Happily Ever After (11 page)

Rhodes looked impressed; he was impressed by Libby overall, Elle could tell. She said, “Are you sure, Libs? It’s in Clerkenwell, and it’s nine thirty.”

“It’s fine.” Libby picked up her coat. “I really want to go, and I know you hate that kind of thing. It’s not that far for me to get back from once I’m there. I’ll see you tomorrow, thanks for the lovely pasta soup. Rhodes, great to meet you.”

“Great to—” Rhodes began, standing up, but Libby had gone, waving a slim hand in farewell.

“She’s cool,” he said, staring down the corridor at the front door.

Elle put her palms down on the table and wearily pushed herself up. “The pizza place is just next door. I’ll order you something, shall I?”

Rhodes turned back. “Thanks, Ellie. I mean—Elle. That’d be great.” He cleared his throat, brought his thick black eyebrows together. “Sorry. This was nice too—you know.”

She took a breath and smiled at him. “Like a… starter, maybe.”

“That’s it.” Rhodes smiled back at his sister. Pulling the pizza menu off the fridge, Elle said, “So, Rhodes—are you seeing
anyone? Sorry to be nosy. I kind of thought maybe you might be, from something you said.”

Rhodes’s head flipped up. “I am. That’s weird, how did you know?”

“I read about two romance novels a week at the moment,” Elle said. “Call it intuition based on experience.”

“We both have our own skill set, then,” Rhodes said, and Elle wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. “Well, yeah. She’s called Melissa, and I’ve been asking her out on dates for a while, but her boyfriend was this mega-rich WASP and I thought I stood no chance, but she dumped him over the summer, so yeah—I moved in there. Took her for cocktails at the Plaza, played up my British accent, told her all about my idyllic upbringing in the English countryside and—goal.”

“That’s great—I’m happy for you,” Elle said, after a pause. “How do you know her?”

“She’s an analyst at Bloomberg too, assessing global risk,” Rhodes said. Elle nodded as if she knew what that was. “She went to Brown, so she’s super well-connected, but she’s fun too. I want her to visit England with me but…”

He trailed off, and they stared at each other, as though he knew Elle could see the collapse of the shiny artificial world he’d created, of a charming English cottage with a mum who bakes biscuits and has apple cheeks, and a super-involved dad amicably divorced from her and with two great new kids and a lovely new wife.
“Yes,”
people would say, in this fantasy world.
“The Bees managed it so well. They’re just one big happy family.”

Elle couldn’t say anything back to that. She just nodded.

They went next door to wait for the pizza in the cramped takeaway place with the minicab drivers and the hoodie boys on their pushbikes, and the glassy-eyed skinny blondes, then they came back upstairs and ate the pizza and Rhodes said it wasn’t too bad, not as good as New York pizza but good for
London. They watched the news together on the sofa, the hordes at the palace, the Spice Girls in black at some awards ceremony, the funeral set for Saturday, five more days of revelling in this unaccustomed, unBritish grief. “It won’t always feel this sad,” Rhodes said, when Elle gave a small sniff, and she was touched. “Promise, Ellie.”

He helped her make up the sofa bed, and then they carried on talking, and Elle asked him about Manhattan, and he told her about the steam rising from the subway, the place he’d been for breakfast only last weekend, which was where the orgasm scene in
When Harry Met Sally
had been filmed. About how when he’d taken Melissa for their first date, they’d walked up 5th Avenue afterwards and a tramp outside Central Park had shouted, “Marry her, you should marry her!”

“That’s what it’s like all the time, there,” he said. He asked some more about her job, how Karen was, whether autumn was a busy time in publishing, how long she saw herself staying at Bluebird. But he didn’t ask about Mum, or Dad, once, and Elle didn’t mention them.

“
WELL, I THINK
it looks
really
nice,” Sam said doubtfully, as Elle stared in the tiny mirror of the Ladies’ bathroom.

“I hate it,” Elle said dramatically. “I don’t know why I had it done. I look like a brassy whore,” she said, running a strand of hair through her fingers. “My hair was fine before. Now it’s insane. Look at it.”

“It’s great, I promise,” said Libby, applying some lip gloss. “It’s the crappy Bluebird sales conference, not the Oscars.”

There was a sharp rap at the door. “Hurry up, please,” came Posy’s voice. Elle, Libby, and Sam hurried sideways out of the cramped room. Posy was waiting for them, resplendent in a floral bias-cut Jigsaw dress. She was wearing blue eye shadow and mascara and her hair was up. Elle stared; she’d never seen Posy dressed up before. Posy tapped her foot. “The authors will be arriving soon,” she said, in the tones of one announcing the Apocalypse. “Let’s go.”

Elle had never heard of a sales conference before she’d gone to work at Bluebird. It was basically the chance for an almighty piss-up, as far as she could tell. There was a presentation, some flashy music on in the background, and then dinner with authors and the reps from all round the country, at a Georgian townhouse in Soho.

The marketing department was in charge for the weeks before the sales conference, and exciting-looking things started arriving for the event: Post-it notes in the shape of hearts and
1998/99 diaries with Victoria Bishop’s new title printed on them—
Diary of a Well-Worn Heart
—and torches with “Be Afraid of the Dark” for Oona King’s new thriller. Elle thought it was amazing, what they could produce; there was still so much about the whole business that, even after nearly a year, filled her with a kind of wonder that she was here at all. She knew it was tragic to look forward to a work event this much, but she couldn’t help it. Besides, after ten months of working there, she loved nights out with her Bluebird colleagues. Everyone got the same jokes, there was always someone to talk to and something to gossip about: whether Jeremy and Lucy the publicity director were having an affair, what Rory had allegedly said to Felicity during their latest row, how much of a bitch Victoria Bishop really was, and so on.

For this anticipated event Elle had even bought a new dress—dove gray chiffon with beading from Oasis—and the previous night, flushed with excitement and an all-consuming urge to be bold and embrace life, she had walked into a hairdresser’s at the top of Tottenham Court Road and apparently blacked out in an episode of lunacy, because when she came to she saw she’d asked them to cut all her hair off into a crop, which wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t been teamed with a dye job the color of a field of rapeseed. And it was then that she remembered too late that the urge to be bold and embrace life usually had catastrophic results. “Oh, dear,” she said sadly, grabbing her coat and turning off her computer, catching sight of the yellow hair in the black screen.

Someone lightly touched her shoulder. “What’s up?”

Elle turned quickly. “Hello, Rory.” She put her bag over her shoulder, trying to look professional. “Right, I’m ready.”

“Why are you sighing like an old steam engine?”

Elle rolled her eyes back into her head. “Er—nothing. It’s silly.”

“What? Tell me. I’m your boss. We have no secrets.”

“It’s my… hair. I changed it.”

“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.