Happily Ever After

She nodded vigorously. ‘Tobias Scott the agent? He’s coming?’

‘Yes.’ Rory said, as they walked down a corridor decorated with fairy lights and a huge sign saying, Welcome to the World of Bluebird. ‘He’s being a right slippery old bastard at the moment. I need to corner him.’

‘Why, what’s he done?’ Elle liked hearing about things like this.

‘They’ve asked for much more money for the new John Rainham contract. Felicity wants to go on with him, of course. I want to tell them to – oh, there’s Emma. I need to talk to her too. Get working.’ He patted her shoulder and wandered off.

Typical Rory. Elle rolled her eyes and turned into the first room, where a pink banner hung outside reading, MyHeart. Enter the Land of Happy Endings. Inside, a few guests stood around with glasses of champagne and in the centre of it all, a beautiful man with no top on, surrounded by women. ‘They are releasing the calendar early this year,’ he was saying. ‘To fulfil your needs, that’s what I haff said.’

Elle stared at him. This must be Lorcan, the famous male model they used on MyHeart’s covers. Lorcan got about fifty letters a week; Elle knew because she had to forward them on to his manager. He had long, thinning, crunchy blond hair and an aquiline nose. His chest was totally hairless – she looked at it suspiciously.

‘Well, I’m very grateful to you, I must say,’ one of the ladies, short and plump and wearing a silver sequinned jacket, was saying. She licked her lips. ‘I always tell people, without you on the cover, no one would buy any of my books!’

Next to her, a rather harried-looking Posy said automatically, ‘Oh, come, Abigail, that’s just not true! Elle, there you are! Come over here, meet some people,’ she cried with a mixture, Elle thought, of relief and annoyance. Posy was often annoyed with you, even if you’d just arrived in the room – you should have been there earlier, or not at all, or something. ‘This is my wonderful secretary, Eleanor,’ Posy said. ‘This is Abigail Barrow, Elle.’

Elle blushed. Abigail Barrow was one of MyHeart’s biggest authors, and a notorious cow. But she wrote the most hilarious sex scenes, and Elle and Libby often took it in turns to read them out on slow afternoons when everyone was still out at lunch. She was very keen on two things: animals and sex noises. Her heroes always grunted, her heroines always moaned in ecstasy. She and Libby had a favourite sentence, culled from a particularly ripe episode in An Engagement with Heartache, when Lady Anthea is receiving attentions from Lord Rockfort: ‘With a strangled grunt he knew her then, like a neighing stallion knows his sweet lady mare.’ ‘How well do I know you?’ they’d ask each other. ‘Oh, about as well as a neighing stallion knows his sweet lady mare, thanks,’ and then fall over with hilarity.

‘And here’s Nicoletta Lindsay, and this is Regina Jordan.’

Three authors all in one place; Elle shook hands with them each in turn, politely, trying not to stare, but she couldn’t help secretly feeling slightly disappointed. She’d expected them to be shinier, glowing with some secret creative juice that made them more beautiful, more glamorous, somehow. Regina Jordan wasn’t even a woman; he was a short balding man wearing a blouson leather jacket. He turned away from Elle, addressing Abigail Barrow.

‘I didn’t know you’d been nominated for—’

‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ Elle said to Nicoletta Lindsay, who gave her a thin smile. ‘So, how did you—’

But the sound of a gong, growing louder, came down the corridor, and Floyd appeared in the doorway. ‘Dinner is served,’ he announced.

Lorcan took the lead. ‘Let us leave, ladies,’ he said and held out his arms.

Upstairs, Elle was looking at the seating plan. She flinched in shock as someone pinched her arm.

‘Come here,’ said Rory quietly. She turned round. ‘I’ve moved you,’ he said in her ear.

She could feel his breath on her cheek, and she shivered. ‘Why?’ she whispered. She caught sight of the two of them in the window nearby: her in her floaty grey dress, he in black, whispering in her ear, illuminated by the candles on the tables, like a scene from a story.

‘I was next to Tobias Scott, and the old bastard hasn’t come. He’s sent his son along instead. And I’m not wasting my seat on Tom Scott, he’s absolutely useless. Plus the table’s miles away. So I’ve shifted it around. You can go next to him.’

‘But you’ll be on the—’

Rory shook his head impatiently. ‘It doesn’t matter. Just go and sit down, will you? Table Three, I’ve moved your name card.’

Elle shrugged her shoulders. Fine. If Rory would rather end up on the MyHeart table listening to Lorcan talk about his 1999 calendar than sit next to Tobias Scott’s replacement for the evening, well, his loss. She weaved her way back to table three, as Felicity, resplendent in gold satin, her hair even more magnificently bouffant than usual, sailed through the crowd towards the top table, escorted by the famous Old Tom, here in person, thin, bearded and bent nearly double.

‘Good evening!’ Felicity was saying to everyone, as though she were Queen Victoria at the Great Exhibition. ‘How lovely to have you here. Thank you for coming. Hello!’

Elle found her place and sat down. ‘Hello,’ she said to the man next to her. She looked at his place name. Tony Rooney. ‘Lovely to meet you.’

Tony Rooney nodded and stared into space.

‘So, then …’ said Elle. ‘What do you do?’ She realised she was unconsciously channelling Felicity.

‘I’m the London rep,’ Tony replied, putting down his pint and staring at her. ‘And who are you?’

Elle was discomfited. ‘Oh. Sorry. I’m Elle, I’m Rory and Posy’s secretary,’ she said.

‘Oh, right,’ said Tony. He gripped his tankard and took another gulp, staring morosely into space.

A couple of other people sat down opposite them; Elle looked at Rory, laughing with the MyHeart authors she should have been sitting with, his hand on Posy’s shoulder. Posy was glowing like a Christmas tree. Elle shrugged, trying not to seem disappointed. She had been looking forward to this evening for weeks, but so far the reality was quite different. It was like the evening version of job hunting, where no one is interested in you and the party seems to be happening at another table.

‘So you’re Rory’s substitute, then,’ someone said, on her other side. ‘I wondered who he’d get to swap with him.’

Elle turned round. There was a man next to her, about Rory’s age, maybe younger. He had dark hair, cropped short, and he was tall and angular; his evening dress hung off him, as if made for a larger man. ‘Oh – no, I think the table plan was wrong,’ she lied. ‘I’m Elle, Rory’s secretary.’

‘Hello, Elle,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘I’m Tom Scott.’

‘Hi, Tom,’ Elle said. There was a silence again, and she said desperately, ‘And what do you do?’

‘I’m an agent,’ he said, looking at her slightly irritably. ‘I work with my father, Tobias Scott.’

‘Oh,’ said Elle, enlightenment flooding over her face. ‘Of course.’

From their table, which really was situated in the most distant corner of the vast room, Tom Scott stared out over the massed crowds. ‘I’m not nearly important enough for Rory to waste his time on,’ he said. He took another sip of his wine.

He was kind of rude, Elle thought; there was something she didn’t like about the awkward way his jaw clenched, how his grey eyes narrowed as he scanned the room. Like he simply didn’t want to be there. Libby was next to Paris Donaldson, who was alternately tossing his hair and whispering in her ear. She caught Elle’s eye and winked at her and Elle winked back, trying to look as though she was having the best time of her life, that her corner of the room was a veritable Annabel’s, champagne flowing, gay laughter, wacky fun.

But by the time the first course was served, Elle and her companions had descended into a silence that confirmed what all of them knew: they were on the duff table. This silence was broken only by Elspeth saying in her fluting voice, ‘What lovely leeks!’

Elle, desperate, turned to Tony Rooney.

‘So, Tony,’ she said. ‘What books are you most excited about for summer and autumn?’

‘I’ve been doing this twenty-five years,’ Tony said, lighting up a cigarette. He drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Hard to get excited after a while.’

‘That’s good to hear, good to hear,’ Elle said, nodding furiously.

‘Are you taking the mickey?’ Tony asked.

‘No, no!’ Elle said. What was wrong with him?

‘Are you a rep?’ Tom Scott, next to her, leaned forward and asked Tony.

‘Aye. London,’ Tony answered. He balanced his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, and shook Tom’s hand. ‘Tony Rooney.’

‘Tom Scott,’ Tom answered. Tony leaned forward, across Elle, as if she wasn’t there.

‘Who are you here for then, Tom?’

‘I look after – well, my father does – John Rainham,’ Tom said.

‘Your father?’ Tony asked.

There was the minutest pause and Tom looked uncomfortable. ‘He runs the agency, I work there. He couldn’t come tonight, so I stepped in. I’m an agent too …’ He trailed off.

Only got a job because his dad gave him one, Elle found herself thinking, meanly.

Tony nodded. ‘Well, John Rainham’s been good for us,’ he said. ‘Good books, great sense of place, good fan base in the shops. They love him in Greenwich, I suppose they would, eh!’

He smiled, and Tom smiled.

‘Wish you’d have a word with Rory then,’ Tom said. ‘He doesn’t seem to see it your way. He’s being pretty difficult about a new deal.’

Elle interrupted, she knew she had to. ‘Oh, Rory loves John Rainham, he—’

Tony cut straight across her. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘That’d be a shame. He’s a big author for me, Tom. Good man.’

Elle sat between them, and drained her wine glass. She tried to tuck a lock of her newly blonde, stubby hair behind her ear and frowned: usually she didn’t need any help to feel stupid. It was more than that though – she felt irrelevant, like a silly girl whose voice was higher, a waste of space. For the first conscious time in her adult life, Elle wondered how she’d have been treated if she’d been a boy.

‘Tom, my dear, how are you?’ Felicity was standing behind him, her hands on his shoulders. He stood up and she kissed his cheek.

‘I’m good, thanks, Felicity, how are you?’ he said. ‘You look wonderful.’

Creep, Elle thought.

‘I’m extremely well, thank you. Now, how’s your dear papa? Such a shame he can’t be here tonight, but you know, we must speak to him and sort out that new contract for John.’

‘Talk to your son about it,’ Tom said, smiling though his eyes were cold.

Felicity seemed to ignore this; she actually batted her lashes at him. ‘That piece on Dora in the Guardian Review was wonderful,’ she said. ‘Were you pleased? I loved it. I can’t wait to read the rest of the biography. It sounds marvellous.’

‘It’s good,’ Tom said, and then stopped. ‘Lovely to see you, Felicity.’

He sat down again. If Felicity was surprised at this abrupt termination of the conversation, she didn’t show it. She patted Elle’s shoulder. ‘Good work, Elle, my dear, good work,’ and moved on.

Flushed with kind words from her idol and full of sudden confidence, Elle turned to Tom. ‘Who’s Dora?’ she asked.

‘My mother,’ Tom said. He ate some bread, chewing it with his mouth open, and pretending to listen to the conversation on his other side, between Nathan the art director and Lorcan’s agent, about Lorcan’s next shoot, recreating a Bavarian castle in Teddington.

In one of those strange moments where a greater force takes over and the imagination leaps further than the facts, Elle pressed her hands together. ‘Dora – Zoffany?’ she asked. ‘She’s your mother?’

Tom nodded. ‘Yup.’ He didn’t seem particularly amazed she’d worked it out.

‘That’s incredible!’ Elle shook her head. ‘Oh – oh, my goodness. She’s one of my favourite novelists, we did her at university.’

‘You “did” her,’ Tom Scott said. ‘What does that mean?’

God, what a prick. ‘Studied her, sorry.’ Elle was still red with excitement. More than Barbara Pym or even Rosamond Lehmann, Dora Zoffany had been her favourite of the authors she’d studied as part of the Twentieth-Century Female Novelists course. She had read everything she’d written – eight novels, letters, short stories – umpteen times. In nearly a year at Bluebird, she had met lots of authors and spoken to even more, but to be seated next to Dora Zoffany’s son was something else. Dora was a proper novelist. People wrote biographies of her! Bookprint Publishers had only recently been taken severely to task in the Bookseller for letting her go out of print, Elle had read that very article only last week. And here she was next to Dora Zoffany’s son, even if he was an arrogant loser! She smiled happily at him. ‘I’m so – so …’ she started, and then trailed off.

Tom said, ‘What? So impressed? Think I’m more interesting now?’ He ate some more bread.

Elle was stung. ‘No –’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just I really do love your mother’s books.’

‘So do a lot of people,’ said Tom, folding his napkin up into a tight square.

‘Well – all I mean is, you must be very proud of her.’

‘Of course I am,’ he said. He turned to her, a frown puckering his forehead. ‘It’s just I don’t generally sit there thinking of her as a world-class novelist, you know. She was just my mum.’

‘OK. I’m sorry.’ Elle gave up. Fair enough. He obviously didn’t want to talk about her, and she could hear her voice, sounding high and stupid again. She wished she could simply say how much his mother’s books meant to her, and how sad she’d been when she’d died, three years ago.

But Tom Scott didn’t seem to need her sympathy or attention. He turned away and began a conversation with Lorcan’s agent, so that his back was almost facing Elle. Thankfully, just then the tables were swapped so that each rep was moved around, and Tony Rooney left after the chicken, to be replaced by Jeanette, who covered Kent, Surrey and Sussex, and who was lovely, if a little obsessed with the sales ordering systems and their implementation. At least she looked Elle in the eye, though, and they had a long conversation about stock levels and ordering up books from the warehouse which Elle, after the evening so far, found extremely comforting.

By pudding, Elle was a bit drunk. She was two glasses of champagne and several glasses of wine down. Not that it seemed to matter – everyone else was, too. The noise was louder and as pudding was served, the dinner began to break up. Tom Scott stood up and nodded at her.

‘Nice to meet you, Elle,’ he said. ‘Good luck with the job.’

‘She doesn’t need any luck,’ a voice behind her said, and Elle looked up to see Rory behind her. He patted her head. ‘She’s the best, aren’t you, Elle?’

‘Sure she is,’ Tom shrugged, and the shoulder pads in his too-big dinner jacket rose up and down again. ‘Sorry to have missed you this evening, Rory.’

‘Yes,’ Rory said easily. ‘We need to talk soon. Are you around tomorrow?’

Elle saw the flash of panic in Tom Scott’s eyes. He’s totally out of his depth, she thought. ‘Er, sure. Give me a – no, I’ll call you.’

‘I’ll try you as well. Thanks for coming, Ambrose.’

‘Ambrose?’ Elle said, more to herself, picking a grape off its stalk.

Tom ignored this. ‘Bye, then,’ he said, and walked away.

‘Why’d you call him Ambrose?’ Elle stood up, feeling a bit dizzy.

Rory laughed. ‘That’s his real name. Hilarious, eh? Changed it when he went to university. His mother knew mine, I used to have to play with him when we went for lunch there, he was a total square, really holier than thou.’

‘I felt a bit sorry for him,’ Elle heard herself say, to her surprise. She watched Tom walk towards the exit, unnoticed by anyone except her, his thin shoulders hunched, his expression dark.

‘Don’t,’ said Rory. ‘I can say this ’cause I know what it’s like. Loathes the job, loathes himself. I just want to shout “Get a Life” whenever I see him. Anyway, forget about Tom Scott. What’s going on?’

Elle shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Is there anything that needs doing? Anyone I need to look after?’

‘Me,’ said Rory, and he put his arm round her. ‘Let’s get another drink. Jeremy’s settling in at the bar over there. Come on.’

It was about one thirty when Elle looked around the room and realised she was, now, way too drunk to be out any more. Four years in Edinburgh had taught her many things, possibly the most useful of which was that she knew she could drink up to a certain point, but after that never did anything interesting like dancing on the bar with her top off or snogging random strangers. She would merely fall over and then probably be sick. The disco had started at eleven and was still going strong; Jeremy was singing along to the Proclaimers and dancing with Oona King. Floyd and a few of the reps were standing around in a circle, pints in hand, tapping their feet to the music and eyeing up various people. Posy and Loo Seat, aka Lucy, were having an intense conversation in a corner about something that involved them stopping to drink more wine and hug each other every few minutes, both with tears in their eyes.

Elle was standing at the bar with Rory, Joseph Mile – the reference books editor – and Sam. They were talking about their favourite books. ‘Your favourite book is Live and Let Die?’ Joseph Mile was astonished. ‘I must say I’m surprised, even for you, Rory.’

‘Well, it’s just a bit of fun, isn’t it?’ Rory said. ‘It’s a bloody great book. What’s yours?’

‘I struggle between Felix Holt, The Radical, or Jude the Obscure,’ said Joseph Mile, pushing his fingertips together. ‘Probably the latter.’

How can he be this sober? Elle thought. She shrank against the counter, hoping he’d ignore her.

‘And you, Sam?’ Joseph Mile said.

‘Autumn of Terror,’ Sam said promptly. ‘It’s the best book there is on Jack the Ripper. It is amazing.’

‘Oh.’ Joseph Mile looked as though someone had just presented him with a bucket of vomit. ‘Hm. Elle? You have a favourite book?’

Elle put her hand on the sticky bar surface to steady herself. She couldn’t think of what her favourite book was, all of a sudden. She racked her brains. ‘Jane Eyre,’ she said, which was partly true and also because, the previous Saturday evening, she and Libby had rented the video of the newest version starring Ciarán Hinds. ‘Ah,’ said Joseph Mile, drawing a deep breath to expound further. ‘How interesting.’ Next to him, Rory watched Elle, a strange expression on his face.

‘She’s the best heroine –’ Elle began, feeling she ought to expound on exactly why Jane Eyre was a good book. Then she heard herself and stopped. It was suddenly too hot in the room; Elle put her hand to her forehead. ‘The red-room,’ she muttered, turning away from Joseph and Rory towards Sam. ‘The red-room.’

‘What?’ said Sam.

‘Sam, I have to … I’m going … go home.’

Sam nodded enthusiastically. ‘Cool, cool.’

‘I’m getting to go a cab, Sam?’ Sam nodded again, and Elle shook her by the shoulders, intently. ‘Sam! I’m getting to go a – getting to go a cab! Listen. You come with me?’

‘I’m going to stay a bit,’ Sam said happily.

‘You sure? You can come with me.’

‘Sure.’ Sam looked at Jeremy, who was now dancing to Stevie Wonder. She waved at him, and he waved back at her, then at Elle: Elle blushed. Rory caught her eye and smiled. ‘Think I’m going to stay,’ Sam said. ‘See you later.’

‘OK, well, OK then.’ Elle raised her hand. ‘I’m off.’

‘Bye,’ said Sam. Joseph Mile raised his eyebrows very delicately. Rory kissed her cheek.

‘You be all right?’ he said.

Another flush of heat and wine flooded through her. She needed to get out. ‘Yes, yes,’ she said, almost impatiently, and she went downstairs gingerly, her feet now aching in her shoes.

It was a wet, cold night as Elle emerged into a rubbish-strewn side street in Soho. The rain was slick on the ground, and it was eerily empty. She shivered, and looked back up at the lights of the house, still blazing in the dark. She wasn’t quite sure where she was, she still found Soho extremely confusing, so she set off to walk towards what she hoped was the direction of Regent Street.

Her heels clicked on the splashy streets. She pulled her coat tightly around her. There was a noise behind her, and she heard someone running.

‘Hello?’

Elle kept on walking, slightly faster, and didn’t turn round. ‘Hey – Ello?’

Were they saying Elle or Hello? She couldn’t tell. Elle started to trot.

‘Come back!’ The footsteps were almost behind her.

‘Elle! Eleanor Bee!’

She stopped and turned around, as the person caught up with her.

‘Rory?’ she said.

‘I came down to make sure you were OK,’ he said. ‘Suddenly occurred to me I shouldn’t be letting my employees stride off on their own. Especially when—’

‘I’m not drunk!’ Elle said indignantly.

Rory changed the subject. ‘I saw you leave and I know this is a dead end –’ He gestured ahead of him, and Elle saw that the space she’d hoped was a passageway was in fact an entrance to an office block.

‘Oh –’

He steered her back down the road, and turned left again.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Elle, embarrassed, as they walked through the quiet street. ‘I’ll be OK from here. You can go back.’

‘I was leaving anyway,’ said Rory. ‘It’s fine, honestly.’

There was an awkward silence, as Elle tried to think of something to say, not fall over on the cobbles, and not be hopelessly drunk in front of her boss. Eventually, they turned into another street.

‘We’re on Wardour Street,’ Rory said. ‘Here we go.’ He stuck his hand out. ‘I’ll see you part of the way, is that OK?’

‘Sure, sure –’ said Elle, as Rory opened the door to the cab and she climbed in. ‘Aren’t you – don’t you live the other way, though?’

‘I’m staying in Notting Hill with some friends,’ he said, climbing in after her. ‘I’m having my kitchen done.’

She turned to look at him as the cab moved slowly off. ‘Well, thanks,’ she said. ‘Thanks a lot. You’re good boss.’

‘Am I?’ Rory smiled down at her, his face dark in the cab. She knew his face so well, knew him so well, how he drummed his fingers on any spare surface, how he looked vague when trying to get out of things, how his mouth curled to the side when he was making a joke. But she’d never sat this close to him before, because he was her boss. It didn’t feel like that tonight. It was as if they were different people. It was nice. Rory was nice, but then, she’d always known that.

‘Yes, you are,’ she told him. ‘Sorry, I’m a bit drunk. But I can say it ’cause I’m drunk. You’re really nice man. And I like you.’

‘Well,’ Rory said softly. ‘I like you.’

He leaned over, and put his hand gently on her cheek, and kissed her. Elle didn’t move for a second, but then she relaxed, and kissed him back. Rory slid his other arm round her and pulled her towards him. She could taste wine and cigarettes on him; she knew he was drunk too. The funny thing was, it should have felt odd. But it didn’t. He carried on kissing her, and she slid her tongue into his mouth, loving the taste of him, suddenly desperate to feel more. His hand moved over her body, gently tracing the outline of her breast, and it felt wonderful, his fingers on her dress, the fabric moving against her hot skin.

After a minute, Elle broke away, her lips throbbing, her cheeks burning. She looked into the rear-view mirror, but the cab driver was gazing straight ahead. She glanced at Rory, and gave a weak laugh.

‘What?’ he said, stroking her cheek.

‘I’m going to wake up tomorrow and think, “Oh, my God, I kissed Rory last night,”’ Elle mumbled, into his shoulder.