Floyd gave a short laugh. “You’re such an innocent, Elle. You know, we’re a gold mine, to the right buyer,” he said. “To a big company like Bookprint or Lion Books we’re dead attractive. We’ve got regular authors, big brand names, a profitable reference list, and we’ve got MyHeart. We know what middle England likes. May not be sexy, but it’s a damn good investment. Those ancient cousins have got umpteen greedy children who want the money. The takeover’s going to happen.”
He walked off, and Elle watched him crossly. Jeff Floyd was the gloomiest man she’d ever known; he managed to make every piece of good news sound like a disaster. “She’s Top Ten again,” he once announced of Victoria Bishop. “But it’s the slowest week of sales for eighteen months. So she’d be dead in the water if she wasn’t.” But his words echoed in her ears. Rory wasn’t lazy. Elle knew she was learning more from Posy about how to edit a book, or negotiate a contract, than from Rory, who had a tendency to perch on the edge of her desk and say, “You need to make a splash. Why don’t you try and poach Helen Fielding?” or, “Let’s poach Jilly Cooper.” He wasn’t the most diligent of editors, but he wasn’t lazy. He loved big ideas, not the development of them. She loved him, but she wasn’t blind to his faults.
She wondered what this meant. When the old independent educational publisher Edward Olliphant had been sold last year all but five people had been made redundant. She looked round the office, and noticed everyone else was doing the same.
“Is it true?” Helena hadn’t been in the meeting. She hissed across the desk. “What they’re saying, that we’re up for sale?”
Elle nodded. “Someone’s tried to offer for us, but I don’t think you should worry. We’re privately owned, and the family has to want to sell. According to Felicity, they don’t.”
“But what if it happens? They’re not going to want you and me, are they? They only take the big people. We’ll be the first to go.”
“Oh, Helena, cheer up. It might never happen. And you never know, we might all die of the plague first.”
She kept her voice light, but she couldn’t help feeling a cold chill, which she assumed must be fear, run through her body.
ON HER WAY to Sussex that Saturday, still panting as she’d overslept and nearly missed her train, hungover and clutching her coffee, Elle drew out her new Nokia 3660 and winced again. Though it was true that many a happy hour for her could be whiled away texting on her new mobile, she wished there were phone police patrolling the streets of London who would take your phone away if you were rolling out of the pub clearly having had too much to drink and about to climb aboard a night bus with no other distraction than the dangerous world of texting. As had happened last night with disastrous results. Elle clutched her coffee, shuddering at the memory.
Already the office was abuzz with gossip. People were nervous, eyeing each other up, speculating wildly at the pub. Elle could feel the change in the air, and she hated it. She had no idea what was going on; she hadn’t seen Rory on their usual Thursday, had barely even spoken to him. He was either on the phone or absent from the office. On Friday, she and Sam went for Just the One at the George MacRae with some other junior Bluebirds. Halfway through their first glass of wine, Rory had appeared, with Jeremy. They had waved at their table, but gone to sit around the corner.
“Wonder what they’re talking about?” Georgia from publicity said.
“Oh, probably how they’ll carve the company up,” Helena said gloomily.
“If I lose my job I’m going traveling,” said Angelica from sales. “Sam, didn’t you hear Rory say something about how he was going to meet someone from the board this weekend?”
Elle’s ears pricked up, as they always did at any Rory information. “Who?” she said. “Where?”
Angelica looked at her curiously. “Don’t know, why?”
Elle sat back. “Nothing,” she said.
She hated this. If they knew, these girls who were her colleagues and friends, they’d think she’d lied to them, whereas she was as in the dark as they were, probably more so, because she didn’t ever gossip or speculate. She wanted to sit in the pub with Rory the way Sam did with Steve, the way Matty and Karen had done last weekend with their boyfriends, to hold his hand as they walked down the street, to be able to smile in public at him, not this controlled, agonizingly formal behavior.
Sometimes, she thought, she’d gone straight from being a white-wine–swilling short-skirt–wearing girl about town who fell asleep on night buses to a kind of geisha in a tower, waiting to be summoned, to be wanted. It had struck her, this week in particular, that she was completely isolated. She couldn’t talk to Rory, she couldn’t talk to her friends, and she didn’t know when that would change. And she couldn’t do anything about it; she was weak, because she loved him too much, not that that was weakness, but—she was powerless. Elle shifted miserably in her chair, and drained the last of her drink.
“My round,” said Sam, leaping up. She always tried to get the drinks in. Elle patted Sam’s arm and said, “No, it’s mine, I’m sure.” She stood up and went to the bar, and as she looked up her heart leapt, for Rory was standing there next to her.
“Hi,” she said, looking round; the casual glance appraising the room, which she’d perfected over this past year. She let her eyes rest briefly on his profile, and for the umpteenth time felt her heart thumping. He was hers. He was so handsome, so grown up and wise, and he was hers. She wanted to shout it out loud to everyone, and she couldn’t.
“Hey,” said Rory. He glanced at her. “You OK?”
“Sort of. I hate this,” she said conversationally, as the barman fetched her order.
“I know.” Rory turned his head to her. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t answer your email yesterday.”
“Or my phone call. Or the day before.” Elle folded her arms. “I know you’re busy, but you could just text me, Rory. I can’t—it’s very hard—it…” She trailed off, as her throat was closing up and she didn’t want to make a fool of herself. She couldn’t force him to see her.
Rory made a clicking sound under his breath. “Look, Elle—I’ve said I’m sorry. Things are crazy at the moment, you know that. Plus the board are all so old each time one of them moves it’s like a creaky pub sign; trying to work with them is infuriating. And Felicity is so outraged anyone would have the temerity to bid for her beloved company she can’t even acknowledge there’s an issue. I’ve honestly spent the last two nights with her trying to calm her down. That’s all I’ve been doing.”
It struck Elle then for the first time that it was sort of strange that, except in times of extreme stress, he always referred to his mother as Felicity, never Mum. “And you’re caught in the middle… poor Rory,” she said, trying to sound sympathetic but failing. She was cross with him. She missed him. And she was scared, deep down, because she felt him pulling away from her, and even though he assured her he wasn’t, she didn’t believe him.
He looked at her suspiciously. “I am caught in the middle, Elle. You have no idea.”
“What does that mean?”
His voice was low, urgent. “It means what I said to you on Wednesday morning. Wait till Christmas is over, darling. Everything will be OK.”
Elle stared at the rows of spirits above the bar. “Why do you keep talking about Christmas? What’s happening at Christmas?”
Rory didn’t reply. His hand was next to hers, on the wet glass surface of the bar. Slowly, he pushed it against hers, and very lightly hooked his little finger in hers. He rubbed the edge of her palm with his thumb, and breathed out, through his nose.
“Oh, Elby, I miss you,” he said. “I want you so much.”
“I miss you too,” Elle whispered, swaying slightly at his touch. “I’m sorry for being a witch.”
“You’re not, you’re not,” he said. His voice was fierce. “Just hold on. This’ll be over in a few weeks. But we need to keep an even lower profile than before. Mum heard me on the phone to you last Saturday. She
knows I’m seeing someone. If she were to find out now, in the state she’s in… I can’t risk it.”
“That’s eleven pounds eighty, please love,” the barman said, breaking into their low conversation.
Rory gave him £12.00. “There you go.”
“You don’t have to do that,” Elle said. “It’s fine.”
“Least I can do,” he told her. “Just remember, if we don’t speak, it’s not because I’m not thinking about you, darling. I always am.” He looked round; Jeremy was reading the paper. “I’m thinking about the next time we’re alone, and I can peel your clothes off. One by one.” His voice grew softer, and still they didn’t look at each other. She strained forward. “Feel your soft skin against me. Mm? And…” He gave a little sigh. “Slip my fingers inside you. So I can find out how much you’ve been missing me.”
Elle watched Jeremy over her shoulder as Rory’s breath tickled her ear. Her eyelids were heavy, her body felt molten. She blushed, wishing more than anything she could wrap her arms around him, feel him press her against the bar, feel his lips on her skin. She summoned all her strength. “I’ll speak to you later,” she said, and walked off, with her tray of glasses and a sudden desire to drink herself out of the way she was feeling.
As the train drew out of Victoria and crossed the leaden, churning Thames, some memory crept over her, and Elle had a thought, and looked in her “Sent” folder.
There, in black type against the sickly gray-green background, were three texts dating from last night. The first read:
To: Rory S
I miss you so much. I know it’s hard for you right now. I want you to know I will always, always love you. In fact, I want your babies one day. That’s all. E x
Shit. Elle turned pale. She opened the next one.
To: Rhodes
I just have to say this… u were a real dcik to Mum last week. That’s all. E
Oh, God. Elle swallowed. She reached for her coffee, her hand trembling. She opened the last one.
To: Mum
Can’t wait to see u tomorrow Mum. I have to say this… I hate it when you get droiunk. I’m glad yr not drinking any more. E x x
The train was picking up speed. Elle stared at the rows of suburban houses, blinking fast. She thought she might be sick. WHY did she do this? She was a terrible drunk texter. All the things she wanted to say to people during the day came out at night, like a vampire. And the tone of them! It was so pompous!
She closed her eyes, and her head thumped. She wished she was back in bed in Ladbroke Grove, listening to the traffic outside. She would crawl out of bed, sit in the warm kitchen with Sam, drink black coffee, and then possibly go downstairs in her pajamas to the shop the other side of the pizza place, and buy a paper and some magazines, read the new Heat and Hello! and wait around for Saturday night TV to start. If only.
Elle blinked. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead. She started typing, slowly. Rory first.
Ignore that text. Was drunk. Super embarrassed. Spk tomoz. E x
Hi Rhodes. Ignore that text. Was drunk & am embarrassed. Sorry. E x
Hi Mum. On train. Ignore that text. Really sorry. Was v drunk.
She stopped. What next? Was v drunk so thought would tell u I think u have drink problem. She shivered. God, what an idiot. She deleted the last sentence and put:
Was out of order. See you v soon. Exxx
Elle closed her eyes. What a crap start to the weekend. As they sped towards the countryside, green and scrubby and still waterlogged from the recent floods, she felt herself drifting off. She was dreading seeing her mother now, although if she were honest she’d been dreading it all week.
After the divorce, Elle’s father had said they had to sell the family home. He needed the money: it was a lovely house, not huge but with three small bedrooms, a big garden leading down to a stream, five minutes’ walk from the London train. Mandana, who had loved the garden and being near her friends, was devastated. She complained vociferously, long after her move into a converted barn outside the village. Everything that was wrong with the barn was John’s fault; two weeks after the move, their old dog Toogie had run back to Willow Cottage and caught a pregnant otter, and then been put down, and Mandana rang her newly ex-husband in Brighton in floods of tears. “Come and see what you’ve done!” Elle remembered her shouting. “You killed the dog, you killed the dog.”
Elle felt sorry for her, but secretly she was glad they’d never have to go back to that house again. “He’s in Brighton, in his swanky new house with the fucking Aga—how ridiculous in a town house!” her mother had screamed once, early on at the barn as the wind howled round the isolated house, pulling open the front door, which banged alarmingly against the stone walls. “He doesn’t bloody care, you know that, don’t you? He’s off with his pregnant girlfriend in fucking Laura Ashley, why should he care about us anymore!”
This was how Elle found out her half-brother Jack was on the way. Later, at university, she’d learned to make this into a funny story. It was so awful, it was hilarious, the way she told it. People would wince, laugh, and then nod, and go, “Man, parents, eh? Wow.” And for a few moments afterwards, Elle would feel as though she wasn’t alone, that there were other people who knew what it was like, how you felt when everything fell apart and no one seemed to know how to put it back together again.
Waiting outside the tiny station in the freezing damp fog, Elle stamped her feet and waved, as her mother’s battered old Mini swung into view. Though the coffee and some water had done much to restore her equanimity, she was still nervous. Through the grimy windscreen Mandana flicked a glance up at her daughter in recognition. Elle waved again, her heart thumping.
Mandana pulled over, on the other side of the car park. Then she leaned over and wound down the window.
“Get over here!” she shouted. The thin line of exodus from the train turned, curiously. Her mother shouted even louder. “I’m OK to drive, you know. I’ve only had two bottles of wine today.”
Elle stood rooted to the spot in embarrassment. She looked around, then hurried over.
“Mum—I’m sorry—”
Mandana smiled at Elle’s horrified expression. “Oh, good grief, don’t give me your worried Ellie face. Halley’s Comet isn’t going to crash into the house, that mole isn’t cancer, and I’m not furious with you. I was, but I’m not now.”
“It was stupid, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“We all do things we shouldn’t, darling. I should know. Get in and calm down.”
Laughing with relief, Elle climbed into the car and they drove off.
It wasn’t till later in the afternoon that Elle began to feel human again. It was after three, but the light was already starting to fade, and the smell of wood smoke, the warm feeling in her stomach from Mandana’s pumpkin soup, the tiredness from lugging boxes back down from the attic all contributed to a soporific sense of ease. The ground floor had been flooded but the flagstones remained intact and there was no lasting damage. Elle and her mother unpacked Mandana’s precious children’s books which she read at the library, plus the things that had been on the shelves till the flood warning came: a few snaps of Elle and Rhodes on holiday; a photo of her mother, their grandmother, her thin, anxious face almost cracking a smile, standing on a pier in the wind; and a small black-and-white snapshot of Mandana protesting somewhere outside a classical building, she couldn’t remember where. The room was cozy with everything back in it, thoroughly clean for once, and for the first time in ages Elle felt at home in the barn. Her eyes were heavy.
As Mandana got up from the sofa to throw another log on the fire, she said, “So darling, tell me about work. You said on the phone that you weren’t sure what was going to happen.”
“Well, I hope it’ll be fine,” Elle said, blinking to stay awake. “They all have to want to sell. And apparently they don’t. But Felicity and Rory spend a lot of time behind closed doors.”
“Felicity’s the owner, yes?” Ma
ndana said.
“Yes, sorry. Rory’s her son. He’s my boss.”
“Of course. You rather like him, don’t you?”
Elle looked quickly at her mother, but her expression didn’t convey anything beyond mild interest. “He’s great, yes.”
“I’m so proud of you.” Mandana leaned forward and patted her arm. “You’re doing so well. When do you think you’ll move on to doing proper books?”
Elle laughed. “What do you mean, proper books?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Not romances, I suppose. You don’t want to spend your whole life doing—what is it? Fairy tales, I suppose?”
Elle glanced at the row of battered old Ladybird Well-Loved Tales back on the bookshelf. You’re the one who read me every fairy story under the sun about twenty times, Mother. “I won’t, Mum,” Elle said, trying not to get annoyed. Suddenly she saw herself at Elspeth’s age, still editing MyHeart, still groveling to a ninety-year-old Abigail Barrow, in an office draped with cobwebs, the same huge gray computer monitor and plastic in-boxes covered in dust, still waiting for an eighty-year-old Rory to announce their relationship.
“Any boyfriends?” Mandana asked suddenly. “I never hear you talk about boyfriends.” Elle hated the way she’d do that, cut the conversational ground out from under her.
“No, nothing,” she said, looking down at her lap. “I’m a black hole when it comes to romance.”
I wish you were the kind of mum I could talk to about it, she found herself thinking. I wish you were calm and wise and I could sit next to you on the sofa and tell you everything.
As she thought this she knew how unfair she was being. She couldn’t tell her mother because she wouldn’t know how to begin to talk about Rory now, after all this time. She had rewired her brain successfully to live in this secretive world that it occurred to her now must have changed her, permanently, in other ways she didn’t yet understand.
Happily Ever After Page 14
