friend Evie.” I was trying to think of the best way to phrase “I watch a lot of Netflix” when Steph continued with “She works at a film agency. She’s trying to fall in love the way they do in rom-coms, to get an asshole screenwriter to write one.”
“I’m not really looking for love,” I said, as if Marc needed or cared about the clarification. “I’m just doing it for my job.” I took a huge gulp of wine, slightly mortified, and yet, at the same time, a little pleased that my life sounded a lot more interesting than I was used to.
Marc peered into his pint. “It’s possible I’ve either drunk too much or not enough to understand what you’ve just said. Ah!” He waved to someone behind us. “Here he is.” He looked to me again. “Truly, a wonderful human and the best friend a man could have.”
My first thought was Tall, curly black hair, soft brown eyes, dark expressive brows, great jawline before realizing who I was describing.
“Ben?”
“Evie?” Ben stared at me as he slipped his phone into his pocket. I blushed furiously, glad he couldn’t know what I’d just been thinking. Meet-cute potential indeed. Steph was looking at him too, intrigued. We hadn’t got around to talking about Ben.
Marc gestured to the stool beside me and, after a noticeable pause, Ben sat down, eyes still on me.
“You already know each other? I thought you didn’t get out anymore, pal. Have you been holding out on me?”
“We met at Gil’s,” Ben said quietly.
Marc’s expression softened. “Ah, pal.” He seemed to look at me anew. “Of all places.”
There was a moment of silence following this, and I reached to fill it. “Steph, this is my Ben friend—my Ben—my friend Ben,” I stumbled, causing Ben to raise those dark expressive brows. We hadn’t spoken since last Sunday when I’d dropped off his projector at Gil’s. It had been a flying visit because, in a less-than-courteous move, I’d hotfooted it out of there to do a meet-cute, unable to cope with facing him so soon after I’d called him Mr. Judgy. Anette must have somehow coerced him to pose for a selfie because an hour later I’d received a picture of them both drinking hot chocolates and the message Good luck finding Mr. Happy Ending, Evie! I’d been feeling absolutely terrible for avoiding him ever since.
And now here he was, close enough to touch.
“You’ve already met my Marc,” Ben said, as he held his hand out to Steph. She shook it with a slow smile, giving him an appreciative once-over. I suppressed the strangest surge of possessiveness. It’s not like he actually is your Ben.
“We go way back.” Marc drained half his beer. “Evie here was about to tell us how she is definitely not trying to fall in love.”
Ben didn’t respond. I studied him, trying to work out if he was annoyed at me.
Steph seemed to sense something was amiss. “Marc was just about to tell us what kind of photographer he is.”
“He was?” Marc said. She nodded encouragingly. “Look, I’m not one to show off my equipment on the first date, but . . .” He pulled a large camera out of the satchel hanging on his chair and gave it to Steph.
“It’s landscapes and wildlife mostly. National Geographic stuff. I worked with Attenborough. Well.” He blushed. “He wrote the intro for a book containing one of my spreads.” As he talked her through the photos, I couldn’t stop myself from looking at Ben, only to find his eyes were on the camera. Had he once worked with Marc?
“Sissy Lately,” Steph said, returning the camera. “That’s my pen name, if you’re interested. You’ve shown me yours, only fair that I show you mine. You have a considerable talent, Marc.”
“You should see it in action.” There was a rumble of thunder from outside, provoking an appreciative drunken chorus from the pub’s clientele. “That reminds me, last orders are in twenty and these guys do the best Dark and Stormys in southeast London.”
Steph swiftly emptied the remains of the bottle into my glass. “The weather gods have spoken. Let’s go.” They hopped off their stools.
“Here, big guy,” Marc said, pushing the camera into Ben’s hands. “Jill almost gave it away with the rest of my stuff. My ex,” he emphasized for Steph. “It’s a sign.” He spread his arms wide, walking backward into a group of drinkers. “You’re coming on my next job—we need our boy scout back!”
“I gave this to you,” Ben called after him. “And I have a job.” But he’d already gone.
Leaving us alone together.
Just relax, Evie. He might not even remember.
“So,” Ben said. “Mr. Judgy.”
“I was drunk,” I said quickly, then winced at the defensiveness in my voice. I might have acted like a complete coward last Sunday, but I’d been trying to think of a way to thank Ben properly for everything since the hen do. A heartfelt apology seemed like a good place to start. “I really shouldn’t have said that to you, and especially not after everything you did. I’m sorry. The thing is, those balloons, the slideshow, Shrewksbury—you made it a weekend Sarah is always going to remember.” I smiled ruefully. “And not just because there were a lot of penises.”
The edge of his mouth lifted, just a little. “You’re very welcome,” he said, and I let myself relax. Maybe I hadn’t messed things up completely between us.
“I hope it was worth it.” For a moment, I didn’t know what he meant. “What happened with the hen do,” he pressed. “The meet-cute you did for the screenwriter.”
Mr. Judgy indeed, a small voice said, rather smugly. But this was supposed to be an apology, and it’s not like I didn’t deserve this. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m not even sure I’ll be doing any more meet-cutes. NOB’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“AWOL. Disappeared. Vanished. Just when he was supposed to deliver the rest of Act Two.”
“From what you’ve said, it’s a miracle he’s written anything at all.”
“What are you, his biggest fan?” I snapped. Rein it in, Evie. At this rate, I was going to have to apologize for this apology.
“What I mean is,” Ben persisted, “that you got him writing again. He clearly needs you. So call him on it.” There was a challenge in his expression. “Refuse to do any more meet-cutes.”
Why did he have such an issue with them? “Don’t you think I’ve tried that?” Albeit drunkenly. “He doesn’t take me seriously. He actually had me believing the meet-cutes were helping him write. That must sound ridiculous.”
“Not at all,” said Ben, and I looked up into his eyes, surprised. Kind eyes, I thought foolishly.
“Evie!” Steph rushed up to the table. “Do you have any change? Marc and I are trying to beat each other on the arcade machine.” She gave me a meaningful look. Ben already had his wallet out, handing her what looked like a significant number of pounds.
“Good luck, Drew,” I said. Steph winked and hurried off.
“Anette’s started doing new things,” Ben continued, when she’d gone. “Drama class. Making new friends. She really got her confidence after the play.”
“That’s wonderful,” I replied, wondering where he was going with this.
“And it’s all thanks to you. Seeing everything you’ve been doing, it made her want to be brave too.” I’d never been called brave before. After running out on him last Sunday, I didn’t feel I deserved to be. And while the meet-cutes generally required taking more than a few risks with my dignity, I always considered myself motivated by the fear of losing my job. “She told me she wanted to ‘Be More Evie.’”
“She did?” I said wonderingly.
“She said I should be more Evie too.” His eyes dropped to the camera, just briefly, before returning to mine. “That screenwriter would be lost without you, and he knows that. He needs you. Believe me. If he thinks you’re really done with the deal, he’ll come running.”
I let Ben’s words sink in. He sounded so sure. NOB had arranged it so I could do more meet-cutes. Would he have done that if he didn’t need them?
In which case, how might he react if he genuinely thought he wasn’t getting any more help from me? Would that be enough to make him stick to the deadline? Maybe even send me his pages, for a change? It would take more than the vague threat I’d issued on New Year’s Eve. I needed to walk away from the deal.
For that, I’d have to be as brave as Anette believed I was. Either that, or drunk.
“Okay,” I said to Ben. “No more meet-cutes.” For now.
His smile lit up his face. “Then I believe this calls for more drinks.” He headed off to the bar, his tall form cutting a path through the thinning crowd.
I got my phone out and wrote NOB a message I dearly hoped I wouldn’t live to regret when I woke up, sober, tomorrow.
RED: you were right about rom-coms. They aren’t realistic. I’m never going to find someone to fall in love with me. I’m going to tell Monty everything. I’m done. The deal is off
Ben was still at the bar when my phone lit up. I grabbed it.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Hi there. I’ve just found your card. I think I really WLTM the girl who’d do something like this
I sank back in my chair, disappointed. I’d all but given up on the Fate meet-cute, after my X-rated Christmas messages. Could it be that someone normal had finally found one of my cards tucked into a book? I put my phone away without responding. I needed to stick to my decision: no more meet-cutes until NOB delivered. In the meantime, I just had to pray that NOB didn’t talk to Monty about our deal, because I certainly wasn’t planning to. It was a calculated risk, one I was willing to take if it got NOB to take me seriously. He knew my job was at stake if Monty found out. I had to hope this was enough for him to believe me.
Ben threaded his way back through the bar toward me. The tips of his ears were pink. I wondered if he’d checked in on our absent friends. He placed our drinks down—Dark and Stormys, I guessed, by the looks of them—a careful distance away from his camera, and I thought of the job offer Marc had made. Once again, Ben had helped me out, and so far I’d managed only a fumbled apology in return. Maybe there was something I could do for him.
Sometimes people just needed a nudge to get back on the right track.
I reached into my bag and pulled out the USB I’d been carrying around with me.
“You left some photos on here,” I said.
He paused, the straw halfway to his mouth, emotions passing over his face almost too quickly to catch. Concern, maybe, as if he cared what I thought. And possibly even relief.
“They’re incredible, Ben.”
“Thank you.” His tone was guarded.
There were so many questions I’d wanted to ask since seeing the pictures. I started with what I thought might be the easiest. “When did you stop?” I said gently.
A brief pause. “About three years ago.” The same amount of time that had passed since his wife died. I doubted that was a coincidence.
Ding ding ding. “Last orders in five!” a barman called.
It was now or never.
Maybe if I hadn’t seen those photos, or the way his eyes had lingered on the camera, this was where I would have stopped pushing. But I couldn’t. Not before I’d told him something I very rarely told anyone. I owed him that.
“I used to want to be a writer.” At my rushed words, he fell still, giving me his complete attention. “My dad and I would watch films together—we weren’t picky. Romance. Musicals. Westerns. Thrillers. Dorothy Taylor’s Brick Park was our favorite. I wanted to be like her so badly. I’d write all the time. I even studied screenwriting at university. Dad was on his way to a screening of one of my short films when it happened.” I swallowed, remembering being annoyed at his lateness and wondering where he was, then getting Mum’s call, and the world falling down. Your dad’s in hospital. “They said it was a massive heart attack. It could have happened at any time.” But it had happened when he was rushing to see my film.
“It wasn’t your fault,” Ben said, and I realized I’d fallen silent. “I know that’s what people tell you, and it’s hard to believe them, but it’s true.”
There was something about the way Ben said this that told me he very much understood how I’d felt. It made me wonder, again, what had happened to his wife.
“Thank you. I know,” I said softly. “Luckily, I have really great friends who refused to let me think otherwise. They even tried to keep me writing. I managed for a while, but I was running on empty, I just didn’t know it. My friends were all that was pushing me along. When I moved away to London, it was just me. It didn’t take much for me to stop altogether.” I swallowed, gathering myself for the next part.
“In the end, it only took one agent to tell me I wasn’t good enough. These meet-cutes . . . They might not look like much from the outside, but writing about them for NOB has been like finally moving forward, after spending a really long time standing still.” I paused, not wanting to push too hard. “Sometimes you can only get where you need to go by taking small steps. You just have to be willing to take a chance.”
I searched his serious brown eyes, wondering if I’d done the right thing telling him all this.
He surprised me by inching closer, until our knees touched. “Evie. The meet-cutes, I didn’t realize—”
A shout from near the bar cut him off. “Closing time! Thank you, ladies, gents!”
“Hey, you guys!” Marc and Steph zigzagged toward us, linking arms. Marc launched himself toward Ben, pinning him to his side in a hug and nuzzling his head against his chest. “Steph said we just had a meet-cute. Did you have one of those too?”
Was it quiet in here? Because Marc’s words rang like tinnitus in my ears.
“Time to put your coat on, Marc,” Ben said evenly, extracting himself.
I checked on Steph. Her footsteps were surprisingly steady as she gathered her things.
“You’re a great friend, you know that, don’t you?” Marc said, as Ben got him into his coat. “Ben! The guy who always shows up.” Marc looked green. “Though you might want to leave for this.”
“Wait until we’re outside, buddy.” Ben gently but firmly shifted him toward the door. “I’ll even hold your hair back.”
“Just a sec.” Steph put a card into Marc’s coat pocket, patting it. “My number. Let’s actually get to know each other.”
Then she kissed my cheek, smelling of strawberries and rum. “We should do this again. You good getting home?” I told her I was just around the corner and she breezed out of the pub, trailing her red scarf. I stared after her, slightly in awe.
Ben ushered Marc along, pausing briefly at the door. “We won’t be at Gil’s tomorrow, just so you know. I’ll be picking Anette up from her grandparents’,” he said. His expression was shuttered.
“I’ll see you next week, then,” I said, with an unexpected pang of disappointment. I tamped it down before he could see it on my face.
He nodded just as the door closed behind him.
What just changed? But I knew. The moment Marc had mentioned this being a meet-cute, Ben had shut down. Again. I yanked my mittens on. It wasn’t like I was trying to have a meet-cute with him, so what was his problem?
As I pulled my duffel coat from the back of my chair, I saw the camera propped on Ben’s seat. Oh, no you don’t. If nothing else, I would reunite Ben with his camera. I grabbed it and hurried outside. It was pouring with rain. I shook out my red umbrella and stepped onto the street, squinting through the downpour. There. Ben had hailed a taxi and was trying to coax Marc into it. The rain had swept his dark hair into his eyes.
“Ben.” I hurried up to him, placed the camera in his hands, then turned away before he could respond.
I’d taken only a few steps when I heard him call my name.
“Evie.”
I turned around, shivering beneath a streetlamp as I clutched my umbrella, wondering what he could possibly want.
Flash. The whole street lit up, the rain slick and glittering. As I blinked away the light, I saw Ben lowering the camera. He looked down at it for a moment before lifting his eyes to meet mine.
“Small steps,” he said.