We quickly disentangled ourselves, Ben straightening his shirt and wiping his mouth. A smile tugged at my lips as I pulled my cardigan down from around my shoulders. Then I saw his expression.
“Evie,” he said gravely, “I need you to know. I’m not interested in being any part of what you’re doing.”
I stared at him, shocked. “I’m sorry?”
Ben indicated the machine, the mistletoe. “This is a meet-cute, isn’t it?”
Did he seriously think I’d set all this up for him?
“Believe me, Ben,” I snapped, cheeks burning. “You’d be the last person I’d want to meet.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that his daughter was behind this when she’d only been trying to help. I yanked at my satchel, pulling out the gift I’d brought with me, the reason I was late to the play. “Here, for Anette. This is what I came back here for.”
Ben took it from me, touching the edge of the large bow that was wrapped around the metallic-green paper. “It’s secondhand,” I said, as I turned to leave, knowing he’d have no idea what it was I had given him. “But loved. I wanted Anette to have it.”
I found a sheepish Anette standing in the wings. She threw herself at my legs. “Happy Christmas, Evie. I’m glad we met you.”
“I’m glad I met you too,” I said, throat tight. I didn’t look back at Ben.
This time there was no mistaking the message. Ben thought I was a complete fool, and his opinion of me wasn’t changing any time soon.
Chapter 14
Ramblin’ Man
EXT: A STREET OF CONVERTED TERRACES, EAST DULWICH—SUNDAY, DECEMBER 23, NOON
It’s sleeting as EVIE struggles out of her front door, pulling a suitcase. A tall, balding man with a paunch visible through his windbreaker—GRAEME—runs up to her and takes her case. He opens the door to the passenger side of his blue Škoda to usher EVIE inside before trying to fit the suitcase in the cramped boot. This is taking some time.
“Are you okay?” I called to Graeme again as he huffed and puffed.
“No worries, all tickety-boo here!” he said. It was quite lovely to hear a Sheffield burr, although it was a shame about the “tickety-boo.”
“I’m really sorry I was a bit late,” I called.
“It would have been nice to miss the traffic,” Graeme said, voice strained. He slammed the trunk shut with enough force to shake the car.
When he shunted his tall frame into the driver’s seat, I saw the sleet had pasted his remaining hair to his scalp.
“I’ll go first, then, shall I?” he said brightly, tapping the wheel. You were the one who put me in the passenger seat, Graeme. I smiled. Maria wouldn’t be happy to know I’d written off the Road Trip meet-cute before the key was even in the ignition.
Maybe he just makes a bad first impression.
EVIE: you can stop worrying
MARIA: I’m not, I promise!
SARAH: I still think my choice would have been better
JEREMY: yes, if only Evie had chosen someone who DEFINITELY WASN’T A PERVERT
EVIE: right guys, I’m going to talk to him. No backseating. Wish me luck . . .
“So, this is weird, isn’t it?” said Graeme as we made our way over Vauxhall Bridge. The Thames was slate gray and resolutely grim.
“A little,” I said, smiling at him. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. When Harry Met Sally was one of my all-time favorites, and in some small way, I was getting to live it. I had a list of conversation topics all ready to go to ensure our journey was rom-com-worthy.
“It’s just under five hours, traffic pending,” Graeme said. “Of course, it would have been less if we’d set off when we’d planned.”
“Right,” I said. We were definitely going to need that list. As I went to retrieve it from my phone, a message popped up.
NOB: How’s the road trip? Is Garry as thrilling as he sounds?
RED: it’s Graeme. And haven’t you got more pressing things to be concerned with? A script, perhaps?
NOB: I take it that’s a no.
I tucked my phone under my thigh, frustrated. NOB still hadn’t told me what his script was about, and I couldn’t bring myself to ask Monty. I didn’t want my boss to lose faith in me. Given that I was supposed to be the one helping NOB to write, it might seem a little surprising that I didn’t know what he was actually writing. At least the producers were happy. Sam-and-Max had been so thrilled with NOB’s idea, they’d scheduled a meeting for January 2 to discuss what he’d written so far. Of course, as NOB hadn’t yet produced any pages, this was set to be a very short meeting.
I tried to relax. Having an actual idea put NOB one step closer to finishing the script. I just needed to keep doing everything I could to find Mr. Happy Ending so NOB had no excuse not to write. And, if that failed, I’d chain him to his desk, professionalism be damned.
There was a rustling, followed by a stench so godawful, I gagged.
“What’s that?”
“Oh, do you want some?” Graeme asked, his left hand stuck in a plastic bag that contained something that had surely been dead for a while. “It’s dried fish. I’ve just been to Iceland. I love traveling, don’t you?”
I wound down the window, gulping in the fresh air.
* * *
Half an hour later, Graeme was still sulking about having to throw out the fish. I hadn’t been able to stop heaving, and he hadn’t wanted to risk his upholstery.
“Maria said you’re a data analyst,” I said to soothe him. “What does that involve?” This was not on my list of conversation topics, but I doubted Graeme was in the mood to decide whether he’d rather have nipples for toes or toes for nipples (Jeremy’s contribution).
“This and that,” said Graeme. “Maria said you had an interesting job. A film agent, or something. What’s that like? Have you met George Clooney?”
He was trying, at least.
“I’m an assistant,” I replied.
“Behind every great man and all that,” he said, flipping the radio on to a preset channel. I eyed him. Had he meant that?
He’d put a chat show on. The host was one of those professional dissenters who enjoy taking vile standpoints and watching Twitter explode. The moment they mentioned “undesirables” I switched it to a pop radio station. Graeme turned it straight back, using a button on the steering wheel.