Happily Ever After

by Harriet Evans

  “OK, OK,” Libby said. “Look, I’m going to go. I just wanted to—see if you were all right. You—you are all right, aren’t you, Elle?”

  “Course I am,” said Elle, astonished. She sneezed. “Apart from the cold. I’m fine! Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Nothing,” Libby said. “It’s—I worry about you sometimes. It’s been ages and I hear—” She stopped. “I just wanted to say hi. It’s fine.”

  It’s fine. Elle was uneasy. What did she mean? “Look,” she said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  After she’d put the phone down she wished, for the umpteenth time, that she could talk to Libby, ask her advice. But she couldn’t.

  Elle scrolled through her emails and, with a sigh, saw another missive from Melissa. Elle was already having grave doubts about her ability to be the kind of bridesmaid Melissa needed. Not only did she seem to want to book Elle in for every weekend possible in the New Year for dress fittings and “planning sessions,” she kept saying things which Elle found slightly alarming:

  Should the bridesmaids start thinking now about the length of their hair come September next year? Because during my conversations with Darcy and my sister I conveyed to them that I would love if you all had long straight hair in a chignon. In that eventuality, as your hair is short, perhaps you should start growing your hair now. Or in the New Year, I really don’t mind! (But maybe now if it takes a while to grow as some people’s does.) Melissa xoxo

  Eleanor heard a loud crack, which made her jump, and only then did she realize she had snapped a pencil in half while she’d been reading. She tugged her hair, wondering at this parallel world she had somehow entered. What would the next email suggest? Plastic surgery so they all had the same size boobs?

  “Blimey, Elle. You’ve got a face like thunder, what’s up?” said Posy, dropping a cover proof on her desk for her to check.

  “Bloody weddings,” Elle growled, before she could stop herself. “I’m a stupid bridesmaid for my brother’s wedding, and the bride wants us to”—she took a deep breath—“start growing our hair so we can all have the same style come September.”

  “Oh, bloody tell me about it.” Posy sat on the edge of Elle’s desk and crossed her arms. “I was always being a bridesmaid. I did it for someone I was at school with, and on the morning of the wedding she asked me to stand behind the ushers when the photos were being taken because she said she’d been looking through photos of the hen night and I wasn’t photogenic enough to stand with the other bridesmaids.”

  Elle gasped.

  “I know,” Posy said, with a smile. “I can laugh about it now, but the thing is, I always just thought, ‘What a strange thing to be worrying about on your wedding day.’”

  Elle was amazed; the most personal conversation she’d had with Posy up till now had been about the death of Mr. Collins, her cat. She nodded, not quite knowing what to say.

  “I just thought, ‘I’d like to remember my wedding day because I married the man I loved and my friends were all there,’” Posy said after a minute, examining a pulled thread on her pink cardigan. “Not, ‘Oh, look at ugly Posy, I may have known her since I was eight but she’s ruining all the photos, I wish I’d asked her to put a towel on her head.’”

  “Wow,” said Elle. “That is incredible.”

  “I’ll tell you another thing I hate,” Posy said, hitching herself a bit more onto the desk. She looked up, as Rory came out of his office and went into Felicity’s, slamming the door behind him. “Oh.”

  “It’s a shut-door day,” said Elle.

  “Never a good sign.” Posy stood up.

  “It could mean anything.” Elle tried to sound upbeat. “It could be good news. Perhaps we’re all getting a big Christmas bonus.”

  “Trust me,” said Posy, gazing towards Rory’s empty office. “I used to work for Robert Maxwell. It’s never good news when the doors are shut. Never.”

  At half past twelve, Elle was putting on her coat, slowly. She was meeting Nicoletta Lindsay for lunch, to tell her that she needed to stop trying to make her country-doctor-in-the-Lake-District romances into mystical screeds on prehistory and pagan topography and to that end, she would have to completely rewrite her new book, and think seriously about the direction of her future novels if she wanted another contract with MyHeart. Felicity had given Elle this speech yesterday at the editorial meeting, and Elle had written the salient points on Post-its which she’d stuck on the inside of her bag, ready to refer to surreptitiously at lunch if necessary.

  Wrapping her scarf around her neck, Elle went over to the photocopier by Felicity’s office, to copy the latest sales figures for Nicoletta Lindsay. Rory’s office was empty. As she stood there pressing Copy and wondering if she could pop in for another word with Felicity to buck her up, she suddenly heard her voice through the heavy wooden door.

  “How could you not tell me?” she was shouting. “Rory—I don’t understand.” Could she be crying? “With her, as well. I don’t understand it.”

  Elle carried on mechanically pressing buttons, but her heart was thumping, and there was a lump in her throat.

  Rory replied, but his voice was too low to hear. And then she caught the end of the phrase. “You don’t understand. It’s going to be wonderful. I thought you’d be pleased when I explained—”

  The worst bit of it all was Felicity’s tone. It was half amused, half desperate.

  “Pleased? Rory, you must have gone mad. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” There was a massive, trembling, gasping sound. “She’s—so young! And she knows nothing! This isn’t what I wanted for you, darling. All the plans…” She broke off. Rory started to say something, but she interrupted. “You have to put a stop to it. End it. Now. She’ll understand when you explain why, I know she will, Rory, she will.”

  Picking up the pages, her hands slick with sweat, Elle clutched them to her chest, looking round the office to see if anyone else had heard. Helena was still typing, Joseph Mile was on the phone, two fingers smoothing down his ginger cowlick, and, over in the corner, Jeremy and Loo Seat were regaling the marketing and publicity departments with the story of Jeremy stepping on Victoria Bishop’s pet dog the previous week. It was just her.

  Elle crept out, as the faint bellows from Felicity’s office grew softer, and when she reached the stairs, she ran.

  AFTERWARDS, ELLE WONDERED how she’d got through lunch. She couldn’t remember a thing about it, what she ordered, what she said to Nicoletta Lindsay, how Nicoletta took the news, whether she’d made any sense at all. She knew that afterwards, as they’d stood on Charlotte Street outside the restaurant, Nicoletta had shaken her hand and said, “You know, Elle, you’ve given me a lot to think about. Perhaps you’re right, perhaps it is time for me to throw caution to the winds and write that time-slip novel.” And Elle remembered nodding and thinking, That’s not at all how that was supposed to go…

  She walked down Percy Street, looking in the windows of the galleries, not really seeing anything, and shivering in the bitter cold. Should she go back to the office? Would everyone else know by now? Would Felicity fire her on the spot, order her from the building? She couldn’t do that, could she? Elle stood still, not knowing what to do.

  She felt very small. She’d wanted this for a while now, and she’d known Felicity would be surprised, but the disdain, the horror in her voice!—that was something else. Once again, she wondered how she’d got to this place, where there was no one she could ring, ask for advice, someone who was a friend. She was basically alone.

  And then Elle thought back to the last time she’d seen Rory properly, the previous week. They’d had glorious sex in his flat, loud, uninhibited, ripping each other’s clothes off, the usual constraints that surrounded them gone. Rory had shut the curtains on the square, spread an old silk rug in front of the fire, while she knelt there, naked, waiting for him, and he’d reappeared with two glasses of champagne.

  “Had it in the fridge,” he said, kissing her, as the
y drank. “We should celebrate. Us. Celebrate us, baby.” And then he pushed her back on the rug, and they rolled around, till she was on top, her knees on the hard floorboards, one side of her hot from the fire, squeezing her thighs to feel the warmth of him between them, the thickness of him inside her. They couldn’t stop smiling, either of them.

  “I love you,” she said, suddenly, slowing down her rocking movements against him.

  His teeth were clenched and his eyes shut, but when she said it his face cleared and he looked serious.

  “I love you too. More,” he said.

  The release when it came was overwhelming. She gripped his shoulders. The relief of being with him, feeling like herself again: this, here, the two of them, by the fire, panting, clinging to each other naked and without anything else to define them, this was what it was about, no matter what happened. Later, they sneaked out to the Charles Lamb pub and ate sausage rolls and Scotch eggs. They got hopelessly drunk on cider, laughing at each other on the way home as they weaved across the City Road back to the haven of his flat, and they fell asleep in each other’s arms, his breath blowing in her ear, on her hair.

  The memory of that night had sustained her the past seven days, and it did now. What came next might be terrifying but after that—they could get on with the rest of their lives together. Go for dinner with friends, meet families… in a way it was terrifying, though, to know she’d have nothing to hide behind anymore. Part of her thought she wouldn’t be up to it, that she should call in sick for the afternoon, go home, and tremble under a duvet.

  “No more lies. No,” she said softly to herself. “Come on, Eleanor Bee.”

  She had to go back, to face the music. Elle crossed Tottenham Court Road and picked up her pace, rummaging in her bag for her spare glove.

  “Hey!” someone behind her called. “Hey, you! You dropped something!”

  She turned round. A man was running towards her, holding her errant glove. “Tom?” She shook her head. “Hello. What a surprise.”

  “Elle!” Tom Scott said. He grasped her shoulder, and smiled. “I wondered if it was you.”

  “Oh. Thanks,” Elle said, smiling back. “How are you?” She looked up at him slightly breathlessly. She always forgot how tall he was, how quietly he spoke, now against the roar of the traffic.

  “I’m fine. Just been having lunch with an old publishing friend of mine…” He looked at her closely. “How are you?”

  “I’m good—yeah, I’m OK.” She gathered herself. “Not really. I suppose you know what’s going on with us.”

  “I do,” he said. “And I heard the latest, too.” He nodded. “Big blowout this morning, Rory and Felicity. News travels fast.”

  Through her shock and fear, Elle was astonished at the speed with which rumors like this were spread. “It’s—it’s rubbish. Don’t listen to a word of it.”

  Tom shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said. “I shouldn’t be repeating gossip like that, especially to you. I’m sorry.” There was a pause. “Look,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to email you anyway, to say thanks. The database idea—it’s brilliant.”

  Elle stared at him. She had no idea what he was talking about. “Database?” she said blankly.

  “For the Dora Trust. You suggested—look, it doesn’t matter.” He shook his head impatiently. “I’m an idiot. Don’t worry about it.”

  “No, no, I remember.” Elle shuffled on her feet. “Great. Look—I’d better—”

  “I know, I know,” he said. “Can I just say something?”

  “What?”

  He cleared his throat, and took a deep breath. “Elle, look. I owe you a favor. And this is also probably none of my business but—” His quiet voice was hard to hear; she leaned forward to make out what he was saying. “Don’t trust Rory. I know he’s your boss, and I know you like him, but things are going to get messy there. He’s nothing like his mother. He doesn’t know what he’s doing and he’s dangerous as a result. Be careful.”

  She stared at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “I have to go.”

  “Hey—Elle—” Tom shrugged his bony shoulders so that they stayed up by his ears. “Hey—I didn’t mean to be rude. I feel like I owe you. I just wanted to—”

  But Elle was running down the street already, leaving him behind her. How dare he. How horrible. She’d always thought he was horrible actually, with his thin face and strange weird manner. He was jealous of Rory, that was the trouble—darling Rory—

  She ran all the way back to Bedford Square. When she touched the buzzer, Elspeth answered, and when Elle gave her name, Elspeth said, “We’re all in the boardroom. Come straight up, please.”

  ELLE WALKED SLOWLY up the old, carved stairs, catching her breath, past the portraits of old members of the company, past the framed covers, past the Ladies’ where she’d screamed in horror at her yellow-dyed hair, the night she’d kissed Rory for the first time. As she passed the first floor she looked in at the empty office, newly decorated with Christmas lights and a tree twinkling in the corner. Her knees buckled slightly beneath her; what had happened? She walked up the second flight of stairs and knocked softly.

  “Come!” Felicity’s voice boomed.

  Elle opened the door and went in. The large mahogany table was folded against the wall, and virtually the whole company sat in rows in front of her, their arms crossed. As Elle stood by the door, her heart thumping, her eyes met Felicity’s, which were bloodshot and puffy. Her hair was flat and untidy, her brooch slightly askew; Elle blanched with shock, at seeing her anything other than immaculately dressed.

  “Come in, Elle,” she said, her voice thick. “Sit down, please.”

  “I—” Elle hesitated, looking for Rory. She couldn’t see him. Someone opened the door behind her, and she jumped. It was Sam and Georgia.

  “Oh, there you are,” Sam whispered. “Been looking for you everywhere. Come and sit with us?”

  It was then Elle started to wonder if she’d got it all wrong. “Sure,” she said gratefully.

  Sam looked at her. “It’s going to be OK, you know,” she said.

  “What is?” Elle asked her.

  “Everything. Never mind. We’ll talk about it later.” Sam nodded. They filed to the back, past the rest of the company, sitting in silence or faintly whispering, and then the door opened again, and Rory entered. Elle’s heart jumped at the sight of him, as it always did. He looked so handsome and serious, in his smart gray suit.

  He was with a thin, tall woman, with thin blond hair, thin fingers and a long, strangely beautiful face, like an angel in a Flemish painting. She said something to Felicity, sitting in the front row, and then Rory clapped his hands.

  “Hi, everybody,” he said. “Look, I know you must have guessed something’s going on by now. We’ve been wanting to tell you for ages, and it’s been really hard, because it’s exciting, but at the same time it’s going to mean a lot of changes.”

  The woman next to him nodded. Elle watched in confusion. She and Sam were so far back, they could hardly hear Rory, let alone see him.

  “You know that Bluebird has had a wonderful and illustrious history. Well,” Rory said, “it’s time to take that history into the twenty-first century. Over the past few months we’ve been thinking about the Bluebird legacy. We’ve had a couple of offers, as you might know. What was difficult was working out how best to proceed. To do what’s right for the company, and for the board, and the employees.”

  He cleared his throat.

  Felicity got up, her chair scraping the floor. It made the same sound as Rory’s throat. She shook her head, and clasped her hand to her mouth.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice muffled. “I can’t listen to this. I won’t.”

  She walked out, slamming the door behind her.

  The silence in the room was total. Rory looked at the closed door, and then pressed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “To t
hat end,” he said, carrying on as if nothing had happened, “there is a press release going out now that we wanted to read to you.” He took a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket.

  “The board of Directors of Bluebird Books Ltd and Bookprint Publishers are pleased to announce that today, Tuesday 12th December, they have agreed to hasten the process of due diligence, expected to be finished within the week, which will complete the sale of Bluebird Books to Bookprint Publishers. Bluebird will become an imprint of Bookprint Publishers, the UK’s largest publishing company.”

  Rory paused and looked up, slightly, but only to the top of the piece of paper, as if he couldn’t bear to look any further.

  “Ahh. Er.” He continued reading:

  “At that time and with immediate effect, Rory Sassoon becomes Deputy Managing Director of Bluebird Books and will oversee the transfer of assets to Bookprint Publishers. Felicity Sassoon steps down from her role as Managing Director of the company with the board’s grateful thanks for thirty-five years’ service with the company. She will remain on in the role of Publisher-at-Large.

  “As with any company restructure, there will be a period of consultation resulting in redundancies across the company. The board of Bluebird and Bookprint Publishers are in discussion about the number and range of these redundancies. These redundancies relate only to Bluebird Books and are designed to ensure, along with its sale to the UK’s best and biggest publisher, that the brand has a long and successful future.”