Happily Ever After

by Harriet Evans

  “How? How is it hard for you?” Elle smacked her hand against the wall. “I hate sounding like a whiny little girl, Rory, but you can’t keep saying now’s not the right time, over and over again,” Elle said, her voice rising. “When? When will it be the right time?” It seemed to rush upon her at this moment, a feeling of helplessness, of despair, that she was her mother all over again, a fool in love. She cleared her throat. “Honestly, Rory.” Her voice, when she spoke, was shaky. “It’s been nearly a year, and I don’t think anything’s changed, except—I thought this was forever.”

  “It is forever,” he said, his voice small. “Elle, don’t talk like that.”

  “You don’t get it,” she said. “I just don’t know if… if I can do this for much longer. I meant what I said in the summer. This has to change. And I don’t think you’re listening to me, I don’t think you want it to change.”

  In July, after a row like this one, Elle had walked out of the flat, told him she was never coming back, that she couldn’t stand it anymore. And it was true. She couldn’t. She asked Sam to tell work she had the flu and went to bed, wallowing in her own greasy, unwashed filth, crying so much that every time Sam looked in on her, she was convinced by the red-rimmed eyes and streaming nose. After six days, Elle knew she couldn’t go through with it. She rang him, crying, and he came straight over, his face ashen, clutching a bunch of petrol-station chrysanthemums. “I missed you so much,” he said. “I’ve been in hell. Don’t ever leave me again, Elby.”

  That was the moment, as she stared at him, standing on the threshold in the scuffed doorway, when Elle realized, for better or worse, that she was in too deep. She loved him, and he knew it, and she’d go back to him, and he knew that too. But for a while that autumn she just didn’t care, when she loved him so much. She loved him for all sorts of reasons. He made her laugh. He made her feel like a mature, prudent person, for the first time, in a grown-up relationship, thinking about the future. They lived in the same world, she thought she knew him. And she wanted him, plain and simple. Elle had thought she’d been in love with Max, her university boyfriend, but that was nothing. She could not resist Rory’s touch on her body. He knew her so well, and all she could do was ask for more. He controlled her in bed, could make her scream and cry with pleasure. Elle hadn’t known what this was like, before. To want someone so badly you can concentrate on nothing else. To want to bring their name up constantly in conversations, no matter how spurious the segue, like a talisman, a test of devotion. Rory was seven years older than her, and he was far more experienced than she. In every way; lately, she felt as though he were outstepping her, outsmarting her and she couldn’t explain why.

  “Soon,” Rory said now, and he pulled her towards him and looked down at her, his clear, cool eyes searching her face, as if looking for her agreement. “Look, we need to get through Christmas. The New Year will be a whole new start. I can’t say why but I’ve got a surprise for you. You’re going to love it, I promise. Trust me.” He squeezed her shoulders. “Do you trust me?”

  “I—I do,” Elle said, smiling, meeting his gaze.

  He hesitated again. “Look, why don’t I cancel my weekend plans. What are you doing?” He kissed her forehead. “We could hang out here. Maybe go somewhere for the day. Go to Whitstable, get some sea air, have some oysters. Hey—we could even have a break away somewhere, if we thought about it.”

  Elle felt her heart thumping in her chest; they’d been away twice for the night, to boutique hotels in romantic country settings, but otherwise they never hung out at the weekends. “I’m sorry, I really can’t do this weekend,” she said. “I want to go and see Mum.”

  “Of course.” He nodded. “Next weekend. Let’s do next weekend.”

  “Darling, I can’t. I’m away.”

  “Where?” he asked quickly.

  “I’m in Bristol. Visiting Hester.”

  “Who?”

  “Old friend from uni?” He looked totally blank. She tried not to be irritated; how could he know any of her friends if he wouldn’t meet any of them? And indeed, as she said it, she wondered if she could get out of going. No. You haven’t seen Karen since your holiday in Greece, and she’s your oldest friend; you haven’t seen Libby for two months, and you know perfectly well why. Don’t do the same to your university friends.

  “Oh.” He looked sad, and then his brow cleared. “Another time, then. I’ll take you to Whitstable and feed you oysters and ravage you as the wind lashes against the windows.” He put his finger under her chin. “Are we OK now? Are you OK?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” she said, smiling. “Go. It’s fine. You look very smart and I love you. See you later.”

  “I love you. I want you to trust me, too. Don’t forget that. Just wait and see. See you later, my sweet girl.”

  He picked up his keys and shut the door behind him, and she was left alone in the echoing flat.

  THERE WAS A strange mood in the office when Elle arrived. She put her coffee down on her desk, untangled herself from her manuscript bag and turned on her ancient computer, looking around her to see who was in.

  “Horrible morning, isn’t it?” she said to Helena, Libby’s monosyllabic replacement.

  Helena nodded politely, and went back to her Dictaphone typing. Elle suppressed a sigh. She missed Libby, in all sorts of ways. She missed her friendship—they still saw each other, but it wasn’t the same. They did things like going to the cinema now instead of ranting over cheap Valpolicella in musty Soho restaurants. She missed being able to tell her anything; and there was so much she couldn’t talk to her about. Libby loved her new job and wasn’t that interested in the life she’d left behind. She tried, at first, but it soon became apparent she didn’t care about the drama over Elspeth’s new typewriter ribbon, and though Elle tried to understand, she still missed it.

  Elle took a sip of her coffee, waiting for her computer to warm up. She opened her day book and turned to a fresh page.

  Wednesday, 8th November, she wrote.

  As she did every day now, she was writing a list of what needed doing. Elle knew her working self, after three years, and it was different from her university or school self, different also, alas, from her bookish, dreamy self. It was strange that the more experienced you got in your chosen sphere, the less you enjoyed what had made you like it in the first place. Her friend Karen, who was now assistant producer for the TV company she worked for, said she never watched TV anymore. Elle hadn’t read a book for pleasure in she didn’t know how long. And Venetia remained on her windowsill, gathering reproachful, blackish, polluted dust.

  Elle was just writing Phone Abigail Barrow and chewing the end of her pen, wondering how she was going to tell her she had to drastically cut the eight-page sex scene in Duchess, Mother, Mistress? when emails started slowly popping into her inbox. There was something tantalizingly stressful about waiting for her ancient computer to load all its new messages. She stared at the first one and then peered closely. The address was unknown to her.

  To: Eleanor.Bee@Bluebird-Books.co.uk

  From: Mhoffman@Bloomberg.com

  Subject: Bachelorette Planning!!

  Hi Eleanor,

  It was so great to meet you and your parents last night. Thank you for welcoming me so warmly into your family!

  I am honored to have you as my bridesmaid. I thought we should touch base about my bachelorette party. Did you have any thoughts or themes already you’d like to go with? I’ve gotten nowhere apart from a few basic ideas. I’m really relaxed about what we do, even though Rhodes calls me Miss OCD! I just want to plan everything carefully and get it right so that everyone has a great time, especially since we are now restricted by location in terms of where your mother can travel. Here are a few thoughts.

  1. Weekend in New York? That way we can see my girlfriends, have some cocktails, and shop till we drop! Obviously your mother cannot be involved in this option.

  2. Spa weekend? I have a very dear friend who did the sam
e last year in Mexico and it was so special. Can your mother travel to Mexico?

  3. Wine tasting in France, or even California? Bethany lives in Sonoma and I know would be happy to host us. I know this is not suitable for your mother.

  4. Girls’ weekend to Rome or Barcelona. Again, this might incur costs for my US friends, so maybe we should consider our options.

  My preferred option would be a trip to New York. Let me know what you think! Look forward to talking with you soon. It’s so truly exciting.

  Melissa x

  PS I would love your mother to feel she is still welcome to come along if that’s appropriate.

  Elle sat back in her chair and tried to breathe calmly. She earned £17,500 a year. She lived in the most expensive city in Europe, she took home just over £1,000 a month and she considered that a major achievement. Flights to New York, she knew from booking Rory’s trips there, cost at least £300. Then there was the hotel, the cocktails, the shopping till dropping… And what did she mean about Mum? Miss OCD, well, Rhodes was right about that, for sure. Twenty-four hours ago they’d never met, and this morning she was supposed to have come up with a four-point plan for Melissa’s hen weekend?

  Elle had been almost relieved to discover that, though her affair with Rory had turned everything else she believed on its head, she was still bewildered by most weddings. She wanted to be with Rory, always, forever. But the rest of it—expensive once-worn dresses; thick, cloying cakes in icing like white cement; heavy, unscented flowers that looked like plastic; and this mysterious code of womanly behavior around weddings she couldn’t understand that used words like “girlie,” talked about garters and involved a lot of screaming—left her cold. Elle had been to a wedding of a school friend the previous summer, in Dorset. The hotel had cost £120, the train fare was £50, the present was £40, the hen weekend was £170, and she’d ended up eating Rice Krispies for the rest of the month till payday. She wouldn’t have minded if it was Libby or Karen, or even Sam, but she didn’t even like Charlotte that much, and she couldn’t remember why she’d agreed to go except that it seemed you couldn’t do anything involving weddings by halves. There was a moment when, sitting round the table listening to all these girls talking incessantly about their boyfriends and relationships and how he never washed his socks and what kind of wedding they’d have, Elle had understood why her mother, who, after all, read fairy stories to children for a living, had said to her a couple of years ago, in one of her more expansive moments, “Be careful before you settle down, love. It’s the living with them that’s hard, not the falling in love. Anyone can buy a big white dress, you know.”

  She thought about this a lot now she was with Rory, and felt Mandana would approve. They were in the hard period now. The future would be brighter.

  As Elle was typing him an email, just a silly thing to say hello, she saw him dash in half an hour before the editorial meeting. He was dripping wet, the rain was still lashing the building and the square outside.

  She had just written:

  I know you’re having a hard time. I love you. I just wanted to say—

  “Elle?” a voice behind her said, and Elle jumped, and pressed Control and Tab instantly, praying they hadn’t seen her. It was Posy. “Have you got the figures for the new Victoria Bishop contract I asked you to print off?”

  “Yes, yes…” Elle said, her fingers clumsily shuffling piles of paper in her in-box. “Um—oh…”

  “Everything all right?” Posy said, her cheeks slightly pink. She was always suspicious, convinced something was going on behind her back. Elle could feel her face burning. She nodded, mute. “Look, just bring them to the meeting, Felicity’ll go mad if they’re not there. She’s in a funny mood today. OK?” she added.

  “Yes… yes! Fine. Sorry, you gave me a shock.”

  Elle sat back and breathed out.

  The wind that day was so high that even up on the second floor, leaves blew past the old windows, which rattled loudly as the various members of the company took their seats for the meeting. Elle sat down and passed the sales figures over to Posy. “Here they are,” she said. “Hope they’re OK.”

  Editorial meetings still made her nervous, even after all this time. You couldn’t anticipate Felicity’s mood, or her point of view. Posy didn’t smile. She just nodded. “Thanks,” she said. She was sitting in a row with Jeremy and Loo Seat, who was looking uncharacteristically somber.

  There was a muffled hushing sound as the door opened and Felicity, flanked by Floyd and Rory, swept into the room and sat at the head of the table.

  “Good morning, everyone,” she said, shuffling her papers. “Well, what a ghastly day. My morning has been enlivened somewhat by an article in The Times which says that—”

  Elle groaned inwardly. Felicity loved a story. Why she thought it fostered company unity to hear a long tale about her childhood pet kitten, or the time she’d met Queen Mary, Elle had no idea. But she was always doing it, especially at the start of editorial meetings. Elle looked down at her To Do list. Already she’d been annoyed by an email from the agent of a chick-lit author Rory had bought (to try and emulate Polly Pearson) called Katy Frank, saying they both thought the type on the new jacket was disastrously tomato-colored and this was a very serious matter. It had added, at the end:

  Katy’s very worried about the takeover rumors and she’s not the only one. Are they true? Give us a scoop!

  “Anyway,” Felicity was saying, “you may well have seen the article yourselves, or heard about it from friends. I can assure you there is nothing to worry about.”

  Elle sat up. What was she talking about?

  “The situation is this.” Felicity put her fingers together, her booming voice still slightly wheezy from the walk upstairs. “Someone has offered to buy Bluebird Books.”

  Elle looked at Rory, but his eyes were fixed on the table. Did he know? Then she bit her lip; she understood now. Of course he’d known.

  “They are a much bigger company, a conglomerate. Briefly, their bid would only be successful were enough members of the board to agree to sell them enough stock that they could mount a hostile takeover. Now, I have spoken to all of the board”—Felicity gave a rattling cough, and Elle looked at her in alarm, but she seemed unperturbed—“which is made up of relatives of my father’s and relatives of his original investors. We have nothing to fear. The sale will not go through. My son and I will be here for years to come.” She looked over at Rory, who gave her a quick smile. The room watched, transfixed. “Especially Rory! But you won’t be seeing the last of me for quite some time”—she reached forward, and patted the old mahogany table—“God willing.” There was a murmur of approval around the room, and she beamed. “And so to business, but before we do—any questions?”

  Joseph Mile raised his hand. “I have a question,” he said slowly. “Who are the board members considering the bid?”

  Felicity gave a growling sound in her throat and stiffened slightly. “The ins and outs aren’t relevant, Joseph,” she said.

  “They are relevant, if I may,” Joseph persisted. There was a tense silence. “I ask so you can reassure us that the offer to buy shares is being considered by only a couple of members of the board, rather than the majority.”

  Felicity closed her eyes briefly. “Very well,” she said. Rory shot Joseph a look of anger. “My father’s cousins, Harold and Maud Sassoon, have the largest joint block of shares. They are considering the bid. I expect them, however, to reject it.”

  “Why?” Joseph asked.

  “Because I hope I have persuaded them that my vision for Bluebird has been and continues to be the right one,” Felicity said.

  Joseph Mile nodded. “Thank you,” he said, pursing his lips delicately, as if he had won some excellent debating point. Elle saw Rory shoot him a look of pure loathing.

  “Rory,” his mother said. “Do you have anything to add? You’ve been here through all this.”

  “Not really,” Rory said. He turned to
the rest of the room. “Look, guys, this has been a big shock. We’re one of the last independent publishers in London, and we’ll show them—ah.” He paused and then gathered himself. “Yes, we’ll show them. Bluebird can carry on into the twenty-first century stronger and better than before.”

  Felicity looked at him in delight. “Excellently said,” she nodded.

  “Lazy git just doesn’t want to work for anyone else,” Floyd whispered to Elle, when the meeting ended and everyone filed out murmuring to each other, unsure of what to make of it all. “Likes having the ideas and getting you to do the work. He’d sink like a stone in another company.”

  “No, he wouldn’t,” Elle replied loyally, her head spinning. Someone behind her tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Elle.” She turned around; it was Rory.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “I left a manuscript on your desk. Paris’s new thriller. Can you read it and make some notes, and we’ll discuss?”

  “Sure,” Elle said. “I’ll come and see you later—”

  His eyes were expressionless. “I said I’d get back to him with initial thoughts by the end of the week so—”

  “OK, OK.”

  He descended the stairs swiftly, not looking back. “You edit his manuscripts for him?” Floyd said, in disbelief.

  Elle wanted to call after Rory, to see him turn round, see his handsome, sad face, reassure him that everything would be OK. “Yes, of course,” she said, after a moment. “I do it for Posy, too. It’s part of my job.”

  “Bet Posy doesn’t pass it off as her own work, though.”

  Elle ignored him. “Floyd, can you tell me something? I love this company, but why would anyone want to buy us? Aren’t we terribly old-fashioned?”