“Ugh. No.” Jeremy flipped over the page.
I felt a flash of guilt at our absolute lack of planning.
“If you’re determined to do this,” explained Maria, “then we are here for you a hundred percent. You will get that NOB to write the script.”
“Evie,” Jeremy said grandly, uncapping a pink marker and turning the pad around to reveal what was written on it. “We are going to help you fall in love.”
Chapter 6
The List
INT: LIVING ROOM—FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 23, 10:15 P.M.
EVIE is sitting on the carpet, leaning against the black velvet couch, a glass of wine halfway to her mouth. JEREMY is kneeling in front of a large notepad with The Challenge! written on it, arms splayed in a ta-da gesture. MARIA is sitting on the sofa behind EVIE. She’s giving little encouraging gestures to JEREMY that EVIE can’t see.
“Not that I don’t fully appreciate your efforts, but I meant what I said. I only agreed to the love part to get NOB to sign. I have no intention of actually falling for someone.” Not after Ricky.
“Sure, we know that,” said Jeremy, glancing behind me at Maria. He drew a line under The Challenge! “But hear us out. Evie Summers, from the very moment you agreed to this deal with NOB, you entered the Challenge meet-cute. As seen in 10 Things I Hate About You (RIP Heath Ledger, too beautiful for this world), She’s All That, and How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. To the uncultured, very different films. But they each come down to the same thing: a challenge is issued, followed by inevitable misunderstandings, brutal betrayals, and, ultimately, love.” He wrote Love on the pad. “The Challenge meet-cute often overlaps with the ‘love to hate you’ rom-com, but then we realized the only person you hate is NOB.”
“It’s funny to think,” Maria chipped in, “but if this was an actual rom-com, you’d end up with the arrogant writer who, it would turn out, was only using his massive ego to hide an endearing lack of confidence.” There was a moment of stunned silence in which we both stared at her. “I’m kidding! You’d never fall for that cockhat.”
“Drunk Maria, everybody,” toasted Jeremy.
I raised my glass too, as my brain helpfully reminded me of NOB’s sculpted chest. Stupid brain.
Jeremy powered on. “Now, as per any self-respecting Challenge meet-cute, there’s a deadline. You’ve got three months. You said you need to send regular ‘progress reports’ to NOB to keep him inspired. To help you stay on track, I present to you your carefully curated meet-cutes, chosen by the experts.” He waved the tip of the pen between himself and Maria. I gave him a pointed look. Jeremy was the biggest cynic I knew. “What? So I have watched a few rom-coms, no big deal. Your choices are . . .” He hit the board with the tip of the marker. “The Road Trip: When Harry Met Sally. Elizabethtown. Thelma and Louise.”
“Pass on that last one. I want to meet someone, not drive with them off a cliff.”
“Isn’t that all relationships?” Maria and I both rolled our eyes. “Okay, fine, but no more vetoes.”
“It’s not even a rom-com!”
“Hush, now, remember your gratitude.” That told me. Jeremy flipped the page. “Then there’s the Holiday Romance. Also doubles as the Christmas rom-com. Most famously: The Holiday. Love Actually. Bridget Jones’s Diary. A Christmas Prince. Don’t give me that look. I wasn’t one of the people Netflix called out for watching it twice a day for two weeks.” He avoided our eyes as he revealed the next page.
It bore the words Big Finale?? in giant letters. “We’ll come back to that.” He turned over to a list that looked a little more “drank wine on train.”
“‘Stalk Someone’?”
“While You Were Sleeping. A stone-cold classic,” said Jeremy.
“I don’t intend to get arrested, Jem.” I moved on to the next one. “‘The One Where They Meet in a Bookshop’?” I read out.
Jeremy started to tick off on his fingers. “You’ve Got Mail, When Harry Met Sally—”
“You’ve already used that one.”
“Venn diagram,” called Maria. Jeremy flipped to a very complicated-looking series of overlapping circles with headings like “Christmas” and “Hugh Grant,” filled in with various rom-coms from pre–golden age to now. It was a work of drunken genius. “There’s some overlap.”
“I can see that,” I said, beginning to smile.
The living room door flew open. “Darlings!”
Jeremy reached for the wine bottle.
“Jane!” I said loudly, aware of how the room must look. “How was your date?”
“I’ll tell you in the morning.”
A pair of arms snaked around her slender waist and a dark-haired man peered over her shoulder into the room. He was gorgeous, like a young Antonio Banderas. All three of us gawped. Sometimes I thought Jane’s relationship spectrum was like a beautiful prism, albeit one that had to be dishwasher-safe.
“I’m Trev,” he said in a broad East End accent. “Jane’s told me loads about you.” One might think he’d be talking about me, Jane’s flatmate, but he was looking at Jeremy when he spoke.
“Not as much as we heard about you,” Jeremy muttered into his glass.
“We just wanted to pop in and ask you about the courgettes you’ve put in the fridge.” Trev nudged her. “And the aubergine. Are you planning on using them . . . ?”
I held up some pizza. “We decided to stay out of the kitchen. You’re welcome to eat them.”
Jeremy, who’d been busy rolling up a slice, stopped to shake his head vigorously at me. “Duck,” said Jane. “We won’t be eating them.”
It took me a few seconds to get it. “But they’re organic,” I said, as if that mattered.
Trev nibbled Jane’s ear. “Be right back.”
Jane’s eyes slid to the pad. “What are you darlings up to?”
Maria gamely stepped in. “We were just trying to think of ways Evie could meet someone in a bookshop,” she said.
“You’re dating again?” Jane asked me. “How thrilling! Though hardly anyone meets organically anymore.”
Speaking of organic, Trev had returned with my vegetables and—unaccountably—a spiralizer.
“What about a book group?” he suggested, munching on the end of a carrot.
Jane tugged it away from his mouth. “Don’t waste them. Oh, I know! My friend raves about the one in the Dusty Bookshelf in Peckham. Says it’s an absolute scream. It’s got such a fun name. What is it . . . ?”