Happily Ever After Read online

  Elle looked around her, taking it all in once more. A real-life publishing house. Where people made books, all day. And she was here, she was one of them! What a magical place! Strung out across the oatmeal carpet on the huge first floor were a collection of yellowing wooden desks surrounded by wall dividers, graying filing cabinets, and books. There were books everywhere, on shelves, in piles on floors, spilling out of cardboard boxes. It was strangely at odds with the beautiful old wood paneling on the walls, the four or five old portraits in gilt frames. She could see Bedford Square in the sunshine from the huge windows.

  “Do you know where you will be sitting?” Elspeth asked. “Has anyone explained to you the rules for the kitty, or about the keys?”

  “No,” said Elle. “I only really—I met Rory briefly and then—”

  “Oh, dear. Oh, dear.” Elspeth shook her head. “Someone should have told you—” She sighed, and her long thin frame shuddered.

  “I’m sorry,” Elle said.

  “It’s fine. Now. Where to start. Firstly, each employee is issued with a key. This key is extremely important. The last person to leave the building at night turns the lights off and locks the front door with the key.”

  “Yes…?” Elle said weakly. “Then what?”

  “Well, that’s it,” Elspeth said. “But it’s very important.”

  “Of course.”

  “And we ask that people, if they wish to join, contribute two pounds a month to the kitty for tea and coffee, and Miss Sassoon very kindly provides biscuits.”

  “Right,” said Elle. “And…?”

  “Well, that’s also it,” said Elspeth. “For the moment,” she added, firmly. “Ah. Here is your desk. And this is Libby. Have you met already?”

  “Yes,” said Elle, smiling gratefully at Libby, who was typing furiously, a Dictaphone machine next to her keyboard. Libby stopped and took her headphones off, raising a hand in greeting and pushing her dark blond bob out of her eyes. She was wearing Anaïs Anaïs; Elle remembered it from their first meeting.

  “Hi, Elle. Nice to have you here.”

  Elle looked away from her, blushing as if they had been caught red-handed, like secret lovers. She stared at the desk in front of her. “Oh, my goodness,” she said.

  “Is there a problem?” Elspeth asked, panic in her voice.

  “I have a phone,” Elle said, unable to believe it. “And a computer.”

  “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-box, 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 gray 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 Labor 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 were 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.�
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  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 fulfill 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 percent 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 My-Heart 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 swiveled around and realized 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 straitlaced, 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 buybacks—the Elephant and Castle, round the corner, was much dodgier but it always gave you a buyback, 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 realize 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 blond 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, “Anot
her 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 marvelous 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—”