EVIE: Ben, it’s me. Evie
A few seconds passed. Either he was wrestling the tablet away from Anette or he didn’t want to respond.
BEN: Anette said she’s very sorry for SLEEPLESS IN SEATTLE-ing you.
That’s what she was doing. The widowed dad. The kid. Anette was still trying to set me and her dad up. It was sweet, if completely and utterly misguided.
BEN: she found a card of yours in the book you gave her. I wanted to talk to you about that.
My grin faltered. A flush spread across my skin. I’d been finding those stupid cards all week. Did he seriously think I’d somehow orchestrated this after what he’d said to me at Anette’s play?
“Urrgh!” I groaned, jabbing out a reply as my mum put the finishes to my hair, humming to herself.
EVIE: that was an accident, Ben. I can promise you I’m not going to rope you into having a meet-cute with me anytime soon
BEN: I just wanted to thank you for the book. It meant a lot to Anette.
Oh. Merde. Outside, my taxi beeped its horn. My mother kissed my hot cheek.
“I’ll just tell the driver you’ll be a few more minutes,” she said, taking Ziggy and leaving me to it.
EVIE: you’re welcome. I’m very glad she liked it
BEN: was it yours?
At first, I hesitated. Then:
EVIE: yes
I wriggled into my dress, trying to imagine what Ben was thinking right now. That it was silly? I loved that book. It meant more to me than anything else I owned, and yet giving it to Anette had felt right. I looked at the framed photo on my vanity table. My dad with his arm around my shoulders, a proud grin on his face. It was taken on my fourteenth birthday, and in it I’m gripping a boxed laptop, cheeks flushed with both happiness and the reluctance of having to pose.
BEN: you made her Christmas.
I caught sight of my smile in the mirror—almost silly with happiness.
BEN: and I really am sorry about being super-rude at Anette’s play.
EVIE: apology accepted. Safe to say we’re both good at jumping to conclusions. Did you have a good Christmas, Ben?
BEN: we ate far too much and watched all the films you recommended.
BEN: it was the best one in some time.
My breath caught. There was something about the thought of just the two of them laid out on the sofa in front of the TV, watching all my favorite films on Christmas day, that squeezed at my heart. Another message popped up when I was halfway into my duffel coat. It was a link to “You Were Meant for Me” from Singin’ in the Rain, one of the films on the list. I shook my head.
EVIE: hi Anette
BEN: hi Evie!
BEN: say goodbye, Anette.
BEN: we’ll be back at Gil’s again from next week!!
EVIE: I’ll see you both then
BEN: see you soon, Evie.
As I got into the taxi, my phone buzzed in my hand. Was it Ben again? But it was just a message from Monty.
MONTY: I could have sworn you said you had everything under control, Evelyn. So where the devil are Ezra’s pages?
Chapter 18
New Year’s Evie
INT: THE WICK AT BOTH ENDS—MONDAY, DECEMBER 31, 11:45 P.M.
EVIE and MARIA are sitting at a table full of empty glasses in the packed-out bar. There’s a DJ playing. Green lights strobe over people’s heads as they dance. EVIE is clutching her phone. MARIA, dressed fully in black with heavily kohled eyes and dark lips, rests her head in her hands.
“Have you seen this?” I shouted over the music.
I was thumbing through NOB’s Instagram.
“How long have those two been at the bar?” Maria asked, sounding tired.
I scrolled past images of an impeccably dressed Christmas tree. Mountains of perfectly wrapped presents with foiled paper and elegant gauzy ribbon. NOB in a yoga pose, balanced on his head, bare-chested, muscles tense and glistening . . .
“It’s only four shots of tequila,” she grumbled.
I stopped at a slightly out-of-focus shot of a woman with her face partly obscured by a white mug. Soft waves of strawberry-blond hair falling to her shoulders, long woolen socks pulled up to her knees, a gray cashmere jumper on her slender frame. Monica. The image was tagged #loveofmylife #blessed #bestchristmasever.
I shoved it beneath Maria’s nose.
“If he’s had enough time for daily posts, he could at least write one page—one measly little page—of the script. Instead, he’s living a hashtag blessed life while I’m stuck with receiving messages from perverts. You know, it’s not even that he hasn’t written anything.”
“It’s that he lied,” intoned Maria, her black fingernails pressing into her cheek as she rubbed her face wearily.
“Exactly!” I said, picking up my glass before remembering it was empty.
“Don’t let him stop you from enjoying yourself tonight.” There was a note of warning in my friend’s voice.
“How can I when he’s swanning around Yorkshire doing yoga with hashtag gazelle legs?”
“Oh my God, Evie,” Maria said, exasperated.
I looked at her. “Is something wrong?” I asked.
“Is she still going on about the cockhat?” Jeremy appeared with a tray, towering over Sarah, who had her arm around his waist. The pink and yellow glitter that had been on her eyelids at the start of the night had now migrated to her thick blond hair.
“My heroes,” Maria said, reaching in. “It’s your turn to deal with her.”
“No, you don’t.” Sarah slapped her hand away and allocated us each a shot and a slice of lime, placing the salt dead center on the table.
“I’m not that bad, am I?”
“Evie, we are moments away from midnight. We’re all together. You’re I Love Lucy. Maria’s Wednesday Addams. Sarah’s dressed as a fairy—did you really use to wear that?”
“At least I’m not in spandex!” Sarah said, tugging at her wings. Jeremy’s lean figure was encased in head-to-toe neon, like a cyclist who’d gone clubbing.
“It was a phase. Let’s just enjoy this,” he insisted. The DJ lowered the music and began the countdown. Ten.
There was a roar of noise as everyone shouted along with him.
“Is everyone sick to death of me?” I asked, looking at my friends.