The Ending
INT: BOARDROOM, INTREPID PRODUCTIONS—MONDAY, FEBRUARY 18, NOON
MONTY, NOB, and SAM-AND-MAX are seated at the end of a large table. The walls are all made of glass and you can see through into the next room, where there are colorful round chairs, people playing table football, and a margarita machine. Everyone has a copy of the script. MONTY looks confident. NOB is wearing sunglasses. The door opens, and EVIE enters.
“. . . just a bit of polishing, that’s all, but I think we can all agree this version is more than acceptable—” On seeing me, Monty fell silent. He wrestled his face back into his usual easygoing smile, though his eyes were like nail guns, pinning me from across the table. I could see him desperately trying to figure out why I was here.
NOB tilted his chin downward, dipping his glasses to look at me as if he couldn’t believe my nerve. I held his gaze, daring him to say something. Instead, he flipped his glasses into place and leaned back in his chair, gazing at the ceiling. He hadn’t shaved for a few days and he was wearing a cap—designer, but still very un-NOB.
Sam-and-Max, on the other hand, were all smiles as they welcomed me in and gestured me to a seat.
“Was there something you wanted, Evelyn?” Monty asked, as though slightly embarrassed for me.
“She’s here to discuss the ending,” one of the producers said, leaning back in his chair, fingers interlocking across his chest. “She emailed us yesterday to say she had a solution, one she’s already discussed with you. We’re all ears.”
The look on Monty’s face was pure relief. She’s come to her senses, it said.
“Actually,” I said, heart hammering but determined, “I’m here to discuss the whole script.”
The relief flickered between panic and uncertainty before professional calm took over. “I’m afraid this is my fault,” Monty said smoothly. “I gave her some extra responsibility and it went to her head. Evelyn, this is no longer your concern. This sort of behavior is exactly why I had to let you go.”
“You’re no longer with the agency?” one of the producers asked, focusing on me.
“I’m—”
“She’s been sacked,” Monty said, cutting me off.
Sam-and-Max looked at each other. One of them steepled his fingers on the table. “Then I think we’re all wondering why you’re here.”
Monty looked grimly satisfied as he stared at me across the desk. “Why waste our time? Let’s call security now.”
I stood. It was now or never.
“I’m here because this is my script,” I said, picking up a copy. The calmness in my voice surprised me. “I wrote it. And it should have my name on it.”
My old boss turned an off shade of puce. “Call security! I’ll do it, shall I?” He strode to the door and yanked it open.
“Wait.”
Monty looked around wildly for who’d spoken. It was NOB. He was standing up, his sunglasses in his hands. “She’s telling the truth.”
What? NOB looked like he might actually throw up, but he remained standing.
“Don’t be so modest, Ezra,” Monty said, his voice pitchy. “Perhaps it’s time you took a break. All the big names do, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Starting right now.”
“That script is Evie’s. At best, I assisted on it.” He managed a smile; it looked painfully raw. “And not particularly well.”
Sam-and-Max were frowning. They looked to each other, some silent communication passing between them.
“He’s tired. The deadline was too much. He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” said Monty, half leaning on the door. “That,” he said, pointing to the pages in my hands, “has an Oscar winner’s name on it, just like you wanted, not some assistant’s.” He eyed the producers. “Isn’t that what’s important here?”
“If you need proof,” I said, “I can tell you how it should have ended.”
“Security!” Monty cried down the hall.
“Sit down, Monts, you old fool,” NOB snapped. “The script is Evie’s, and you know it. She did it.” He addressed the producers. “All that warmth you loved? Those characters? The fresh voice you couldn’t get enough of? It’s all Evie. You could have given me another three years and I wouldn’t have accomplished anything half as good as what she did in three months. She’s a natural. Only some arsehole stole her words so she has no idea.”
“She clearly did her job too well,” Monty tried, refusing to give in. “She has you believing she’s done the hard graft. I ask you, can anyone really quantify how much help writers receive?”
“I have all her emails, Monts,” NOB said to him. He turned to the producers. “I’ll send you everything she sent me. You’ll find I pretty much lifted what she wrote word for word. I’ll return the money too. It was time I downsized anyway.” Finally, he looked at me. “For what it’s worth, Evie, I’m sorry.”
His honesty didn’t completely make up for what he’d done, but I nodded at him.
NOB mimed dropping a mic, slipped his glasses back on, and left.
Monty’s eyes were locked on his client’s retreating back, face slack. Sam caught Max’s eye and drummed his fingers on the table, and, after a heavy pause, Max nodded.
“The ending,” said Sam to me. “What were you thinking?”
* * *
“Evie,” said Max, welcoming me back into the room. After I’d laid out a version of the script where the assistant got her happy ending, they’d sent me away so they could discuss their options. The excited expression on Monty’s face was disconcerting.
“We don’t choose our partners lightly,” Sam began. “We wanted Ezra Chester’s name on Intrepid Productions’ next project.”
I nodded. It was what I expected.
“But we keep coming back to the fact that we adore this script.”
Hope unfurled in my chest, almost painful in its intensity.
“And that we started this business taking chances,” Max said. “We chose the name Intrepid for a reason.”
They smiled at me.
Sam held out his hand for me to shake. “Welcome to Intrepid, Evie. We’re sure the news that we’re bringing on brilliant new female talent for our rom-com will be met with relief.”
I could barely breathe. In an instant, that pile of papers on the table became a future I hadn’t dared to imagine. And there was one person I wanted to share it with most. Unfortunately, unlike the assistant in the script, I’d realized my feelings too late.