Happily Ever After

by Harriet Evans

  Elle tried to sound breezy, but in fact, the job swap was suddenly all she could think about. As she’d sat in Celine’s office that Friday, her hands crossed demurely in her lap, trying to think of what Celine would want to hear, she’d realized she wanted to get out of here. She wanted to try, at the very least. This weekend had been almost unbearable, locked up here in the heat by herself, with nothing to do. She’d texted Tom on Friday, and he’d been out with Caitlin. She’d seen him only the day before, she knew she was pushing her luck, but he was the only one who’d understand—or was it just that he was the only one she felt like texting? It was pathetic, anyway, the hole she’d burrowed herself into. She’d finished Devil’s Cub and she didn’t know why, but all of a sudden she couldn’t face any more Georgette Heyer. It was as though she’d eaten too much chocolate.

  As she watched her father marking the wall with a spirit level, Elle grimaced.

  “How’s Rhodes?” she asked suddenly. “Have you spoken to him?”

  “Yesterday, actually,” her father said. “I was going to talk to you about that. At lunch. They got married yesterday.”

  Elle’s mouth fell open. “They got married?” she repeated. “Where?”

  “They’re in New York for a few weeks. They went to City Hall. Just a couple of witnesses, her sister, her father, a quick lunch afterwards. They wanted to do it quietly. They asked me to tell you.”

  Elle shut her mouth, then opened it. “They’re married,” she said, after a while. “Just like that.”

  “Yes. They felt it was for the best, a quick, quiet ceremony, but they wanted me to tell you. And—ah, if you could tell your mother.”

  Elle stared at him. “Why can’t they?”

  Her father turned back to the wall. “I thought you’d be the best person,” he said, his voice cool.

  “Can’t they ring her themselves?”

  Her father’s jaw was set. He hated any disruption to his proposals. “Like I say, they’re in New York, and—Melissa’s still very upset. I’m just going to drill a second.” He pressed the drill bit firmly into the plaster, and Elle watched his back, shaking her head in disbelief. You’re drilling, and Rhodes and Melissa are married, and no one’s told Mum. There was a thud as a chunk of wall fell out. “Oh sh—sugar,” he said. “Look at that.”

  They both stared at the crumbling square of plaster on the green carpet. “Never mind,” said Elle.

  “I do mind,” said John. He stood with the drill in his hand, gently tapping it against his palm. He looked at the wall, then out of the window, then down at the floor. “I should just use a smaller drill bit, that’s all. So, can you—”

  “Dad,” Elle said. “You’re making me really paranoid. Was it something I did? Was it Mum?”

  Her father turned to her. “I don’t think it’s for me to say. But all I will say is, they felt after the effort they’d gone to, to move the wedding from the States to accommodate her, and the care they were taking to include her, that Mandana had put them in an untenable position.” He turned back and drilled a small, neat hole in the wall. “I have to say I agree with them,” he said, and the tone of his voice chilled her through. “I wonder, to be honest, whether she’ll have anyone left, soon.”

  “But what did she do?”

  “Let me finish this wall first, please, Eleanor.”

  She took him to a gastropub and they made polite conversation along the way. “So Alice is learning the flute, is she? That’s great.” After he’d squinted at the menu, chalked up on a board, Elle turned to him. “It’s so nice to see you, Dad,” she said impulsively. “It’s—” She didn’t want to sound as though she was moaning. “Sorry it’s been so long.”

  “No, it’s my fault,” he said. “I tend to think you’re all right, you see. You always have been.”

  Elle didn’t know how to respond to this. She and Rhodes had never complained about not seeing John; like most children of divorced parents, they had just accepted, after a period of time, that that was the way it was. Of course he thought she was all right—how would he know any different?

  She looked at him now—serious face, neat, graying cowlick, newly ironed shirt—he wore a proper shirt, even in August, on a Sunday, to do DIY at his daughter’s, that’s how correct he was. Elle wondered again, for the millionth time, how on earth he and Mum had ever had anything in common.

  “What was she like?” she asked suddenly. She wanted to pick up the thread of the conversation again. “When you first met her, Mum, I mean.” Her father’s jaw tightened; he looked up at the menu board, concentrating hard. “I’m sorry,” Elle whispered. “Probably I should just shut up, it’s ages ago, it’s just—”

  It’s just I’m half you and half her. And that’s scary. Will I end up like her? Or you?

  “She was very different then, your mother,” John said suddenly. “No,” he amended. “That’s wrong. She was the same in lots of ways. Just more carefree. She had a headscarf, and she used to have all this thick hair. After she had you two it was never the same. Very thin.”

  Elle stared at him. John poured her some more wine. “I won’t have any more, I’m driving,” he said. “Well, she was enormous fun. I was a very staid, boring chap. Chorleywood, Boy Scouts, studying medicine, not a spare farthing to rub together. And she—she just burst into my life, like a—well, she was like color. Yes, an explosion of color. She wore these long dresses, printed all over with flowers, these billowing silly shirts, like she was a Shakespearean actor, and these headscarfs, yes. She had her own megaphone. Can you imagine!” His eyes crinkled and he smiled. “Your mother with a megaphone. What a terrible combination. And she was alive, passionate, she believed in things. She made me believe in things. She got so angry at the world—”

  “Like how?” Elle asked.

  His eyes flew open, as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Oh—ban the bomb, the Tories, Mrs. Thatcher the milk snatcher, the anti-Nazi League. If there was a cause, she’d join it. We were so in love. It sounds like a cliché, but it’s true. We were wild about each other. Crazy. Moved in together. It wasn’t done in those days but we couldn’t be apart.” He said it simply, and nodded. “My mother said we should wait. But I wouldn’t wait. And then she… she was pregnant. It was all very quick. Very jolly, very good news, that was your brother,” he said. “And then you—” John reached out and touched Elle’s chin. “My little girl, you were then, and then, well…”

  He put his hand on his chin and looked up. The clink of glasses, the banging of the door outside, the faint fumes from the High Road recalled Elle to where she was. She sat still and held her breath, hoping not to break the spell, that he would carry on talking.

  “And then I really got to know her,” he said. “The drinking. The lying. The selfishness. The childishness. She blamed me for her pregnancy, when she said she was on the Pill, so how was it my fault? She blamed me when the boiler broke and when she didn’t get the jobs she wanted, when she got pregnant again, when people weren’t nice to her, and it was always… always someone else’s fault.” He sat up straight, clenching both fists on the table. “When it wasn’t. It was hers. Her, or the drink. The damn drink.”

  “Mustard?” the waitress demanded brightly, springing up between them. John jumped. “No,” he said. “Er, no,” he repeated, blinking, as if remembering where he was, with whom, what he’d said.

  “No, none for me, thanks,” Elle told her hurriedly, and she turned back to her father. “Dad—”

  “Ignore me,” John said. His face was gray. “It was a long time ago. Everything happened too fast. And we’d never change it, because we have you two, so what’s the point of complaining about it?”

  Every point, Elle wanted to say. She chewed the side of her finger. If they’d waited a few years, they’d have had different children. Perhaps a nicer, calmer boy, and a brighter, better girl than the ones they’d got. They wouldn’t have had to split up. Mum wouldn’t be so sad. Dad wouldn’t be so careful, so buttoned up. Ever
ything would have been different if we hadn’t been born. Everything.

  “Mum might disagree with you,” Elle said. “I sometimes think she wishes things had turned out differently.” She spoke carefully. “Her life—it’s—you know. It’s been hard for her.”

  To her surprise, her father put his hands on hers, a very un-Dad-like gesture. “Forget about her, Ellie. You worry about her too much, always have done. I wonder sometimes, ah—well, I wonder if something is missing. Now this is none of my business—” A light perspiration glowed on his smooth forehead as he spoke. “But I think New York sounds like a wonderful plan. And I think if they offer it to you, you should go. Why?” He held up one hand, forestalling her question. “I think a change would do you good.”

  Elle watched him carefully. “I think Mum thinks it’s a stupid idea,” she said.

  John squeezed her hand. “Your mother is selfish,” he said sadly. “She is, Elle. She has problems, I know, but she’s often not very nice.” The words were so simple, it was strange. “I’m sorry to say it, but I think she’s using you, and you can’t see it.”

  “She’s got loads on,” Elle said. “That’s why she said she doesn’t want any more alimony, you know?” She wanted him to believe her. “Things are going well with Bryan, and the textiles business, she and Anita have all these plans—” She hated the way her father was so hard on her mother. “She’s the one who’s too busy to see me, Dad, honestly.”

  He smiled. “I don’t believe everything she says, I’ve learned not to.”

  “How would you know? You never speak to her,” Elle said hotly.

  They were both silent.

  “Do you want to know why they canceled the wedding?” John said. He raised his head a little, like a general, the morning of the final battle.

  Elle held her breath, bit her lip, and nodded. “Yes,” she said quietly.

  Her father said in a monotone, “They went to stay with her for the weekend. She’d forgotten they were coming. They had an argument. She scratched their car with her keys. Ran around it scratching the paint. Then she was sick. Then she made them leave. Told them she never wanted to see them again. Some of the things she said—” He shook his head. “To her own son. I can’t believe it.”

  It was very strange, hearing her father say those words, to her. Elle breathed in, and squeezed her eyes shut.

  “Did they say—do they think she was drunk?”

  John rubbed his face, his fingers tightly pressed together, a neat, furious gesture. “She said she wasn’t. I think she was. They weren’t sure, they didn’t see her drinking. She was always very good at hiding it.”

  I think she was… “You weren’t there, though, you don’t know.” Elle held up her hand, defensively. “I know, but maybe they had a big argument and she—well, maybe it’s worse than it sounds. Rhodes and Melissa don’t make much effort with her, Dad.”

  Her father’s lips were set in a tight line. “Elle—”

  “She doesn’t drink, Dad—she hasn’t for ages, almost a couple of years now.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said John. “She’s done this before, too many times.”

  “But even if she did—is that really a reason for the way they behaved?” Elle deliberately kept her voice quiet, her tone even. “To cancel everything, leave everyone else dangling, run off to New York and get married there, just to spite her?”

  “They weren’t trying to be spiteful. I’ve spoken to Melissa. She wanted everything to be just right. I can appreciate that.”

  “I don’t think that’s the way to deal with it. She’s still our mother.” Elle took a deep breath. “Look, Dad, I see Mum more than any of you. At least once, twice a month, OK?” She could feel herself going red. “She used to drink too much, but that was because she wanted to forget about herself for a while. She was unhappy for a long time.” She stopped and looked at him. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but neither did she. All I’m saying is, one falling off the wagon isn’t the end of the world. She didn’t kill anyone. She finds Melissa hard to talk to and the fact is, she finds Rhodes intimidating. I hear the way he talks to her.” She downed the rest of her wine and poured herself some more, aware of the irony of what she was doing. “You know what, Dad, he talks to her like you used to. Like she’s worthless, like she’s a piece of shit.”

  She found she was shaking. She took another sip.

  John watched her. She stared back at him, genuinely intrigued to hear his reply. She never discussed these things with her father. She’d never had him with his back against the wall before either. He’d been either at work, or in the garden, or annoyed in some way, and then he was gone.

  He cleared his throat. “OK then. Maybe you’re right,” he said. As if she’d told him it might rain tomorrow. He drew a finger across the wooden table. “But if you ask me, if they offer it to you, I think you should go to New York. Leave your mum behind.” Then he paused. “I think you’re hiding behind all this, anyway. This isn’t how I thought you’d end up. You’re wasting your life. I think. That’s all.”

  She hated the finality of his tone, as though he were standing over the conquered enemy, nodding at his victory. Elle sat on her hands, wondering how to say all the things she wanted to him, and then he looked at his watch. “Shall we have coffee, and then I should be off soon after, if I don’t want to feel the wrath of the A23,” and she knew that was it, her slot with him had come to an end.

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE you’ve never seen The Godfather,” said Tom, as they walked along the South Bank. He took a sip of beer from a bottle and inhaled the evening air. It was dark, one of the first slightly chilly August nights, a tiny sign that summer was coming to a close. “How about we head to Gabriel’s Wharf? There’s a great pizza place, just by the river.”

  “Fab,” said Elle. “That was absolutely brilliant.”

  “What was your favorite bit?”

  “‘I don’t want my brother coming outta that toilet with just his dick in his hand,’” Elle said, in her best “fuggeddaboudit” voice.

  “Wait till you see Godfather Part II,” Tom said. “It’s even better. We should rent the video one evening. It’s pretty long. So maybe one afternoon.”

  “Um—that’d be great.”

  “How did your interview with Celine go then?” Tom said. He put his hand on her elbow, steering her out of the way of an oncoming Rollerblader. “When did I see you, Thursday? It was on Friday, right?”

  “Yep. It was OK. I don’t really know. It’s just—” Elle hesitated. “I’m never sure if she knows what she’s talking about. She asks about books I’ve read and when I tell her, it’s obvious she’s never heard of them. I mean, she’s heard of White Teeth and Harry Potter, but that’s about it. So how does she know if I’ve given the right answer?”

  “I bet you were great,” said Tom. “Anyway, you love talking about books. It doesn’t matter if she’s heard of them or not, it’s whether you sounded convincing. I bet you did.”

  “Ready to fly the flag for Bookprint UK and not shag anyone,” Elle said. She shrugged. “Oh, I don’t even know if I want to go or not. I—well, I’ll see.”

  “Well, if you’re going to go, go for the right reasons. Celine—well, I think she’s mad, anyway. Just don’t go because you’re running away from stuff.”

  Elle stopped underneath some trees. “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing,” said Tom.

  “I think running away from stuff’s a very good reason to get away,” said Elle. She bent her neck back, staring up at the starry sky. “To leave it all behind… That’d be great.”

  “But it’ll still be there when you come back,” Tom said. “If you don’t sort it out.”

  Elle said, “My family’s never going to change. This job’s never going to get any better. My love life’s not going to improve. Libby’s not going to stop winding me up. I feel like… I’m ossifying. And I’m twenty-eight in October. It’s not right. I mean, I’m old, but I’m
not that old.”

  “Old! You’re still a baby, Elle.” Tom dumped his bottle into a bin. “Come on, hurry up. I’m starving.”

  He was in a strange mood that night, Elle didn’t know why. He smiled and laughed, and was as good company as always. But Elle felt he was distant. They sat outside, a faint breeze from the wide, black Thames ruffling their napkins, Elle’s skirt, her hair.

  “Everything OK?” she asked him. “You seem a bit quiet.”

  Tom put a huge piece of pizza in his mouth, which prevented him from answering. He nodded. “Mmmmhmm,” he said.

  “Good. Just—you know. If there’s something you need to talk about. Buddy.”

  “Buddy?” He said the word as though he’d never heard it. “Right. Buddy.” He looked up, then down.

  Elle was feeling reckless. “We are buddies, aren’t we?” She didn’t know why she said it. She wanted to rock the boat.

  “Course we are.” His eyes searched her face. He looked tired, she thought. The summer was dragging on, long, dry, and too hot. She wished autumn was already here. “You’re—we’re, well, this summer, the last few weeks, yes, we’ve become good friends.” He shook his head, then screwed his eyes shut and swallowed.

  “Is that all you think we are?” Elle asked.

  “What about you?” he said, instantly. “Is that what you think?” She held her breath. He looked as if he were about to say something, then he stopped. “I’m really tired, sorry. I’ve had a bit of a rough weekend.”

  “Is everything OK with you and Caitlin?” Elle asked, trying to maintain her calm.

  “No, not really. We split up.”

  “Oh.” Elle put her fork down. “Oh, my goodness. Tom, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s OK, really it is.”

  “When?”

  “Saturday. It was mutual.”

  “Really?”

  Tom sighed. He was still wearing his glasses from the cinema, and he took them off, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. His jaw was rigid. “Sort of. We realized it had to end, we both want different things. And I’ve been thinking this summer… about it all.”