If Harry Met Sally Again Read online

  Marie – keep as is, she can be recast.

  I can’t pretend I wasn’t happy when Mike told me I didn’t have to remove Marie from the script and create an entirely knew best friend for Sally. Not that I believe anyone could possibly match the iconic appeal of Carrie Fisher, but the twinge of disappointment in seeing someone else play her will be worth it for not having that huge extra piece of work.

  ‘What’s next? Add Truman and Anna taking their vows.’

  There’s no way I’m in the mood for writing a wedding scene. But, more determined than ever to show Will that I can get this film made, I dig into my deepest resources, channelling Ephron as best I can:

  INT. CONRAD SUITE, WALDORF ASTORIA

  Anna in her delicate, antique wedding dress with a stunning bouquet of peonies, coming down the aisle on the arm of her father.

  Truman stands nervously beside the priest with his best man, George.

  Harry and Sally, standing together, look at each other proudly. Sally dabs the corner of an eye with a handkerchief.

  Vows are said. Rings are exchanged. The bride and groom kiss.

  That done I run my finger down the to-do list, scoring things off before arriving at ‘divorced couple interludes’.

  When Mike mentioned this idea to me I liked it very much but I wasn’t certain how to pull it off. The idea is to replicate the short scenes from the original movie in which real couples tell the stories of how they fell in love and married. The difference being that this time it’s divorced couples telling how they fell out of love and separated.

  Not sure where to begin I do a quick Google search on the top five reasons why people divorce. They include: lack of communication, finances, trust, religious and cultural differences, and empty nest syndrome.

  ‘Hardly comedy gold,’ I say to myself, wondering how I can turn such misery into humour. I think about Ephron’s couples and how they were all older, larger-than-life characters. ‘Maybe the humour isn’t in their stories per se but in the individuals.’

  I start to type:

  Fade In:

  DOCUMENTARY FOOTAGE

  A couple sit in separate chairs with a gap between them, looking straight at the camera. He is about ninety, looking as if he’s on his last legs; she’s about fifty and has clearly had a lot of plastic surgery.

  MAN

  She was a college friend of my daughter’s. She used to come over to the house and we’d talk. Then she started coming over when my daughter wasn’t there. One thing led to another and we married. Ten years later we were divorced. I should have realised that a woman forty years my junior could only be interested in one thing…

  WOMAN

  (dryly, through huge silicone lips)

  And it wasn’t his stories of the Depression.

  ‘Nice,’ I say, feeling as if it’s got something of the original movie about it. With a boost of confidence I type some more.

  Fade In:

  DOCUMENTARY FOOTAGE

  A middle-aged, Italian-American couple sit on the same chairs we saw earlier.

  MAN

  I stole her from a friend of mine. He caught us tied up like roosters in his bedroom. In the end he forgave me when I said I wanted to marry her.

  WOMAN

  Fifteen years later I found him and the same friend bound up in leather in our bedroom. I didn’t forgive him. I said I wanted a divorce.

  ‘Happy with that.’ A growing certainty comes over me that Will will soon be laughing on the other side of his face. I start on the next one.

  Fade In:

  DOCUMENTARY FOOTAGE

  Another couple, working-class, in their late fifties.

  MAN

  We were childhood sweethearts. We married at eighteen, as soon as it was legal. We had babies straight away.

  WOMAN

  Six of them!

  MAN

  Everything was perfect.

  WOMAN

  Then they grew up.

  MAN

  And we realised we had nothing to say to each other.

  They look at each other and say nothing.

  ‘And maybe one inspired by Ephron.’ I reach for Heartburn, Ephron’s only novel, which is a fictional account of her second marriage.

  Fade In:

  DOCUMENTARY FOOTAGE

  Another couple, in their late sixties, Jewish, affluent, stylish.

  WOMAN

  We met on the Washington shuttle

  MAN

  I offered her the window seat

  WOMAN

  We were married five months later.

  MAN

  She moved from New York to Washington.

  WOMAN

  There are no good bagels in Washington.

  MAN

  She got pregnant. Twice.

  WOMAN

  The second time he cheated on me. I was seven months pregnant. Seven months.

  They stare straight ahead.

  ‘And lastly I need to write one for Harry and Sally, a piece that tags onto the final scene, one that mirrors Harry and Sally discussing how they met and married, and now, thirty years on, how they fell out of love and divorced.’

  Fade In:

  DOCUMENTARY FOOTAGE

  Harry and Sally.

  HARRY

  We were friends for a long time.

  SALLY

  And then we weren’t.

  HARRY

  And then we fell in love and got married. We had a kid.

  SALLY

  A great kid.

  HARRY smiles at Sally, they both nod in agreement.

  SALLY

  (cont)

  Then he had an affair and I told him I wanted a divorce.

  HARRY

  So we got a divorce and didn’t speak for years.

  SALLY

  Then we starting talking again.

  HARRY

  And we realised we were still really good friends.

  SALLY

  So we’re friends again.

  HARRY

  Friends.

  They smile at each other, platonically, comfortable in each other’s company.

  ‘Fantastic,’ I say, doing a little ‘I’ll show you dance’ with my shoulders.

  I type into the early morning until every comment box on the script has been deleted, every typo and grammatical error fixed, and most of the selection box finished, bar the Crunchie, the mere thought of which makes my teeth hurt. By nine in the morning it is done: finished, finito, fini. My eyes ache, my hands are cold, my brain feels like it’s been pickled, but the changes are complete.

  I create an email to Caroline to forward to Mike Steinfeldt, write a message that belies my anxiety, and attach the script. I hesitate about sending it. After several moments of staring blankly at my computer, stretching, circling my head and other methods of procrastination, I take a large intake of breath and, with all the courage I can muster, I hit ‘send’.

  12

  ‘Really, really sorry,’ I say, arriving very late at Narissa’s house, having been essentially robbed by the only black-cab driver I could find working on New Year’s Day. ‘Resolution number one: stop being late.’

  ‘Not a problem; we’re running late too,’ says Toby, letting me into their double-fronted house off the Northcote Road in Clapham. Their home cost them the best part of two million pounds; I know that because I snooped on Zoopla. When Narissa went to university, Toby got lucky with a house in Queen’s Park that he bought when the area was still a place where only students and hippies lived, and sold it three years ago for about ten times what it cost to buy. Not that I’m bitter at all.

  ‘I overslept,’ I explain as Toby takes my coat.

  Overslept is the understatement of the century. I woke from a coma-like sleep at two in the afternoon, having meant to have arrived at Narissa’s by one o’clock for lunch. Without stopping for a pee and with my clothes still on from last night, I grabbed my bag and a bottle of flat Coke and headed out the door.

 
‘Right,’ he says, looking at my appearance, which now that I see in it their hall mirror and in the context of their elegant, Sanderson-decorated home, is quite slummy. I’ve got spectacular bed hair– I look like the love child of Russell Brand and Marge Simpson.

  ‘Hello!’ I wave breezily to my parents and the kids in the living room. Mum is sitting on the mustard-coloured velvet sofa, teaching Tilly how to knit. I wonder about the sense in letting Tilly loose on anything that could ultimately serve as a weapon. Dad is snoozing in one of the plush armchairs in the window. Henry is lying in front of the vast television, watching Cars. Mum glances up, she’s the only one who does.

  ‘Darling, you look…’ she searches for the right word. ‘Alternative.’

  ‘Drink?’ asks Toby.

  ‘Please.’ I follow him to the kitchen, with its French doors to the garden, huge central island, and lemon-yellow Aga, where Narissa is turning fat-spitting, roast potatoes.

  ‘Nice of you to join us,’ she says, eyeing me with a look that suggests I was partying, which I guess I was, but it’s not the thing that made me late, and most of the night is a bit of a blur anyway so I’m not sure it counts. ‘Tobes, get everyone to the table.’

  Toby hands me a gin and tonic and gestures that it’s probably best we retreat.

  ‘Take your places, everyone,’ he calls. I go into the dining room with its faux-Victorian wallpaper and reconditioned chandelier. My sister doesn’t know how to decorate, she grew up in the same cardboard box as me; she pays someone to have taste for her.

  Mum and Dad saunter through, wine glasses in hand, and stand behind their places at the table. Tilly hares in, climbs onto her chair and starts playing with the delicate, porcelain salt and pepper pots in the shape of doves.

  ‘Henry,’ says Toby when he fails to move from in front of the television. ‘Henry, dining room.’ Nothing. The television is turned off; Henry starts to whine.

  ‘Table. Now!’

  ‘I don’t think we need to raise our voices,’ says Narissa, in an overly restrained way, joining him in the hall. I wonder why she’s being prickly with Toby instead of with Henry.

  ‘Actually, I think we do,’ says Toby. ‘Given that the softly, softly approach isn’t working.’

  ‘We need to see it from his point of view.’

  ‘Or, he needs to see it from ours.’

  Dad nods his head, Mum nudges him not to interfere.

  ‘Dad-dy!’ screams Henry. I crane my neck to see what’s happening. Toby is carrying Henry by his jumper and trousers and bringing him into the dining room kicking and screaming.

  ‘Toby, put him down!’ says Narissa. Toby doesn’t. Henry is plunked into the chair next to mine.

  ‘Hi, Henry,’ I say.

  ‘Stinky Auntie Neenaw,’ he says, thumping me on the arm.

  ‘Delightful.’

  ‘Henry, apologise to your aunt,’ says Toby, taking his seat at the head of the table.

  ‘Won’t.’

  Dad takes a sharp intake of breath, horrified by Henry’s backchat. When he bends down to rub his ankle, I assume Mum has kicked him under the table, her way of telling him not to interfere with Narissa and Toby’s parenting, whatever they might think of it.

  ‘Apologise or you don’t get to watch telly for the rest of the year.’

  Tilly gasps. Henry thinks about this.

  ‘Saw-ree,’ he mutters, folding his arms defiantly.

  ‘Forgotten,’ I say, as my phone vibrates in my pocket.

  ‘Well, now that everyone’s present,’ says Narissa, attempting to sound calm but unable to hide her annoyance. ‘Let’s begin.’

  She brings in dish after dish of perfect-looking food. I figure the joint of beef alone cost more than I take home each week.

  ‘Who’d like broccoli?’ asks Toby.

  ‘Not me,’ grumps Henry, jabbing his buttered knife at a slice of bread.

  ‘You need to have one piece.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says your father.’ Toby places a piece on Henry’s plate

  ‘Yuckie smuckie!’ Henry throws the piece of broccoli onto the floor; it lands on my shoe.

  ‘Nice,’ I say.

  Toby pushes back his chair. ‘Henry Arthur Lowe.’

  ‘Toby, leave it. Let’s not create a scene,’ says Narissa, from the other end of the table. Toby sits down.

  With another toddler meltdown and subsequent parental dispute brewing I slip my phone out of my pocket to check my messages. There’s one from Astrid:

  Worse start to New Year ever – Aidan hasn’t come home.

  ‘I’m sick and tired of the three-year-old calling the shots around here,’ mumbles Toby.

  Where did he go? N xx

  ‘Are you questioning my parenting skills?’ asks Narissa.

  Isn’t everyone? I think.

  He must have taken off with the boys after the party. I went home alone.

  ‘No, I’m merely suggesting that—’

  ‘Mummy,’ says Tilly, interrupting her father.

  ‘Yes, princess?’

  ‘Auntie Neenaw’s playing on her phone.’

  Narissa looks at me; clocks me stashing it back into my pocket. She raises an eyebrow.

  ‘I know, I know,’ I say, annoyed with Tilly, the little snitch. ‘It’s just that Astrid’s upset. Aidan hasn’t come home.’

  ‘Sounds like she needs to run a tighter ship,’ says Narissa.

  ‘I’m not sure this has anything to do with—’ I say, feeling my phone vibrating against my thigh.

  ‘She’s far too liberal for her own good,’ continues Nissy. Pot kettle black, I think. ‘She’s only going to run into problems further down the line.’

  ‘Right,’ I sigh, sneaking another peek at my phone.

  ‘Mummy—’ says Tilly, now tugging on Narissa’s sleeve.

  ‘Nina, turn it off.’

  I do as she asks.

  ‘Daddy isn’t allowed to play with his phone at the table,’ crows Tilly. ‘Mummy says so.’

  ‘And no one dares question Mummy,’ mutters Toby, stabbing at his vegetables. Narissa drinks her wine; the kids push food round their plates. I tuck into my very expensive beef, wondering what’s going down between my big sister and her husband.

  13

  When an email pinged into my account from Mike Steinfeldt’s office the next day I almost choked on my Coke with excitement. It turned out to be from his assistant, Andrew, who assured me they’d received the script from Caroline, that Mike would read it ‘ASAP’ and they’d be in touch via Caroline as and when. But over the coming weeks there was no news and Astrid had to confiscate my phone several times to stop me from checking it every minute of the day.

  Astrid was kind of quiet just after New Year’s. Aidan had returned home, she said, and all was well. Nothing to worry about. But she didn’t seem her normal self. It didn’t help that the shop was dead at the start of January, though that did enable us to plan upcoming events and to get on top of some admin. In the middle of January snow fell, which meant the entire city came to a standstill and the bookshop was even quieter than normal. Nora Ephron would have summarised the month with a montage, underscored with a standard from the Great American Songbook. It would have looked something like this:

  A series of shots showing:

  INT. LOVE BOOKS – A DAY IN JANUARY

  Nina and Astrid are taking down Christmas decorations. A customer enters the shop but leaves quickly when they realise how cold it is.

  EXT. LOVE BOOKS – ANOTHER DAY IN JANUARY

  Shop window with the blackboard promoting an upcoming author event. There is one customer in the shop browsing, and Doreen, parked at the counter.

  EXT. LOVE BOOKS – ANOTHER DAY

  It’s snowing. Aidan and Ed are taking a battered, green chesterfield sofa out of Ed’s Range Rover and are trying to squeeze it through the shop door. Aidan is obviously grumpy, unwell and wrapped in a thousand layers.

  ‘What are you doing?’ as
ks Astrid, as she closes the door on the last of the mums and toddlers she’s been reading to as part of our weekly storytelling sessions. We decided after the first session, when none of the mums removed their three-year-olds’ jackets, hats or scarves, that we’d better put the heating back on. Sales picked up enough at the end of the month to warrant the decision.

  ‘Just updating the website with next month’s reading group info,’ I tell her, finishing up the job and going behind the counter to serve another of our regulars, Cowboy Steve. Steve is an effeminate man so thin you can all but trace his skeleton through his skin, and he’s always dressed in skinny black jeans, black shirt with bolo tie and black ten-gallon hat.

  ‘How was your Christmas?’ I ask him.

  ‘Quiet,’ he says. There’s something in the way he says it that makes me think he really means lonely.

  ‘Well, you’re always welcome at Love Books.’ I hand him his bag.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am, I appreciate that.’

  ‘Anytime.’

  After he’s gone I check my phone to see if there’s news from Mike then I offer a coffee to Bat Shit Crazy, who is nestled in the chesterfield, a huge, worn cashmere scarf around her, reading Doris Lessing’s The Golden Notebook. Without eye contact she shakes her head and mutters, politely, ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Any news from Caroline?’ asks Astrid with a yawn.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Perhaps tomorrow,’ she says, stretching into a yoga pose or other. ‘Maybe we should be thinking about our series of writing workshops, keep your mind off the not knowing.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘We need to think about who the classes are aimed at. Beginners?’

  ‘Probably best.’ I glance over to the couch, where Bat Shit Crazy has momentarily put down her book and is rubbing an enormous, antique diamond on her ring finger. When our eyes meet she quickly returns to Lessing, pushing her hair over her face in a manner akin to a cat cleaning its ears.