Happily Ever After Page 6

  “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 realized 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?”

  Passersby 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 gray 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 channeling 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 groveling 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 w
ritten 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 by the directness of the question. 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 marvelously 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…”

  She trailed off and stared thoughtfully at Elle. “This Bridget Jones vogue, it’s lasting much longer than I suspected. Bridget Jones in New York. Bridget Jones Moves to the Countryside. And I’m afraid I simply don’t get it.” She sighed; a shadow passed over her face. “Rory thinks I’m past it, that I can’t spot a good book when it’s right under my nose,” she said unexpectedly.

  Elle wanted to reassure her. “Look, like I say, it’s not completely fantastic. Perhaps it’s a bit cynically done.” She stopped, and realized this was true. “And the characters are cardboard thin, like she read some other books like it and thought, ‘I can knock one of these off myself.’ But I still enjoyed it.”

  Felicity’s eyes gleamed. “Right,” she said. “That is what I wanted to hear. Thank you.”

  Elle smiled with relief. “Oh—good. Um—is that all, Miss Sassoon?” she asked politely.

  “Yes, dear,” Felicity replied. She got out her Dictaphone. “Libby. Email to Rory Sassoon, Posy Carmichael…” She pressed the Pause button. “Read Georgette Heyer. Let me know how you get on.” She made a shooing gesture, and Elle shot out of the cool dark office, shutting the door gently behind her.

  “How did it go? Are you clearing out your things?” Libby asked, sotto voce, as Elle sank into her chair.

  “No, it was OK.” Elle’s shoulders felt as though they’d sunk four inches lower with relief. “She just wanted to ask about that Polly Pearson book.”

  “Hope you told her it was total rubbish,” said Libby.

  “No,” said Elle. “I said it was OK.” She paused, and looked down at the battered old Pan paperback in her hand. “At least, I think that’s what I said.”

  It wasn’t till after lunch that Elle came back, much restored by a tuna baguette and a walk to the British Museum in the sunshine, to find Rory standing by her desk.

  “What did you say to my mother?” he demanded. He ran his hands through his light brown hair, scrunching it till it stood on end. Elle looked blank. “To Felicity, Elle,” Rory said. “About that damned book. Come on, what did you say to her?”

  Elle sat down and put her bag on
the floor. “I don’t know,” she began. “Why?”

  Rory had his shirtsleeves rolled up and his hands on his hips. He glared at her, his face grim, his eyes dark. She’d never seen him look so angry.

  “I went out for the rest of the morning and I get back to this. She’s sent the most fucking absurd email, saying she won’t authorize a bigger offer.” He scratched his scalp furiously. “She says we can match the first offer but no more. We won’t get the bloody thing now, the agent’s after money. This was our chance to show we’re not some piddling old-fashioned grannies’ club, that we’re in the game! She was going for it this morning. What did you say to her?”

  “I didn’t say anything!” Elle said, trying not to squeak. “I just told her I really liked it, that it was a lot more realistic than most MyHeart books, and I said I enjoyed it, Sam enjoyed it—”

  Behind her, Libby coughed loudly.

  Rory brandished a piece of paper. “Asking the younger members of the office for their views,” he read, in a low, angry voice, “and trusting to my own instinct as well, I came to the conclusion that, in the words of a junior employee, ‘It is cynically done, with cardboard-thin characters, as if the author had read other books and merely thought she could knock something similar off herself.’ And therefore not something Bluebird should be spending its money on, no matter how forceful the desire to surrender to a seductive albeit—I believe fleeting—zeitgeist.”

  He bent down, so his lean face was near hers. “Did you say that?”

  Perhaps if Elle had been older or more experienced, she’d have told Rory not to drag her into his feud with his mother. But she wasn’t. “I—I did,” she said quietly. She couldn’t believe this was the same Rory who laughed and joked all day long, who’d been so sweet a few hours earlier, kissed her on the head. “But I also told her I enjoyed it a lot, despite all that, I promise, Rory—”

  “Elle—” he began, and then stopped. He closed his eyes briefly. “For God’s sake, you don’t get it, do you? This is a commercial business.” He clenched his hands into fists. “It’s not your fault,” he said, after a moment. “I’m sorry. It’s just—now someone else will make it a huge bestseller and we’ll be left trying to persuade Smith’s to take the umpteenth Jessie Dukes about sisters in the Blitz.” He leaned forward again. “You’re a snob, Elle, you know that?”