Send them now, Ezra. No more meet-cutes until you do.
Though I am attaching the Department Store meet-cute from Serendipity, because when you’ve spent an entire day standing behind men who are clothes shopping and declaring you want to buy what they’re buying, you want the humiliation to be worthwhile.
I know you can do this.
Evie
* * *
From: [email protected]
Subject: OUT OF OFFICE
January 24, 1:22 p.m.
Hi, I’m currently drinking margaritas in an infinity pool and definitely won’t be answering your email.
E
* * *
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: OUT OF OFFICE
January 24, 1:23 p.m.
This out-of-office better be a joke, Ezra! Our deal is that you send those pages. I’ve been embarrassing myself all over London, so the LEAST you can do is send Monty something.
Don’t you dare ignore me.
Evie
* * *
From: [email protected]
Subject: URGENT
January 25, 12:42 p.m.
Dear Evelyn,
I’m sure you don’t need me to remind you that the deadline for Ezra to submit the rest of Act Two to the producers is Thursday.
I’ve noticed that you’ve been using the expense account, so I assume all is going well.
Normally I’d offer to step in, as I do have a little more experience with these things. However, I must say I have been very impressed with you over the last few months. I’m starting to believe you might actually be capable of pulling this off after all.
I see great things ahead for you, Evelyn.
Best,
Monty
P.S. Unless the £100 gloves were bought to protect Ezra’s hands while he typed, it would be prudent to return them.
* * *
From: [email protected]
Subject: Undeliverable: Re: Re: OUT OF OFFICE
January 25, 8:45 p.m.
Your message to [email protected] has been blocked by the user’s profanity settings.
Chapter 26
Mr. Judgy
INT: THE LORDSHIP PUB, EAST DULWICH—SATURDAY, JANUARY 26, 10:30 P.M.
The pub is rammed. EVIE and STEPH are at the packed bar, waiting to be served. They both wriggle out of their wet coats in the crowded space, shouting to each other over the noise. They’re almost at the front.
“Is it always this busy?” Steph called to me. I was jostled from behind and Steph and I surged closer to the bar, like flotsam on a tide.
I shrugged happily. “I’ve never been here before. Saturday night is usually prime Netflix time.” I flushed. Clearly the wine we’d had with the meal had affected me more than I’d realized.
Steph grinned at me, tucking her straight, dark hair behind her ear.
“Oh, honey, thank God we got you out tonight.”
It was strange, being out on the weekend, doubly so with someone new. After listening to my mum’s typically sage advice about the book group, I’d gone back, having read the book this time (Game of Bones). Steph had once again provided the wine and made me feel welcome. It had taken me the best part of last week to pluck up the courage to ask her if she wanted to go out this evening. I was determined to make the most of having the time, for once. Making new friends as an adult is as nerve-racking as asking someone on a date. Getting their number is hard enough. Then you send that first message, hoping to hook them in with a bit of humor, and when they reply you hug yourself with joy and then hold off responding for an hour so you don’t sound too needy.
“So, if you met someone in this bar, would it count as a meet-cute?” Steph asked. I’d told her everything about NOB and the challenge, including how he’d gone AWOL. I still had no idea where he was or when he’d be coming back. Act Two was due this Thursday, and he still wasn’t responding to any of my emails or messages. I pushed my worry down.
The one good—great, amazing, incredible—thing from all of this was that after spending two weeks straight writing about meet-cute after meet-cute, I hadn’t had the time to dwell too much on the fact I was writing again. I’d just written. And it had felt really good. I wasn’t thinking about what this might mean quite yet. I didn’t put too much pressure on this new, fragile, hopeful feeling.
“It would need an extra twist,” I said. “Like in Going the Distance when Justin Long and Drew Barrymore find out they’ve been trying to beat each other’s high scores on the arcade game in the bar.” A space cleared in front of us and we eagerly forced ourselves forward. “Though, to be honest, I’m starting to worry I won’t ever meet anyone.”
“Trust me, I know the feeling,” said Steph, flashing the bartender a smile. “My Tinder date last week asked me if I’d be interested in lactating.”
Someone knocked heavily into us. “Sorry,” I heard a man say in an Irish accent. “I’m usually far more coordinated. While I’m here, this is really none of my business, but I couldn’t help overhearing that you’re both dating the wrong kind of men.” He was standing behind us with two overflowing pints in his hand, half of his chin-length blond hair pulled up in a bun.
“Thank goodness we had you to tell us.” Steph dismissed him with a glance. “A bottle of rosé, please,” she told the bartender. “House.”
We made our way through the pub. Me clutching the wine to my chest and Steph holding the glasses up like they were beacons guiding our way through the crowd.
“I see a table!” But when we reached it there was already someone sitting on one of the four seats. Mr. Dating the Wrong Kind of Men.
His eyes brightened when he saw us—or, more specifically, Steph, who immediately turned on her red-booted heel.