Fuck Meet-Cutes

Hugh Grant straight-armed the door open and walked out onto the balcony of the Santa Monica Civic Center. The coos and clucking of fat women muffled as the door closed behind him. He took out a pack of cigarettes.

“Um, excuse me,” a voice said from his left. Tammy was the talent coordinator for the Santa Monica Romance Convention, and she had been a very polite pain in his ass for the preceding four hours. “Hugh Grant doesn’t smoke. He can’t be seen smoking by our guests.”

“Actually, he does smoke,” he muttered. “Google it. I’m just staying in character.”

Tammy pressed her thin lips together at that. “All right, I’ll look that up. Just be back in shortly, you’re leaving Renee Zellweger to fend for herself. And don’t forget the accent.”

“Too right, cheerio, see you soon luv, god save the queen,” Hugh piped to her in his best english accent as she slipped back into the crowded convention. His smile withered as the door clicked shut. “Asshole.”

“Your english accent’s kinda shit,” a voice said to his right. He looked to see Meg Ryan standing there. “You’re doing more cockney than posh. Hugh has a sort of classic english blueblood thing. Mind if I bum one of those?”

He held out the pack and she took a cigarette. “Me? You’re wearing the When Harry Met Sally outfit, but your hair’s short. She had long hair in that movie.”

“Ahh, but this is how people think of her. The You’ve Got Mail haircut is classic Meg Ryan. These slobs don’t remember those details, they just remember quotes.”

“Huh. Yeah, I guess.”

“You’re the only one who’s noticed. You’re very good, by the way. You’ve got his face. Me, I’ve just got it in the eyes and nose. My mouth is different. I can’t pull off the smile very well.”

Hugh affected a practiced, bashful and very convincing Hugh Grant grin.

“Wow, that’s eerie. Who’s your agency?”

“Spitting Image Entertainment, who’s yours?”

“We’ve Got Character.”

“Do you guys have a Tom Hanks?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“Kinda?”

Meg shrugged. “Well, he sucks. Nobody does a good Hanks.”

“Nobody does a good Hanks! Right?”

“He’s a tough one to crack. Biggest celebrity in the world and no one can pull him off. You guys have that Bill Cosby, right? That guy’s amazing.”

“We did have him. Can’t work anymore, obviously, poor guy.”

“That’s a goddamned shame.”

“He tried selling cars for a while, couldn’t even do that. Looks too much like Cosby so they had to let him go. He does telemarketing now. Only leaves the house in disguise.” Hugh took a long drag. “I worry for all the guys playing current celebrities. One good scandal and your whole livelihood is gone. It also helps if your celebrity doesn’t fade away, become dated.”

“Don’t I know it. At least yours still gets work. Hugh Grant was in Florence Foster Jenkins. It was nominated.”

“Yeah, great,” he snorted.

They watched the street bustle beneath them as the sunset lit everything’s edges in rosy orange. Scores of hens in Twilight and 50 Shades t-shirts milled around the entrance to the building, hoping to get a photo with the authors of their favorite bodice-rippers or to have their VHS copy of Ice Castles signed by Lynn Holly Johnson at booth 17.

“I hate them,” Meg muttered. “Do you hate them?”

“I hate them and I hate Hugh Grant and I hate rom coms,” Hugh replied.

“Amen. I can’t eat at these things without fifteen of these dumpy whores pointing at me and yelling ‘I’ll have what she’s having!’ Like… listen bitch… I’m just trying to scarf down an egg salad sandwich, give me some space.”

“How do you deal with it?”

“I drink.” She pulled out a flask, careful to keep it angled away from the view of the attendees, and smiled. The smile didn’t look like Meg Ryan’s, but it was very inviting. “Want some?”

“God, yes.” She gave him the flask and he took a long pull. “At least I bet they don’t pinch your ass at every opportunity.”

Meg’s carefully sculpted eyebrows jumped and she burst out laughing. “They pinch your ass?”

“Pinch it, cup it, whatever they can get away with. I tried to put a stop to it and was told to just smile shyly, like Hugh would.”

“Jesus! That sucks.”

“Once? One grabbed on with both hands, giggling like a lunatic, and wouldn’t let go. I told her to stop, she didn’t stop.”

“Holy shit, what did you do?”

“I realized the only way to get out of it was to ruin her image of Hugh Grant forever. To, like… dispel it. So I smile at her, lean in close and whisper ‘fancy a quick fuck in the toilet, luv? No condom? I quite like big, lonely cat ladies that smell like expired ham.’”

Meg gaped for a moment, then fell into a fit of laughter that echoed back at them from neighboring buildings. It had a lilting and very pretty quality. In spite of himself, Hugh laughed with her. After a time, Meg collected herself enough to bray “they do smell like ham!” and they both collapsed into fresh hysterics.

“Ahh. Ahhh, man.” Meg stood and wiped her eyes. “Did it work?”

“It did, she let go of my cheeks and backed away, horrified.”

“Amazing. I love that term you used, by the way. To dispel it. You undercut her whole worldview on romance and how gentlemen act.”

“She looked like I’d just shown her vacation slides of her own murdered family.” Hugh flicked his cigarette butt off the balcony and smiled. “So what do you do when you’re not being someone else?”

“I’m a secretary for an accountant. You?”

“Freelance writer. It sounds fancy, but mostly it just means I write sports blogs no one reads.”

“Oh, I haven’t read that one!”

“Funny.” Hugh took another swig from the flask and passed it back to her. “You do have it in the eyes. Very sparkly. Ryan was famous for her eyes.”

She smiled. “That’s very sweet of you, but I don’t know, I think most of being Meg is in the lips.”

He leaned on the railing with one elbow. “Well, you have nice lips too.”

“Smooth. You’re looking pretty okay yourself, you know. I never was a Hugh Grant girl, but you put a spin on it. Your eyes are more… flinty. Your smile is nicer.”

“Well thank you.”

“I mean, your hair sucks, but hey.”

Hugh grimaced and passed a hand through his hair. “Hey, this is vintage 1994 hair. Four Weddings And A Funeral hair. This is what the rubes paid to see.”

“I know, I’m just teasing.” She touched his shoulder playfully, then stopped. She stared back through the french doors into the convention.

Following her gaze, he saw that the attendees were standing still and watching them with watery eyes. “Whoa. Uh.” He straightened himself. “What are they doing?”

“I don’t know. Maybe… oh. Oh god.” Meg turned from the crowd with a disgusted expression. “Oh, god!”

“What?”

She put a hand over her face and sighed. “Those animals think we’re having a meet-cute.”

“…What the hell is that?”

“That’s when the romantic leads meet, and it’s cute. We’re now a real-life rom com for them. Fuck.”

“Fuck!” he hissed.

“I know! Fuuuck!”

“Are we?”

“Are we what?”

“Are we having a meet-cute?”

“Oh fuck off. …Son of a bitch, are we?”

“I don’t know!”

“Fuck!” they both muttered at once.

Tammy pushed her way through the hushed crowd, opened the door and tried to smile despite her pinched face. “Excuse me-”

Meg waved a hand. “It’s not what you think, we’re just talking shop.”

Hugh nodded. “Yeah, I’m not remotely attracted to this woman.”

“I’m gay!” Meg sputtered.

Tammy blinked. “Um. I just came out to say that break time is over, we could use you back in here, mingling with the guests.” She then receded into the convention.

“Well that was mortifying,” Hugh whispered as they walked through the convention hall, nodding and smiling to guests.

“Accent. Don’t forget the accent.”

“Right. Jolly good.”

“Everyone’s staring at us,” Meg mumbled. “This will be the most uncomfortable hour of my week, and my boss cried in front of me on Tuesday.”

“Want to get dinner later?”

“Shh! Keep it down, they might hear you.”

Hugh blinked. “So?”

Meg gestured around at the people that were even now giving them sly glances. “I don’t know. If we’re getting drawn into their world, and that was the meet-cute, they’re carefully watching for other rom com cues. A date would do that.”

“You’re being… I guess superstitious isn’t the right word, but you’re being something. These people have no power. Look at them.”

“It’s freaking me out. Everyone’s staring at us. You’re cute, but I just don’t want to have a rom com… thing… here.”

“I promise to not race to catch you at the airport.”

“Ugh,” she muttered through a suppressed smirk.

“Hugh!” Julia Roberts approached them, wearing a stunning strapless red dress.

“Hey there Julia,” Hugh said. “This is our Meg Ryan, she’s represented by We’ve Got Character.”

Julia gave Meg a cool appraisal, her eyes lingering on Meg’s not-entirely-Ryan lips. “Nice to meet you. Hugh, I see you’ve got a bit of buzz going on in the hall right now. Want to take advantage of this, do a Notting Hill thing, walk around?” She grinned. It was dazzling and uncanny.

“I’m sorry, Meg and I are doing a… uh… we were in a movie, right?”

“Restoration,” Meg replied.

Hugh snapped his fingers. “Right, Restoration. We’re walking around and doing a Restoration thing for the fans.”

“No one knows that movie,” Julia spat. “Your characters weren’t even romantically linked in it! Come on, this is Notting Hill, it’s a classic. People will eat this shit up. Plus, we both look convincing.”

“Julia, I’ve tried to get you to do a Notting Hill thing before, and all you ever want to do is Pretty Woman. Go do Pretty Woman. It suits you.”

They walked past a distraught Julia. “Dammit,” Hugh said. “I meant it suits her because she’s like a hooker, did that come across?”

Meg barked a laugh into her hand. “Nope.”

“Shit.”

“They’re still staring at us. This is all still following the rom com tropes.”

“What, even that thing with Julia?”

“Especially that thing with Julia. That sort of confrontation happens all the time in those movies.”

“Nothing bad’s going to happen. I won’t let a rom com happen.”

“I don’t know. Maybe we should just split up and do our own things. You go hang out with Julia.”

“No! Goddammit, if this is all adhering to the rom com formula, this will be the complication that threatens to tear us apart near the end, and you’re letting it. You’re letting them win.”

Meg grimaced. “I guess. I just… I just really don’t want to give these slugs anything. The thing in these movies that gives them the dopamine hit is when there’s an acknowledged mutual affection. An open declaration of courtship. That’s what they’re waiting for and I will not give them what they want. Okay?”

“All right, we won’t. Just don’t give up on me, okay? We don’t have long to go before we’re free.” She nodded and they walked on. After a minute he leaned close.

They passed among scores of rheumy-eyed, doughy disasters in bejeweled cat sweaters and flower-print housedresses. The Love, Actually retrospective was emptying into the main hall. A giant screen over the vacant stage displayed that the Johanna Lindsey Q&A was set to begin at eight. A dull-eyed man sold live, laugh, love throw pillows and coffee mugs at booth 30b. Some attendees stopped them to ask questions or hoot about how they just loved that one scene from some movie Hugh had only watched so he could know what they were talking about.

“Excuse me Hugh,” called a clotted voice from behind them. “Could I get a photo?”

“Of course!” Hugh put an arm around the shoulders of a thin woman that seemed, at a glance, to embody everything you’d expect of a deeply religious 1960s librarian. “You don’t want a photo with Meg, too?”

“No,” she sniffed. “I don’t like fast girls that take off their clothes.”

“Yeah, me neither,” he said. “When did you do that, Meg?”

Meg sighed. “The Doors. You’d be surprised how often I have to hear about it.”

“Why you little tart.” He faced the librarian. “What’s your name, my dear?”

“Agatha.”

“Of course it is.”

The picture was taken. Agatha looked to Meg, then to Hugh, and said “You can do better. That Drew Barrymore is very nice.” Without another word she melted back into the shimmering sea of bedazzled thrift store turtlenecks. The crowd continued to steal glances at the two impersonators, looking away when they met eye contact but always slyly rounding back to watch for any new affections.

Meg rubbed her eyes. “Well, I need another cigarette.”

They walked out into the gloom of the balcony. Night had properly fallen and though a few stragglers sharing the veranda glanced their way, it felt like they’d slipped from the watchful glare of the romance fandom surrounding them.

Hugh rubbed his neck as he lit their cigarettes. “Ugh, that’s better. I swear, that last one didn’t even know we weren’t the real people.”

“It’s a rough gig sometimes, man.” She drew deeply on her cigarette, shaking her head. They smoked in silence for a time and watched the city lights twinkle.

He leaned his elbows on the railing. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, fuck that virgin skank.”

Hugh laughed. “I didn’t mean Agatha, although yeah, she sucked. I meant about the whole thing, the rom com parallels, our… eager audience.”

She shrugged. “I guess I’m okay. It still feels weird. You freaked me out a bit talking about the ‘complication that almost tears us apart in the end.’ Like… Jesus.”

“So. Second try. Want to get dinner after this?”

She cast a quick glance behind them. The attendees were no longer watching them and their backs were turned to the balcony windows. Evidently they’d found something else to moon over. Her shoulders relaxed and she smiled. “Yeah, I’d like that.” Her hand moved, stopped, then moved again to take his. His hand gripped hers in return. They smiled at each other.

A muffled cry went up from the convention hall. Meg looked to see several of the attendees turning to them with their hands to their mouths, their eyebrows scrunched as if viewing kitten photos. She jerked her hand back from Hugh’s and approached the door. “What the fuck?”

She opened the door and the voices became clear.

“Oh my god.”

“Sooooo sweet.”

“I can’t stand it.”

“I think she heard…”

“uh oh…”

The hall went silent as everyone turned from the stage to look at Meg. On the stage, the screen was showing a side view of the balcony. The live feed, being broadcast from someone’s phone, was a few seconds behind. Meg was pushing the door open and walking into the convention hall. The goons had seen them holding hands, had seen them acknowledge mutual affection. Everyone was staring at her. Her face flushed red and tears tingled in her eyes as she turned back to see the woman on the balcony holding the phone. The woman looked away, ashamed, but didn’t lower her phone.

Hugh took Meg by the shoulders and tried to whisper, but it was no use, the hall was completely silent. “Hey. Hey. This… it’s alright. It’s alright.”

Her mouth moved soundlessly. It wasn’t alright, but she couldn’t even say that without being overheard by their adoring voyeurs. They didn’t deserve this, but they’d taken it anyway. They’d taken this moment for themselves. This was it, she thought. This was the complication. It was all happening by the movie rules.

“Come on. Hey… look at me.” Their eyes met, and he spoke so quietly that there was almost no sound at all. “Let’s dispel this.”

Hugh straightened. “Anyway, like I was saying- fancy a quick fuck in the toilet, luv? No condom?” The crowd hissed a gasp like the words were a hot stove they’d all touched. Gentlemen didn’t say things like that.

Meg blinked against her tears, took a breath and blurted “…Yeah, I guess, but only if you honk my boobs like an old timey car horn.”

He suppressed a snicker. “I’ll make you grunt like a wounded orangutan and then take you to Long John Silver’s for a fine meal. Dollar menu only.”

“Good, because my tapeworm’s hungry! Let’s go, it smells like expired ham in here.”

Hugh put an arm around Meg and they strolled out past the shattered faces of sixteen hundred disillusioned romance fans. Some looked on the verge of panic, desperate for someone to explain to them what was going on. Romance didn’t work like this. This was not the gospel according to Nora Ephron. One woman wadded up her baggy True Blood t-shirt hem and began crying softly into it, because nothing made sense anymore.

They began walking down the staircase and toward the building’s exit. Hugh asked “What’s your name?”

“Emily.”

“I’m Dennis.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Dennis and Emily walked away from the romance convention. The story of how they met would become a favorite among friends, to be retold for decades.