Happily Ever After Page 8

  “Yes, I noticed that,” Rory said.

  “Of course you did, it’s horrible,” Elle said. “It’s just horrible.”

  “You look great, Elle, stop complaining. That crop suits you.”

  “Oh.” Elle smiled at him, but then her face fell. “But the color’s so—”

  “It looks lovely,” said Rory, slightly impatiently. He looked at his watch. “Want to come with me?”

  “Oh. Thanks a lot.” Elle stared at him. “You look lovely too. Black tie’s so flattering, isn’t it.”

  “What a barbed compliment,” he said, laughing as she flushed with embarrassment. “Bet you wouldn’t say that to Jeremy.”

  “Jeremy’s different—” Elle began in confusion, but Rory steered her towards the stairs.

  “Enough. We’re off to the ball, Cinderelle. Or rather, Soho’s glamorous backstreets. It’s going to be a great night, so stop complaining and enjoy it, your first sales conference. And don’t,” he said, as they walked towards the front door, “drink too much. The wine flows like water at these things. Be careful. I’m responsible for you, after all. No misbehaving.” He waved his finger at her.

  “Of course not,” said Elle, feeling much more cheerful.

  She annoyed Rory the moment they reached Auriol House by giggling at Jeremy, who was welcoming guests in the doorway. They arrived just after the Irish rep Terry, whom Jeremy was clapping heartily on the back. “Go on through, Terry, good to see you, mate. Oh. Hello, Rory. Elle—wow. You look great! Love the hair, babe.”

  Elle blushed, stood on one leg and then the other. “Oh. Thanks, Jeremy!” She ran her hand over the back of her head.

  “Come on,” Rory said testily, pushing her forward with a thumb on her shoulder blade. “I have to find Tobias Scott, and you should see if there’s anything you can do.” He fiddled with his bow tie and Elle thought again how serious he looked. “Don’t just stand around looking like a spare part. Felicity hates it. Mingle.”

  She nodded vigorously. “Tobias Scott the agent? He’s coming?”

  “Yes,” Rory said, as they walked down a corridor decorated with fairy lights and a huge sign saying, Welcome to the World of Bluebird. “He’s being a right slippery old bastard at the moment. I need to corner him.”

  “Why, what’s he done?” Elle liked hearing about things like this.

  “They’ve asked for much more money for the new John Rainham contract. Felicity wants to go on with him, of course. I want to tell them to—oh, there’s Emma. I need to talk to her too. Get working.” He patted her shoulder and wandered off.

  Typical Rory. Elle rolled her eyes and turned into the first room, where a pink banner hung outside reading, MyHeart. Enter the Land of Happy Endings. Inside, a few guests stood around with glasses of champagne and in the center of it all, a beautiful man with no top on, surrounded by women. “They are releasing the calendar early this year,” he was saying. “To fulfill your needs, that’s what I haff said.”

  Elle stared at him. This must be Lorcan, the famous male model they used on MyHeart’s covers. Lorcan got about fifty letters a week; Elle knew because she had to forward them on to his manager. He had long, thinning, crunchy blond hair and an aquiline nose. His chest was totally hairless—she looked at it suspiciously.

  “Well, I’m very grateful to you, I must say,” one of the ladies, short and plump and wearing a silver sequined jacket, was saying. She licked her lips. “I always tell people, without you on the cover, no one would buy any of my books!”

  Next to her, a rather harried-looking Posy said automatically, “Oh, come, Abigail, that’s just not true! Elle, there you are! Come over here, meet some people,” she cried with a mixture, Elle thought, of relief and annoyance. Posy was often annoyed with you, even if you’d just arrived in the room—you should have been there earlier, or not at all, or something. “This is my wonderful secretary, Eleanor,” Posy said. “This is Abigail Barrow, Elle.”

  Elle blushed. Abigail Barrow was one of MyHeart’s biggest authors, and a notorious cow. But she wrote the most hilarious sex scenes, and Elle and Libby often took it in turns to read them out on slow afternoons when everyone was still out at lunch. She was very keen on two things: animals and sex noises. Her heroes always grunted, her heroines always moaned in ecstasy. She and Libby had a favorite sentence, culled from a particularly ripe episode in An Engagement with Heartache, when Lady Anthea is receiving attentions from Lord Rockfort: “With a strangled grunt he knew her then, like a neighing stallion knows his sweet lady mare.” “How well do I know you?” they’d ask each other. “Oh, about as well as a neighing stallion knows his sweet lady mare, thanks,” and then fall over with hilarity.

  “And here’s Nicoletta Lindsay, and this is Regina Jordan.”

  Three authors all in one place; Elle shook hands with them each in turn, politely, trying not to stare, but she couldn’t help secretly feeling slightly disappointed. She’d expected them to be shinier, glowing with some secret creative juice that made them more beautiful, more glamorous, somehow. Regina Jordan wasn’t even a woman; he was a short balding man wearing a blouson leather jacket. He turned away from Elle, addressing Abigail Barrow.

  “I didn’t know you’d been nominated for—”

  “It’s lovely to meet you,” Elle said to Nicoletta Lindsay, who gave her a thin smile. “So, how did you—”

  But the sound of a gong, growing louder, came down the corridor, and Floyd appeared in the doorway. “Dinner is served,” he announced.

  Lorcan took the lead. “Let us leave, ladies,” he said and held out his arms.

  Upstairs, Elle was looking at the seating plan. She flinched in shock as someone pinched her arm.

  “Come here,” said Rory quietly. She turned round. “I’ve moved you,” he said in her ear.

  She could feel his breath on her cheek, and she shivered. “Why?” she whispered. She caught sight of the two of them in the window nearby: her in her floaty gray dress, he in black, whispering in her ear, illuminated by the candles on the tables, like a scene from a story.

  “I was next to Tobias Scott, and the old bastard hasn’t come. He’s sent his son along instead. And I’m not wasting my seat on Tom Scott, he’s absolutely useless. Plus the table’s miles away. So I’ve shifted it around. You can go next to him.”

  “But you’ll be on the—”

  Rory shook his head impatiently. “It doesn’t matter. Just go and sit down, will you? Table three, I’ve moved your name card.”

  Elle shrugged her shoulders. Fine. If Rory would rather end up on the MyHeart table listening to Lorcan talk about his 1999 calendar than sit next to Tobias Scott’s replacement for the evening, well, his loss. She weaved her way back to table three, as Felicity, resplendent in gold satin, her hair even more magnificently bouffant than usual, sailed through the crowd towards the top table, escorted by the famous Old Tom, here in person, thin, bearded, and bent nearly double.

  “Good evening!” Felicity was saying to everyone, as though she were Queen Victoria at the Great Exhibition. “How lovely to have you here. Thank you for coming. Hello!”

  Elle found her place and sat down. “Hello,” she said to the man next to her. She looked at his place name. Tony Rooney. “Lovely to meet you.”

  Tony Rooney nodded and stared into space.

  “So, then…” said Elle. “What do you do?” She realized she was unconsciously channeling Felicity.

  “I’m the London rep,” Tony replied, putting down his pint and staring at her. “And who are you?”

  Elle was discomfited. “Oh. Sorry. I’m Elle, I’m Rory and Posy’s secretary,” she said.

  “Oh, right,” said Tony. He gripped his tankard and took another gulp, staring morosely into space.

  A couple of other people sat down opposite them; Elle looked at Rory, laughing with the MyHeart authors she should have been sitting with, his hand on Posy’s shoulder. Posy was glowing like a Christmas tree. Elle shrugged, trying not to seem disappointed. S
he had been looking forward to this evening for weeks, but so far the reality was quite different. It was like the evening version of job hunting, where no one is interested in you and the party seems to be happening at another table.

  “So you’re Rory’s substitute, then,” someone said, on her other side. “I wondered who he’d get to swap with him.”

  Elle turned round. There was a man next to her, about Rory’s age, maybe younger. He had dark hair, cropped short, and he was tall and angular; his evening dress hung off him, as if made for a larger man. “Oh—no, I think the table plan was wrong,” she lied. “I’m Elle, Rory’s secretary.”

  “Hello, Elle,” he said, shaking her hand. “I’m Tom Scott.”

  “Hi, Tom,” Elle said. There was a silence again, and she said desperately, “And what do you do?”

  “I’m an agent,” he said, looking at her slightly irritably. “I work with my father, Tobias Scott.”

  “Oh,” said Elle, enlightenment flooding over her face. “Of course.”

  From their table, which really was situated in the most distant corner of the vast room, Tom Scott stared out over the massed crowds. “I’m not nearly important enough for Rory to waste his time on,” he said. He took another sip of his wine.

  He was kind of rude, Elle thought; there was something she didn’t like about the awkward way his jaw clenched, how his gray eyes narrowed as he scanned the room. Like he simply didn’t want to be there. Libby was next to Paris Donaldson, who was alternately tossing his hair and whispering in her ear. She caught Elle’s eye and winked at her and Elle winked back, trying to look as though she was having the best time of her life, that her corner of the room was a veritable Annabel’s, champagne flowing, gay laughter, wacky fun.

  But by the time the first course was served, Elle and her companions had descended into a silence that confirmed what all of them knew: they were on the duff table. This silence was broken only by Elspeth saying in her fluting voice, “What lovely leeks!”

  Elle, desperate, turned to Tony Rooney.

  “So, Tony,” she said. “What books are you most excited about for summer and autumn?”

  “I’ve been doing this twenty-five years,” Tony said, lighting up a cigarette. He drummed his fingers on the table. “Hard to get excited after a while.”

  “That’s good to hear, good to hear,” Elle said, nodding furiously.

  “Are you making fun of me?” Tony asked.

  “No, no!” Elle said. What was wrong with him?

  “Are you a rep?” Tom Scott, next to her, leaned forward and asked Tony.

  “Aye. London,” Tony answered. He balanced his cigarette on the edge of the ashtray, and shook Tom’s hand. “Tony Rooney.”

  “Tom Scott,” Tom answered. Tony leaned forward, across Elle, as if she wasn’t there.

  “Who are you here for then, Tom?”

  “I look after—well, my father does—John Rainham,” Tom said.

  “Your father?” Tony asked.

  There was the minutest pause and Tom looked uncomfortable. “He runs the agency, I work there. He couldn’t come tonight, so I stepped in. I’m an agent too…” He trailed off.

  Only got a job because his dad gave him one, Elle found herself thinking, meanly.

  Tony nodded. “Well, John Rainham’s been good for us,” he said. “Good books, great sense of place, good fan base in the shops. They love him in Greenwich, I suppose they would, eh!”

  He smiled, and Tom smiled.

  “Wish you’d have a word with Rory then,” Tom said. “He doesn’t seem to see it your way. He’s being pretty difficult about a new deal.”

  Elle interrupted, she knew she had to. “Oh, Rory loves John Rainham, he—”

  Tony cut straight across her. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, as if she hadn’t spoken. “That’d be a shame. He’s a big author for me, Tom. Good man.”

  Elle sat between them, and drained her wine glass. She tried to tuck a lock of her newly blond, stubby hair behind her ear and frowned: usually she didn’t need any help to feel stupid. It was more than that though—she felt irrelevant, like a silly girl whose voice was higher, a waste of space. For the first conscious time in her adult life, Elle wondered how she’d have been treated if she’d been a boy.

  “Tom, my dear, how are you?” Felicity was standing behind him, her hands on his shoulders. He stood up and she kissed his cheek.

  “I’m good, thanks, Felicity, how are you?” he said. “You look wonderful.”

  Creep, Elle thought.

  “I’m extremely well, thank you. Now, how’s your dear papa? Such a shame he can’t be here tonight, but you know, we must speak to him and sort out that new contract for John.”

  “Talk to your son about it,” Tom said, smiling though his eyes were cold.

  Felicity seemed to ignore this; she actually batted her lashes at him. “That piece on Dora in the Guardian Review was wonderful,” she said. “Were you pleased? I loved it. I can’t wait to read the rest of the biography. It sounds marvelous.”

  “It’s good,” Tom said, and then stopped. “Lovely to see you, Felicity.”

  He sat down again. If Felicity was surprised at this abrupt termination of the conversation, she didn’t show it. She patted Elle’s shoulder. “Good work, Elle, my dear, good work,” and moved on.

  Flushed with kind words from her idol and full of sudden confidence, Elle turned to Tom. “Who’s Dora?” she asked.

  “My mother,” Tom said. He ate some bread, chewing it with his mouth open, and pretending to listen to the conversation on his other side, between Nathan the art director and Lorcan’s agent, about Lorcan’s next shoot, re-creating a Bavarian castle in Teddington.

  In one of those strange moments where a greater force takes over and the imagination leaps further than the facts, Elle pressed her hands together. “Dora—Zoffany?” she asked. “She’s your mother?”

  Tom nodded. “Yup.” He didn’t seem particularly amazed she’d worked it out.

  “That’s incredible!” Elle shook her head. “Oh—oh, my goodness. She’s one of my favorite novelists, we did her at university.”

  “You ‘did’ her,” Tom Scott said. “What does that mean?”

  God, what a prick. “Studied her, sorry.” Elle was still red with excitement. More than Barbara Pym or even Rosamond Lehmann, Dora Zoffany had been her favorite of the authors she’d studied as part of the Twentieth-Century Female Novelists course. She had read everything she’d written—eight novels, letters, short stories—umpteen times. In nearly a year at Bluebird, she had met lots of authors and spoken to even more, but to be seated next to Dora Zoffany’s son was something else. Dora was a proper novelist. People wrote biographies of her! Bookprint Publishers had only recently been taken severely to task in the Bookseller for letting her go out of print, Elle had read that very article only last week. And here she was next to Dora Zoffany’s son, even if he was an arrogant loser! She smiled happily at him. “I’m so—so…” she started, and then trailed off.

  Tom said, “What? So impressed? Think I’m more interesting now?” He ate some more bread.

  Elle was stung. “No—” she said. “I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just I really do love your mother’s books.”

  “So do a lot of people,” said Tom, folding his napkin up into a tight square.

  “Well—all I mean is, you must be very proud of her.”

  “Of course I am,” he said. He turned to her, a frown puckering his forehead. “It’s just I don’t generally sit there thinking of her as a world-class novelist, you know. She was just my mum.”

  “OK. I’m sorry.” Elle gave up. Fair enough. He obviously didn’t want to talk about her, and she could hear her voice, sounding high and stupid again. She wished she could simply say how much his mother’s books meant to her, and how sad she’d been when she’d died, three years ago.

  But Tom Scott didn’t seem to need her sympathy or attention. He turned away and began a conversa
tion with Lorcan’s agent, so that his back was almost facing Elle. Thankfully, just then the tables were swapped so that each rep was moved around, and Tony Rooney left after the chicken, to be replaced by Jeanette, who covered Kent, Surrey, and Sussex, and who was lovely, if a little obsessed with the sales ordering systems and their implementation. At least she looked Elle in the eye, though, and they had a long conversation about stock levels and ordering up books from the warehouse, which Elle, after the evening so far, found extremely comforting.

  By pudding, Elle was a bit drunk. She was two glasses of champagne and several glasses of wine down. Not that it seemed to matter—everyone else was, too. The noise was louder and as pudding was served, the dinner began to break up. Tom Scott stood up and nodded at her.

  “Nice to meet you, Elle,” he said. “Good luck with the job.”

  “She doesn’t need any luck,” a voice behind her said, and Elle looked up to see Rory behind her. He patted her head. “She’s the best, aren’t you, Elle?”

  “Sure she is.” Tom shrugged, and the shoulder pads in his too-big dinner jacket rose up and down again. “Sorry to have missed you this evening, Rory.”

  “Yes,” Rory said easily. “We need to talk soon. Are you around tomorrow?”

  Elle saw the flash of panic in Tom Scott’s eyes. He’s totally out of his depth, she thought. “Er, sure. Give me a—no, I’ll call you.”

  “I’ll try you as well. Thanks for coming, Ambrose.”

  “Ambrose?” Elle said, more to herself, picking a grape off its stalk.

  Tom ignored this. “Bye, then,” he said, and walked away.

  “Why’d you call him Ambrose?” Elle stood up, feeling a bit dizzy.

  Rory laughed. “That’s his real name. Hilarious, eh? Changed it when he went to university. His mother knew mine, I used to have to play with him when we went for lunch there, he was a total square, really holier than thou.”

  “I felt a bit sorry for him,” Elle heard herself say, to her surprise. She watched Tom walk towards the exit, unnoticed by anyone except her, his thin shoulders hunched, his expression dark.

  “Don’t,” said Rory. “I can say this ’cause I know what it’s like. Loathes the job, loathes himself. I just want to shout ‘Get a Life’ whenever I see him. Anyway, forget about Tom Scott. What’s going on?”