Prologue
FADE IN
INT: GIL’S COFFEE HOUSE, EAST DULWICH—SUNDAY, DECEMBER 2, UNGODLY HOUR (10 A.M.)
EVIE SUMMERS—late twenties, freckled, red curls down to her shoulders, a bright yellow 1950s-style tea dress, Doc Martens—stands in front of the counter, tapping her foot, clearly full of nervous energy.
The barista was taking his time with my order, and I silently thanked his dedication to the art of a well-squeezed orange. I glanced at his “Hello! My name is” badge. Xan. One of those names that announces the next generation is here, and they craft organic juice like it’s a meditative experience. As the queue grew longer behind me, my orange juice was achieving Zen.
For once, though, I didn’t mind holding anyone else up—today I needed Xan to take his sweet time so I could gear myself up for what I was about to do.
“Want me to add in a little something extra to make it special?”
Only if it’s vodka, Xan. “What did you have in mind?”
“The magic ingredient—perfect for hangovers.” Xan unfurled his fingers, revealing an egg. I waved at him to stick it in the blender—it wasn’t like I was planning to drink it.
By now, my hands were shaking, which would certainly help make what I was about to do look like an accident. I took a few deep breaths. You can do this, Evie Summers, I told myself sternly.
Though, if I was going to do this properly, I had to come away with the poor guy’s name, and, if it went really well, his number.
I checked my phone while Xan blended and saw the JEMS group chat was active.
JEREMY: is she doing it? Evie, Evie, Evie. Are you doing it? TELL ME YOU ARE DOING IT
SARAH: Mar, have you sorted out the table centers yet?
JEREMY: Sarah, you want the BRIDEZILLA chat thread. This one is for more important things
MARIA: GUYS. Evie, are you sure you want to do this? I mean, god, I hope you do it, but are you sure?
“Ta-da!” Xan said, brandishing my juice. My heart convulsed. It was time.
EVIE: I’m going in
Even this early on a Sunday, the Southeast London café was packed. Ahead of me lay an obstacle course. Crisply dressed teenagers straight out of tube ads for online fashion sites everyone is too old for. Laptop users pretending they hadn’t already finished the coffee they were still nursing. Yummy Mummies with perfect, doll-like kids. And him—Ramones Guy.
I’d chosen him as my mark from the table where I’d perched earlier with my laptop so that I could see everyone who entered the café. He’d sat near the big Christmas tree. Late twenties, cute, bearded, wearing a Ramones T-shirt under a checked shirt, and more student than adult (i.e., just my type).
He’d arrived on his own, he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, he didn’t have any children—basically, he’d achieved the bare-minimum requirements for a potential love interest. Lucky him.
Though, if I were being honest, he didn’t just tick some boxes—I genuinely found him attractive, which was making me even more nervous. Because these days, my approach to finding someone I liked was to imagine the life we might have together and then never speak to them. Not what I was about to do.
I emerged from the cluster of tables a few steps away from my target. He was leaning over his book—How Not to Grow Up! by Richard Herring—which gave me pause. Is that something my love interest would read? But I couldn’t afford to be choosy, so I started to close the gap between us.
Three more steps.
Two.
One.
I was right by him. He was even cuter close up.
Now or never.
I held the juice out as I approached, heart simultaneously in my throat and rapping so hard against my ribs it felt like it was trying to escape.
Come on, come on, NOW!
Ramones Guy laughed at something he’d just read . . . and I walked straight past him.
Damn it. I couldn’t do it. But I also couldn’t back out.
Because, just maybe, I was about to meet the man of my dreams. We’d lock eyes and, in that instant, we’d both know we were about to start the rest of our lives together, just like in a film. Though right now, holding an orange juice with an egg in it, I felt as far from the silver screen as it was possible to get.
I’d been walking as slowly as possible, but now I was back at my table. I’d sat at the communal one, and in my absence a man and his daughter had joined me. Him: midthirties, neat, dark hair, reading the Sunday paper, with the look of someone with IT in his job title. Her: cute, slightly wonky pigtails, red-rimmed glasses, about seven years old. Her legs were swinging as she read her book. I had a vague feeling I’d seen them in here before.
I got out my phone as I hovered by my laptop.
EVIE: I couldn’t do it. Why did I think I could? And isn’t it your responsibility as my friends to stop me from doing something that’s clearly bonkers?
SARAH: you can do whatever you put your mind to. Though, yes, it is absolutely bonkers
JEREMY: Evie, don’t you dare back out now. Go get your Hugh Grant
MARIA: you can do this, Evie! Take a deep breath and try again. We believe in you!
JEREMY: do it for love! At least, do it for us
For the most part, my best friends were sane, intelligent people, and it made me feel better to be reminded that even they had encouraged me to do this.
Besides, they were right. I could do it. Or, rather, I had to.
I’d delayed long enough. In that brief pause before I turned back, the man at my table looked up at me, as if wondering about my behavior. I tried to seem like I’d simply forgotten something and needed to go back for it. Which people do all the time, thank you very much.
This time I took a shorter route, which meant squeezing past the cabal of perfectly turned-out mothers.
Two neatly dressed, wide-eyed children were blocking my path, one white-blond, the other with straight dark hair, both looking like they’d answered a casting call for “children that could haunt your nightmares.”
“Sorry, I just need to get past. Thanks. So if you could . . .” My drink dribbled down my wrist and I hastily straightened the glass before any more escaped. Imagine a Notting Hill where, instead of spilling his drink on Julia Roberts, Hugh Grant simply flattened his empty cup against her chest.
“Please move,” I pleaded quietly. They smiled. “Please?” I said, a little louder, flicking my gaze toward Ramones Guy to check that he hadn’t left.
One of the mothers—blond, wearing ironic high-waisted “mom jeans” and box-fresh sneakers—leaned away from her conversation with her friend with the gleaming ponytail to appraise me. “Is everything okay?”