The meeting point, p.1
The Meeting Point, page 1
The Meeting Point
Olivia Lara
First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
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Copyright © Olivia Lara, 2021
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The moral right of Olivia Lara to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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EB ISBN 9781838933197
PB ISBN 9781800246263
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Cover design © Beth Yirtaw
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Aria
c/o Head of Zeus
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.ariafiction.com
Print editions of this book are printed on FSC paper
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
A YEAR LATER
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Olivia Lara
To my dad,
Who loves books, the ocean,
And books by the ocean
One
The story goes like this.
Thirty-year-old Bartholomew von Coffenberg comes out of Madison Square Park Tower’s underground garage in his red Corvette. The only child of an investment magnate, Bartholomew graduated from Harvard and now has a corner office at Goldman Sachs. He’s in a rush to get to brunch at Elio’s with his fiancée, Charlotte Astor. Charlotte is tall, slender, classy, and a successful attorney with a top law firm in NYC and the perfect match for him. Their parents made sure of this, just like they made sure the relationship was planned all the way to the wedding at the luxurious One and Only Reethi Resort and the honeymoon in the Maldives this summer.
What Bartholomew doesn’t know is that his fiancée will not show up at Elio’s. Instead, she will be on a plane to Italy to meet for the first time a man she fell in love with online.
A few streets away, thirty-four-year-old Natalie Bechamel enters a Starbucks on Park Avenue South. She’s there every morning, and her order never changes—a grande, iced, sugar-free, vanilla latte with soymilk. Natalie is a widow and has two boys; one is eight, the other thirteen. She’s been working as the personal assistant for the owner of IMG Models for years. The coffee’s not for her; it’s for her boss. She could never afford the $6 daily order, the $35 vegetarian lunch, or the eco-laundry where she drops his clothes on her way home. At 7 PM, Monday through Friday, Natalie picks up her boys from the upstairs neighbor and starts on dinner while helping the young one with homework and fighting with the teenager who misses his father and resents her. She never imagined life would look like this. She never imagined the kind, loving man she married would drink himself to death, leaving her all alone.
Natalie doesn’t know yet that one evening very soon, as she crosses the street, a car will almost run her over. A red Corvette. That night will end with a bruised knee and a man driving her home while his eyes linger on her a bit too long. By Christmas, Natalie will fly with her two boys to the Maldives, where a happy and in love Bartholomew will say ‘I do’ to her and them forever.
My name is Maya Maas, and I write love stories. All the time and ever since I can remember.
Bartholomew and Natalie are just people I saw on the street. I don’t know their real names or anything about their lives. What I do know is that they both seem lonely, and nothing makes me happier than imagining people are happy. And in love. And living happily ever after.
My ‘silly little scribbles,’ as my boyfriend David calls them, put a smile on my face and carried me forward through tough family times, school anxieties, making and losing friends, boyfriend dramas, life on my own, and job frustrations. Surrounded by books as a child, I didn’t have many friends, but I had a big imagination, and that was enough for me. It still is. Writing also gives me an excuse to watch people—my favorite pastime. A random person on the street, a barista, or a bus driver all spark ideas. I love imagining who they are, their names, where they come from, and what they do. I usually put them in a tough spot and save them in the end and give them the smiles and laughter and love they yearn for.
I used to dream of becoming a published author. Years ago, I wrote a novel, then another, and sent them both to literary agencies. All I got in return was silence, polite nos, or painful critique I wasn’t ready for. ‘Too sappy, too unrealistic, too 1960s. Why do all your female characters search for love? Not all women need someone to complete them.’
I always thought you can have both. And you can be both. Being in love doesn’t make you weak or dependent. Staring at the night sky together, holding hands, looking into each other’s eyes gives you wings. It fills your heart and body with energy to accomplish everything else. I think so. I hope so. Yes, my characters all lived happily ever after, but I don’t see anything wrong with that. There’s enough sadness in the world as it is.
At first, I was determined to stand behind my stories and push forward. Still, even the most confident of us need reassurance, and mine never came. Instead, more critiques piled up. ‘The market is too competitive, and these books don’t have what it takes. There’s nothing there. Cardboard characters, unrealistic plot. It suggests immaturity; lack of experience.’
That last rejection discouraged me. I started doubting whether I’d ever become a full-time writer, which was all I’d dreamed of since I was a little girl. At the same time, I knew I had to make a living, so journalism was the next best thing. I’ve put six years into my journalistic career, and all I have to show for it is a role as a junior reporter for a Brooklyn-based magazine.
I never attempted to pen another novel, but I continued with my stories. I don’t care if they’ll never be seen by anyone else but me. I’m not writing for an audience. I’m doing this for myself and because when I’m inspired, I can’t help but write. Most of the time, inspiration hits when I meet people I wish had different lives: better, happier. Inconveniently, that seems to happen at the wrong time and in the wrong place. Last week, I shadowed a senior reporter—which means prepping interview questions and taking notes—when I saw a janitor in front of Yankee Stadium. I named him Ian. He ran after a loose dog and returned it to its owner, a sharply dressed businesswoman. Elizabeth, I thought, suited her perfectly. Minutes later, instead of taking notes during the interview, I was writing my best love story yet—Ian and Elizabeth’s.
That’s who I am. Happy in my made-up worlds where anything is possible. Where someone like me, like her, like him, can have everything. Saccharine and all.
Two
I finally get to the front of the line in the Starbuc
“Good morning, Maya. What will it be today?” asks the barista with a smile.
“Hi, Kay.” Kay has her own HEA that I wrote last year. Still waiting for it to happen.
“The usual,” I say. “One Venti Frappuccino with extra whipped cream and chocolate sauce; one grande, quad, nonfat, one-pump, no-whip mocha; one Tall Chai Tea Latte, three pumps, skim milk, no foam, extra hot; one Venti Iced Ristretto, four-pump, sugar-free, cinnamon, Dolce Soy Skinny Latte; and one Venti Iced Skinny Hazelnut Macchiato, extra shot.”
Always five, so I can’t carry them in a drink tray. Because why make life easy?
Once at the office I place the cups on my desk and start making the rounds. Janice—my boss—gets the Frappuccino, then the rest go to our team. I’m still considered the junior around here, despite being with the magazine for almost four years.
We’re about to have our morning meeting, and I already know what I’m getting. Either shadowing again or a neighborhood brawl, a briefing from a small local official, or a school sports team event. Now and then, if I insist, aka beg, I get to cover a book launch, but somehow, my articles never make the cut. Today of all days, I’m not upset about it though. I hope I get my assignment done quickly so I can be out of here on time. I have big plans tonight.
The moment I sit, Janice calls—yells—my name from across the corridor.
I take my notepad and rush to her, all ears.
“Remember I told you how we lost the story of Nakamura, the New York Times bestselling author who lives in Vermont and who’s recently been nominated for a Pulitzer?”
I nod.
“Well, we just got another shot at it. Last-minute thing, and since nobody has ever interviewed him, this is an incredible opportunity for us.”
I assume this means she’s going to Vermont. “I’ll book you on a flight for later today—”
“That’s the thing. You’ve been asking me for your big story for years now.”
Anything would seem big at this point. But this—this would be huge.
“What? You’re giving me the assignment?”
The moment I’ve been waiting for for so long, and it comes at the worst of times. David and I haven’t had a weekend away in ages. And the ones we’ve had didn’t take us further than Connecticut or Rhode Island and only because he had friends there. We need this time alone to see where we stand and try and get that initial spark back.
“I thought you’d be happy about it,” says Janice, raising an eyebrow.
“I am. Very happy. It’s just that this weekend is my birthday, and I have plans.”
Both her eyebrows are raised now and form a bothersome straight line. That’s bad news.
“I’ll go, of course. This is a big opportunity for me. Thank you.”
“For our magazine. This exclusive interview could catapult us out of anonymity.”
I’m still in shock. She’s finally open to giving me a shot. I know I can’t screw it up. Not if I want to be taken seriously as a journalist and do something with my writing.
“I’m giving you Mason,” she says before walking away.
Mason is the magazine’s photographer, occasional driver, and jack of all trades. Not my favorite character, especially after witnessing an unfortunate scene between him, his girlfriend, and her soon-to-be ex-husband, right here at the magazine. It ended with Mason hiding in the newsroom’s bathroom until the other guy left. Of course I wrote a story about him. Gave him lots of lessons to learn—about being kind, brave, generous. And, eventually, I redeemed him. He ended up living happily with his new wife, getting ready to have a baby. In my story, at least. In real life, just a few months later, a woman came by the magazine, saying she was pregnant, and he refused to acknowledge the baby or help out in any way. The resemblance between that woman and how I pictured his wife was uncanny, but that was the only thing I got right.
Mason finds me in the kitchen.
“Are you ready? We have to get going; it’s a long drive,” he says, sounding annoyed.
“We’re driving? That’s six hours one way, at least.”
He scoffs. “Tell me about it. You didn’t think she’d pay for plane tickets, did you?”
“This is going to be tight. We have to get there, do the interview and return right away.”
Mason starts laughing. “Why is that?”
“I’m going to San Francisco tonight.”
“Not if you want to keep your job. The interview isn’t scheduled until tomorrow afternoon. By the time we wrap up it’ll be evening. We’ll be back Sunday.”
My stomach drops. “Sunday? Oh, no.”
I’ve been planning this getaway for weeks, ever since I found out David was going to California for an interview, around my birthday. That’s when I got the idea of surprising him and showing up in San Francisco for a weekend together. Just the two of us. I even bought a fancy dress and shoes. Thought I’d make an effort.
He makes a dismissive gesture with his arm. “Are you coming or not?”
“I need to go home and get my backpack. It’s already packed.”
“Make it fast. Give me your address, and I’ll come to pick you up.”
My surprise is never going to happen! Our perfect weekend and my perfect birthday. The first one in a long time. Gone.
Three
The trip to Vermont is tedious and long. Still, we both survive, despite stopping somewhere in Massachusetts to grab fast food, which proves to be a bad idea, as I end up with a nasty stomachache. Also, I wish he’d let me drive. I forgot what an aggressive driver he is, and I end up spending most of the six hours there clutching my seat. The only positive thing of the whole drive is seeing a woman truck driver at the fast food stop and coming up with a cute little story about her.
In the morning, I’m sitting in the inn’s lobby, putting the finishing touches on the truck driver’s story in my notebook. I usually write longhand and then transcribe to my laptop.
Mason is out somewhere, undoubtedly charming a poor, unsuspecting woman. When my phone rings and it’s a local number, my immediate thought is that he got into trouble. Hope I don’t have to bail him out of jail or something. “Ms. Maas?” It’s Nakamura’s publicist. “Mr. Nakamura can’t do the interview this evening, but if you can get to his house at ten-thirty, I’ll try to get you in. I’ll call to confirm.”
This is perfect. I text Mason with the good news and twenty minutes later, we’re parked in front of the iron gate that protects the author’s massive property in Stowe.
“We’re early, so I’m going to make a call,” I say, getting out of the car.
“Alisa, I need your help,” I say the moment she picks up.
