“Mr. Pretentious,” NOB said. “The kind of man who reads literary fiction to make up for his lack of personality. In other words: bloody dull. Is that really what you’re looking for?”
I stalled. Was he really describing Ricky? He had always made a point of reading in public. I stared at the books in dismay. It was like I was determined to repeat myself, like some kind of relationship Groundhog Day.
“Speaking of, what’s your next meet-cute after this?” NOB asked, tapping more cards into a stack of Stephen Kings.
“It’s the Road Trip meet-cute,” I said, trying to focus. “I’m heading home for Christmas.” I leaned across him to grab a Terry Pratchett, just as he was reaching for a stack of children’s books near me. I collided against his chest (just as firm as I’d imagined).
Blushing, I straightened. NOB lowered his glasses to look at me. Irritatingly, the hangover had mellowed the blue of his eyes to the color of a fresh spring sky. He flipped them back in place and grabbed a Tom Clancy. “I’m heading to Monica’s for Christmas,” he said conversationally. “She has an estate just outside of Harrogate. Isn’t that your neck of the woods?”
So that gossip column was wrong about their breakup. Not that it mattered. “I’m from Sheffield,” I said. “And I know you’re trying to distract me. I’ve sent you plenty of meet-cutes, and you only need to think of one. If you need inspiration, I have this great Venn diagram . . .”
“I told you, I don’t need your help.” Behind his glasses, NOB’s expression was indecipherable.
“Don’t you?” I slammed down Michael McIntyre’s autobiography. “Then next time Monty asks me where your pages are, I’m going to tell him the truth. That you haven’t written a damn word. We’d be better off telling the producers that now.”
It was a risk to threaten this, but I was banking hard on NOB’s desire to continue to put off any kind of public announcement. I stormed off, silently counting down. Three, two, one.
I was halfway across the bookstalls when he called, “You’re assuming I don’t already have one.”
I spun around. “What do you mean?”
He was still putting my cards into books.
“I mean,” NOB said, “that I do have an idea.”
“You do?” I asked, hurrying back to him. NOB had broken through his writer’s block?
“Yes.”
“And you’re writing?”
“Yes.”
“You,” I said. We were standing almost toe-to-toe. “You are an infuriating man, you know that, don’t you?”
A sly grin. “Yes,” he said.
Dazed, I reached out for a familiar-looking book.
“The thing is,” he told me, “I need more time to get the pages to Monts.”
“I’ll buy you time. All you need to do is tell me what your film is about.” I couldn’t let myself believe him until I had proof.
“Oi!” The shout rang out across the stalls.
“Oi, you!” It was the stall owner, and he was coming straight toward us. “What are you doing? No flyering the books! How many times?” He started to push past people to get to us.
“Come on, Red,” NOB said. “Run.” Before I could react, he grabbed my hand, sending the remaining cards flying and pulling me along with him as he dodged through the throngs of book browsers.
“Come back here!”
“Not bloody likely!” NOB called, swiping an armful of books from a stall into the man’s path like he was in a very British action movie.
We ducked between some Christmas trees for sale and out the other side, running as fast as we could until we were away from the bridge and heading along the South Bank, weaving between tourists and not stopping until we reached the railing overlooking the Thames.
I leaned on it, breathless. You’re still holding NOB’s hand. I let it go and clutched my aching side.
“Has . . . he . . . gone?” I panted.
NOB had barely broken a sweat. “Luckily for us he was a big fella, though we were neck and neck for a while there. Have you ever run before?”
I glowered at him, throat burning too much for a retort.
“This was fun.” NOB eyed me. “We should get a coffee. I know a place.”
The play, I thought, followed by: NOB has just volunteered to spend more time with you. He’d come up with an idea for his script. We could talk about it. No distractions. After a month of nothing, finally, finally, we were getting somewhere.
Bzzz. My phone. It would be Monty again, probably asking about selling my desk on eBay. NOB was about to give me what I needed to assure him I was doing my job. I thought of Anette as Tink, looking for me in the crowd. Ben’s disapproval when he realized I’d let her down. But what choice did I have?
“Okay,” I replied, the feeling of elation fading.
“What’s that?” NOB said, pointing. I was still holding the book.
It was a ragged paperback of Peter Pan, the spine so creased it resembled layers of sediment. Loved, I thought. Like the beautiful edition I had on my shelf, the one my dad had read to me a hundred times.
“I have to go,” I said, wonderingly.
If I hurry, I might still make it.
“What about our coffee?” NOB said.
“I do want to talk about your script, there’s just somewhere I need to be.”
“My script? That’s for Monts, Red,” NOB said. “He’s my agent, remember? I just really need a coffee.”
I couldn’t help myself. I laughed. He was nothing if not consistent. “Just promise you’ll tell Monty your idea today,” I told him, walking away. “It will keep him off your back.” And mine.
“I have somewhere to be too,” he called after me. “I have a hot brunette to collect.”
“I hope you both have a lovely time.”
“We will,” he hollered.
It wasn’t until I was heading into Waterloo station that I thought: But isn’t Monica strawberry blond?
Chapter 13
Wind, Actually
INT: EAST DULWICH ACADEMY—FRIDAY, DECEMBER 21, 12:45 P.M.
EVIE is pacing in front of a set of double doors with covered windows. There’s a note tacked to the door showing a cartoon of a person falling off a pirate ship and the words Tick-tock! Latecomers walk the plank! A gray-haired man sits at the ticket desk, looking pointedly at his watch.