Happily Ever After

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 …’