“Evie,” I corrected, a few seconds too late. Then, just to make absolutely sure I had no dignity left: “And I was out on Friday too.” You big jerk.
NOB draped an arm around Monica’s shoulders. Just two ridiculously good-looking human beings, generously adding to the amount of beauty in the world simply by being in it. Standing there in my 1950s-style dress, beautifully handmade by my mum, I felt I was from a different world entirely.
“You’re leaking, by the way,” Monica said, shifting her Birkin higher on her shoulder.
I glanced down. The coffee had pooled in the cardboard tray and was dripping all over my Doc Martens. “Shit,” I said. Very professional, Evie. “Sorry,” I added.
NOB looked amused.
“At least they’re wipe-clean,” Monica said. Then, turning away from me, she pulled NOB toward her and gave him a kiss that would have absolutely scandalized the nun she was playing. Dabbing her lips, she slipped a large pair of sunglasses on and strode down the steps.
“I’ll message you,” NOB called after her. She held up a hand in acknowledgment.
He looked back at me with irritation. “What do you want?”
I held my smile. “I’m here for our meeting.”
“Where’s Monty?”
I’d been very clear this was my meeting. “It’s just me. And I have coffee. Can I come in?” I lifted the tray. “I’ve got a soggy bottom.”
He let that statement hang for a moment before lifting his eyebrows. “Well, nobody likes a soggy bottom.”
I kept my smile while I died a little inside.
NOB nodded at the coffee. “Is one of those a decaf triple-shot soy latte?”
“Of course.”
“Then come on in.” He walked away, leaving me to follow him. Right, Evie. Get it together. You can do this. My job depended on it. And maybe my promotion.
If I got NOB to sign and agree to finish the script on time, then maybe I would finally, finally, be made an agent. I could expand the agency’s remit from white male screenwriters by bringing in, well, anyone else really, but I longed to work with incredible female screenwriters. No more putting all our eggs in one NOB-shaped basket. So to speak.
In the sleek black kitchen, trying to avoid multiple reflections of my face in the mirrored tiles, I handed NOB his coffee and dumped the tray in the recycling.
NOB took a swig and winced. “This is terrible.”
“That’s decaf for you.” I fished the bag of sticky muffins out of my satchel and went to offer him one. He caught it before I could put it on the gleaming black marble of the breakfast bar.
“Hey!” NOB held the muffin away from his sculpted chest like its calories might contaminate him. He flipped the lid on his trash can and threw it in. “This is a gluten-free household.”
I swallowed the considerable bite I’d just taken, and he watched me with a look of disgust that I assumed masked a desperate longing for carbs. “Your new place is lovely,” I said into the silence.
NOB shrugged, his eyes shifting elsewhere. “I had it remodeled by the same designer Tom uses.” I kept my expression neutral. If NOB was anyone else, I would have asked who Tom was. But he was NOB, so he meant Tom Cruise. He looked over my left shoulder as he said, distantly, “She’s really intuitive.” I followed his gaze and realized he’d caught his own eye in one of the reflective tiles.
“I can tell.”
NOB had split his time between L.A. and London since winning the Oscar for his first—and only—film a few years ago. I wondered if this new house meant he was back in London permanently. The moving boxes would suggest that was the case.
He poured his coffee into the sink with a grimace. “So, what’s Monty sent you for?” he asked, reminding me of how little he thought of me. I’d schooled myself to ignore NOB’s insults over the years. I worked hard at the agency. Monty spent all his time attending to NOB—a full-time job—so I took care of his other clients. Which was fine. Since the Breakup, I’d had more time to dedicate to the agency anyway. My friends cautioned me about maintaining a healthy work/life balance, but they didn’t factor in that “life” mostly consisted of takeout pizza and Netflix.
“I’m here to discuss your script for Intrepid,” I said, feeling less terrible about the news I was preparing to deliver. NOB turned his back on me and cranked up a coffee machine that looked as if it had been modeled on the ridiculous sports car he’d parked across the pavement.
“The producers,” I said, raising my voice to compensate for the coffee machine revving its engine, “are really excited to see the script. And they recognize that you’ve been—”
“What?”
“You’ve been—”
“Can’t hear you.”
“WORKING HARD ON IT.”
The machine fell silent just as my shout rang out across the kitchen. NOB still had his back to me but his shoulders were hitched up as if he was laughing. He turned his head slightly. “Did you say something?” He waited for me to open my mouth and hit a button on the machine. Steam noisily filled the kitchen until the air was misted and damp. I felt my scalp itch. My hair never did well in heat. It expanded like a marshmallow in hot chocolate.
Not to be deterred, I raised my voice again. “They’ve given us an extension on the latest deadline.” That you missed, six months ago. “It’s very GENEROUS.” The machine fell silent. “You have three—” Then it roared as NOB used 850 horsepower to produce a single shot of decaf coffee.
But rather than drink it, he left the espresso on the side. I eyed it with annoyance.
He grabbed a glass from a cupboard. Wiping crumbs from my hands, I pulled the paperwork from my satchel and followed after him. “All you need to do is sign this. It’s a straightforward adden—” Crrrk! Now he was filling up the glass with ice from the dispenser on the fridge. “It’s an addendum saying you agree to DELIVER THE FULL SCRIPT IN THREE MONTHS.”
I believe NOB heard me that time. He paused, very briefly, before pouring the ice into a smoothie maker. He returned to open the fridge and, after a moment of rustling around, tossed something toward me.
“Catch.”
I found myself winded by a bag of avocados, which is possibly the most middle-class thing that’s ever happened to me. NOB nudged the door shut with his gym-sculpted bottom, his arms laden with various fruits and vegetables, which he promptly loaded into the blender.
“If you could just look at the addendum . . .”
He held out his hand. I sighed with relief and went to give him the folder, but he shook his head. “Avocados,” he said, as if I was stupid. I slammed them into his hand, perhaps slightly harder than necessary.