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.