Happily Ever After

‘Of course you do,’ Elspeth said. She looked at her suspiciously.

A voice from the office behind them boomed, ‘Elspeth. Come here, please.’

Like a cartoon character, Elspeth shot across the floor. Elle watched her open the old wooden door, saw a flash of a flared dark pink corduroy skirt, a woman whose hair was swept into a big bun, fat fingers with two massive rings cutting into them, and the big carved wooden desk she’d sat at the previous week for her interview. Felicity. ’Rory says the manuscript—’ she heard, and then the door shut.

‘Take a seat then,’ Libby said, watching her. ‘Don’t stand around looking like a lemon.’

‘No,’ Elle said hastily. She sank down into the scruffy black chair in front of her and put her hands tentatively to the keyboard. There was an empty blue plastic in tray, a shiny black phone with a tangled cord, and a wire pen holder, with four biros and a pencil in it. She stroked the keyboard of her computer, opened the top drawer of the desk. ‘There are Post-its,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘I have my own Post-its.’

Libby smiled. ‘You are daft.’

She put her headphones back on and carried on typing. Elle opened the drawers a couple of times and pressed the button on the front of her grey computer monitor. She stared at the shelves by their desks. Trying to look like she had something to do, she reached over and picked some books out. There were old hardbacks, each stamped at the bottom of the spine with a gold bluebird, and lots of paperbacks, most of them pretty old, some green and orange Penguins. Lots of Victoria Bishops in hardback, all called things like To Carry the Night and Lanterns Over Mandalay, lots of Thomas Hodgsons: Old Tom On Dartmoor, Old Tom’s Springtime, Christmas with Old Tom … She rolled her eyes. How boring!

There were lots of thrillers. She stood up and picked a few off the shelves. Funeral in the Bunker, which had a big swastika across it. Old historical novels, called things like Katharine’s Promise and To Catch a King. One shelf had a row of copies of the same book, Quantox’s Dilemma, the only vaguely new thing she could see anywhere, by someone called Paris Donaldson, with a hilarious photo of the author, in black-and-white, posing looking moodily into the distance. Elle wanted to laugh. He looked a bit like her flatmate Alex.

But it was the bottom shelf that was most alarming. It stretched out on either side of the desks, row upon row of books all with a heart on the spine entwined with the words ‘MyHeart’. Elle’s eyes nearly popped out as she read the titles. He was a Sheikh … She was a Nurse. My Lord, My Captor. The Dastardly Duke’s Revenge. Devil in a White Coat.

‘Oh, my goodness …’ Elle whispered, trying not to laugh. ‘Libby … what’s MyHeart?’

Libby looked up at her, and then took off her headphones again with a sigh. ‘What?’

‘What’s MyHeart?’ Elle pointed.

‘Our romance list. We publish two a month. Posy’s in charge of it.’

‘So … I’ll have to work on those books then?’

‘Er – yes.’ Libby raised an eyebrow. ‘Why, is that a problem?’

Elle blushed. ‘No, of course not! It’s just … they’ve got such funny names, don’t you think?’

‘MyHeart is the most successful part of the company, apart from the four big authors,’ Libby said. ‘I wouldn’t make fun of it anywhere near Felicity, if I were you.’

Elle flushed with shame, feeling perspiration flowering on her forehead, under her armpits. ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to …’ How stupid she sounded! Her eyes were dry; she rubbed them. She thought she might still be a bit hungover. The bank holiday weekend, despite her best intentions, had been a big one, from which she was still recovering. The beautiful weather and the Labour landslide meant everyone was in a euphoric mood. They’d stayed in Holland Park all day, drinking, chatting, flirting. She’d even snogged Fred again, and this time she’d really enjoyed it. It was nice, kissing someone in a park as evening came, feeling the moist grass between your toes, his lips on yours, your fingers twining with his …

Libby carried on typing. Elle sat up straight and blinked hard, wondering what the hell she should do next, when the door to Felicity’s office opened and Rory emerged with a woman in her mid-thirties. The carved wooden door closed again as though someone was standing behind it, showing people in and out, in the manner of an audience with the Queen.

Rory was frowning. ‘We should have gone for it, Pose. It’s lunacy to be turning it down. Don’t listen to her.’

The woman ignored him and walked towards Elle. ‘Eleanor? Welcome! I’m Posy. Nice to meet you. Sorry not to have before. So glad you’re here!’ She was pretty, rather flustered looking, with pink cheeks and thin hair which curled tentatively at her neck and behind her ears; she looked the way a Posy should. ‘Now –’ She pulled up a chair and sat down next to Elle at her desk. ‘Let’s go through some things, shall we?’ She smiled, and ran her hands over her forehead. ‘You’ve met—’

‘Hey, Posy, give the kid a chance.’ Rory stood behind her and put his hand on Posy’s shoulder. ‘Hi, Eleanor. Great to see you again. Welcome. Has Libby been showing you the ropes? You should cultivate her, even if she is a bit stroppy and supports a rubbish football team.’

Libby, who had carried on typing throughout this exchange, could obviously hear enough of it through her headphones, as she raised one palm. ‘Talk to the hand,’ she said.

‘Rory,’ Posy said. ‘Why don’t I run Eleanor through some stuff, take her round and introduce her to people.’

‘Good idea, very good idea,’ Rory said. ‘We can take her to lunch afterwards.’

There was a slight pause. ‘Well …’ said Posy. ‘Abigail Barrow’s just delivered and I have to – I can’t really.’ She turned to Elle. ‘Sorry, Elle. We’ll take you out another time.’

‘Oh, no, please, I’ll be fine,’ Elle said hurriedly. She couldn’t imagine anything worse, sitting with her bosses making small talk. And anyway, she wanted to fulfil her cherished lunch plan: find a Pret A Manger, have a sandwich, and sit in a park with the Evening Standard like a proper office worker.

Rory leaned forward. ‘I’ll clear out. Why don’t we have a chat after Posy’s finished with you. We’re really glad you’re here,’ he said. ‘It’s a nightmare, getting used to things. I hated it, when I first started.’

‘Were you a secretary?’ Elle asked.

Posy gave a snort of laughter. ‘Rory! That’s a good one. He’s never sent a fax in his life. Now, come on, Elle, let’s—’

‘Only ever worked at Foyles and here, for my sins,’ Rory said, ignoring her. He grimaced. ‘I’m nepotism in human form, you know. My mother wanted me to be involved in the business, and – well, I love books, of course, though we need to change. It’s an interesting time to be in the game.’

‘“The game”,’ Posy scoffed, sitting back down again. ‘Rory’s very flash, Eleanor. I’m staid and boring and like actually editing my books and building authors. Rory has a horror of the mid-list and he only likes authors who look attractive in photos.’

‘Like Paris Donaldson,’ Elle said seriously, but was surprised when Posy roared with laughter and Rory, after a second of looking annoyed, slapped his hands on the desk and joined in.

‘She’s sharp, that one,’ Rory said. ‘Yes, like Paris Donaldson, exactly. All the guys wanna be like him, all the girls love him. Gold dust.’

‘I think he’s a prick,’ said Posy. ‘But we don’t agree about anything, do we, Rory?’

‘No, my love,’ Rory answered easily. ‘We don’t. I’ll leave you two to it. Good luck again, Elle.’

He wandered off, whistling. Elle saw the look Posy gave as her eyes followed him. ‘Er …’ she said, after a moment. ‘Right, let’s get on with it.’

By lunchtime, Elle was ready for food, and she could have done with a large drink, too. Her head was buzzing. She had been walked through everything by Posy, who would say, ‘It’s very important you don’t forget to do this,’ and, ‘Please make sure you always check this extremely carefully,’ but if Elle was honest she hadn’t understood about seventy-five per cent of what she’d been told. Posy kept explaining things and Elle kept writing them down in her ring-bound notebook, sentences that didn’t seem to make any sense.

You need to keep an eye on Jews to make sure you don’t run out of stock didn’t look right, in fact it looked downright disturbing.

When proof covs come in from prod send 1 to agent 2 to the author, with note from Posy pp me file the other two, one in the author file, one in the covs circ file. What did this mean?

If Ed Victor or Abner Stein phones get Posy immediately. No matter where she is. If someone called Lorcan phones put him on hold and find P or Tony, don’t let him ring off, impossible to track down.

But if woman called Georgina King phones saying she’s a MyHeart author and she has the support of the RNA, get rid of her. Do not put her through to P. She is a lunatic. Elle had nodded and stuck a Post-it on the bottom of her monitor with ‘Georgina King Lunatic’ in large letters, trying to look as though she was On It. Finally Posy said, ‘Is that all starting to make some sense? Is there anything you’re not clear on? I know it must seem a bit overwhelming, but just ask if there’s anything. Really important you ask.’

Just ask. Elle was so used to hearing that, in every job she’d had, temping, summer jobs, Saturday jobs. Just ask. It was a load of rubbish. They never meant it. If you did pluck up the courage to ask they looked at you as if you’d just been sick all over them. And where should she start, anyway? RNA? Grid? Jews? But this time she had to try. She took a deep breath. Which should she pick?

‘Who’s Lorcan?’ she asked.

‘Lorcan?’ Posy nodded. ‘He’s the model we use on nearly every MyHeart cover. Big muscly guy, long hair, white teeth, you know the kind. He’s almost as popular as the actual books. We’re always trying to pin him down for shoots and he’s never around. So when we can get hold of him, we have to cling on for dear life. He’s the bane of Tony’s life.’ Elle looked blank. ‘Tony the art director. Look, why don’t I take you round to meet everyone now?’

She walked Elle around the floor, briskly introducing her to a sea of faces Elle knew she’d never remember. People were friendly but uninterested. When Posy said things like, ‘Sam’s the marketing assistant, she works with Jeremy, our marketing director,’ Elle would smile and nod, though she actually wanted to shout, ‘I’ve no idea what’s going on! I can’t shake your hand because I’ve sweated through my stupid new jumper and you’ll see my armpits are wet!’

‘Fetch your jacket and I’ll walk out to lunch with you. I need to get a sandwich too.’

Elle swivelled around and realised she had no idea where she actually sat, she had lost her bearings completely. Posy looked at her as if she were a complete moron.

‘I’m sorry,’ Elle whispered. ‘Just a bit confused, can’t remember where I’m going.’

Something in Posy’s expression changed. ‘You poor thing. I remember what it was like, my first day in my first job. I cried in the loos.’

Now I want to remember where the loos are and go and cry in them, Elle thought.

‘SO THEY’RE ALL nice, then?’

Elle took another sip of her wine. ‘I think so. They seemed nice. Rory’s really funny. Posy’s a bit strait-laced, but I think she’s OK.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘I’m exhausted. It’s mental, first day at a job, you have no idea what you’re doing or where anything is.’

‘You’ll get used to it.’ Karen patted her arm. ‘You’ll be brilliant.’

‘Oh, thanks.’ Elle smiled affectionately at her old friend. ‘And Karen, thank you so much for having me to stay.’ She glanced at Alex and Cara, who were next to them, whispering to each other – Alex and Cara had one of those tedious ‘flirty relationships’ where everyone around them wanted to tell them to just get on with it and shag. ‘I know I’ve outstayed my welcome. I’m really grateful to you, to all of you.’

Karen shook her head. ‘My pleasure. You’d do the same for me.’ She drained her pint. ‘Another drink?’

‘My round,’ Elle said, standing up. ‘I’ll get these.’

She was tired, but she practically skipped to the bar. It was so nice to be able to get the drinks in, for once. It was so nice to be able to go to the Lav Tav, the Lavenham Tavern, their local, which was a proper gastropub, with nice food and floorboards, a log fire, and lovely rickety old tables and chairs. It didn’t do cashback – the Elephant and Castle, round the corner, was much dodgier but it always gave you cashback, no matter how perilous your finances. She’d been drinking a lot at the Elephant and Castle the last couple of months but that period was over, she hoped. No more men with scary dogs on bits of old chain or women with no teeth wearing their coats inside and sitting in silence. It was the Lav Tav for her from now on – lilies on the counter and David Gray on the stereo.

Standing at the bar, Elle inhaled with a sense of weary satisfaction. She was in the pub after a hard day’s work. It was a good feeling. She—

‘Eleanor? Wow!’ someone said in her ear. ‘I didn’t realise you lived round here!’

Elle turned. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Hi there!’

It was a girl she’d met at some point in the day. Elle stared at her blankly, and then she remembered her: buck teeth, short blonde hair, unfortunate sparkly grips in her hair and too keen. She was assistant to Handsome Jeremy, the saturnine marketing director; Elle remembered him, he’d smiled and said, flirtatiously, ‘How very lovely to have you here.’ This girl had been bobbing around next to him, and she’d kept saying, ‘Another girlie! Brill!’ Shit. What was her name?

‘I’m Elle,’ she said, hoping to buy time and prompt a response.

‘I know that!’ the girl said. ‘Durr! Can I get you a drink? Are you with some friends? I’m with my boyfriend Dave, shall we join you?’

‘Sure!’ said Elle. ‘Um – I’ll just get these.’

By the time she’d taken the drinks over, the girl and her boyfriend Dave had sat down at the table, and had introduced themselves to Karen and Cara and Alex, who were ignoring them and whispering in each other’s ear again.

‘So how long have you been at the company?’ Karen was asking.

‘I’ve been there a year,’ the girl said. ‘It’s a marvellous place! Miss Sassoon is amazing, last year she gave us all a five-pound Marks voucher for Christmas. When I phoned Mum to tell her, she was like, that’s what the Queen gives everyone at Buckingham Palace! Amazing.’

What the hell is your name? Elle smiled. ‘It seems like a nice place to work,’ she said.

‘Oh, yeah,’ said the girl. ‘It’s great. Dave says I go on about it all the time, don’t you, Dave!’ She nudged Dave, who said nothing and went back to staring into his pint. ‘So where do you live, Eleanor?’

‘Just round the corner, for now,’ said Elle. ‘But it’s only temporary, I need to find a place.’

‘Seriously? That’s so weird.’ The girl sucked on her straw. ‘My flatmate’s just moved to South Africa, it was all really sudden. Really sudden – like she went last week, only told me the week before that.’ She stuck her tongue out. ‘Dave said she was sick of me, but it wasn’t like that! Anyway, you should come and see it. The flat, I mean.’

‘Wow, that’s – where is it?’ said Elle. She didn’t want to commit, but then she caught Alex’s eye, and he gave her a cold look.

‘It’s at the top of Ladbroke Grove, above a cab company, right by the Sainsbury’s. You know that big sign appealing for witnesses for that assault? Right there. It’s actually really safe round there, that’s not a problem, honestly.’ She smiled her toothy smile. ‘Anyway, I’m looking for someone, and the rent’s like eighty quid a week each which is amazing, so—’

A shadow fell over the table. ‘All right, mate?’ Alex said, leaping up.

‘Hi, mate. Hi, everyone. Hi, Elle.’

‘Hi, Fred,’ Elle said, her heart thumping in her chest. ‘How’re you?’ she said nonchalantly, flicking her hair and sounding uninterested – this was something she’d picked up from observing Cara, who had men flocking round her like bees round honey.

Fred nodded. ‘Good, good. It’s nice to see you, Elle, how’s the first day been?’

‘Good,’ she said, pleased. The girl from work was grinning expectantly up at her. ‘Yeah, this is one of my new work colleagues,’ she said. ‘Um –’

Fred waited, as Karen stared at her.

‘I’m sorry,’ Elle blurted out eventually. ‘I can’t remember your name. I’m really sorry. I – I met loads of people today.’

‘That’s OK. It’s Sam!’ Sam stood up. ‘Hiya! This is my boyfriend Dave. I’m Sam! What’s your name?’

Fred smiled at Elle. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘What’s my name?’

‘Er –’ Elle couldn’t believe it, but she had to think for a moment. ‘God. It’s Fred. I’m going mad.’

Fred sat down, next to Alex, who slapped him on the back, while Cara smoothed her short Afro back from her forehead, and took another sip from her drink. Karen smiled at Fred ingratiatingly, while Elle, thoroughly flustered now, stared at the ground, thinking she’d better go to bed early, and then remembering with a sinking heart that the bed that awaited her was orange and green seventies acrylic, and had fag butts stuck down its back. She was so tired all of a sudden, all she wanted to do was sleep, get into work and attack this job properly. Tomorrow is another day, as Scarlett O’Hara would say.

‘So –’ Sam leaned forward, speaking loudly into her ear. ‘Do you want to come and see the flat? I mean, I don’t want to pressure you or anything, but it’s pretty nice and cheap, and I’m going to be spending lots of time with Dave, obviously, so I won’t be around much, and it’s Ladbroke Grove, and you could move in right away, and we could go to work together and be like amigos, you know, look out for each other.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I think it’s actually amazing, in fact, don’t you? The universe is telling us it’s supposed to happen, otherwise why would me and Dave come in here the same night you’re in here?’

There were several things Elle could have said to this speech, and if she’d been older and more jaded she might have done, but she was sick of sleeping on a manky sofa, and she wanted to put her books out and her CD player up.

‘I’d love to come and see it,’ she said, turning to Sam. ‘When’s good for you? Tomorrow?’

‘Yeah!’ said Sam, clapping her hands together. ‘Amazing!’ She clinked her glass against Elle’s. ‘You’ll love it. What a day! Just think, this morning we hadn’t even met!’

This morning seemed to be a thousand years ago. All the things that had happened. It felt as if, finally, she was on her way somewhere. Elle pulled discreetly at the armpits of her raspberry sweater. Amidst the maelstrom of new faces and facts she’d learned something concrete today, at least. Don’t wear tight-fitting, pale-coloured, wool-mix knits when you’re nervous.

September 1997

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 …’