Happily Ever After (48 page)

Elle had had several one-night stands in New York. The first time she’d stayed on in a bar talking to a guy after Megan, a friend from Jane Street, had left, and she’d ended up going home with him. He was called Ryan. He was a nice guy with floppy hair; floppy everything else too, unfortunately. But she had found the experience itself thrilling. It was only the guy that needed adjusting. Now, Elle tended to go for the ones with the glint in their eyes, the ones that said, I want what you want, and let’s not complicate this with anything else. She took them home to her place—she always kept a pack of condoms in her nightstand—and she threw them out the next day. She knew what she was getting into, so that then all there was left to concentrate on was… sex. Sex, sex, sex. She wasn’t the chubby loser who drank rosé till she passed out in a smelly, dirty rented flat, she was in control, slim, busy, in charge of her own life.

As they emerged onto the second floor, Elle remembered Yorkshire Road and the flat with Caitlin, and she almost stopped and turned back, and then she hardened herself against it.
It’s his problem if he wants to sleep with someone and he shouldn’t,
she told herself.
It’s a one-night thing. I’m in the clear. It’s sex, nothing else.
She heard cheering. “Is that them?”

“Don’t know,” said Tom, pulling her by the hand. “Come on.”

She stopped, and looked out of the window. There, in the front courtyard, were the groom and his pregnant bride, climbing into a gray Bentley as the guests cheered. Libby threw the bouquet, in an explosion of camera flashes and confetti. Annabel jumped high to catch it, the car door shut, and they were gone.

“Elle.” Tom wrapped his fingers around her upper arm, stroking the soft skin on the inside with his thumb. “Are you coming with me?”

“Yes,” she said, and they hurried along the long corridor, their feet silent on the carpet. Tom fumbled with the card key and pushed open the flimsy door so hard that it banged against the wall. He shut the door and then pushed her against it, kissing her again, and she ground herself against him, almost mad with wanting him. He was tall, and slim, she knew that; what she hadn’t known was the sinewy, hard muscle on his body, his strong, smooth arms that wrapped around her, the things he whispered in her ear as his hands pushed her skirt up around her hips, things that made her groan against him, throw her head back, hold him tighter.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Tom said.

“Sure?” Elle came out of her reverie. She stared at him, blankly, her tousled hair falling around her shoulders. “Of course I’m sure, Tom.”

He pulled her onto the bed, with a smile, and they faced each other, kneeling. He unzipped her dress, kissing her all the time. She tried to undo his shirt, but her fingers fumbled with the small, hard buttons and he pulled it off over his head at the same time as her. She had a coffee-colored bra on and matching knickers, she pulled them off too, and as he bent down and kissed her bare breasts he looked up at her, and smiled, a sweet
smile. Already, his cock was jabbing against her knee; she held it and caressed it, hard.

“You’re lovely,” he said. “You’re so lovely.”

He began to stroke her, touching her between her legs, and then he lay back and she climbed on top of him. He carried on stroking her, his other hand caressing her nipples, licking her, murmuring disgusting things to her. Elle could feel warmth swirling over her, blood rushing fast through every vein. She took his cock in her hand; he gave her a condom and they slid it on together.

“Come inside me,” she said, almost wild with wanting to feel him.

Tom shifted and she lowered herself slowly onto him. His hands were on her hips. She closed her eyes, and he suddenly thrust up hard from the bed, so that her eyes flew open in surprise. He was big, she could feel him despite how wet she was.

“I can’t believe it,” he said, through clenched teeth. “Elle… Elle…”

She looked down at him, sobering up. Tom Scott. She’d almost forgotten how well she knew him, and now she didn’t know him at all anymore: his eyes, staring up into hers, his hands, on her tits, his beautiful long muscly body… Tom Scott was inside her, grinding against her, touching her and she… he gripped her hands as she rose and sank on him, feeling him high up inside her. The moment had gone for her, gone forever. It wasn’t a one-night fantasy, wild and dangerous. It was Tom, he was real, she knew him, he was with someone else, she lived miles away and there was Mike… She wished they could start over, but that was too terrifying, she couldn’t go back now. She ground against him, hard, and he came soon afterwards, crying out in a low roar, his hands on her hips, holding on to her as if he had to, like a drowning man.

Elle found it hard to sleep with someone else in the bed; she always had done. She woke up several times as Tom snored lightly beside her, then fell back into a dream, where she was living the wedding in reverse, kissing Tom, talking to Rory, drinking at the bar with Felicity, dancing again. Soon after dawn broke, she fell into a heavy sleep, only to be woken by the sound of the bathroom door closing. She lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. Her head was pounding, and her mouth tasted sour. Through a gap in the heavy striped curtains the sun pierced the room. She could hear birds singing, the sound of pipes clanking, a conversation somewhere, with someone… where was it coming from?

The door opened and Tom emerged. He scratched his head. Elle closed her eyes. He climbed back into bed with her, still naked, and put his arm around her. She turned over, so they were spooning, and he pulled her against him. She could feel his breath on her neck. His skin was warm. She was cold.

“Are you awake?” Tom asked softly.

“Mmm,” Elle said. “Sort of.”

He rocked against her, and she could feel his erection. “Morning,” he said. “How’re you feeling?”

“Not great.” Elle liked this, she could talk to him without having to look at him, because it was going to be embarrassing. She pushed against him a little more, feeling his chest against her spine.

“Anything I can do?” Tom said. She didn’t answer, and he said, “It’s nearly nine o’clock, that’s all. If you—”

Elle sat up immediately. “Oh, God. I didn’t let Mum know I wasn’t coming back,” she said. Nausea overwhelmed her; her head spun dangerously.

Tom’s eyes flicked to her breasts. “Text her now,” he said. “Say you’ll be back in an hour or so, stay and have some breakfast.”

“I can’t…” Elle scrambled out of bed.

“Come on,” he said. “You’ll feel much better after some breakfast and a shower.”

His voice was reasonable, as if they were discussing the weather, not how to exit this drunken shag situation into which she wasn’t quite sure how they’d got themselves. “OK,” she said. She called her mother’s mobile, but there was no answer, and so she called the landline, her fingers dialing the number as fast as she could.

“Good morning,” came an old man’s voice.

“Hello?” said Elle. “I’m looking for Mum, is she there?”

“Mum?” said the voice. “My wife died several years ago, I’m afraid.”

“Oh—” Elle clapped her hand to her mouth, suddenly realizing. “Mr. Franklin, I’m so sorry,” she said. “It’s Eleanor—Mandana’s daughter. I’ve—I’ve rung our old number.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Franklin slowly. “I wondered who it was. Still remember your first phone number, eh? How strange. I could have sworn I saw your mother, you know, early this morning, outside the house. Looking up at the windows.” Elle smiled; Mandana hated the salmon pink roses the Franklins had planted outside Willow Cottage. “So fucking tacky. Like Margo in
The Good Life,
” she used to say, glaring at them whenever they happened to pass their old home. “I’m positive it was her,” Mr. Franklin said. “Is she well?”

“Er—yes, she’s fine. I’m so sorry to bother you—”

She said good-bye and rang off. “Mum’s out and about this morning already.”

“Great,” Tom said reassuringly. “So you’ve got some time, anyway.”

She turned to face him, suddenly aware she was still naked. “Er, yeah—thanks,” she said.

She texted Mandana, quickly. “Come back to bed,” Tom said, pulling the duvet back. “Just for a minute.”

“Um—OK,” Elle crawled back in next to him.

He took her in his arms, but her shoulder hurt, pressed up against him, and it was cramped and uncomfortable, though she didn’t say anything. They lay there, blinking together, looking at the elaborate cornicing. Elle was suddenly restless, her mind alert and awake. She started remembering things. Caitlin. His daughter. What was she doing here? But if she asked, then it’d be a thing, and she was going back on Tuesday… It wasn’t a thing, it couldn’t be, she was here for two more days… She leaned against him, smelling his dry, warm skin, wishing she could just fall asleep against him, trying and failing to seem relaxed. After a minute, Tom gently stroked her arm.

“Hey.” He kissed the back of her neck. “How about some breakfast?”

While Elle showered, Tom ordered room service and a cab for her and they ate bacon and eggs together, in fluffy dressing gowns by the window overlooking the park. It was a glorious May day, the sky a deep blue. But Elle couldn’t eat; she’d thought she was starving, but her hangover kept changing, so that when the breakfast arrived the eggs were horrifically gloopy and the bacon rancid and fatty to her. She chewed on some toast, trying not to stare at Tom. They heard voices along the corridor from time to time, breaking into the silence of their room, as they tried to make polite conversation; the weather in New York in May, the age of Sanditon Hall, the best route for Tom to take back to London. It was awkward.
It’s a one-night thing, don’t worry about it, you’re going back on Tuesday, and you’ll probably never see him again.

When the call came that the cab was here she was relieved. “I’d better go,” she said, standing up and pulling on her clothes. He watched her.

“Last night was fun,” he said. “You were amazing.”

“Oh. OK, thanks,” said Elle. “You—you too.”

“Thanks,” said Tom. He carried on eating his eggs. She wanted to hit him, for having the appetite.

“I’m just prolonging an awkward moment,” Tom said. “Just pulling it out for as long as possible, to maximize the awkwardness.”

Elle put her BlackBerry into her bag and pulled on her shoes. “Job done,” she said, smiling at him. “I’m sorry to rush off—”

“It’s totally fine.” Tom stood up. “Look, are we OK?”

“We’re—yeah, we’re great,” said Elle. She stopped, one hand holding her shoe. “Yes,” she said, more calmly. “It’s all good.”

“I’ll email you,” he said. He swallowed and scratched his chin, rough with dark stubble. She thought how sexy he looked, how unconscious he was of it. “Elle, it was great, maybe we could—”

“I really have to go,” she said. “I’m sorry, Tom—I need to get back to Mum, you understand, don’t you? And you need to get back to—” She added it casually. “Is it Yorkshire Road, where you live?”

He nodded, looking slightly puzzled. “Yorkshire Road, Richmond? Yes, what a good memory you’ve got.” Then he took her hand. “Don’t worry. Speak soon, yes? Or—sometime. This is—I’m glad, anyway. Have a good trip.”

“You have a good—yeah, thanks,” she said, unable to articulate what she was feeling, and she shut the door, her last image of him standing there in the fluffy white dressing gown, black stubble on his chin and a worried expression in his dark gray eyes.

THE TAXI DRIVER
was local, and knew the lanes well, so though he went too fast for her delicate head, it was quick, and the journey back through roads heavy with blossom and bursting with life was almost pleasant.

When she arrived back at the barn and paid the driver, she stared up at the old building, sunshine warming its old stones. A window was open; the geraniums in pots by the door looked bright and welcoming.

But then Elle heard something, a rocking, tilting sound, mixed with something dripping. She strained her ears as she walked to the front door. There was no answer when she knocked, again and again. She checked her text and her mother hadn’t replied. And so she went over and peered through the kitchen window.

The old record player was on but it had finished playing and was looping round and round. A tap was half-running, dripping loudly into the sink. Mandana was at the kitchen table almost exactly as she had been before, only there was stuff all over the table, red and orange, and it stank, it stank, and when Elle shouted at her, screamed through the window, she didn’t hear her.

And when she finally hitched her dress about her hips again and climbed through the window, and shook her mother, soaked in wine and blood and vomit, she still didn’t hear her, and she didn’t move, not at all. It was only when the ambulance came and they moved the bottles out of the way that she saw the large piece of paper on the table with two words written on it, in looping, italic writing:

Sorry Ellie

EVEN WHEN SHE
was very old, Elle could always recall in perfect detail the days after she found Mandana. The drive to the hospital every morning that began to feel like a routine, as though she’d started a new job and that was the way her life was going to be from now on. It was a lovely drive, too, through the countryside. That was partly when she started to realize she really couldn’t come home again. Forever in her mind, early summer would be associated with that time. The cow parsley in the hedgerows, the early flowering honeysuckle, the heavenly scent of wild garlic everywhere. Then parking in the vast, empty car park, going in through the massive portico stuck onto the eighties building. It was of fake marble, and it always made her wonder why it was there. To reassure people?
We’ve got a marble portico. It’s OK, your mother / husband / child isn’t going to die
. The feet squeaking on the rubber floor, the huge metal lifts, the way women always clutched their handbags to their sides and looked down, at the floor. Then Mum’s room, just her in there and another lady. The other lady left after two days, Elle didn’t know where she went.