Given that I was currently wrapped in a curtain, this was a struggle.
From my vantage point I could see Sam-and-Max sitting at a table on either side of an empty chair I assumed had been Monty’s before he’d spotted them coming into the room and hidden in the nearest restroom.
If the producers saw me, they’d know for sure that Monty was still in the building. Somehow, I needed to get past them and help Monty escape without them noticing.
“You’re welcome to sit in the bar while you wait for Monty.”
I hugged the material closer to me, trying desperately to decide what to do. The producers could be here for only one thing. Eighteen months ago, Ezra Chester had signed a contract with Sam-and-Max’s up-and-coming film company, Intrepid Productions, to write their next film—a romantic comedy. They’d wanted the hottest new talent behind their project. Enter Ezra and his Oscar-winning kudos. The fact that this rom-com would be the first follow-up to his major success, the ultimate tearjerker A Heart Lies Bleeding, made him all the more alluring.
When the original deadline whizzed past with no sign of the script, they’d been very understanding, especially when Monty had explained to them that Ezra’s grandmother had just passed away. But then Ezra missed the next deadline, and the next . . . and the producers had stepped up their game.
Since then Sam-and-Max have been pursuing the script with a cheerfulness bordering on aggression. Looking at them now, dressed in identical blue suits, worry on their blandly good-looking faces, I wondered why they wanted to meet with Monty so badly they’d broken his cardinal rule (no surprise meetings). Was it because what Ezra had managed to write was actually terrible? The tiniest part of me hoped this was true . . .
Because there was something Sam-and-Max couldn’t know about their beloved screenwriter. The same something I would never tell the Jodis or the Geraldines of the world.
The truth was that Ezra Chester—Academy Award winner, charitable heartthrob, and industry darling—was an arrogant, insufferable arse.
My friends had taken to calling him Number One Boychild (NOB for short) after he’d stormed out of a meeting because I’d gotten his coffee order wrong, and then refused to return until Monty promised him cocktails. The meeting had been about his charity for underprivileged children, several of whom had been in the room at the time. It was a testament to Monty’s PR skills that NOB’s charity work had anyone fooled about his real nature. Now I had to be incredibly careful never to call him NOB to his infuriatingly beautiful face.
Thinking about him gave me an idea. “I promise I’ll move, if you wouldn’t mind doing one small thing for Monty,” I said, because the waiter wouldn’t be able to refuse one of the Ash’s founding members.
He looked both relieved and concerned. “I can’t do anything that will upset the other patrons,” he cautioned.
“Look.” I tried to keep the desperation from my voice. “The truth is if I screw this up, my boss will use it as another reason not to promote me. Please.” I shuffled toward him as much as the curtain would allow. “Do I look like the kind of woman who has other options?”
He shook his head—insulting—and I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile before explaining exactly what I needed him to do.
* * *
“Is Mr. Montgomery here? Mr. Chester has just arrived and is waiting in the VIP area downstairs.”
The waiter was standing within earshot of Sam-and-Max while talking to his colleague.
“Come on, come on,” I prayed.
I saw them sit up straighter, exchange a look, stand, and head as one toward where I was hidden. I shrank back behind the curtain, one of its tassels tickling my nose.
Their footsteps faded away down the stairs and I counted to ten before slipping out and heading for the door on the opposite side of the room, trying not to feel as out of place as I must have looked with my mussed hair and Doc Martens.
The women’s toilet was lit by a vaguely apologetic kind of lighting designed to make you feel you were stepping into something illicit. I could just about make out beveled pink tiles, a lot of chrome, and products that probably cost more than a month’s salary.
There was only one stall in use. “Monty?” I called hesitantly.
“Evelyn? What took you so long?” Monty’s cut-glass accent held an edge of hysteria.
“You can come out now, it’s clear.”
“Yes, why didn’t I think of that?” He rattled the door from the inside. “That’s right—I’m stuck.”
For a moment we both pushed back and forth, which only succeeded in establishing that he was right. “I think it’s the lock,” said Monty.
“I’m going to have to get someone.”
Monty made a strangled sound. “I’ll be the talk of the club! Can’t you jimmy it a bit . . . ?” He went quiet as the main door opened. An older woman breezed in. I smiled at her and pulled out my phone to send a quick message to JEMS, hoping someone would be up after midnight.
EVIE: does anyone know how to unjam a toilet door?
Jeremy worked as an attorney and often kept odd hours. Maria was an editor for a monthly food magazine, a job that rarely necessitated an all-nighter, apart from when she left dough to rise. Sarah worked in HR and finished at 5:30 p.m. on the dot, because her time-management skills were a force to be reckoned with. She was probably fast asleep.
I saw a response pop up and almost sagged with relief—until I read it.
JEREMY: why would it be covered in jam?
EVIE: Are you still working?
JEREMY: just for some of my freebie clients. Homeless guy arrested for begging outside M&S. Thank goodness a diligent officer prevented such a terrible crime
JEREMY: wait, are you stuck in a toilet?
EVIE: not me. Monty
JEREMY: . . .
EVIE: stop laughing, please. This is serious
JEREMY: sorry. If Sarah was up she’d probably have some annoyingly useful solutions. Have you tried putting soap on the hinges?
EVIE: right now, I’ll try anything
JEREMY: you could try leaving him there
“Do you mind?” I looked up from my phone to find the woman smiling and gesturing to my sink. Now I recognized her. She was a Dame, over seventy, and fiercely chic. Ramrod-straight neck and shoulders, cropped white hair, and loose, flowing clothes, with a silk scarf draped elegantly over one shoulder. She exuded grace and poise. I blinked at her in awe, then realized she was still waiting.
I stood back. “Sorry, I’m just waiting for my friend.”