Happily Ever After (3 page)

Mum was on her second glass of wine. “Right. Of course, it’s beyond the realm of possibility that you’d make lunch, John, isn’t it? It’s a holiday for me, too, I’ve had a bloody hard time and you don’t even—”

Dad had stood up, pushing the table away, and stalked off into the sitting room; he’d stayed there with the door shut, watching the cricket till Mandana had gone in to remind him about driving Eleanor the next day.

A knocking sound made Eleanor jump. Her mother opened the door, slowly. “Ellie, love?” she said. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Eleanor took her headphones off. “I just—”

Mandana came into the room. She wiped her face with one hand, tiredly. “I’m sorry for the yelling. Just a misunderstanding, your dad didn’t realize about driving you, you see….”

Adolescent rage, made up of anger and fear, boiled inside Eleanor. “I know, you didn’t ask him. You drank too much and forgot. Again.”

“Ellie!” her mother said sharply. “Don’t be rude. Of course I didn’t. It’s not that. Your father and I just aren’t getting on very well at the moment, that’s all.”

“Are you going to get a divorce?” Eleanor heard herself asking the question, and held her breath.

“Love, of course not! What makes you think that?” Mandana patted her soft dark hair, rather helplessly, and said before Eleanor could answer, “Anyway, I just wanted to apologize for all that noise. Daddy’ll take you to the station tomorrow, it’s no problem.”

Mandana’s voice was trembling, and her cheeks were flushed. Eleanor rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Why are you being like this?”

“Like what?” Mandana said.

“You’re different since Grandpa died. I don’t understand, you always said you hated him.”

“I didn’t really hate him,” Mandana said. “I just feel bad. I never saw him. He was a sad man, and it makes me sad, and it makes me think about things. It’s just a hard time at the moment, that’s all.”

“Why was he a sad man?”

“Look,” Mandana said, in the brisk way she sometimes suddenly had. “Just be ready, get your things ready. It’s…” She trailed off. Eleanor stared at her mother. “Oh. I lost my train of thought, Ellie. Just be ready, won’t you?”

“Don’t call me Ellie.”

“OK,” Mandana said, one hand on the door. “Supper’s soon. We thought we’d watch a video tonight. Won’t that be fun? I’m making lasagna.”

It was pointless trying to talk to her. It was just pointless. “Fine,” Eleanor said. “Thanks, Mum. See you in a bit. I’ll pack.”

“Good. And—please don’t worry, love. Everything’s going to be fine! You’re just a worrier, that’s your trouble. I think we should talk to Dr. Hargreaves when we’re back. Maybe some cranial massage would help you.”

The door shut softly behind her, and Eleanor was left looking out of the window once more.

It’d be better at Karen’s—well, Karen’s granny’s—that was
for sure. Only one more night and then she’d be there. She put the useless Walkman on the bed and hummed as she reached for her bag. She didn’t hear the door open again.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Rhodes, her seventeen-year-old brother, stood in front of the bed. “Why are you wearing your headphones with nothing plugged into them, you freak?”

Eleanor hugged herself. “Shut up, you spazmo. I’m packing, to go to Karen’s, not that it’s any of your business.”

“You look like a freak.”

“Wow, Rhodes, you’re so eloquent.” Eleanor made a face.

Rhodes laughed. Eleanor didn’t say anything. She just shut her eyes and conjured up the image she liked best, that of her brother being slowly lowered into a pit of fire, screaming hoarsely, his eyes popping out, flesh starting to melt away, and her standing over him, nodding at the guard who asked, “Lower, madame?”

She liked that image. She had called on it more and more over the last year. There was also the one where Rhodes, chained up and begging for mercy, got sliced into bits by a gang. But this one was the best. She was in control.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Get off, Rhodes, it’s private.” Eleanor lunged, but too late. Rhodes snatched up her open notebook. His eyes lit up, he scratched the back of his fuzzy brown hair in excitement.

“Poetry!” He laughed. “You’re writing… ha ha!” He clutched his sides. “Ha! You’re writing poems! ‘They laugh at me, the girls in the canteen’—you bet they do, sis!”

“I HATE YOU!!” Eleanor shouted. “I hate you, you… you bastard bitch!” She looked around for something to throw at him, and grabbed
Forever Amber,
which she was halfway through.

“What’s it called?” Rhodes peered at the top of the page. “‘A Happy Ending for Me.’ Ha! Ha ha ha!” He bent over, and slapped his knees.

“It’s a good title. What would you know, you div? You can hardly spell your own name, let alone write poetry.” Eleanor was shaking with rage.

“God, you take yourself so seriously, don’t you?” Rhodes said, his pleasure almost manifest in the room, like a dancing devil behind him. “You think you’re better than me, just because you read books all day and moon around writing stupid poems. You don’t know anything about real life. You’ve never even snogged anyone, no boy’d go near you, unless they were gay, you look like a boy!”

“I’m not even listening, Rhodes. I feel sorry for you,” Eleanor said haughtily. She aimed the book at him. “I just really do.”

“What does ‘A Happy Ending’ mean then?” Rhodes said. His eyes were bright, his pupils dilated, his breath short. Like he’d just won a race. “Come on.”

“It’s called ‘A Happy Ending for Me,’ and actually it’s—”

“No. I’m not asking that. Do you know what a happy ending is? Have you heard of it?” He laughed again.

“You’re so weird, I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” Eleanor put the book down and stuck one finger up at her brother, which was about the rudest thing she knew how to do. “You’re such an idiot. You’re only being like this ’cause you’re upset about Mum and Dad.”

His face clouded over and his eyes narrowed. “You don’t know anything,” he said. “No, I’m not, so fuck off.”

“No. Go away. I hate you.”

“What a weirdo.” Rhodes smiled. “A happy ending is when you wank someone off. Give them a happy ending. Yeah? Wanking. Rubbing my dick till I spunk.” He grabbed his crotch. “Like Lucy Haines did to me, last month.
That’s
a happy ending. Oh, yeah.” He smiled, and rocked his hips back and forth. “Oh, oh, oh,
yeah
.”

Eleanor didn’t know what to say, or where to start. She was
silent. “You are disgusting,” she said after a pause. “You are vile. Go away.”

Rhodes was still smiling. “I’m going. Happy endings. Mmmmm.”

“Piss off.”

Eleanor slammed the door after him, then opened it and slammed it again, as hard as she could, and then she pushed the chair from the desk up against the handle and put her hand up to her mouth, clamping her lips together. She sorted her books into a pile: the Sylvia Plath poems, the Sylvia Plath biography,
Forever Amber
and a couple of spare books just in case so she didn’t have to resort to those stupid magazines like
Just 17, 19,
and
Mizz
. They riveted her as well as terrifying her, full of silly girls going on about boys and rubbing almond oil into your cuticles—she didn’t even know where cuticles
were
. It was so stupid, trying to pretend that silly stuff was part of real life, when real life was ugly and horrible, like Rhodes, like this house, like… everything.

She looked down at the poem. “A Happy Ending for Me.” She ripped the page out of her notebook and tore it into tiny pieces, her bottom lip sticking out as the tears she had pushed down inside her came up; and as she sank to the floor, Eleanor Bee hugged her knees and told herself that one day, it’d be OK. She’d be a grown-up, and she
would
have a happy ending. The nice sort. Happily ever after, with a house full of books, a video recorder to tape
Neighbors
and all the clothes she wanted from Dash and Next.

But even as she sat there, rocking herself, tears dropping freely onto her scabby knees, her dark fringe falling into her eyes, she knew that sounded stupid.

“London eats up pretty girls, you know.”
“Not me!” she assured him triumphantly. “I’m not afraid!”

Kathleen Winsor,
Forever Amber

“
SO, ELLE, WHAT
are you reading at the moment?”

Her palms were stuck to the leather chair and Elle knew if she moved them they would make a loud, squeaking sound.

“Me? Oh…” Elle paused, and tried to gently maneuver one hand out of the way, but found she couldn’t. “I don’t know. Um…” She racked her brains for the “buzz phrases” she and Karen had gone over that morning in Karen’s tiny kitchen. Karen had written them on Post-it notes.

Buzz phrase. Buzz phrase.
Oh, God.

“Well, I love reading,” she said eventually. “I’m passionate about it.”

Jenna Taylor tapped her biro on the gray plastic desk. She cast her eyes over to the blue fabric wall dividers, then looked back, forcing a smile to her face. “Yes, that’s great, so you’ve said. What are you actually reading at the moment, though?”

Elle already knew this interview could not be going more badly. It was like when she’d begun her second driving test by pulling out and nearly crashing into a gray Mercedes, which meant an automatic fail, and she’d still had to take the rest of the twenty-minute test. But her mind was a total blank. She could feel the angry red blush she always got when she was flustered starting to mottle the skin below her collarbone, creeping up her neck. Soon her face would be luminous red. She moved one hand. A high-pitched, farting shriek emanated from the chair. “Um—what kind of thing do you mean?”

Jenna’s voice was icy. “I mean, can you demonstrate that
you’re up to speed with what’s going on in the world of publishing at the moment? If you love books as much as you keep saying you do, it’d be great if you could give some examples of what you’ve read lately.” She smiled a cold smile.

Elle looked around the tiny open-plan office. It was almost totally silent. She could hear someone typing away at the next office space to Jenna’s, and the whirr of the air conditioner, but apart from that, nothing. No one talking at all. They were all reading, probably. Being intellectual. Making decisions about novels and biographies and poetry and other things. How amazing. How amazing that she was even here, having an interview at Lion Books.

“Lately…” Elle knew what the truthful answer was, but she knew there was no way she could actually admit it. She was halfway through
Bridget Jones’s Diary
and it was the funniest book she thought she’d ever read, plus at least once every other page it made her shout, “Oh, my God,
me too
!”

But she couldn’t say that. She was at an interview for one of the most respected publishers in London. She had to prove she was an intellectual person of merit. Intellectual person, yes. She coughed.

“Well, the classics, really. I love Henry James. And Emily Brontë.
Wuthering Heights
is like one of my favorite books ever…. I love reading. I’m passionate about…”
Oh, no.

Jenna crossed her legs and wheeled the chair a little closer. “Eleanor, look around my office. If you’d done your research you’d know I publish commercial women’s fiction.” She slapped some spines on a shelf, dragged out a handful of thick paperbacks. “Gold foil. Legs in lacy tights. I need a secretary who wants to work with commercial authors.” Her face was hard. “If you like Henry James so much perhaps you should be applying for a job at Penguin Classics.”

Elle could feel hot tears burning at the backs of her eyes.
The red blush was crawling across her cheeks, she knew it.
I don’t understand Henry James. I only liked
The Buccaneers
on TV. I’ve applied for jobs everywhere and no one’s interested. I’ve been sleeping on a friend’s floor for three months and eating Coco Pops twice a day. I’m drinking in the last-chance saloon, Jenna. Please, please give me a break.

“…If you’d told me you liked
Bridget Jones,
for example, or you were reading Nick Hornby, or Jilly or even bloody
Lace,
I’d have some indication that, despite your total lack of office experience, you were interested in working in publishing. Hmm?” Jenna fingered a lock of long Titian hair with her slim fingers.

“I do like
Bridget Jones,
” Elle said softly. “I love it.”

“Really.” Jenna obviously didn’t believe her. She looked at her watch. “OK, is there anything else you’d like to say?”

“Oh.” Elle looked down at her sweating thighs, clad in bobbling black tights and a gray and black kilt that, she realized now, was far too short when she was sitting down. “Just that…Oh.”