Happily Ever After

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.

March 1998

‘WELL, I THINK it looks really nice,’ Sam said doubtfully, as Elle stared in the tiny mirror of the Ladies’ bathroom.

‘I hate it,’ Elle said dramatically. ‘I don’t know why I had it done. I look like a brassy whore,’ she said, running a strand of hair through her fingers. ‘My hair was fine before. Now it’s insane. Look at it.’

‘It’s great, I promise,’ said Libby, applying some lip gloss. ‘It’s the crappy Bluebird sales conference, not the Oscars.’

There was a sharp rap at the door. ‘Hurry up, please,’ came Posy’s voice. Elle, Libby and Sam hurried sideways out of the cramped room. Posy was waiting for them, resplendent in a floral bias-cut Jigsaw dress. She was wearing blue eyeshadow and mascara and her hair was up. Elle stared; she’d never seen Posy dressed up before. Posy tapped her foot. ‘The authors will be arriving soon,’ she said, in the tones of one announcing the Apocalypse. ‘Let’s go.’

Elle had never heard of a sales conference before she’d gone to work at Bluebird. It was basically the chance for an almighty piss-up, as far as she could tell. There was a presentation, some flashy music on in the background, and then dinner with authors and the reps from all round the country, at a Georgian townhouse in Soho.

The marketing department was in charge for the weeks before the sales conference, and exciting-looking things started arriving for the event: Post-it notes in the shape of hearts and 1998/99 diaries with Victoria Bishop’s new title printed on them – Diary of a Well-Worn Heart – and torches with ‘Be Afraid of the Dark’ for Oona King’s new thriller. Elle thought it was amazing, what they could produce; there was still so much about the whole business that, even after nearly a year, filled her with a kind of wonder that she was here at all. She knew it was tragic to look forward to a work event this much, but she couldn’t help it. Besides, after ten months of working there, she loved nights out with her Bluebird colleagues. Everyone got the same jokes, there was always someone to talk to and something to gossip about: whether Jeremy and Lucy the publicity director were having an affair, what Rory had allegedly said to Felicity during their latest row, how much of a bitch Victoria Bishop really was, and so on.

For this anticipated event Elle had even bought a new dress – dove grey chiffon with beading from Oasis – and the previous night, flushed with excitement and an all-consuming urge to be bold and embrace life, she had walked into a hairdresser’s at the top of Tottenham Court Road and apparently blacked out in an episode of lunacy, because when she came to she saw she’d asked them to cut all her hair off into a crop, which wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t been teamed with a dye job the colour of a field of rapeseed. And it was then that she remembered too late that the urge to be bold and embrace life usually had catastrophic results. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said sadly, grabbing her coat and turning off her computer, catching sight of the yellow hair in the black screen.

Someone lightly touched her shoulder. ‘What’s up?’

Elle turned quickly. ‘Hello, Rory.’ She put her bag over her shoulder, trying to look professional. ‘Right, I’m ready.’

‘Why are you sighing like an old steam engine?’

Elle rolled her eyes back into her head. ‘Er – nothing. It’s silly.’

‘What? Tell me. I’m your boss. We have no secrets.’

‘It’s my … hair. I changed it.’

‘Yes, I noticed that,’ Rory said.

‘Of course you did, it’s horrible,’ Elle said. ‘It’s just horrible.’

‘You look great, Elle, stop complaining. That crop suits you.’

‘Oh.’ Elle smiled at him, but then her face fell. ‘But the colour’s so—’

‘It looks lovely,’ said Rory, slightly impatiently. He looked at his watch. ‘Want to come with me?’

‘Oh. Thanks a lot.’ Elle stared at him. ‘You look lovely too. Black tie’s so flattering, isn’t it.’

‘What a barbed compliment,’ he said, laughing as she flushed with embarrassment. ‘Bet you wouldn’t say that to Jeremy.’

‘Jeremy’s different –’ Elle began in confusion, but Rory steered her towards the stairs.

‘Enough. We’re off to the ball, Cinderelle. Or rather, Soho’s glamorous backstreets. It’s going to be a great night, so stop complaining and enjoy it, your first sales conference. And don’t,’ he said, as they walked towards the front door, ‘drink too much. The wine flows like water at these things. Be careful. I’m responsible for you, after all. No misbehaving.’ He waved his finger at her.

‘Of course not,’ said Elle, feeling much more cheerful.

She annoyed Rory the moment they reached Auriol House by giggling at Jeremy, who was welcoming guests in the doorway. They arrived just after the Irish rep Terry, whom Jeremy was clapping heartily on the back. ‘Go on through, Terry, good to see you, mate. Oh. Hello, Rory. Elle – wow. You look great! Love the hair, babe.’

Elle blushed, stood on one leg and then the other. ‘Oh. Thanks, Jeremy!’ She ran her hand over the back of her head.

‘Come on,’ Rory said testily, pushing her forward with a thumb on her shoulder blade. ‘I have to find Tobias Scott, and you should see if there’s anything you can do.’ He fiddled with his bow tie and Elle thought again how serious he looked. ‘Don’t just stand around looking like a spare part. Felicity hates it. Mingle.’