Happily Ever After (29 page)

“Well, it’s an extremely crowded—”
Can’t say “market,” said “market” already. Um…
A trickle of sweat ran between Elle’s shoulder blades as she looked at the covers, pretending to take them in again. The truth was, she didn’t much like them either, but what was she supposed to do about it? In their two-minute lift-waiting conference Celine had failed to mention that the illustrations had already been commissioned and were under way by the time Elle had taken the project over. She got the feeling someone had passed the buck. On to her.

“It’s really important we keep her relevant,” Elle said, trying to pluck some momentum from somewhere, anywhere. “If we want to sell Dora back into the bookshops it has to be with a new look.” She paused, and added, “I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, though; I don’t need to explain it to
you,
” as though they were both basically in agreement. She had learned this at last month’s “Getting to Yes: Managing Authors, Agents
and Expectations” course. Bookprint was obsessed with courses and improvement. Barely a week went by when she wasn’t being invited to apply for a Job Exchange Program in New York, or learn about Basic Finance, or Royalty Systems.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tom said blankly. “Look, Elle, I can’t force you to change the covers if everyone thinks they’re right for the books. But—” He gave a small sad shrug, which Elle found heartbreaking. “I really don’t like them, and I don’t think Mum would have either. That’s all.”

She knotted her fingers together, helpless in the face of his transparency. “Right.”

“Don’t look so tragic about it.” Tom smiled. She had hardly seen him smile before. It suited him, made his dark, flinty eyes look less severe, his jaw soften. He cleared his throat. “Look, why don’t—”

Elle’s mobile rang, buzzing loudly on her desk. She looked down. “Oh,” she exclaimed. “Rhodes!”

“Take it,” said Tom, gesturing. “Don’t mind me.”

The phone went dead. “No, it’s fine—he’s gone. It’s my brother. I’ve been trying to get hold of him or his fiancée for, like, two weeks. AWOL, both of them.”

“When’s the wedding?”

“It’s in September. But the hen weekend’s next week, and I’m in charge of it. It’s going to be nearly a hundred degrees in New York, and Melissa, that’s my brother’s fiancée, she wants to go shopping and have a picnic in Central Park, and I’ve never even
been
there before,” Elle said.

“New York’s amazing,” Tom said. “You’ll love it.”

“People keep saying that,” Elle said impatiently. “But I don’t know where anything is, and…”

She trailed off, aware that there was no reason Tom Scott should be interested in her brother’s fiancée’s hen weekend.

“I had to organize a stag weekend last month,” he said. “My
best friend from school. We went to Berlin. It was… awful.” He blinked. “He was made to dress up in a gimp mask and bondage outfit, and when he tried to change out of it, two of his alleged friends chained him to a lamppost and chucked the key into a river.” He shook his head. “Maybe I’m just a peculiarly joyless person. But it was—well, it wasn’t my cup of tea.”

“I’m with you,” said Elle, on the verge of blurting everything out, but then Tom’s phone rang, and his expression changed.

“Oh. Do you mind…” He stared at the phone. “I have to… take this…” He snatched up the phone. “Caitlin? Hi. No. Yes. Yes. No, I’m in a meeting.” He shrugged apologetically at Elle, and turned away from her. His voice was low, with a tone in it she’d never heard before. “I can’t talk now. I—I’m sorry. No, I’ll call you later. Don’t be like that.” He was laughing. “No! Later!”

He said good-bye and put the phone back in his pocket, then turned around. “Mobiles, eh? Curse of the modern age.” He smiled awkwardly. “What did we do before them?”

“I suppose we survived somehow,” Elle said, thinking she’d gladly go without the texting, the desire to check her phone every few minutes to see if he’d texted again, angry when he had, confused when he hadn’t. “I’m bloody glad they weren’t around when I was a teenager, that’s all. Who’s Caitlin, is that your girlfriend?”

Tom paused, while Elle screamed inwardly to herself,
Get a frigging grip! What is wrong with you?

“Oh—her? Caitlin? That?” Tom pulled at his ear. “No, no! God, no. She’s my—we work together. At the bookshop. She’s amazing.”

“Right,” said Elle.

“She’s not my girlfriend, honestly,” said Tom.

“Hey.” Elle held up her hands. “None of my business.”

“Well—it’s complicated,” Tom said.

“It always is,” said Elle sagely. There was another, awkward pause. “Anyhoo!” she went on. “So the bookshop’s going well? You don’t miss publishing?”

“I don’t miss it that much,” he said. “Sometimes, I suppose.” He smiled, and glanced down at the covers. “I don’t know, I never really fitted in, like a meat eater at a vegetarian society. Scanning parties for the people to talk to, knowing who’s who…” He ran his hands through his close-cropped dark hair. “You like all that stuff, you see. I don’t.”

Elle flinched a little. She felt it was an implied criticism. “I—I don’t really like all that,” she said. “I like books, giving people good books to read.” She realized it was true, that she really did, and felt herself blushing. It was that simple, she’d never thought about it before. “That first night we met—the sales conference? I thought
you
were that person, not me. You were really rude, you know.”

Tom frowned. “Me? You were terrifying, you were so confident and in control—”

Elle laughed, more out of disbelief than amusement. “What? You must be thinking of someone else.” She remembered the direness of that evening, how uncomfortable she’d felt, how she’d tried so hard to get Tom and horrible Tony Rooney to talk… how the evening had ended…
God,
it was a long time ago.

Right on cue, Rory walked past and looked into the office. A couple of times, when Mary had been out, he’d even hesitated, as if he was about to come in. Elle wondered sometimes if he just walked around their floor in a continuous circuit, hoping to bump into her or make eye contact with her. She was waiting for him to make his move.

He saw Tom, and gave a wave.

“It was Rory who was supposed to be dealing with this,”
Tom said. “But then you emailed me. I don’t really get it. Though I’m very glad. I’d much rather talk to you than him.”

“Is that because he knows your real name is Ambrose?” Elle spoke without really thinking.

Tom laughed. “Now I really will have to kill him.” He watched her gazing down the corridor for a moment, then his eyes scanned her face, as if he were making up his mind about something. “Elle, can I ask you a question? Would you like to go out sometime, get a drink?”

Elle was so taken aback she had to replay the sentence immediately in her head, to make sure she’d heard him right. “Go out—on a date?”

“Well,” said Tom. “Yes, a date.”

“Oh,” said Elle, unconvinced. “Well—thanks. But no, thanks.” She shook her head firmly. “That’s really kind of you, though.”

“I’m not asking to be kind,” Tom said lightly. “I’m asking you out because I like you.”

“OK, well, that’s kind of you to like me, is what I’m saying.”

“I don’t like you to be kind either,” he said.

Elle smiled. She thought she should feel more freaked out than she was, someone just blithely asking her on a date out of the blue: this didn’t happen to her. “Look, that’s—great, but I’m not really ready to date anyone. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not ready?” Tom studied her carefully. “Are you one of those fundamentalist Christians? Won’t put out without a wedding ring?”

“God, no!” Elle laughed. “I just broke up with someone. It’s been a bit rough. I’m not—back in the zone yet. Sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Tom said instantly. “I didn’t—of course. When?”

“Well.” Elle fidgeted. “December.” He nodded. “I’m fine,” she said. “I maybe—yeah, maybe I should be over it by now. It just—it’s too soon, that’s all.”

She wasn’t quite sure why she was saying no. But it was all so out in the open, so clinical almost, it didn’t feel like the beginning of something. Tom didn’t say, That’s tragic, you should be over it by now. He just nodded, his jaw set, and then he said, “Well, I hope you’re OK. Getting over someone can take over your life, so don’t let it.” He looked down at the covers. “I really hate these. But, like I said, I don’t know what I’m talking about, and I’m sure you do.” He picked up his jacket. “Look, if you want a shoulder to cry on, or anything, or you’re in Richmond, come and see the shop. It’s great.”

“Loads of MyHeart books in stock, I hope?” Elle tried to sound jaunty.

“Oh, absolutely,” he assured her, a twinkle in his eyes. He stared over her shoulder and then looked intently at her. “We’ve got a whole shelf of Georgette Heyers, too.”

Elle followed his gaze and saw a neat pile of three Georgettes on her desk. “Oh.”

He nodded. “Great to see you, anyway. Thanks.” He touched his hand to her shoulder briefly and then he was gone.

She watched him, her mind ticking over, and after he’d disappeared at the end of the long corridor, she picked up the printouts of the Dora Zoffany covers and threw them in the bin. He was right, she knew it. She’d get them changed, by hook or by crook, and she knew in a flash exactly how she’d do them. She’d seen a beautiful exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery of black-and-white photos from the thirties. Find something similar, crop them, add bright, citrus, hot type. He was right, his mother’s books deserved better, everyone did. As she watched him go, Elle’s phone rang again, just as Libby appeared in the door, breathless.

“I got it!” she said. “I got the job swap placement! I’m going to New York! Four months, baby, can you believe it?”

Elle held up her hand. “That’s brill! Just a minute—it’s
Rhodes. I have to take this, sorry, Libs—” She snatched up the phone. “Rhodes? Rhodes! Hi! How are you? I’ve been trying to get hold of you and Melissa for ages! Is everything all right?”

There was a silence, as Libby watched her from the doorway. Elle’s face grew pale as she talked to her brother, and when she eventually put the phone down, she rubbed her cheeks and bent forwards, so her head was in her lap.

“No way,” she said, into her skirt. “No freaking way.”

“What?” said Libby. “What’s happened?”

Elle sat up and swiveled slowly round, so she was facing her. “They’ve canceled the wedding,” she said.

“What?”

“The wedding. I
knew
something was up. Rhodes said Melissa’s changed her mind, she wants to get married in the States after all.”

“Why, though? I mean—wasn’t she like some Bridezilla?” Libby looked up and down the corridor, and mouthed
Hi
at someone in the distance.

“She was, yes.” Elle shook her head. “I don’t understand it. I saw her two weeks ago. She was so into the whole thing.” Suddenly, she heard Melissa’s voice, outside the tapas place.
If it can’t be perfect I… don’t want to do it at all.
“She’s got slight OCD, I have to admit. But I—I don’t know. I thought I was getting to know her a bit.” She remembered something. “Mum won’t be able to go, if they do it in the States.” Suddenly she wished Tom was still here, she’d like to tell him. “I suppose it makes sense, though, in one way.”

Libby sounded slightly impatient, as if she wished she’d taken her good news elsewhere. “Oh, why?”

“Just—my family. Couldn’t picture the wedding photos,” Elle said, and it made a little more sense to her then.

When she got back home, late that evening, the clarification she was looking for was waiting for her. Of sorts. There was a letter—she never got post unless it was bills—in turquoise ink. No postmark, no stamp. She opened it, her grimy fingers leaving gray smudges on the white watermarked envelope, as she trudged wearily upstairs, longing for the tiny womb-like room, the sofa, the TV, the bottle of wine in the fridge. It was a printed card.

Due to circumstances beyond our control, we are canceling the wedding for September 29th. We hope you will understand how grievously we regret this and any expense you have incurred. We are extremely sorry. We remain in love and committed to each other and will be married quietly at a later date. With our apologies once more, Rhodes and Melissa

Upstairs, the light on her answering machine was blinking. She
never
had any messages. She played it, her heart thumping.

You have two new messages. First message.

“Elle? It’s me. Listen. Don’t believe what they say, if they ring you. Jus… don’t believe them. They lying.”

There was a crackle on the line and a fumbling sound.

“Listen to me. OK? OK. Mum loves you… she loves you, Ellie. So ring me, give me a ring, ring a ring ding a ring.”