If Harry Met Sally Again Page 11

  ‘There’s space for Marie.’

  ‘That’s because Marie is important to Sally and to Truman; he grew up with her. Marie is like a sister to Sally.’

  ‘Well, I guess we’re going to have to disagree. You can take it up with Mike.’ Ben scores off the point in his notebook as if I were a naughty schoolgirl being dismissed to be dealt with by the head teacher. ‘What’s certain is that George and Jules’s characters need to be more prominent, with a storyline of their own.’

  ‘Fine. What else?’

  ‘Scallops and cucumber,’ says the waiter, sparing me another immediate blow. ‘Here we have raw scallops marinated in sweetmeadow and cucumber balls rolled in dill ash and oils. Enjoy.’

  ‘Amazing,’ says Ben, excitedly. ‘Doesn’t this look incredible? I’ve wanted to eat here since it opened. I was totally made up when Andrew told me he’d got a reservation.’

  I prod the raw scallop with my fork and cut off a minuscule amount to try.

  ‘You don’t like?’

  ‘Raw seafood isn’t really my thing,’ I say, trying hard to swallow without gagging.

  ‘I’ll have it.’ He reaches over and takes my plate, scraping the contents onto his. His table manners are appalling.

  ‘What’s next on your list?’

  ‘Mike and I feel the voice needs tweaking.’ He’s all but having a Sally orgasm over the deliciousness of the scallops. ‘Everything feels pretty schmaltzy at the moment.’

  Schmaltzy! I want to yell, unable to disguise the anger on my face.

  ‘It’s a bit safe,’ he says, reading my reaction. ‘Like Sally and Philip’s relationship, for example, it’s too soft, it needs to be changed up a bit, made…edgier.’

  Edgier?! I shout in my head, pulling at my scarf, which is beginning to feel as if it’s choking me.

  ‘It’s important to me to keep the quality of Ephron,’ I say, perfectly restraint in my delivery. ‘That was the whole point of writing it in the first place – to create an Ephron-inspired piece. A throwback to a classic.’

  ‘But the writing feels out of date, it feels too fluffy, too romantic, in that Ephron kinda way. It’s as if you’re writing thirty years ago.’

  ‘That’s how it’s meant to feel,’ I reiterate, hugely irritated by the fact that he’s just dismissed Ephron as ‘fluff’. ‘It’s meant to be in the style of Ephron.’

  ‘But that style doesn’t sell now.’

  ‘People adore Nora Ephron,’ I say, wondering if he’s out of his gawd-damn mind.

  ‘They did.’ He holds up his hand to indicate a pause while he finishes a mouthful. I swear I could gladly stab him with my fork. ‘Now people want real girls, people they can identify with, less…aspirational.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong. People have enough “real” in their lives. People want to escape. There’s a whole market out there looking for this sort of film.’

  ‘Well, I know I’m right when I tell you that there isn’t. The big studios aren’t buying romcoms.’

  ‘Then I don’t know why we’re bothering.’ I dab the corners of my mouth with my linen napkin, trying to contain my anger. ‘I’ve written a romcom, I’m not interested in writing something “edgy”.’

  ‘Then you’re an idiot.’

  ‘So, I’m an idiot,’ I say, only just missing off, whatever, at the end of the sentence, amazed he has the audacity to tell someone in an initial meeting that they’re an idiot! ‘I think we’ve reached an impasse, don’t you?’

  He wipes his bearded chops with his napkin and says nothing. His reticence makes me livid.

  ‘And I think it’s best I leave.’

  ‘Don’t you want to stay for dessert?’ He looks at me as if I’m some sort of cute curiosity from a bygone era. I could swing at him.

  ‘I’m really not in the mood for dessert,’ I say, pushing back my chair, surprised at the sentence that has just tumbled out of my mouth. I’ve never ‘not been in the mood’ for dessert in my life.

  ‘I guess that makes two for me then,’ he smiles, as I restrain myself from taking the marshmallow dessert that’s just arrived and smearing it into his over-stylised, over-irritating, feckin’ hipster hair-do.

  18

  ‘I blew it,’ I say to Astrid that evening in the park where we’re out on a power-walk. I say ‘power-walk’; it’s really just a fast stroll that enables us to justify coffee and cake in the cafe afterwards.

  ‘How?’ she asks, picking up her stride on the long path towards the Lido.

  ‘He told me my writing was “out of date”.’

  ‘Ouch! What did you say?’

  ‘I told him it was intentional; it’s meant to feel like a Nora Ephron film.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He didn’t get it. He dismissed Ephron as “romantic fluff” and said I had to write something “real”.’

  ‘What’s wrong with a bit of escapism?’

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  Astrid pushes up the sleeves of her cheesecloth top, which she’s wearing with denim cut-offs and Jesus sandals; oh, and a gypsy scarf wrapped round her head as a sweatband, and we walk past the back of the Lido with its long, low art deco buildings. Will and I used to swim here, when it got really hot, which wasn’t often but it reminds me of him anyway, but not in a bad way. Spring seems to have pushed away most of my negative feelings towards him.

  ‘I think there’s plenty of people looking for something less real, more romantic, but Ben didn’t agree. Apparently, the big studios aren’t buying romcoms any more.’

  ‘But that’s what you’ve written and that’s what Mike is optioning.’

  ‘I know, which is what I said, but Ben insisted I write something “edgier” and when I said I wasn’t interested in doing that he called me an idiot and that was that. I left.’

  ‘You left?’

  ‘Told you I’d blown it.’

  We cut through the middle of the park towards the tennis courts. Couples are sprawled out on the grass, holding hands and reading books, making the most of the May heatwave.

  ‘Do you think I really have blown it?’

  ‘It doesn’t sound great.’

  Now I’m beginning to worry. I was hoping Astrid might alleviate my worries, not fuel them.

  ‘But maybe not, right?’ she says. ‘I mean I’m sure these disagreements happen all the time.’

  ‘On first meetings?’

  ‘Yup,’ she says, considering this fact. ‘You may well have blown it.’

  I side-step a Staffie with a gigantic stick in its mouth. ‘What do I do?’

  ‘Swallow your pride and apologise?’

  ‘That’s really hard to do when a near stranger has crapped all over the script I’ve spent years working on, particularly somebody who seriously winds me up.’

  ‘Is this about the script or the bloke?’

  ‘The script.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes!’ I say, a touch defensively.

  ‘So, if Mike Steinfeldt had told you to make it “edgier” or “real” or whatever it is they want, you’d have told him to shove it where the sun doesn’t shine too?’

  I think about this for a moment. She has a point. I would have hung on Mike’s every word, even if they did make me feel uncomfortable.

  ‘So then I guess it’s about the guy,’ I say, which seems to surprise me more than it does Astrid.

  ‘And what is it about this guy, exactly?’

  ‘He’s an ass-wipe!’

  ‘An “ass-wipe”?’ Astrid laughs at my Americanism.

  ‘Fine, I have no idea where that came from either. He thinks there’s too many sequels out there and he’s clearly no fan of Ephron. How are we meant to work together? I couldn’t sit there and listen to him tear my work to shreds and not want to grab his ridiculous specs from his face, mess up his hair and twist off his bow tie. The guy’s an over-stylised, over-opinionated, total moron, plus he has atrocious table manners.’

  ‘But he does work for Mi
ke Steinfeldt, head of development at Castle Rock.’

  ‘So not a total moron but ninety per cent moron, at least.’

  ‘Well, ninety per cent moron or not, you’re lumbered with him, unless you want to throw in the towel, and lose out on the biggest opportunity of your life, and the chance to flip the bird at Will I’m-a-schmuck Masterson.’

  ‘I know. You’re right.’ I sigh, realising what I have to do. ‘I’ll call and apologise in the morning.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  ‘Have I missed anything at the shop?’

  ‘Just the weekly Skype call.’

  ‘Anything to report.’

  ‘I told him sales were up.’

  ‘Was he impressed?’

  ‘Hard to tell. He wasn’t unimpressed.’

  ‘And how was La Gavroche?’

  ‘Didn’t happen.’

  ‘Didn’t happen?’ I ask, stopping momentarily to catch my breath. ‘How come?’

  Astrid shakes her head and slows her pace past the huge greenhouses.

  ‘Aidan’s still sick.’

  ‘How sick?’ I figure, at the very least, a limb must have dropped off to justify the decision not to take Astrid out on their anniversary, especially after forgetting Valentine’s.

  ‘I don’t know. Sick enough to be off work.’

  ‘Has he seen a doctor?’

  ‘She said it’s exhaustion.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  She shrugs. ‘He’ll get better. There’ll be other dinners.’

  The big house and café come into sight, which signals the end of our workout.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Only reason I put us through this!’ She takes off her headscarf and wraps it round her body like a sarong as I head to get drinks. ‘And don’t forget the cake!’

  I’m at the foot of the Georgian steps when I catch a familiar figure out of the corner of my eye. For a split second it reminds me of Jay Gatsby – a strong, lone figure in a light suit strolling into my field of vision, the lowering sun obscuring my view. Sadly, I can’t compare myself to Daisy Buchanan, unless Daisy had an alter-ego who wore synthetic tracksuit bottoms, ill-fitting T-shirts and had the ability to sweat like an angry mule. It takes a moment for the penny to drop, that the figure is no handsome millionaire but Will, dressed in cricket whites.

  ‘Nina!’ he says, clocking my sweaty under-boob, and my tracky-bums, which are bunched at my middle making me look seven months pregnant. Once upon I might have cared but now it doesn’t bother me.

  ‘Will.’ I go in for an air kiss, which he misinterprets and winds up kissing me half on the lips, half on my sweaty face. We both glance away, embarrassed, as if this is the most intimate we’ve ever been.

  I notice he has new trainers. Will always bought new trainers in spring; they remind me of how many months have passed, how much we’ve both moved on. And that feels okay, if still a smidge regrettable.

  ‘How are things?’ he asks.

  ‘Good. I’m working with Castle Rock on developing the script, it’s going great.’ It’s a minor lie; he doesn’t need to know that I just walked out on my co-writer and the whole thing is probably hanging by a fraying thread.

  ‘I know how much that must mean to you.’

  It feels good to be sharing my news, and not in a ‘fuck-you’ way, just happy to be sharing it with someone who knows how important it is, although, I can’t deny, there is a little bit of ‘look at me now’ about it.

  ‘Thanks, Will.’

  There is a difficult pause.

  ‘Well, I’m getting Astrid coffee and cake, so…’ I swing my arms, uncertain what else to say other than to mention the mail that’s waiting for him to collect.

  ‘You know, there’s no point in exercising if you fill up on junk afterwards,’ he says.

  ‘Right.’ It’s oddly comforting that he spoils our conversation by saying something unkind, it makes it much easier to walk away. But before I can my phone rings.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Nina, it’s Ben.’

  A flutter of anxiety flits through my tummy.

  I move away from Will to suggest, this is all very important, a distance big enough that should Ben tell me Mike has decided to drop the project, Will won’t hear me being dumped on from high.

  ‘I thought I should check in with you, make sure I didn’t upset you too much.’

  ‘Not at all!’ I hope I sound as if it was nothing, as if I haven’t spent the last few hours replaying it over and over in my head, terrified that I may have jeopardised the entire project. Even if the guy is 90 per cent moron, I probably should have bitten my tongue.

  ‘You’re happy to meet up again, try and put some of our thoughts into practice?’

  ‘Of course.’ I try to sound nonchalant when my insides are dancing in delight, even if it does mean more work with Ben.

  ‘Great. How about tomorrow evening, around seven? Timberyard, Covent Garden?’

  ‘See you there,’ I say, clicking off my phone.

  ‘My co-writer,’ I say to Will, and yes, this time I’m gloating, hoping that Will might think my life is at least a little better without him.

  ‘Co-writer?’

  ‘I’m collaborating on the Ephron piece with an Oscar-nominated screenwriter.’ I say this with an air of confidence that suggests anyone who’s anyone collaborates, and belies the fact a) I can’t stand the co-writer, and b) I almost blew the relationship before it began. ‘I should go. I’ve a lot of work to do before tomorrow and Astrid is waiting.’

  ‘You mustn’t keep a girl waiting for sugar and caffeine. Bye, Nina.’

  ‘Goodbye, Will,’ I say, attempting to bounce perkily up the steps but instead tripping and stopping myself from skidding straight across the paving. I glance back to catch Will walking away, shaking his head and chuckling.

  Pillock, I think, as I head inside.

  19

  I arrive at Timberyard to find Ben stretched out on a grey corner sofa with the apple of his computer shining brightly.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, trying to sound less uptight than I’m feeling.

  He sits up from where he’s slouched to make room for me, pulling his skinny jean-clad legs tight against the sofa so that I can squeeze past, but still I manage to catch my foot on his and basically propel myself onto the space on the couch next to him.

  ‘How are you?’ he asks, seemingly unaware of my stumble, running his hands through his hair, which isn’t quite so coiffed today and the beard is a little less manicured. For once I don’t feel the need to mess up his hair. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’

  ‘A strong mocha would be nice.’ After looking after my sister’s kids all day I’m in need of a caffeine fix.

  ‘And a cake?’ he asks. ‘I work better with nosh in me.’

  ‘Me too!’ I laugh lightly, marginally warmed by this revelation.

  ‘What would you like?’

  There’s an amazing selection of muffins, flapjacks, cookies and tarts in the counter. Everything looks so good. I realise this decision could take a while, probably more time than we have, so I tell him, ‘You decide.’

  When Ben returns with a tray of coffees and cakes, I have my laptop set up on a table fashioned from a stack of leather suitcases and a plank of wood. The floor lamp arcing above me creates a pool of light for us to work in.

  ‘I wasn’t sure what you’d like so I got a few things.’ He places a coffee in front of me, and a plate of cakes in the middle of the table. ‘Cherry and almond tart, zucchini and coconut loaf, ginger stout cake and peanut butter cookie. Which would you like?’

  I admire his selection. ‘They all look good. Maybe I’ll try the…’ I pause, wondering if Ben can hear the cake-decision-thought-vacuum whirring in my brain. Wanting to maintain an air of professionalism after yesterday’s debacle, I say the first thing that trips off my tongue. ‘Ginger stout, please.’

  Ben helps himself to the zucchini and coconut loaf which, now that I see it on his p
late, I realise is the one I really want.

  ‘I’m sorry if I was a bit in your face yesterday,’ he says, taking a fork full of loaf. ‘I forget that everyone isn’t developing scripts every day of their life. After a while you become immune to criticism.’

  ‘It’s fine.’ It’s kind of him to apologise, and in return, doing as Astrid suggested, I swallow my pride. ‘I probably overreacted.’

  ‘Start over?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say, thankful of the fresh start, and feeling the tiniest bit guilty for having judged him so harshly.

  ‘I thought we might revisit the idea about Harry’s new best mate. Have you had any thoughts about that?’ He wipes his hands of crumbs and finishes another mouthful of cake, which is rapidly disappearing.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About Harry’s best mate,’ he repeats, pushing up his Woody Allen specs with a knuckle.

  ‘Yes, sorry, could I…?’ I point my fork to his cake.

  ‘Of course!’ He slides the plate towards me. I take a piece, which melts in my mouth, leaving a light hint of coconut and lime.

  ‘Bliss.’ I indicate with my fork that I need more of that.

  ‘Be my guest.’ He passes it to me. ‘So, a new best friend or not?’

  ‘I’m happy to give it a go,’ I say, softened by his cake generosity. ‘If Sally has Marie then Harry should probably have someone too.’

  ‘Great! I was thinking we could introduce him in the bar scene with Harry and George.’

  I bring up the scene on my laptop.

  ‘So, who should he be?’ he asks.

  ‘He needs to be different from Jess, right? Less of a romantic, less intellectual, less…’ I struggle to find the right words.

  ‘Middle class?’

  ‘Exactly, he should be successful but from working-class roots with working-class values.’

  ‘A man’s man.’

  ‘Someone who isn’t afraid to speak his mind. He has stereotypical views on women and marriage—’

  ‘Works too hard, drinks too much.’

  ‘He sounds like the sort of person Harry would never have dared be friends with when he was with Sally,’ I say, wondering if it’s the right way to go with the character.