My friends and I were spending our New Year’s Eve in The Wick, in honor of our student days. Maria had insisted we all dress exactly as we’d have done at university. I was wearing an old blue-and-white polka-dot 1950s dress with huge underskirts. I hadn’t styled my hair for years, but back then I went full 1950s pin-up in Dorothy Taylor fangirl mode.
“Maybe I can help you plan it.”
Before I could protest, my mum picked up my curling iron and began to separate the back of my hair into sections, just like she used to. She caught my eye in the mirror and smiled.
When I was dropped off before Christmas by NOB himself, bane of her daughter’s working life, my mother had eagerly pried every detail from me about the deal I’d made with him and the meet-cutes. Any normal mother might focus on the fact that her only daughter was, for a very questionable reason, trying to meet a man. The only thing my mum had said was “I don’t care what sort of man you meet, my pet, as long as he has kind eyes.” Then she’d asked me when I’d be going back to the erotic fiction book group. When I’d explained that I’d gone only for the meet-cute, she’d said, “Evie, my pet, some of the best friends I ever made after your dad passed were in my book group. They loved a bit of smut too. All the best people do.”
As she tried to coax my curls into slightly sleeker ones, my phone lit up with its own bit of smut.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Hey found yr number in a John Grisham, would luv to get 2 know u better. Will u be my xmas ho ho ho?
For the last week I’d been getting almost daily messages from strangers who’d found my cards. Apparently, Christmas made a lot of people extremely horny. Which I guess explained Love Actually.
I deleted the message before my mum could read it and tell me I should give him a chance. We had very different approaches to life in general. She was always trying new things and avoided routine as much as possible. I, on the other hand, valued my safety and sanity. Or, at least, I had. As soon as these three months were up, my life could go back to normal. All Netflix and no chill. Is that really what you want? a little voice asked.
“It was supposed to be the Holiday Romance meet-cute,” I told her, trying not to pay this thought too much attention.
“Oooh.”
“But I can’t afford to go away.”
“Ah.”
I’d been really hoping to book a beautiful cottage somewhere. A break and a meet-cute in one. But I’d used all my savings for Sarah’s hen do.
“How about staying somewhere in the Yorkshire countryside?” my mum suggested.
“My budget might just about cover a tent, and that’s hardly rom-com material.”
“Did you know that the cottage in The Holiday was a set? It was basically cardboard!” my mother said.
“Well, I couldn’t afford to stay in that either.”
My phone buzzed. Dreading more messages from London’s bookish sex pests, I flipped it over.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: hi Evie. I found one of your cards in a book.
No mention of what they wanted me to do to their candy cane. I considered it for a moment before deciding to reply. I really did need another meet-cute.
EVIE: thanks for getting in touch
I bit my lip, then wrote:
EVIE: if you don’t mind me asking, what book did you find it in?
It would have been impolite to ask outright if they were a weirdo. Unknown Number is typing flickered on and off.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Peter Pan.
I didn’t remember putting a card in the book before I’d returned it to the book stand, but I’d been flustered after accidentally stealing it when NOB and I . . . Don’t think about NOB. He’d sent his pages to Monty—that’s what mattered. The meeting in two days’ time was going to go fine. My friends and I were going to celebrate tonight with champagne.
Just don’t think about your email. Do NOT think about that email . . .
EVIE: may I ask your name?
“I stayed in a cottage just like the one in that film with some girlfriends a while back,” my mother mused as she tugged at a stubborn curl. “Absolutely perfect for a holiday romance,” she winked. “And cheap as chips.”
“A cottage?” I said distractedly.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: it’s Ben.
What? Ben? Surely not Ben Ben.
Of course it wasn’t. It was a coincidence, that was all.
EVIE: hi Ben. Nice to meet you
“What was it called now? Honeysuckle Cottage,” she said, answering her own question. “It was exactly as you imagine a cottage should look, if you know what I mean.” My mum took my phone and peered over her glasses as she did a quick search for it. “Oh,” she said, holding it away from her. “Ben is sorry for how he acted at his daughter’s play. Was he disappointed with her costume?”
“What?” I read the message.
BEN: I wanted to tell you how much I liked you and that I’m sorry for being super-rude at my daughter’s play.
I caught my breath. It was him. What was going on? Was he drunk? Not that I could judge after my recent antics . . .
EVIE: are you OK, Ben?
BEN: I’m great! When we see each other again I might not say we spoke. I’m very mystrious.
“Pet?” My mother broke me out of my daze. Ben liked me? I wasn’t quite sure how I should feel about that. Relieved?
More like puzzled. He might have made me a playlist but that didn’t explain him suddenly wanting to be friends.
“Anette’s costume was perfect,” I told her, still trying to figure him out. My mother made an interested noise and I shot her a glance. “He was referring to the fact that he made absolutely sure I knew he wasn’t the man I was looking for with my meet-cutes.”
“Did he? So why is he messaging now?”
An excellent question.
EVIE: are you sure you’re OK?
BEN: a big fat yes.
“Well, he’s certainly put a smile on your face.”
“It’s not him,” I told her, still grinning.
BEN: Anette, are you using messenger on my tablet?
BEN: merde.
I could picture them both at home: Anette sneaking the tablet into her room, Ben probably reading somewhere, seeing the app on his phone light up.
BEN: I’m sorry to have bothered you. Don’t worry, my daughter will be suitably punished. Anette, no catfishing for a week.