Would Like to Meet Read online

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  Publishers Since 1838

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2019 by Rachel Winters

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Ebook ISBN 9780525542322

  Title page art: Coffee ring by Monash/Shutterstock.com

  Interior art: Emoji by Cosmic_Design/Shutterstock.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  For anyone who’s ever been told they’re not good enough

  (you are)

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Code Red

  Chapter 2: Stuck

  Chapter 3: NOB

  Chapter 4: The Challenge

  Chapter 5: The Moral Support

  Chapter 6: The List

  Chapter 7: The Drink Spill Takes One and Two

  Chapter 8: The Other Shoe

  Chapter 9: The One Where They Meet in a Bookshop

  Chapter 10: Mash-Up

  Chapter 11: Not-a-Pervert Paul

  Chapter 12: WLTM

  Chapter 13: Wind, Actually

  Chapter 14: Ramblin’ Man

  Chapter 15: The Arsh-hole

  Chapter 16: A Hot Brunette

  Chapter 17: Sleepless in Sheffield

  Chapter 18: New Year’s Evie

  Chapter 19: A Cheeky Nando’s

  Chapter 20: Anywhere, or Shrewksbury

  Chapter 21: Cover It in Glitter

  Chapter 22: Mathers Meltdown™

  Chapter 23: Girl Alone

  Chapter 24: Turtles All the Way Down

  Chapter 25: Out of Office

  Chapter 26: Mr. Judgy

  Chapter 27: Bridesmaids Revisited

  Chapter 28: The Boy Who Never Grew Up

  Chapter 29: Dicky

  Chapter 30: Ezra

  Chapter 31: Makeover Montage

  Chapter 32: Hollywood Miss

  Chapter 33: Piece of Cake

  Chapter 34: Round the Bend

  Chapter 35: Full Monty

  Chapter 36: Plus Two

  Chapter 37: Splat

  Chapter 38: JEMS

  Chapter 39: The Ending

  Chapter 40: Gil’s Take One Two Three

  Chapter 41: The Meet-Cute

  Epilogue: The Drink Spill

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  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 fa
r 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?”

  My cheeks immediately started to burn. “Everything is fine! Sorry. I just need to get past.”

  People at nearby tables were starting to look up.

  Ponytail shook her head. “Our children make their own decisions. Vendetta, Justice, what do you want to do?”

  Good Lord. The children looked at me and then held hands.

  The curse of having red hair, pale skin, and freckles is that your body turns traitor at the slightest provocation. I knew without looking that my chest and neck would be covered in red blotches. “You’re like a carrot! Look, Mummy, she’s a carrot!” the girl—Justice?—exclaimed.

  The boy’s face crumpled as he wailed, “Does she have a rash? Is she contagious?”

  “Clever word, Detty. No, the lady is just a little bit embarrassed!”

  “I’m scared,” Justice said.

  Now all five mothers were looking at me and I forced a smile, wishing I had the courage to tell them they were raising their children to one day become other children’s traumatic high-school experiences.

  Instead, face and chest still glowing, I swiveled to edge around their table. The mothers all watched me struggle past, while Justice, Vendetta, and the other Children of the Café (I assumed their names were Regret, Huge Mistake, and Grave Error) burst into high giggles.

  Ramones Guy was back in my line of sight. This time I was definitely going to do it. I’d walk straight toward him, eyes on my phone as if I wasn’t paying attention, and “accidentally” bump into him. Then we’d have a really cute “how we met” story. A meet-cute.

  Of course, the thing about not looking where you’re going is that knocking into someone is fairly inevitable. You just can’t always choose who.

  The next five seconds happened in excruciatingly slow motion.

  Five. I kept my eyes on my screen, held my glass high, and picked up speed.

  Four. At the last possible moment, I looked up.

  Three. My smile was shy; his eyes were filled with horror.

  Two. Because he had just been joined by his tiny granny, whom he was now clutching protectively to his chest.

  One. I smacked into him, compressing her between our two bodies as the orange juice left the glass.

  Everything came back into sharp focus. I pulled away, heart hammering, and was relieved to discover they were both dry. His sweet old granny was safe.

  “I am so sorry. Are you both all right?”

  “No thanks to you, you clumsy cow,” Granny said. Ramones Guy glared. I sighed. Something told me the two of us were not meant to be.

  I was about to offer more help, but unfortunately, what goes up must come down. And the sudden outraged screams told me exactly where.

  “Justice! Are you okay? Speak to Mummy!”

  Oh, no. I turned around, still holding the empty glass.

  Little Justice’s white-blond hair was now a bright orange as her mother frantically wiped at the sodden strands, her pointed face absolutely dripping. Detty was grinning as he watched his sobbing friend.

  “I’m really, truly sor—” I tried to say.

  “Is she okay?” Detty’s mother interrupted, from a safe distance.

  “No, she is not okay. For sodding’s sake, Janet, pass me a moist towelette.”

  Then something seemed to occur to Justice’s mother and she turned to where I stood, clutching the glass in both hands. She rubbed the juice between her fingers.

  “What, exactly,” she said to me, “is in this?”

  My voice came out strangled. “Oranges, that’s all.” She relaxed a little. “And an egg.”

  She shrieked and began wiping at her daughter even more furiously, blond bob swinging.

  Another mother called out, “Oh my God, Suze. Is she vegan?”

  Every part of me was on fire. “Can I help at all? Here, I’ll get napkins.” I ran back to my table, feeling a little hysterical. Both the dad and the daughter had their heads down, reading, the only two people in the whole café who were oblivious to what was happening. Their napkins were at the edge of the table closest to me. I put down the glass and grabbed them. As I did, the daughter raised her eyes . . . and winked. I was too flustered to respond.

  Suze snatched the napkins from me without comment, holding them in front of her daughter’s mouth.

  “Out!”

  Justice stuck out her tongue, and I swear she looked right at me as she did it. Suze started to wipe at it, her movements punctuating her words. “She. Is. Allergic. To. Egg. If she ingests even a tiny amount, she—” As if on cue, Justice went pale, then hiccuped.

  “Justice, tell Mummy you didn’t swallow.”

  The little girl burped once. Twice.

  This wasn’t actually going to happen, was it? I held my breath and seriously considered running out of the café, leaving my laptop and bag behind.

  “Mummy, is she contagious?” precious little Detty asked.

  Justice looked like she was about to cough, only . . . she didn’t.

  What can only be described as a gleaming fountain of sick shot out of her mouth with such force that when it hit Detty’s face he was knocked backward by a foot.

  The whole café froze, silent but for the deafening sound of dripping coming from Detty.

  Even though it was awful—truly, inescapably awful—and I felt terrible as the little girl’s projectile vomit once again managed to
target Detty’s upturned face, a very tiny, unforgivable part of me thought: And that’s why she’s called Justice.

  * * *

  I emerged from the restroom, where I’d been hiding only after the mothers and their children had finally left, thoroughly outraged and promising they wouldn’t be back. Xan had waved off my offer to help him clean up—apparently the mothers had been driving him and the rest of the staff crazy for weeks with their campaign against the gender-neutral bathrooms. He’d even made me a fresh coffee, which was waiting for me back at my table. I gave him a grateful wave.

  The dad and his kid were still there—I’d been hoping they’d have gone so I didn’t have to face anyone. The only sensible thing to do was down the coffee, pack up my belongings, and never return.

  As I sat back behind my laptop, using it as a shield, I risked a glance around the café. It had more or less settled back down.

  It was almost like nothing had happened.

  Except that I’d think about today every time I closed my eyes to sleep for the next ten years.

  JEREMY: well??? How did it go? Did you land Hugh Grant?

  SARAH: OMG Evie, tell me you didn’t actually go through with it, you weirdo

  MARIA: I’m here if you need to talk

  I flipped my phone over. It was too soon to relive the trauma.

  Picking up the coffee, I faced my blank screen. Now all I had to do was write about what just happened in agonizing detail, which was, after all, why I’d done it in the first place.

  As I started to type, I felt the peculiar itch of someone staring at me.

  The little girl. She appeared to be waiting for me to say something. I pushed my hair over my shoulder and leaned toward my laptop, hoping she’d get bored. She inched closer.

  “Well?” she said, impatiently. “How did we do?”

  “I’m sorry?” I asked her, baffled.

  “Anette,” the man cautioned distractedly, gently tugging his daughter to his side. “Leave the young lady alone.” Young lady! Something about the way he said this made me prickle. As if he were the only adult at the table.