“Terribly,” Monty said. “The screenwriter tells the assistant he’s fallen for her. He sweeps her off her feet with a kiss on a red carpet and she breaks his heart. It’s like he’s never seen a romantic comedy. Given the photos from Monica Reed’s premiere, I suspect he might be writing from experience.” He gave me a knowing look and I tensed, waiting for the blame. Only finding out his assistant got involved with his client and caused a public scene wasn’t Monty’s concern. “The producers hate it. They want a happy ending. We wouldn’t want a lover’s quarrel to tip us off course now, would we?”
The room spun, my vision tunneling. A few pages slipped to the floor. NOB had fashioned himself as the romantic hero and me as the woman who broke his heart. And this was why Monty assumed I hadn’t written the ending?
“The producers have asked for a more satisfying finale before they’ll accept it, and it all needs a bit of a polish,” said Monty. He was eyeing me, realizing, perhaps, that his assistant wasn’t reacting quite how he’d expected. “You’ve taken the script so far, Evelyn, it’s time to close this. Ezra really appreciates everything you’ve done. If only agents could get writing credits, eh?”
Everything came back into sharp focus.
“But I can’t write,” I said. “You told me that yourself.”
Seven years had passed and the memory of that meeting was still painful. Fresh to London at twenty-two, I’d sat in front of William Jonathan Montgomery the Third, feeling like I was teetering on the brink of a great change, and knowing how proud my dad would be. Here I was, at Dorothy Taylor’s old agency. A poster of Brick Park hung on the wall.
Monty had wanted to meet me to discuss the script I’d sent him. The one I’d poured my heart and soul into and burned through my savings to finish. It had been a film for all the girls who, like me, had taken their emotional education from the school of Nora Ephron; it was about a father who knew the moment he was going to die, and lived his life as if he didn’t. It was sentimental and needed more work, and maybe that script wouldn’t have been the one that sold, but it was a first step. One I would have taken, had Monty not said the words that broke me. Seven little words that had reached into the fissure that appeared when my dad had died, and cracked it wide open.
You just don’t have what it takes.
It turned out he’d only called me in to offer me the role as his assistant because his last one had just walked out. He told me he admired the enthusiasm I’d displayed in my cover letter for the agency. I’d been desperate and still reeling when I accepted.
I’d thought of Monty’s words so many times over the years it had become a mantra. As I sat in front of Monty now, I wondered how much power they still had over me.
He downed his champagne and poured more. “Maybe I was a little hasty back then.” His words were flippant, unhurried, like they meant nothing to him.
I wanted to fold time. Bring together this moment with the one where he’d stripped away my confidence, so they were touching. Don’t give up, I wanted to tell my younger self. Don’t put your self-worth in someone else’s hands when you’re at your most vulnerable. Listen to the people who love you.
“You should be proud of yourself,” Monty said, going to give me more champagne and seeing that I’d barely touched my glass. “The producers love your script so much they only want your ending, not Ezra’s. Not that they’ll know it’s yours, of course. You’ve seen to that. Ever the professional, red-carpet mishaps notwithstanding. All grist to the mill!”
The enormity of what NOB had done fully sank in. He’d been manipulating me from the start. He’d stolen my words and passed them off as his own. As my anger built, I kept coming back to the question why. He couldn’t have known when we made that deal that I’d end up sending him the material he could use for the script.
“Don’t think there won’t be rewards,” Monty said. I knew that tone. He thought my silence meant I was holding out on him, as if this was a negotiation. “Of course, once the agency’s back on its feet . . .” He knocked his glass against mine. “Evelyn Summers: Junior Agent. How does that sound?”
His words barely registered.
“It’s my script,” I said quietly.
“Yes, well, you’re my assistant. About to take the next step, if you keep playing your cards right. Helping writers is what you do.”
“No, this is actually my script, Monty,” I said, my voice growing stronger. “Ezra stole it.”
His hand shook as he tipped the last of the champagne into his glass, and it dawned on me that Monty knew exactly what NOB had done. “Evelyn Summers: Agent, then. How about that? And what the producers don’t know won’t hurt them.”
He really believes I’m going to do exactly as he says. And why wouldn’t he? I always had before.
I thought of everything I’d been through, all the work I’d put into my career over the last seven years, constantly trying to prove myself to a man who’d said I wasn’t good enough. And now, after three months of neglecting everyone I loved, the humiliations, the constant attempts to “put myself out there,” believing it was all worthwhile because NOB was finally getting somewhere, only for him to pass my words, my life, off as his own . . .
Now it was time to Be More Evie.
“I’m done,” I said. As soon as I heard myself say the words, I knew they were true.
I was finally done taking Monty’s shit.
“But you haven’t even finished your champagne!” Monty said, eyeing my glass.
“No, I mean, I’m done,” I said calmly. “Tell Sam-and-Max the truth, or I quit. I’ll get a job somewhere else.”
There was a heavy pause. When Monty spoke again, all the joviality was gone from his voice. “That hasn’t worked out well for you before. It’s so hard to get on without a good reference.”
I stared at him. All those jobs I’d gone for, and no one had wanted to hire me. I thought it was because I wasn’t ready. But it was because of Monty.
“What?” Monty shrugged. “You were a good assistant, Evelyn. Do you know how hard that is to come by? I wasn’t about to just let you go. You should be flattered.”
I knew then that I was never going to be made an agent, no matter what I did. Monty didn’t want to work with an equal.
“I deserve credit for my script,” I said flatly. “Give it to me and I’ll finish it.”
“That just isn’t possible,” said Monty. “I’m sure we can ask about getting you a script-editing credit. Your name could still be on the big screen.”
I stood, pulling the handle up on my suitcase.