Happily Ever After (8 page)

Tears pricked Elle’s eyes as she remembered the coffin coming off the plane, the Prince of Wales standing ready to greet it, his face lined with grief. “The breaking of so great a thing should make a greater crack”: that was Shakespeare, wasn’t it? Oh, how pretentious it was, quoting Shakespeare. If Libby could hear her, she’d laugh her head off. Elle pulled the duvet over her, the Monday morning feeling of dread stronger than ever.

Suddenly, footsteps came padding loudly towards the bathroom, and the door was slammed with a bang. Elle winced, preparing herself. The radio came on, Chris Evans’s voice slow and clear.

“It’s Monday and, well, look, it’s a hard day for us all, and we want to remember a wonderful woman, so here’s Mariah Carey and ‘Without You.’ In memory of our Queen of Hearts.”

“Yooooou…” came Sam’s voice, shrieking tonelessly through the paper-thin walls. “. . . WITHOUT YOOOOOOOU…”

Sam was “a morning person,” as she frequently told Elle when Elle asked her to please not tunelessly wail “Mr. Lover-man” at 6:45 a.m. Being a morning person, it seemed, meant not being bothered by the fact that you were totally tone deaf. Elle turned onto her stomach and screamed into her pillow, as she did every single morning. If she was ever called for jury service and there was someone on trial who’d killed their
flatmate or neighbor for something similar, Elle knew she’d have no hesitation in finding them not guilty. Every evening, she told herself Sam wasn’t so bad, that actually they had a laugh over a glass of wine and some trashy TV. And every morning she woke up to what sounded like a drunk tramp gargling with petrol and razor blades, and she felt murder in her heart.

She even blamed Sam for the breakup of her semi-relationship with Fred. They’d seen each other, admittedly rather halfheartedly—he’d gone away for two weeks and not told her—during the summer. The second or third time he’d stayed over, Sam had woken them both up by singing the Cardigans’ “Lovefool” in such a painful way that Fred had left without having a shower, claiming he had an early meeting and needed to get home and pick up a suit. Since Fred was, as far as Elle knew, working in a café off Portobello while writing his screenplay that was going to win him an Oscar, this was clearly a lie, but she couldn’t blame him. He hadn’t called her since. Elle had tried to mind, but she didn’t, to be honest. Fred belonged to the era of sleeping on sofas, watching daytime TV, and feeling totally hopeless, and that all seemed years, not months, ago.

Forty minutes or so later, Elle was showered and dressed. It was still early, just after eight, and as she stood in the kitchen, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea, she sifted through her feelings, trying to work out why she still felt she’d missed something. Was it Princess Di, throwing her off? Or was it work? The trouble was, she could never remember anything specifically she hadn’t done. It was the horror that there was another bomb, an uncollected urgent manuscript waiting in the post room, or another Dear Shitley fiasco, just waiting to explode, that she feared the most. In her darker days—and this
was one of them—she wasn’t sure what the future held. How on earth was she supposed to show them she’d be a good editor when no one had the faintest idea who she was, except maybe vaguely as the idiot who’d ordered Rory a cab that took him to Harlow instead of Heathrow? She was still staring into space as Sam came in.

“Hiya,” she said. “What a strange morning. I feel very emotional still. Do you feel emotional?”

“Yes,” said Elle coolly, the post-shower-singing fury having not quite worn off. “It’s weird.”

Sam looked pleased. Her nose twitched. “We’re so similar. Ready for another Monday?”

“Not really,” said Elle. “I feel like crap.” She sighed.

“I don’t,” said Sam. She tucked her hair behind her ears and slung her flowery Accessorize bag over her shoulder. “But then I’m not the one who stayed out with Libby all night Saturday! Am I!”

She laughed, just a little too heartily but Elle, still cross, bit her tongue. Sam always wanted to come along with Elle. Elle hadn’t minded at first, but after Sam had fallen over onto Karen’s birthday cake at her party in July and then got so drunk she’d passed out at Elle’s friend Matty’s housewarming in Clapham under a pile of coats in the hallway, Elle had started reining in the invitations. They were flatmates, they weren’t joined at the hip. She’d spent her university years being the one who took the drunken mess home and she was damned if she was going to do it anymore.

“I’m off,” Sam said. She was always in by nine, and usually left before Elle. “You in this evening?”

Then Elle remembered. She said, “I knew there was something I had to remember. Rhodes is coming over tonight.”

“Your brother?”

Elle nodded. “I totally forgot. That’s why…” She trailed
off, and added, “I haven’t seen him for—” She tried to remember. “Well, since Christmas, and then he left early.”

“How come?”

“Had a big row with Mum.” Elle didn’t say any more.

Sam picked up her rucksack and changed the subject. “Wow, this manuscript’s heavy. I’ll see you in a bit?”

Putting her mug in the sink, Elle grabbed her bag. “I’ll come with you,” she said. She double-locked the flimsy woodchip door, and followed Sam down the stairs, out into the September sunshine.

“Did you finish it?” Sam said. Elle looked blank. “
Polly Pearson
? Isn’t it brill?”

Her handbag was suddenly heavy on her shoulder. Elle peeked at it, saw a thick manuscript, untouched since Friday. “Oh, my God.” Elle’s face paled. No wonder her hungover brain was trying to tell her she’d forgotten something. It was two things. Rhodes tonight and now… and now this. She clutched the heavy bag. Of course. “I promised Rory… I said I’d finish it over the weekend.”

“But you’ve read most of it,” Sam said perkily, holding the straps of her rucksack and whistling as she strode along, like one of those stupid creatures in the Girl Guide handbook. Elle looked at her with loathing.

“That’s not the point—” Elle squeezed her eyes tightly shut. “I wanted to gather my thoughts, have a proper response. Be… you know, like Libby. Have something to say.” Rory and Posy
never
asked her opinion on anything. She was virtually invisible, to them, to Felicity, to
everyone
. This was the first manuscript about which they’d said, “Elle, we’d like to know what you think.” As though they were interested in her opinion. Libby was the one who could chat fearlessly to Rory and Jeremy in the pub, whom the authors knew when they rang up: “Yes, Paris, it is Libby,” she’d say, if she picked up Elle’s
phone for her. “How are you? What can I do for you today?” She was able to go up to agents at launch parties and introduce herself, and she always knew the right thing to say: “Hi, I’m Libby, Felicity’s assistant? Yes, we spoke last week! I just wanted to say how much I loved
Broken SWAT Team / Mother of All Ills / Lanterns Over Mandalay
.”

Sam cut in on her thoughts. “Hey, do you want to go to Kensington Palace after work and lay some flowers?”

“No,” said Elle crossly, though she did want to, very much. She pulled the dog-eared manuscript out of her bag and started reading it as she walked along the street. “I need to finish this before we get in.”

“Fine,” said Sam. “I’ll hold you.” She took her elbow and grinned at Elle, as Elle walked off the curb. A bus swerved to avoid her, then hooted loudly, the passengers shaking their fists at the pair of them.

SAM GABBED ALL
the way in on the Tube, about how much she loved Dave (though Elle had met him but once since she’d moved in), and about how her sister had told her yesterday if the baby was a girl she’d call it Diana Frances, in tribute. But Elle had become adept at blocking out Sam’s voice. She smoothed the manuscript on her lap and began to skim the last seventy pages, eyes darting in panic over the double-spaced lines. It was eight thirty. She had an hour.

The novel was called
Polly Pearson Finds a Man,
and unusually it had been sent to Rory, not Posy. It was by an Irish fashion journalist called Eithne Reilly, and already there was an offer on the table of £150,000 for two books, a sum so huge Elle found it hilarious.

“Jeremy says everyone’s going to go mad for it,” said Sam. “Oh. We’re at Oxford Circus already, isn’t it amazing how quickly the journey goes when there’s someone to chat to!”

Elle looked up, wild-eyed. “Help me. Does Colette get her comeuppance?”

“Yes, she gets fired. And it turns out Roland is a real bastard, and Max is lovely, and she’s got it all wrong, because Colette lied to her about the Gucci account.”

Elle turned to the last page.

“Damn you, Polly!” Max Reardon said, striding towards her. “I want you to come back to Dublin with me. As my wife, not as my features editor!”

“Max…” Polly stared at him with huge blue eyes, filling up with water and running down her cheeks. “Oh, Max… Yes, please! Only one thing?”

“What, darling?” said Max, enfolding her in his arms and kissing her.

“I want the job too. And I know what my first commission will be. ‘How to Find a Man.’”

The End

“That’ll have to do,” she said, stuffing the manuscript into her bag. “At least I know what happens in the end. Big surprise, it ends happily ever after.” Elle followed Sam as the Tube doors slammed open.

“Isn’t it amazing? Did you like it?” Sam said, as they climbed onto the escalator, surrounded by silent fellow commuters.

“Sort of,” said Elle. “It’s so cheesy but it’s romantic. I loved Max even though he’s got the same name as my awful ex, which shows it must be good.” Libby had thought it was rubbish, but Libby would. Elle couldn’t help it, she’d enjoyed it, but was that wrong?

“I couldn’t put it down,” said Sam. “So funny! The bit in the All Bar One!” She hugged herself, and then whipped out her Travelcard. “Here we are, back on Tottenham Court Road,” she sang. “What a lovely—”

“Look, Sam,” Elle said, suddenly desperate for a moment of peace and quiet, “I’m going to treat myself to a coffee and a croissant. I’ll see you in the office. Don’t wait for me,” she added, amazed at how firm her voice was.

Elle stood in the queue, hugging her bag to her chest, smelling the coffee and feeling calmer already. Yes, this was a good idea. Sure, it was £3 she didn’t have, but she needed a pick-me-up, because all that crying and wine-drinking had left her feeling very feeble. She’d think of something intelligent to say about
Polly Pearson
as she walked to Bedford Square, and all would be well.

As Elle turned off Tottenham Court Road, clutching her paper cup of coffee, with her croissant in a waxy paper bag, she
inhaled again, and smiled. It was a beautiful day now, the trees in the square at their darkest green, about to turn. She was early, too, for once.
“
Polly Pearson
is a serviceable piece of chick lit, which I found to be—”
No, too pompous.

“
Polly Pearson?
Oh, thanks for letting me read it, Rory. Yes, it’s very much of the genre but there’s a refreshing lightness of touch which reminded me of a—of a… a sherbet fountain. A feather. A feathery syllabub. Syllabub? Or do I mean sybil?”

She turned the corner and checked her watch. It—

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH! OH, MY GOD!”

Elle had bumped into something, and the shock made her fingers squeeze together, popping the plastic lid off her cup and pouring scalding coffee into the air.

“My—God!”

“Shit!” Elle cried, seeing her coffee everywhere, all over this large bulky shape, which she realized was a person, a woman. It stared at her, blazing anger in its green eyes, and she felt her bowels turn to liquid. Oh no.
Noooo.

“What on earth,” Felicity Sassoon bellowed, brown liquid pouring down her face, “are you doing, you
stupid little girl
?”

Passersby on the wide pavement ignored them as Elle dropped her bag and croissant to the ground, and started dabbing at Miss Sassoon, who stood still, dripping with coffee, her huge bouffant gray hair flattened, her pale blue tweed jacket stained with brown. She resembled an outraged plump exotic bird stuck in London Zoo during a downpour. Elle ineffectually patted her, blotting the coffee with her thin brown Pret napkins. She reached her chest, and was about to start there, but Miss Sassoon pushed her away, furiously.

“Clumsy creature,” she said. “Get off me.” She looked at Elle properly for the first time. “Oh, for God’s sake,” she said. “It’s you.”

“Yes…” said Elle. “I’m so… I’m so sorry… Miss Sassoon…”

Felicity Sassoon stared at her, and her eyes narrowed. Elle stood still, the feeling in her stomach confirming what she’d known since she’d woken up.

This was going to be an awful day.