Читать книгу Happily Ever After - Harriet Evans - Страница 8

ON THE FIRST day of the month Elle woke early, with a pounding headache. Her throat was dry, her eyes puffy and sore from the crying she’d done the previous day. The room was too stuffy. She opened the window and lay on her back, looking up at the ceiling, blinking. Cool air blew in from the street, though Ladbroke Grove was quiet, and Elle knew suddenly that, even though it was only the first day of September, autumn was here. She sat up in bed, rubbing her tender eyes, as the memory of the previous thirty-six hours slowly returned.

She wished she didn’t have to go to work. Could she just call in sick? She’d drunk an awful lot over the weekend, which was partly why she felt so dreadful, but it was the crying too; she’d cried all day. She had forgotten how crying always made her feel rubbish the next day, as if she’d been beaten up and left for dead.

Elle and Libby had been at Kenwood House on Saturday night, listening to the open-air concert (on the other side of the boundary, so they didn’t have to pay). They’d taken a blanket, some crisps and wine, and though they didn’t have a corkscrew and Elle had had to jab the cork into the bottle with her hair clip, it had been loads of fun. It always was fun with Libby, whether they were eating pasta at La Rosa, the tiny Italian place in Soho that only bouncers and strippers frequented, or arguing drunkenly over books (Elle, at Posy’s recommendation, had just read the Cazalet Chronicles by Elizabeth Jane Howard, and thought they were the best books she’d ever read; Libby refused to touch them on account of their pastelly covers), or films (Elle wept through The English Patient, Libby snorted with laughter every time burnt-out Ralph Fiennes appeared on screen), or boys in the office (to Elle’s fury, Libby tormented her about her alleged crush on Rory, and Elle couldn’t come up with anyone in return for as Libby said, ‘Publishing boys are total losers, Elle, get a grip’).

They’d ended up at the Dome in Hampstead, and drunk even more. It had been a brilliant evening. When Elle had fantasised about the life in London she’d wanted it had been something like this, sitting in cafes discussing life and books long into the night, feeling the city under her feet, the still-terrifying but exhilarating sense of possibility out there. Daily life at Bluebird was alternately monotonous and scary: after four months she was starting to see just how far away was her dream of being a glamorous editor. You didn’t get to be a glamorous editor by sending faxes to important literary agents called Shirley that began, ‘Dear Shitley’. Glamorous editors didn’t leave prawn sandwiches in filing cabinets, stinking out the office for a week with a smell so awful Elspeth became convinced they were being haunted by the ghost of a disgruntled author. They didn’t photocopy four hundred pages of manuscript upside down, resulting in an entirely blank pile of paper, and they certainly didn’t pass out in a corner of the pub after too many house whites, to the amusement of their colleagues. Yes. Elle knew she had a lot to learn.

The two of them had stayed out so late that they were shivering in the night air as they said their goodbyes. As ever, Elle had felt guilty, creeping back to Ladbroke Grove at two in the morning, but Sam had been fast asleep. However, the next morning she woke Elle up by knocking on her door in floods of tears, her eyes huge, her fingers in her mouth.

‘Princess Di’s dead,’ she said, and Elle made her repeat it, because it just didn’t sound true.

They had spent all day crying, watching TV and listening to Capital play sad songs, going out in their pyjamas to the shop next door to get chocolate and Bombay mix and cheap wine and now it was Monday, and life was supposed to go on as normal, and of course it would, because it was stupid, Elle hadn’t actually known Princess Diana. But, like so many girls, she felt as if she had, as if she – not that she belonged to her, that was stupid. But as if she sort of knew her, that if they’d ever met they’d have been friends.

Tears pricked Elle’s eyes as she remembered the coffin coming off the plane, the Prince of Wales standing ready to greet it, his face lined with grief. ‘The breaking of so great a thing should make a greater crack’: that was Shakespeare, wasn’t it? Oh, how pretentious it was, quoting Shakespeare. If Libby could hear her she’d laugh her head off. Elle pulled the duvet over her, the Monday morning feeling of dread stronger than ever.

Suddenly, footsteps came padding loudly towards the bathroom, and the door was slammed with a bang. Elle winced, preparing herself. The radio came on, Chris Evans’s voice slow and clear.

‘It’s Monday and, well, look, it’s a hard day for us all, and we want to remember a wonderful woman, so here’s Mariah Carey and “Without You”. In memory of our Queen of Hearts.’

‘YOOOOOU …’ came Sam’s voice, shrieking tonelessly through the paper-thin walls. ‘… WITHOUT YOOOOOOOU …’

Sam was ‘a morning person’, as she frequently told Elle when Elle asked her to please not tunelessly wail ‘Mr Loverman’ at 6.45 a.m. Being a morning person, it seemed, meant not being bothered by the fact that you were totally tone deaf. Elle turned onto her stomach and screamed into her pillow, as she did every single morning. If she was ever called for jury service and there was someone on trial who’d killed their flatmate or neighbour for something similar Elle knew she’d have no hesitation in finding them not guilty. Every evening, she told herself Sam wasn’t so bad, that actually they had a laugh over a glass of wine and some trashy TV. And every morning she woke up to what sounded like a drunk tramp gargling with petrol and razor blades, and she felt murder in her heart.

She even blamed Sam for the break-up of her semi-relationship with Fred. They’d seen each other, admittedly rather half-heartedly – he’d gone away for two weeks and not told her – during the summer. The second or third time he’d stayed over, Sam had woken them both up by singing the Cardigans’ ‘Lovefool’ in such a painful way that Fred had left without having a shower, claiming he had an early meeting and needed to get home and pick up a suit. Since Fred was, as far as Elle knew, working in a cafe off Portobello while writing his screenplay that was going to win him an Oscar, this was clearly a lie, but she couldn’t blame him. He hadn’t called her since. Elle had tried to mind, but she didn’t, to be honest. Fred belonged to the era of sleeping on sofas, watching daytime TV and feeling totally hopeless, and that all seemed years, not months, ago.

Forty minutes or so later, Elle was showered and dressed. It was still early, just after eight, and as she stood in the kitchen, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea, she sifted through her feelings, trying to work out why she still felt she’d missed something. Was it Princess Di, throwing her off? Or was it work? The trouble was, she could never remember anything specifically she hadn’t done. It was the horror that there was another bomb, an uncollected urgent manuscript waiting in the post room, or another Dear Shitley fiasco, just waiting to explode, that she feared the most. In her darker days – and this was one of them – she wasn’t sure what the future held. How on earth was she supposed to show them she’d be a good editor when no one had the faintest idea who she was, except maybe vaguely as the idiot who’d ordered Rory a cab that took him to Harlow instead of Heathrow? She was still staring into space as Sam came in.

‘Hiya,’ she said. ‘What a strange morning. I feel very emotional still. Do you feel emotional?’

‘Yes,’ said Elle coolly, the post-shower-singing fury having not quite worn off. ‘It’s weird.’

Sam looked pleased. Her nose twitched. ‘We’re so similar. Ready for another Monday?’

‘Not really,’ said Elle. ‘I feel like crap.’ She sighed.

‘I don’t,’ said Sam. She tucked her hair behind her ears and slung her flowery Accessorize bag over her shoulder. ‘But then I’m not the one who stayed out with Libby all night Saturday! Am I!’

She laughed, just a little too heartily but Elle, still cross, bit her tongue. Sam always wanted to come along with Elle. Elle hadn’t minded at first, but after Sam had fallen over onto Karen’s birthday cake at her party in July and then got so drunk she’d passed out at Elle’s friend Matty’s housewarming in Clapham under a pile of coats in the hallway, Elle had started reining in the invitations. They were flatmates, they weren’t joined at the hip. She’d spent her university years being the one who took the drunken mess home and she was damned if she was going to do it any more.

‘I’m off,’ Sam said. She was always in by nine, and usually left before Elle. ‘You in this evening?’

Then Elle remembered. She said, ‘I knew there was something I had to remember. Rhodes is coming over tonight.’

‘Your brother?’

Elle nodded. ‘I totally forgot. That’s why …’ She trailed off, and added, ‘I haven’t seen him for –’ She tried to remember. ‘Well, since Christmas, and then he left early.’

‘How come?’

‘Had a big row with Mum.’ Elle didn’t say any more.

Sam picked up her rucksack and changed the subject. ‘Wow, this manuscript’s heavy. I’ll see you in a bit?’

Putting her mug in the sink, Elle grabbed her bag. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said. She double-locked the flimsy wood-chip door, and followed Sam down the stairs, out into the September sunshine.

‘Did you finish it?’ Sam said. Elle looked blank. ‘Polly Pearson? Isn’t it brill?’

Her handbag was suddenly heavy on her shoulder. Elle peeked at it, saw a thick manuscript, untouched since Friday. ‘Oh, my God.’ Elle’s face paled. No wonder her hungover brain was trying to tell her she’d forgotten something. It was two things. Rhodes tonight and now … and now this. She clutched the heavy bag. Of course. ‘I promised Rory … I said I’d finish it over the weekend.’

‘But you’ve read most of it,’ Sam said perkily, holding the straps of her rucksack and whistling as she strode along, like one of those stupid creatures in the Girl Guide handbook. Elle looked at her with loathing.

‘That’s not the point –’ Elle squeezed her eyes tightly shut. ‘I wanted to gather my thoughts, have a proper response. Be … you know, like Libby. Have something to say.’ Rory and Posy never asked her opinion on anything. She was virtually invisible, to them, to Felicity, to everyone. This was the first manuscript about which they’d said, ‘Elle, we’d like to know what you think.’ As though they were interested in her opinion. Libby was the one who could chat fearlessly to Rory and Jeremy in the pub, whom the authors knew when they rang up: ‘Yes, Paris, it is Libby,’ she’d say, if she picked up Elle’s phone for her. ‘How are you? What can I do for you today?’ She was able to go up to agents at launch parties and introduce herself, and she always knew the right thing to say: ‘Hi, I’m Libby, Felicity’s assistant? Yes, we spoke last week! I just wanted to say how much I loved Broken SWAT Team / Mother of All Ills / Lanterns Over Mandalay.’

Sam cut in on her thoughts. ‘Hey, do you want to go to Kensington Palace after work and lay some flowers?’

‘No,’ said Elle crossly, though she did want to, very much. She pulled the dog-eared manuscript out of her bag and started reading it as she walked along the street. ‘I need to finish this before we get in.’

‘Fine,’ said Sam. ‘I’ll hold you.’ She took her elbow and grinned at Elle, as Elle walked off the kerb. A bus swerved to avoid her, then hooted loudly, the passengers shaking their fists at the pair of them.

SAM RABBITED ALL the way in on the Tube, about how much she loved Dave (though Elle had met him but once since she’d moved in), and about how her sister had told her yesterday if the baby was a girl she’d call it Diana Frances, in tribute. But Elle had become adept at blocking out Sam’s voice. She smoothed the manuscript on her lap and began to skim the last seventy pages, eyes darting in panic over the double-spaced lines. It was eight thirty. She had an hour.

The novel was called Polly Pearson Finds a Man, and unusually it had been sent to Rory, not Posy. It was by an Irish fashion journalist called Eithne Reilly, and already there was an offer on the table of £150,000 for two books, a sum so huge Elle found it hilarious.

‘Jeremy says everyone’s going to go mad for it,’ said Sam. ‘Oh. We’re at Oxford Circus already, isn’t it amazing how quickly the journey goes when there’s someone to chat to!’

Elle looked up, wild-eyed. ‘Help me. Does Colette get her comeuppance?’

‘Yes, she gets fired. And it turns out Roland is a real bastard, and Max is lovely, and she’s got it all wrong, because Colette lied to her about the Gucci account.’

Elle turned to the last page.

‘Damn you, Polly!’ Max Reardon said, striding towards her. ‘I want you to come back to Dublin with me. As my wife, not as my features editor!’

‘Max …’ Polly stared at him with huge blue eyes, filling up with water and running down her cheeks. ‘Oh, Max … Yes, please! Only one thing?’

‘What, darling?’ said Max, enfolding her in his arms and kissing her.

‘I want the job too. And I know what my first commission will be. “How To Find A Man”.’

The End

‘That’ll have to do,’ she said, stuffing the manuscript into her bag. ‘At least I know what happens in the end. Big surprise, it ends happily ever after.’ Elle followed Sam as the Tube doors slammed open.

‘Isn’t it amazing? Did you like it?’ Sam said, as they climbed onto the escalator, surrounded by silent fellow commuters.

‘Sort of,’ said Elle. ‘It’s so cheesy but it’s romantic. I loved Max even though he’s got the same name as my awful ex, which shows it must be good.’ Libby had thought it was rubbish, but Libby would. Elle couldn’t help it, she’d enjoyed it, but was that wrong?

‘I couldn’t put it down,’ said Sam. ‘So funny! The bit in the All Bar One!’ She hugged herself, and then whipped out her Travelcard. ‘Here we are, back on Tottenham Court Road,’ she sang. ‘What a lovely—’

‘Look, Sam,’ Elle said, suddenly desperate for a moment of peace and quiet, ‘I’m going to treat myself to a coffee and a croissant. I’ll see you in the office. Don’t wait for me,’ she added, amazed at how firm her voice was.

Elle stood in the queue, hugging her bag to her chest, smelling the coffee and feeling calmer already. Yes, this was a good idea. Sure, it was £3 she didn’t have, but she needed a pick-me-up, because all that crying and wine-drinking had left her feeling very feeble. She’d think of something intelligent to say about Polly Pearson as she walked to Bedford Square, and all would be well.

As Elle turned off Tottenham Court Road, clutching her paper cup of coffee, with her croissant in a waxy paper bag, she inhaled again, and smiled. It was a beautiful day now, the trees in the square at their darkest green, about to turn. She was early, too, for once. ‘Polly Pearson is a serviceable piece of chick lit, which I found to be—’ No, too pompous.

‘Polly Pearson? Oh, thanks for letting me read it, Rory. Yes, it’s very much of the genre but there’s a refreshing lightness of touch which reminded me of a – of a … a sherbet fountain. A feather. A feathery syllabub. Syllabub? Or do I mean sybil?

She turned the corner and checked her watch. It—

‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH! OH, MY GOD!’

Elle had bumped into something, and the shock made her fingers squeeze together, popping the plastic lid off her cup and pouring scalding coffee into the air.

‘My – God!’

‘Shit!’ Elle cried, seeing her coffee everywhere, all over this large bulky shape, which she realised was a person, a woman. It stared at her, blazing anger in its green eyes, and she felt her bowels turn to liquid. Oh no. Noooo.

‘What on earth,’ Felicity Sassoon bellowed, brown liquid pouring down her face, ‘are you doing, you stupid little girl?’

Passers-by on the wide pavement ignored them as Elle dropped her bag and croissant to the ground, and started dabbing at Miss Sassoon, who stood still, dripping with coffee, her huge bouffant grey hair flattened, her pale blue tweed jacket stained with brown. She resembled an outraged plump exotic bird stuck in London Zoo during a downpour. Elle ineffectually patted her, blotting the coffee with her thin brown Pret napkins. She reached her chest, and was about to start there, but Miss Sassoon pushed her away, furiously.

‘Clumsy creature,’ she said. ‘Get off me.’ She looked at Elle properly for the first time. ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she said. ‘It’s you.’

‘Yes …’ said Elle. ‘I’m so … I’m so sorry … Miss Sassoon …’

Felicity Sassoon stared at her, and her eyes narrowed. Elle stood still, the feeling in her stomach confirming what she’d known since she’d woken up.

This was going to be an awful day.

SHE’D ESCORTED FELICITY to the office, into the care of Elspeth, who nearly fainted with alarm when her great leader had appeared stained and bedraggled, the damp residue of coffee-stained napkin clinging to her jacket and skirt, and Libby, who had rolled her eyes at Elle, as if to say, What the hell have you done now? After everyone else had gone back to work, Elle turned on her computer and then, telling Libby she was off to get something from the stationery cupboard, she escaped to the Ladies, where she cried for what seemed like hours but was in fact only a few minutes. She would be fired. Felicity would ring up everyone in publishing and warn them against hiring her. Probably she was doing it now.

When she’d finished, Elle went to the sinks, wiping her nose and staring at herself in the mildewy old mirror. She looked awful: red eyes, red nose, still puffy and ravaged from a weekend of crying and drinking. She rinsed her face with cold water and patted it dry, because that was what heroines always did in novels when they’d had a shock, but it just made her face even redder than normal and took off the Boots concealer she’d so carefully applied to the spot on her cheek. She looked down at the newly laundered towel on the handrail: it was streaked with light brown.

She was just giving another shuddering sigh, when there came a knock at the door.

‘Elle?’

It was a man’s voice. ‘Hello?’ she said suspiciously.

‘Elle, it’s me, Rory. Open the door.’

‘No,’ Elle said, not knowing why.

‘Come on. I wee in the men’s loos, don’t worry. Open the door.’

Elle unlocked the bathroom door and Rory’s head appeared. ‘Dear me,’ he said, looking at her shiny red visage with alarm. ‘What on earth’s wrong?’

Elle burst into tears again. ‘Coffee … Miss Sassoon furious … Poor thing … a punk outside Buckingham Palace, he brought flowers …’

‘What? Who brought flowers?’

‘The punk, he came straight from a night out clubbing and left a wreath.’ She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘I cried all day, those poor boys … oh. Then this morning … wasn’t looking where I was going … I probably scarred her, I’m so stupid.’ Elle sobbed, her hands over her face.

Rory patted her arm comfortingly. ‘It was an accident, Elle. Felicity’s fine. The jacket’s at the dry-cleaner’s already and Elspeth’s bought her some more Elnett, so everything’s OK. Don’t take on so.’

Elle cried even louder. ‘Oh, God,’ Rory said, squeezing further into the tiny bathroom and putting his arm round her. ‘What on earth have I said now?’

‘Granny Bee always said, “Don’t take on so,”’ Elle told him, staring up at him. ‘It just reminds me of her, and she’s dead now too … oh …’

Rory squeezed Elle’s shoulders and smiled. ‘Well, she was right. Elle, please don’t cry. I hate seeing you like this,’ he said solemnly. ‘Now, dry your eyes, and come back out. Felicity wants to see you.’

Elle felt as if ice had been poured down her back. ‘Oh. No,’ she said.

‘It’ll be about Polly Pearson, don’t worry. She’s not going to yell at you.’

Elle didn’t believe him.

‘It’ll be fine,’ Rory said. ‘Trust me?’

‘Yes.’

‘There you go. Don’t look so dramatic, sweetheart.’ He bent down and kissed her, only on the top of the head, but Elle stiffened.

‘I’m OK now,’ she said, and stepped away, trying not to blush.

‘Sorry,’ Rory said easily, after a tiny pause. He patted her arm. ‘I was channelling your granny again. That’s the kind of thing grannies do, isn’t it? I have no idea. Mine ran off with a bearded lady from the circus when I was a young boy. Ready?’

‘Er, sure,’ said Elle. She wished she had some powder – her face was gleamingly shiny – but if she was about to get fired perhaps it didn’t matter. She held her head up high and marched out of the loo, followed by Rory, past an astonished Sam.

‘Don’t let her boss you around,’ Rory whispered in her ear. ‘Good luck, kid.’

Elle knocked on the door. It’s fine, she told herself. I hate it here anyway. I’ll leave and work in a bookshop, and I’ll never have to read another stupid romance novel again.

She knew as she thought it that this was a total lie. That she didn’t mind the monotony of photocopying, the fear of failure, if she could just stay a while longer. She liked it here. She liked the feel and smell of a brand new book, fresh from the printer’s, Jeff Floyd the sales director’s shout of joy when Victoria Bishop went Top Ten, the notion that, unlike school, you went somewhere every day and you wanted to be there so you worked hard, you even enjoyed being bottom of the class, because one day, just one day, you might get better.

‘Come,’ the voice from inside the office boomed, and as she opened the door, Elle was surprised bats and grovelling henchmen didn’t fly out to greet her.

She peered inside. ‘Ah, Eleanor,’ Felicity Sassoon said, behind her vast mahogany desk. ‘Come and sit down.’

‘Miss Sassoon – I’m so so sorry,’ Elle began, shutting the door behind her. She sat down and took a deep breath. ‘Are you – all right?’

‘Yes, of course I’m all right,’ Felicity said impatiently. She fiddled with the ring that was always on the second finger of her left hand, a huge antique amethyst in a claw setting. She was wearing a different jacket. Elle’s eye strayed to the locked cupboard behind her, containing, she knew, the fully designed layouts of the Illustrated Queen Mother Biography, ready to go to press the moment the Queen Mum died. No one had seen inside it for years. What else did Felicity have in there, aside from several Harris Tweed ladies’ jackets? A policeman’s uniform, a sexy maid’s outfit?

Elle blinked. Felicity wasn’t the kind of person who you imagined having a romantic life. Though she had been married to Rory’s father Derek, no one knew his surname, and she was always referred to as ‘Miss Sassoon’. Office legend had it that Felicity had given Derek a heart attack, and that, according to Jeremy, ‘He was glad to get away from her. Died with a smile on his face.’

‘Elle,’ Felicity said firmly, looking down at her jotter. Elle suspected she had her name written down there. Eleanor Bee. Mousy. Moronic. Shy. Skirts too short. Scalded me Monday 1st September 1997. ‘I wanted to ask you something. I noticed earlier, as you were attempting to mop the contents of a paper cup of boiling coffee from my person, that you had the manuscript for Polly Pearson in your bag. Have you read it?’

‘Er …’ Elle was blindsided. She swallowed. ‘Yes, almost all of it.’

‘Did you like it?’

‘Um –’ She hadn’t had time to come up with the apposite, one-line summing-up. Elle cleared her throat and sat on her hands, breathing deeply. She had to tell the truth, otherwise it’d be obvious.

‘Well … I actually quite enjoyed it.’

Felicity frowned. ‘Why?’

Elle fidgeted. ‘It’s romantic, it’s funny, it’s really readable,’ she said, trying to explain.

‘I don’t understand how that’s different from a MyHeart book,’ Felicity said.

‘It’s very different,’ Elle replied. ‘I like MyHeart,’ she added nervously. ‘But they’re … sometimes … maybe they’re a tiny – a bit old-fashioned. Um –’

She slumped down in her chair again, afraid she’d gone too far, but Felicity leaned forward. ‘Go on.’

‘Well, one of the last MyHearts I had to check over, the nurse who had the affair with a doctor had a baby by him and she ran away and never told him because of the shame and now he’s all wounded and thinks she hates him,’ Elle said. ‘That wouldn’t happen nowadays. If I got knocked up by someone at work, you know –’ she waved her arms around, getting into her stride, ‘say Jeremy, I wouldn’t go into hiding, I’d say, “Er – hey, Jeremy, what are we going to do about this then?”’ She paused, as Felicity’s eyebrows shot together. ‘Or – or anyone! You know.’ She could feel her old enemy, the blush, spreading over her collarbone. ‘It’s just a bit unrealistic. Like a Ladybird fairy story where everything’s fine in the end. Women aren’t idiots. I mean, those books are really good, but …’ She trailed off again. ‘That happy ending business – it’s all a bit contrived. I don’t ever believe it.’

‘You don’t believe it?’ Felicity smiled, and her eyes searched Elle’s face. ‘How unromantic of you, Elle, what terrible talk for a young girl.’

It wasn’t true either. The truth was, Elle wanted to believe in happily ever after, more than anything. But to admit it would be to discount what she knew to be the real facts of life. So she didn’t know how to reply to this, didn’t know how to admit that she longed, secretly, to have her perspective changed, by something or someone, she didn’t know which.

‘Look at Princess Diana,’ she said eventually.

‘Diana, Princess of Wales,’ Felicity said, correcting her sharply. ‘She was never a princess in her own right, merely by marriage. A fact she would have done well to remember. She is not the example I’d choose, Eleanor.’

‘But she –’ Elle began, then saw they had veered way off territory. ‘I just don’t like stories where it’s obvious who they’re going to end up with. Real life’s just not like that.’

Felicity shook her head, as if she didn’t know what to do with Elle. ‘Well, I’ll believe you, though I do think that’s sad, dear. Everyone needs some escapism, now and again. What about Georgette Heyer? Do you like her?’

A childhood of Saturday mornings spent at the Shawcross library, reading while her librarian mother stamped books and made recommendations, meant Elle knew Georgette Heyer’s name. She said, ‘I’ve heard of her. I’ve never read her.’

Felicity looked absolutely astonished. ‘What? You’ve never read Georgette Heyer?’

‘No, sorry.’

‘I am amazed. Never read Georgette Heyer. My God.’ Felicity bowed her head as if she were a medium, acknowledging Georgette Heyer’s spirit in the room. ‘She is, quite simply, the best. Jane Austen would have liked her.’ She breathed in slowly through her nostrils. ‘And I do not say that lightly.’ She reached behind her and handed Elle a copy of Venetia. It was a seventies paperback with a view of a girl in a cornfield. ‘Take this. I am dumbfounded you haven’t read her. You, of all people.’

‘Why me?’ Elle said, biting her finger nervously.

‘Well, Eleanor, you won’t remember, but I was impressed with you at our interview. You had opinions about books. And you were enthusiastic. That –’ Felicity stabbed a pencil into her jotter, ‘is a very good thing. Don’t lose it.’

You won’t remember. Elle wanted to laugh. ‘Thank you!’ she said, her face lighting up with pleasure.

‘Go away and read that. What a treat you have in store. Now, I’ve gone off-piste again. One of the pleasures of discussing books, I’m sure you’ll agree.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Back to business. Polly Pearson. Why’s it so marvellously different?’

Confident now, Elle spoke in a rush, the words tumbling out of her. ‘Well. It’s about someone near my age, living in London, having fun, trying to sort her life out, and she likes watching Friends and ordering takeaways and even though it’s not the best book I’ve ever read, I know about five people who’d like it, and we’ve not had anything like that at Bluebird before.’ Elle wanted Felicity to like it, she didn’t know why, other than that she wanted Rory to be able to buy it and she wanted him to be pleased with her. She delivered the killer line. ‘After all, you always say if when you’re reading it you can think of three people you know who would like the book then you should definitely publish it.’

The dark green eyes – so like her son’s, Elle had never noticed it before – were scrunched up tight. ‘Hm,’ she said, and Elle detected a note of uncertainty in her tone. ‘Very interesting. I’ll be honest with you, Eleanor. Rory wants us to bid for it. He wants us to go to £200,000, blow the other offers out of the water. He says it’ll show everyone Bluebird can compete at the top. But it’s a hell of a lot of money …’

She trailed off and stared thoughtfully at Elle. ‘This Bridget Jones vogue, it’s lasting much longer than I suspected. Bridget Jones in New York. Bridget Jones Moves to the Countryside. And I’m afraid I simply don’t get it.’ She sighed; a shadow passed over her face. ‘Rory thinks I’m past it, that I can’t spot a good book when it’s right under my nose,’ she said unexpectedly.

Elle wanted to reassure her. ‘Look, like I say, it’s not completely fantastic. Perhaps it’s a bit cynically done.’ She stopped, and realised this was true. ‘And the characters are cardboard thin, like she read some other books like it and thought, “I can knock one of these off myself.” But I still enjoyed it.’

Felicity’s eyes gleamed. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘That is what I wanted to hear. Thank you.’

Elle smiled with relief. ‘Oh – good. Um – is that all, Miss Sassoon?’ she asked politely.

‘Yes, dear,’ Felicity replied. She got out her Dictaphone. ‘Libby. Email to Rory Sassoon, Posy Carmichael …’ She pressed the Pause button. ‘Read Georgette Heyer. Let me know how you get on.’ She made a shooing gesture, and Elle shot out of the cool dark office, shutting the door gently behind her.

‘How did it go? Are you clearing out your things?’ Libby asked, sotto voce, as Elle sank into her chair.

‘No, it was OK.’ Elle’s shoulders felt as though they’d sunk four inches lower with relief. ‘She just wanted to ask about that Polly Pearson book.’

‘Hope you told her it was total rubbish,’ said Libby.

‘No,’ said Elle. ‘I said it was OK.’ She paused, and looked down at the battered old Pan paperback in her hand. ‘At least, I think that’s what I said.’

It wasn’t till after lunch that Elle came back, much restored by a tuna baguette and a walk to the British Museum in the sunshine, to find Rory standing by her desk.

‘What did you say to my mother?’ he demanded. He ran his hands through his light brown hair, scrunching it till it stood on end. Elle looked blank. ‘To Felicity, Elle,’ Rory said. ‘About that damned book. Come on, what did you say to her?’

Elle sat down and put her bag on the floor. ‘I don’t know,’ she began. ‘Why?’

Rory had his shirtsleeves rolled up and his hands on his hips. He glared at her, his face grim, his eyes dark. She’d never seen him look so angry.

‘I went out for the rest of the morning and I get back to this. She’s sent the most fucking absurd email, saying she won’t authorise a bigger offer.’ He scratched his scalp furiously. ‘She says we can match the first offer but no more. We won’t get the bloody thing now, the agent’s after money. This was our chance to show we’re not some piddling old-fashioned grannies’ club, that we’re in the game! She was going for it this morning. What did you say to her?’

‘I didn’t say anything!’ Elle said, trying not to squeak. ‘I just told her I really liked it, that it was a lot more realistic than most MyHeart books, and I said I enjoyed it, Sam enjoyed it—’

Behind her, Libby coughed loudly.

Rory brandished a piece of paper. ‘Asking the younger members of the office for their views,’ he read, in a low, angry voice, ‘and trusting to my own instinct as well, I came to the conclusion that, in the words of a junior employee, “It is cynically done, with cardboard-thin characters, as if the author had read other books and merely thought she could knock something similar off herself.” And therefore not something Bluebird should be spending its money on, no matter how forceful the desire to surrender to a seductive albeit – I believe fleeting – zeitgeist.’

He bent down, so his lean face was near hers. ‘Did you say that?’

Perhaps if Elle had been older or more experienced, she’d have told Rory not to drag her into his feud with his mother. But she wasn’t. ‘I – I did,’ she said quietly. She couldn’t believe this was the same Rory who laughed and joked all day long, who’d been so sweet a few hours earlier, kissed her on the head. ‘But I also told her I enjoyed it a lot, despite all that, I promise, Rory—’

‘Elle –’ he began, and then stopped. He closed his eyes briefly. ‘For God’s sake, you don’t get it, do you? This is a commercial business.’ He clenched his hands into fists. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just – now someone else will make it a huge best-seller and we’ll be left trying to persuade Smith’s to take the umpteenth Jessie Dukes about sisters in the Blitz.’ He leaned forward again. ‘You’re a snob, Elle, you know that?’

‘No, I’m not,’ Elle said indignantly.

‘Yes, you are. I saw you last week, devouring that book at your desk. You told me you liked it.’

He looked genuinely upset. He’d never been cross with her; it was awful. Posy was stern, sometimes a killjoy: Rory was funny, kind, a bit lazy, sure, but she’d always thought he was on her side. ‘I was, I enjoyed it, but I’m just saying it’s not—’

‘Not what? Proper art? Oh, for God’s sake.’ He waved his hand at her, as if she’d disappointed him, played the wrong move in a game she didn’t know she was in. ‘Forget it. It’s OK. It’s her, not you. She’s going to learn one day, and then it’ll be too late.’ He wandered off, and left her staring after him, bewildered.

RECOUNTING ALL THIS back at home to her brother that evening, Elle was still in shock.

‘So I spilled coffee over her, and she didn’t even seem to mind too much! She didn’t shout or anything. I thought I was going to get fired, and then she asked me what I thought of a manuscript!’ She poured Rhodes another glass of wine and drained her own. ‘Honestly, Rhodes – well, you have to meet her to see what I mean, but she’s an amazing woman, really remarkable. Her husband died when she was thirty, left her alone with a small son, and this company to run, and she’s done it – she knows everyone, she’s always going to the most glamorous parties. Last week, she went to the Women of the Year lunch, and Joan Collins was there, can you believe it?’

‘Right,’ said Rhodes, stuffing his face with Twiglets. ‘So then what happened?’

His tone suggested polite boredom but Elle, wanting to make her older brother see how wonderful her new world was, couldn’t stint on any of the details. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘So … We have this really great conversation, you know, about literature. About all these really interesting things.’

From the battered old sofa in the corner of the kitchen Libby chimed in. ‘Elle, that’s rubbish. You talked about romance novels and then she stitched you up. If you ask me she played you like a Stradivarius.’ She threw some peanuts in her mouth and crossed her legs, as Rhodes watched her admiringly.

‘… Anyway,’ Elle ploughed on, ‘Rory was really cross with me, he said I was the one who’d stuffed everything up.’ She remembered Rory’s grim face as he stood over her. You’re a snob, Elle. She hated him thinking badly of her.

‘He’s playing you too,’ Libby said. ‘The pair of them. Sometimes I think I can’t wait to leave that place. It seems all cosy-cosy, but the politics will ruin them in the end.’

‘Mm.’ Elle didn’t like it when Libby talked like that. ‘Supper’s nearly ready.’ She drained the pasta and stared at it, desperately, not sure what to do next.

‘I’m starving,’ Rhodes said, as though he could read her mind.

‘Just applying the finishing touches!’ Elle trilled, slightly too loudly.

If Sam was here she’d have bought some four cheese pasta sauce from Sainsbury’s just in case. Sam planned her meals in advance. But Elle liked to wing it, with mixed results. She grabbed a glass of red wine that she happened to know had been there since the previous day, and chucked it into the pan, then some basil leaves from the withered plant on a saucer by the sink. It didn’t look like much so, rather desperately, she shook some soy sauce and vegetable oil in after them.

‘Who’s hungry?’ she said, clapping her hands and trying to sound like an Italian mamma. ‘Hey? Come and get it!’

Rhodes sat down at the tiny table and stared at the pan, and Elle felt a flash of weary despair. They had a whole evening to get through. Her own brother, and he was a stranger to her.

‘Mm,’ Libby said. ‘Smells delicious. Is Sam coming back?’

‘No, she’s out tonight.’ Sam had gone to Kensington Palace after all, taking Dave with her. Elle was glad she wasn’t here. There was a guilelessness about her that made Elle fear for her at Rhodes’s hands. She knew he’d be vile about Princess Di, for starters. She handed Libby and Rhodes each a bowl. The winey-soy-oil had gathered at the bottom, leaving a faint red sediment on the pasta. ‘So,’ she said. ‘Sorry for going on about work, it’s just been a crazy day. It’s brilliant, but it is weird. You know.’

‘Not really,’ said Rhodes. Elle opened her mouth, but he carried on. ‘Ellie, you didn’t do anything wrong. They’re the ones using you, not the other way round.’ He took another mouthful and stopped, then waved his fork in the air. ‘Hm. What’s in this pasta?’

‘Yes, it’s delicious, Elle,’ Libby said, cutting across him. ‘Rhodes is right, don’t let them mess you around, Elle. Just be careful next time. Rory’s out for himself, you know, so’s Felicity.’

‘Rory’s not out for himself.’

‘Ya-hah,’ said Libby, sardonically. ‘Right.’ She turned to Rhodes. ‘So, what do you do? Something with money, then?’

‘I work at Bloomberg. Analyst,’ Rhodes said. ‘In New York – went to college there, stayed on to do an MBA, got the job at Bloomberg after that. They love the Brits.’

‘Hm. Isn’t New York dangerous?’ Libby said. ‘My dad wants to go, and my mum’s always terrified. “No way, Eric! I’m not setting foot in that place! Who wants to be mugged and shot, eh?”’ she said, exaggerating her Northern accent. Elle knew she was deliberately provoking him; Libby was always going on about how they should go to New York for a few days. She was obsessed with the place.

‘What? No way is it dangerous,’ said Rhodes. He seemed incensed by this. ‘Typical small-minded Brits, that’s what it is. You know, it’s bollocks, this is 1997, those were problems in the eighties, they’re long gone. It’s a fucking great place.’

He pushed his plate away.

‘Sorry, Ellie. I can’t eat this. I think it’s the jet lag. Have you got a pizza menu?’

Elle stared at him, a red flush of fury mixed with embarrassment creeping up her chest to her neck. ‘No, I bloody haven’t!’ she said.

‘What’s that on the fridge?’ Rhodes pointed to a takeaway menu.

She hated the way he wound her up, she wished she didn’t care what he thought, didn’t want to try and make him like her, be impressed by her. It was pathetic. Something inside Elle snapped. ‘You’re not having a fucking pizza,’ she shouted.

‘Why?’

Elle was practically gibbering. ‘You can’t just rock up here and be all, “Oh you’re being stupid and I work in New York and I’m sooooooooooo amayyyyyyyyyyzing.” You always have to be the coolest person in the room, don’t you?’

‘I am cooler than you,’ Rhodes said, blankly. ‘I mean, Jeez, Ellie—’

‘Don’t call me Ellie! It’s babyish!’

Rhodes watched her impassively. ‘Look, don’t go mad,’ he said. ‘I only wanted to see how you were and find out about your job. Ellie.’

Elle wiped her nose with her arm. ‘No, you don’t! You come because you have to, you never ask about Mum and how she is—’

Rhodes interrupted. ‘Hey! You haven’t asked me a single question about how I am. You rabbit on about your job and these people I have no idea about, you serve some kind of soy sauce pasta mulch, and then you start throwing stuff around and shouting at me.’

Elle stared at him. It was horrible how much she let him wind her up, always had done, how they wouldn’t ever talk about the stuff that lurked just beneath the surface. ‘Don’t you understand –?’

‘Yes,’ said Rhodes, nodding, as though he was trying to be reasonable. ‘I do. Promise. It’s just the facts are quite simple. You chucked coffee over the head of your company. Because of this she is aware of you for the first time since you joined, so you actually effectively networked, though I wouldn’t use that method again. She asks your opinion because she needs back-up for her own strategy, and your boss is angry because she used you against him. That shows they both value your opinion, to an extent. It’s a good thing. And it shows it’s not your fight, it’s theirs.’

‘That’s what I said,’ said Libby.

‘So the question becomes,’ pursued Rhodes, putting his fingertips together, ‘what do you do next to maximise this situation for yourself?’

‘Er – does it?’ said Elle. ‘Isn’t that a bit – creepy?’

Rhodes laughed, and flung his leg out, pulling his trouser leg up. He put one hand on his thigh, and cupped his chin with the other.

‘It’s business. The business may be selling books to grannies who like knitting patterns, but it’s still a business. And if they’re at loggerheads you can use it to your own ends. But first, you’ve got to work out who’s got the biggest dick. Pick that person and stick with them. The old lady, or the son? Sounds like the old lady to me, he sounds like a prick.’

‘Rory’s not a prick,’ Elle said. ‘He’s great. Isn’t he, Libs?’

Libby cleared her throat and said, ‘But Rhodes, if he’s a prick, doesn’t that mean the same thing as the biggest dick?’

‘No,’ Rhodes said, still serious. ‘It’s totally different.’

Libby got up, shaking her shoulders. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I have to go. I said I’d meet Jeremy and some of the others at Filthy MacNasty’s.’

‘What the hell is that?’ Rhodes said, looking cross and yet intrigued.

‘It’s a bar, Shane MacGowan goes there all the time. They do book events, readings, it’s kind of rough and ready. It’s cool, you know.’

Elle had been to Filthy’s over the summer and didn’t like it. It was full of young editors and agents in thick black glasses all trying to outdo each other, and when one of the authors had talked about books being the new drug of choice she’d wanted to laugh out loud. She had tried reading one of his novels and it had been in blank verse with no punctuation and no one had names, they were all called Red-Haired Man, Brown-Eyed Man, and Blonde Woman, and of course Blonde Woman had taken her clothes off several times in an allegedly necessary-for-the-plot but basically super-sleazy way and everyone said it was art, unlike the MyHeart books which were of course beneath anyone’s notice there, even though Elle thought the sex scenes were considerably better written. Of course, if she’d said any of this to anyone at Filthy’s they’d have looked at her as if she’d just said she thought Hitler was a tad misunderstood.

Rhodes looked impressed; he was impressed by Libby overall, Elle could tell. She said, ‘Are you sure, Libs? It’s in Clerkenwell, and it’s nine thirty.’

‘It’s fine.’ Libby picked up her coat. ‘I really want to go, and I know you hate that kind of thing. It’s not that far for me to get back from once I’m there. I’ll see you tomorrow, thanks for the lovely pasta soup. Rhodes, great to meet you.’

‘Great to—’ Rhodes began, standing up, but Libby had gone, waving a slim hand in farewell.

‘She’s cool,’ he said, staring down the corridor at the front door.

Elle put her palms down on the table and wearily pushed herself up. ‘The pizza place is just next door. I’ll order you something, shall I?’

Rhodes turned back. ‘Thanks, Ellie. I mean – Elle. That’d be great.’ He cleared his throat, brought his thick black eyebrows together. ‘Sorry. This was nice too – you know.’

She took a breath and smiled at him. ‘Like a … starter, maybe.’

‘That’s it.’ Rhodes smiled back at his sister. Pulling the pizza menu off the fridge, Elle said, ‘So, Rhodes – are you seeing anyone? Sorry to be nosy. I kind of thought maybe you might be, from something you said.’

Rhodes’s head flipped up. ‘I am. That’s weird, how did you know?’

‘I read about two romance novels a week at the moment,’ Elle said. ‘Call it intuition based on experience.’

‘We both have our own skill set, then,’ Rhodes said, and Elle wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. ‘Well, yeah. She’s called Melissa, and I’ve been asking her out on dates for a while, but her boyfriend was this mega-rich WASP and I thought I stood no chance, but she dumped him over the summer, so yeah – I moved in there. Took her for cocktails at the Plaza, played up my British accent, told her all about my idyllic upbringing in the English countryside and – goal.’

‘That’s great – I’m happy for you,’ Elle said, after a pause. ‘How do you know her?’

‘She’s an analyst at Bloomberg too, assessing global risk,’ Rhodes said. Elle nodded as if she knew what that was. ‘She went to Brown, so she’s super well-connected, but she’s fun too. I want her to visit England with me but …’

He trailed off, and they stared at each other, as though he knew Elle could see the collapse of the shiny artificial world he’d created, of a charming English cottage with a mum who bakes biscuits and has apple cheeks, and a super-involved dad amicably divorced from her and with two great new kids and a lovely new wife. ‘Yes,’ people would say, in this fantasy world. ‘The Bees managed it so well. They’re just one big happy family.’

Elle couldn’t say anything back to that. She just nodded.

They went next door to wait for the pizza in the cramped takeaway place with the minicab drivers and the hoodie boys on their pushbikes, and the glassy-eyed skinny blondes, then they came back upstairs and ate the pizza and Rhodes said it wasn’t too bad, not as good as New York pizza but good for London. They watched the news together on the sofa, the hordes at the palace, the Spice Girls in black at some awards ceremony, the funeral set for Saturday, five more days of revelling in this unaccustomed, unBritish grief. ‘It won’t always feel this sad,’ Rhodes said, when Elle gave a small sniff, and she was touched. ‘Promise, Ellie.’

He helped her make up the sofa bed, and then they carried on talking, and Elle asked him about Manhattan, and he told her about the steam rising from the subway, the place he’d been for breakfast only last weekend which was where the orgasm scene in When Harry Met Sally had been filmed. About how when he’d taken Melissa for their first date, they’d walked up 5th Avenue afterwards and a tramp outside Central Park had shouted, ‘Marry her, you should marry her!’

‘That’s what it’s like all the time, there,’ he said. He asked some more about her job, how Karen was, whether autumn was a busy time in publishing, how long she saw herself staying at Bluebird. But he didn’t ask about Mum, or Dad, once, and Elle didn’t mention them.