Happily Ever After Read online

“Like an Appleton sister,” Elle told her. “The mean-looking one. They’re engaged.” She picked up another samosa. “And they’re getting married in the US, only it turns out Mum can’t go because she’s got a criminal record in the States.” She threw the samosa into her mouth.

  “What?” Libby said, gaping at her. She glanced at a woman passing behind them. “Hiya! Yeah! See you in a bit!” she mouthed.

  “Excuse me,” said Tom, making to move off. “Libby, I’ll catch you—”

  “Oh, don’t go,” said Elle, hastily swallowing the samosa. “I don’t want to drive you both off. It’s just my family. My parents hate each other and my brother hates us all.” Mad as it sounded to say, as she said this out loud, she felt much better. “Yep. I was just meeting my brother’s fiancée. It’s over now. Done.”

  Libby nodded intently, then turned to Bill and started chatting, offering him the plate of canapés. Elle’s face fell. Tom moved a little closer, so he was standing next to her.

  “Wow.” He raised one eyebrow. Elle was impressed, she’d always wanted to be able to do that. “Your parents really do hate each other?”

  “Yes. Well, my dad definitely hates my mum. And I don’t think she likes him much, if I’m honest.”

  “That sounds like my parents.”

  “Really?” said Elle, not knowing what else to say.

  Tom nodded. “You’re not alone. I mean, I don’t want to sound competitive, but it’s true. Maybe they should get divorced.”

  “They did,” Elle said. “So it’s OK.” She tried to sound breezy about it, as if it were all fine, but she couldn’t do it. She thought of her mum’s sad eyes, her dad sitting so upright, so tense, the distance between them as they sat on the same sofa.

  “I’m sorry. When?”

  “Oh, ages ago now. I was sixteen when they got divorced. It’s just—I can’t explain it. I don’t ever see them together, we’re never all together, and tonight we were, and it made me see—see things I hadn’t noticed before.” Her mother’s shaking hands, the orange juice, the Disney World trip, the ring flashing on Melissa’s finger, her brother and father, how they were so angry with Mum, how Mandana just let them be, as if she deserved it, like a dog being kicked by a gang of boys. “Sorry,” she said, simply. “I don’t normally think about it much.”

  Tom watched Elle. She looked up at him. His jaw was angular, dark with six o’clock shadow, and his gray eyes were kind. He said, “Well, that’s something at least. My parents never got divorced, and then my mum died, so my dad was denied the opportunity of cheating on her anymore. He was never quite the same again.”

  “Wow,” said Elle. “You win.”

  Tom gave a little nod of the head. “Glad to hear it. I can play one-upmanship on the sad families any day. The dead mum means I usually win. So cheer up.” He saw her expression tighten, and said, in a low voice, “Hey, I’m sorry. I was only joking.”

  “I know,” said Elle, shaking her head. “It’s just—too many martinis and no food, after a day editing romance novels. It makes you—a bit nuts.” She swayed slightly as she stood in front of him.

  “Have a burger,” he said. He put his hand under her elbow. “Here.” He smiled at the waitress and gestured at the plate. “Can I keep this?”

  The waitress shrugged. “Go crazy.”

  “Eat up,” Tom continued. “Let’s make ourselves really gloomy. Tell me which songs make you cry, childhood pets you’ve lost and the closest you’ve ever come to death.”

  Elle laughed. “My dog Toogie attacked an otter in a stream and got put down.”

  “That is a depressing story.”

  “Yes. The otter was fine. Not the dead dog. Gosh, I was upset.”

  He laughed too, and she thought how nice his face was when he was smiling. How nice he was, in fact. It was strange, being able to chat to blokes without worrying that they might think you fancied them or were making a play for them, because she’d never be interested in them, and she couldn’t ever explain why.

  Tom changed the subject. “So, you’re editing MyHeart books, then? Do you enjoy it?”

  “Enjoy it?” Elle was slightly fazed. People never asked her if she actually enjoyed her job. “It’s great. I do enjoy it. But you can have too much of a good thing, I suppose,” she said in a rush. “Are you—how’s the—are you still agenting nonfiction?” she asked awkwardly. “I should know, I’m sorry. I don’t deal with a lot of agents yet, not unless they specialize in love stories about doctors and nurses.”

  Tom shook his head. “Ah, that’s a shame. I do have a submission ready about a doctor and his love for the first female Beefeater, but I guess—not one for you?”

  Elle made a mock-sad face. “No, sorry.”

  “What about a man with a scabby face and a doctor specializing in skin disorders? Called…” He trailed off, biting his lip in concentration.

  “Scabs and the City. Pick Me, Scab.”

  “No. I’ve Got a Flaky Boyfriend.”

  Elle gave a snort of mirth, catching wine at the back of her throat. She choked and then coughed, then swilled some more wine. He smiled again. “You OK?”

  “Scabs? Beefeaters?” At the sound of their laughter, Libby turned eagerly back to them. “What are you guys talking about?”

  “I was just about to tell Eleanor Bee,” Tom said, “that I’m not an agent anymore.”

  “You’re not?” Elle said.

  “No. As you may have noticed at the sales conference, I was a crap agent. I love books, but I’m no good at looking after authors. I hated evenings like that. I’ve got a bookshop instead.”

  “That’s so great. Where?”

  “Richmond. Just back from the river. It’s quite big, on two floors, and the location’s good, we get passing trade.”

  “Tom’s shop is wonderful, Elle. You should check it out one day,” Libby said. She put her hand on Tom’s arm. “And of course, Tom set up the Dora Trust.” She nodded at Elle, as if to say, Pretend you know what I’m on about.

  “Oh…” Elle said weakly. “Of course…”

  “You’ve heard of it?” Tom asked.

  “Yes…” Elle nodded vigorously. “It’s an amazing… trust.”

  “Well, well, well,” came a voice from behind her, “what have we here? Number one traitor, Libby Yates, defector to the world of the literary wank? Black-and-white photos of stubbly young male authors a must? Covers with huge block type printed sideways on? Eh?”

  “Oh, go away, Rory,” Libby said, but her eyes lit up and she grinned, and gave him a big hug. “How are you? Is it true what they say, that we’re about to buy Bluebird? Will I be your boss this time?”

  Rory smiled and pretended to ignore her. He waggled his glass in his hand and looked around, as if noticing Elle for the first time. “Hello Elby, where’ve you been? Working the livelong day, eh?”

  “I had… a drinks thing,” Elle said. He nodded vaguely.

  Tom reached out and took Rory’s glass. “Hi, Rory,” he said. “Shall I get you a refill?”

  Rory looked shocked, as if Tom had tried to mug him. “What? Oh, hi, Tom. Thanks, thanks a lot.”

  As Tom walked off and Libby turned back to Bill, her boss, Elle whispered to Rory, “Rory. What’s the Dora Trust?”

  “Oh.” Rory rolled his eyes. “It’s some prize in memory of Dora Zoffany. Old Ambrose there set it up earlier in the year. It’s to raise the profile of women writers.” He pronounced it “wimmin.” “Very PC. He got loads of press for it. And Bookprint’s sponsoring it, guess that’s why Libby’s so keen on him.” His smile became politely fixed as Tom reappeared.

  “Thanks, mate,” Rory said, taking the glass off him. “Was just telling Elby about the Dora Trust, very exciting, et cetera, et cetera. How’s it all going?”

  “Good,” said Tom. “We had a meeting with a PR agency last week. And we’re getting a website, though I’ve no idea what we’ll actually put on it. It’s Greek to me at the moment.”

  An agent, a you
ng, wiry guy called Peter Dunlop, plucked at Rory’s sleeve. “Rory, hey. How are you?”

  Elle scrunched up her nose. “Well, we set up a MyHeart database, you’d be amazed how many people have the Internet at home now. Or they just give us their work addresses. We email them once a month to let them know what the new releases are and give them special offers. I know it’s silly, but—”

  “No,” Tom said. “No, that’s not silly at all. It’s great. Why would you think that?”

  Elle was embarrassed to find herself blushing. “You know, romances, all that. It’s not on a par with—” She waved her arm round the room. “You know.”

  Tom smiled in amusement. “Are you indicating the Groucho? Or—” He looked out over the rainy street below, streaked in yellow from the lights. “Or the district of London? Or the amazing literary wonderment that is the firm of Eyre and Alcock?”

  She laughed. “I suppose the latter.”

  “They were going out of business before Bookprint bought them up, don’t forget. Bluebird’s still making money, it’s practically the only old independent left.”

  He stopped, as Peter Dunlop nudged him. “Hey, Tom, what are you saying about Bluebird?”

  “Just singing its praises,” Tom said. “Especially its excellent MyHeart imprint. I hear the books on that list are brilliantly edited.”

  Peter said, “You heard the rumor it’s up for sale? Rory says it’s rubbish.”

  “It is rubbish.” Rory was smaller than both of them. He craned his neck up and said firmly, “It’s absolutely not true. We’re doing great.” Elle watched him, trying not to smile; she found Rory at his most hilarious and strangely adorable when he was trying to play with the big boys, she didn’t know why.

  “That’s not what I heard,” said the remorseless Peter. “I heard the cousins, Harold Sassoon and that lot, want to get more money out of the company. They think Felicity’s losing her touch. Sorry, mate.”

  “Again,” said Rory, shifting his weight from one foot to another and smiling patiently, “it’s not true. Everything’s fine. These stories only come up because people are jealous, they want to see us go under, just because we’re the last of the old school. You know Felicity. She’ll buy some book for two K tomorrow and it’ll sell a million.”

  Peter Dunlop shrugged. “Bluebird turned down Polly Pearson because of her, we all know that. That’s what I mean about losing her touch. No offense.”

  There was a short pause. The success of Polly Pearson Finds a Man and the subsequent two follow-ups, Polly Pearson’s Big Drama and, released only last week in hardback, Polly Pearson Gets Married—with combined worldwide sales of well over a million copies—was an extremely sore point in the Bluebird offices.

  “Headline deserves that success, they did a great job,” Rory said, after a small hesitation. He patted Peter on the back and said graciously, “Sorry I don’t have better gossip for you, Pete. Give me a call and let’s have lunch. You too, Tom, love to catch up and hear about the shop.”

  “Oh, he’s good,” said Libby, who’d been listening to the latter part of the conversation, as she and Elle watched him.

  Elle was used to her boss. “Yes, he is. But he sure knows it.”

  An hour later, an air of drunken despondency hung over the party. They had crowded round the TV, and had seen Margaret Atwood win, to the disgust of those in the room (the agents and publishers from other companies politely agreeing that of course, their man should have won). Elle was chatting to Lucy, Bluebird’s publicity director, who in the way of all publicity directors had scented out the best party and attached herself to it, when Tom Scott came up to them.

  “I’m off now,” he said. “It was lovely to see you again. Good luck with the job.”

  “Thanks,” Elle said. “You too.”

  “And thanks for the emails database idea,” he said, raising his glass. “That’s really interesting. See you—soon.” He scratched his head and walked out.

  “I’m going in a minute too,” Elle said, watching him. “I’m done.”

  “Oh, are you?” Loo Seat slammed her glass down on the side. “I might come with you.” Her eyes followed Elle’s, watching Tom leave, and she flung her mane of hair from one side of her head to the other. “He’s cute, isn’t he? So… grrr. Geeky and moody, I don’t know if he’d ravish me or make me a cheese soufflé, you know? Mmm.”

  “Er—yes,” said Elle, not really listening. She rummaged in her bag. “I’m just looking for my Travelcard.” She rummaged around. “Dammit. I hope I haven’t…” She looked over to the coat rack. “Don’t wait for me, Loo—Lucy. I can’t find my Travelcard, I’m just going to look over there.”

  “Go and ask Rory while you’re there, you know you’ve got a crush on him,” Loo Seat said. She laughed, too loudly.

  Elle laughed too. “Good idea. I’ll see you tomorrow. You’ll be all right?”

  “Sure, sure,” said Loo Seat, tying her trench coat tightly round her slim waist and sashaying tipsily towards the exit. “See you tomorrow. Adios.”

  Elle went over to the hanging rail in the corner of the room and took her coat. She tapped Rory on the shoulder.

  “I’m off now,” she said. “Was looking for my Travelcard, but I can’t find it.”

  “Ah, right,” said Rory, briefly, turning around from his conversation with a man in a bow tie. “See you tomorrow then.”

  “Sure,” Elle said. She opened her mouth to say something else, but then just said, “Right. Have a great evening.”

  She walked down the stairs, putting on her coat as she left. Halfway down, she remembered she hadn’t said bye to Libby. She stopped, but knew she couldn’t go back. It wouldn’t work if she went back. It had gone wrong when that had happened before.

  She walked up as far as St. Anne’s Court and stood there, waiting. She didn’t have to wait for long this time.

  “Hey.” Rory was running after her. She stuck out her hand for a passing cab. “I found your Travelcard. It was on the floor, right where your coat was.”

  “Oh, my God!” Elle said loudly. “Thanks! Here, do you fancy a lift back?”

  They climbed into the cab, and it headed up to Soho Square. The moment they were on Oxford Street, clear of traffic, they moved towards each other and started kissing. He pushed his hand up her thigh, she pulled him towards her, feeling his tongue in her mouth, the muscles under his shirt…

  Warmth spread through her, lovely, sliding, gooey warmth. This was what she’d been waiting for, all through the interminable day, the long night, his hard, solid body against her, his hands on her, his skin underneath her fingers.

  “That worked well,” Rory said, pulling at the buttons of her new shirt. “But we’ll have to get a new system. The Travelcard routine’s been done twice now.”

  “Who cares,” Elle said, her eyes shining in the dark. “Kiss me again.”

  SHE’D FORGOTTEN HER toothbrush again, and her shirt was still slightly damp; she didn’t have a spare, or any clean knickers. Elle thought of her tidy, tiny, cozy room in Ladbroke Grove, where her books were, her pajamas and her totally unsexy bedsocks. She shook her hair out, frowning at herself in the mirror. How ridiculous to long for things like bedsocks when she was here. She walked back from the bathroom, holding her stomach in; the thought of Melissa’s tiny arms and flat tummy had made her feel like a sumo wrestler.

  “Rory. Can I ask you something?” She climbed into bed.

  “Mm.”

  “Darling—why do we always stay at yours?”

  “Hm?” Rory was reading a Minette Walters, his legs splayed, his penis slimy and slack against his stomach. Elle pulled the duvet over both of them, and lay against his chest, where she could hear his heart beating. She loved being with Rory after sex most of all, when he would hold her, kiss the top of her head, make her feel safe, that everything was going to be OK. And until recently, it had been.

  Something had to change. She didn’t know what came next, but something had to.
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  “I said, why do we always stay at yours? It’s a pain in the neck for me. I forgot my toothbrush, and some spare underwear, and I’m running out of clothes here and I’m the one who needs more things, you know,” Elle said, her voice muffled. “I need makeup, and a different outfit every day. I have to look presentable. You just wear the same suit and a different shirt.”

  Rory patted her head, absentmindedly. “I know. Hmm.”

  Elle was silent for a moment, and then she sat up. “Are you listening to me?” she asked mildly. “Did you at all hear what I just said?”

  Rory put his book down and sighed. “Yes, I heard you. The answer is, I don’t like your flat, it’s miles away, and Sam might see us. Plus I need to be in work early. I thought you were OK with it.”

  “I was,” Elle said, hurriedly. “But—it’s been a while now, Rory, I just thought—”

  He leaned forward, and kissed each of her nipples in turn. “You can bring some more clothes over at the weekend, and as for your underwear…” his hand slid between her thighs, “I like it when you don’t wear underwear, darling. I like it when you’re as naked underneath your clothes as possible. I like,” he said, whispering in her ear, and kissing it gently, “I like it when I think I could just grab you by the hand, shut my office door, pull your skirt up and fuck you on the desk.” His hands were on her breasts now, stroking them softly, insistently. “Don’t you agree?”

  He knew exactly what to say. He always did. Elle breathed in, shuddering slightly. “I’m not just a… a toy for you to play with, Rory.”

  “I know you’re not, darling.” He licked her nipples, buried his face between her breasts. “You’re much more than that.” He looked up and kissed her on the lips. “Are you upset?”

  “No, no, I just—”

  “All I wanted was you tonight, you know.” His green eyes bored into hers, and he clutched her hands in his, the pads of his fingers softly stroking her palms. She could feel the heat of his skin, as though it was branding her. “Just you, it nearly drove me mad.”

  “Really?” Elle loved hearing this, though she didn’t wholly believe it. Why had he spent twenty minutes talking to that agent Emma Butterworth, then flirted outrageously with Libby during most of the TV announcement if he was tormented by unquenchable lust for her, Elle?