My breathing steadied and I was left staring at the stupid so not an actual cake. It didn’t even have the decency to be bad for me. I picked it up anyway and took it with me to my bedroom, breaking off a chunk as I went and shoving it into my mouth.
Oh.
Oh, God.
It was so . . . dry, and yet, at the same time, moist. With a chemical aftertaste. Like trying to eat furniture foam dipped in wallpaper paste.
I ran to the loo and spat it straight into the toilet, heaving. As I straightened, I caught sight of myself in the mirror.
Tear-streaked face. Flat hair. Mascara smudges. Half my freckles still covered by makeup. I barely recognized myself. I’d been so proud of myself for getting NOB to write. In the end, NOB had got exactly what he wanted. He’d broken through his writer’s block. Despite what he said, he didn’t really need me to finish the script. Soon enough, people would once again be singing his praises all over Hollywood. And what did I get? My job. A promotion. I should really be happy.
I flushed the toilet, feeling a rush of satisfaction as the cake was sucked away down the U-bend. So long, NOB.
That felt . . . good. I threw another chunk down. It landed with a lovely, heavy thunk. I pushed the button. Flush. Goodbye, arrogant arsehole. Thunk. I should be proud of myself. Flush. I’d got NOB to write. Thunk. The meet-cutes had led to so much more than I could have dreamed of. Flush. The book group. Thunk. Steph. Flush. Writing again. Thunk. Ben and Anette . . . Flush.
Another piece landed. Thunk. So take that, you arrogant. Flush. Number one. Thunk. Boychild! Plick!
I pushed the button down again. No resistance, no flush. I tried a few more times. Nothing. The last bit of cake squatted at the bottom of the bowl, refusing to budge. Closing my eyes, I tried again. Flush.
Oh, thank God.
Wait.
Why were my toes wet?
I looked. The bowl had filled all the way up to the top and water was pouring over the edge, that last piece of cake now bobbing on the surface like a little brown log.
I leaped back, holding the plate like a shield.
Surely the water should have stopped pouring out by now.
The cistern groaned alarmingly.
I kicked off my soaking slippers and stood barefoot in the water.
“Oh, ew.” Grabbing the towels off the radiator, I tucked them around the bottom of the toilet. They’d barely soaked up the water before more poured out.
“Stop!” I shouted at the toilet. “Please, just stop! I’ve had a really bad time and I really, really don’t need this.”
It didn’t respond to emotional pleas. What do I do? I searched around wildly for something—anything—that might help. Relief hit me when I spotted the handle of the toilet brush sticking up from beside the toilet.
I grabbed it and was so startled when it started to buzz that I dropped it straight into the bowl.
Then watched as Jane’s Ourgasm 3000™ disappeared down the U-bend.
* * *
I paced the hallway. The toilet was still pouring out water and I’d done everything I could to extract Belinda, including using the actual toilet brush, which had at least managed to turn her off. It was time to call someone for help. A plumber would be the obvious choice. Hi, I need a plumber because my toilet is blocked. With what, you ask?
I shuddered. No way. After three months of meet-cutes ending with a red-carpet nosedive, I was at maximum humiliation. That left Jane. Maybe she had some friends who’d know what to do. Even if I did have to explain that her pride and joy was now stuck in the U-bend.
Each attempt to call sent me to voicemail. “If you need me, I’m probably tied up somewhere. Later, my duck!”
The list of people I knew in London suddenly seemed very small. There was Steph, but I doubted she wanted to spend her Valentine’s Day with her hand down my toilet. And, sadly, Monty, who was two up on me when it came to toilet messes he’d needed rescuing from, and still wouldn’t see that as a reason to reciprocate.
Which left only one option.
EVIE: I’m in trouble
As mortifying as it was, I explained the whole situation, even saying that the cake had been a gift from NOB. I just left out exactly why.
EVIE: I am so sorry for interrupting your Valentine’s Day with this
SARAH: we’re between courses of our M&S dine in for two. Jim said he’s just glad he didn’t choose the chocolate pudding
EVIE: you told him?!
SARAH: I still don’t really understand why NOB would get you a cake
MARIA: David said you should call a plumber
EVIE: does everyone know?? I can’t! What will they say when I explain that my loo’s blocked with cake and a vibrator??
JEREMY: you are a single girl alone on Valentine’s Day, they probably get calls like this all the time
EVIE: viable alternatives please
JEREMY: who ya gonna call? Hot Widower!
EVIE: not helpful, Jeremy
MARIA: actually, I think he might have a point. Doesn’t he live near you?
EVIE: he doesn’t want to see me
SARAH: trust me, that man will answer your call
The pool of water had now reached the hall. Unappetizing clumps of cake had washed up onto the cream carpet, looking exactly like something that would emerge from an overflowing toilet. Sarah was wrong about Ben. He’d left me alone in Gil’s last week and hadn’t even responded to the photo of the hot chocolates I’d sent. I didn’t know if I could handle being let down by Ben again. Especially when he already thought everything I did was a spectacle. This would just show him he was right. The proof was literally in the pudding.
Chapter 34
Round the Bend
INT: EVIE’S FRONT DOOR—THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 8:23 P.M.
EVIE tucks her dress more securely into her pajama bottoms and straightens her cardigan. Her hands fly to her hair before she shakes her head, clearly deciding it can’t be salvaged. Taking a few deep breaths, she opens the door. There’s a tall, broad-shouldered man standing on her front step with a toolbox in his hand, facing away down the street.
“Thank you for coming.”
Ben turned, eyes widening as he caught sight of me. I hadn’t expected him to get here so soon and there’d been no time to do more than slip a cardigan on. What must I look like?
“No problem.” He held up his toolbox. “I’m sure this won’t take long.”
I stepped back to let him in. “Best take your socks off too,” I advised, as he shrugged out of his thick navy jacket and hung it on the “come hither” finger hook in the hall. He pulled his jumper over his head. He wasn’t wearing his usual shirt. Just a simple blue T-shirt that stretched over his broad shoulders.