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. “O
h, 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.”
Second message.
“Elle? It’s your father. Hope you’re well… Uhm, yes. I wanted to know whether, since the wedding’s canceled, you’ll be able to request a refund for the flight to New York? Can you call me, please. Yes. Bye—bye then.”
Elle looked around for her wine mug, and headed towards the fridge. She heard her mother’s voice, her old cry of “Leave me ALONE!” She wished she could ring them back, all of them, and just this once, say the same thing to all of them.
TWO DAYS LATER, Elle woke with a raging, deadening hangover to the sounds of Kilburn on a sweltering Saturday morning and the smell from the rancid greasy spoon across the road.
Her head was pounding. Her mouth tasted like the bottom of a rubbish bin. She lay there with her aching eyes half opened. Someone was playing “Life Is a Roller Coaster” extremely loudly nearby.
Elle rolled over, feeling a wave of nausea hit her. It was hot, the room was tiny, the purple blinds cast a lurid glow into the raspberry-colored room. She opened one eye and closed it again. The walls looked as if they would close in on her. She tried not to gag.
I have to get out of here, she thought. She had spent the last two nights in by herself. She wanted to talk to someone, and everyone was away. Eventually she’d tried Karen, even though she knew she was on holiday with her boyfriend in Greece, but it was hard to have a chat with someone when they were on their mobile in a restaurant eating meze. All Elle wanted was someone to reel with. She was still reeling from it herself. That’s why she supposed she’d drunk so much. She hadn’t meant to.
Elle stumbled unwillingly from her bed, the vise-like grip on her head tightening as she stood up. She ran the shower till it was steaming hot, even though the weather outside almost equaled it. She’d found lately that a hot shower was the best cure for a hangover. That, and peppermint scrub from the Body Shop. As she stood under the wonky showerhead that bloomed with limescale, scrubbing her hair and trying not to taste the tang of sour wine at the back of her throat, she vowed not to drink today. It was having a bottle open, that was the trouble—it was there, it was cool, and the last forty-eight hours had been rough.
She’d spent the last two days fielding calls from irate bridesmaids, icy hoteliers, and alternately defensive and furious parents. The woman at Virgin almost laughed when Elle rang to ask if she could simply get her money back on the canceled flight to New York.
“Madam, that’s not our policy,” she’d said.
Elle couldn’t help feeling sad she wasn’t going to New York. She’d been so looking forward to it. She would never have told her, because Libby clearly didn’t think she cared about work anymore, but Elle was secretly quite jealous of her and her job swap to Bookprint US, though of course she was pleased for Libby. Libby was so on edge lately, so desperate for… something, the opposite of Elle, who these days was content to float along, like a pathetic piece of driftwood in a river. Perhaps it was the heat.
Her father was furious at the canceled flight, told her she should have tried to reschedule it for another time. “Four hundred and sixty pounds, Elle, I spent on your airfare. I’m not saying I shouldn’t have done it. I was glad to help. It’s just—well, what a waste. When I think about what we could have done…”
Elle tried to never feel resentful of Eliza, Jack, and Alice, her father’s new family. It was so different from her life with her father that she tried to separate it out. But there were times like now when she wanted to scream at him, to shout, “I wish you’d never offered in the first place. I wish you had spent the money on Alice’s bloody skiing holiday or Jack’s sodding new clarinet that he’ll play once and give up like he did the violin and the frigging piano. It’s not my fault!”
“I know, Dad,” she’d said, biting her lip. “Hey, did you say you were thinking of coming up one Sunday to help me put up some shelves?”
“Yes, yes,” said John impatiently, then his voice softened. “Yes, that could be good. I’ll have a look for some dates. We can discuss it all then.” He paused. “Have you spoken to your mother?”
Her mother denied all knowledge of it.
“I got the note too. Mad. I’ve no idea what they’re talking about,” she’d said, sounding astonished, when Elle finally rang her the night after she’d got the card. “I never liked her, you know. Always thought she was batty. Don’t tell anyone that.”
“When they came to stay, did anything…” Elle trailed off.
“Did anything what?” Her mother sounded sharp. “I didn’t do anything. I thought we had a lovely weekend. I was out with Bryan and Anita most of the time, discussing the textiles business. It’s very busy at the moment. You know we’re going to India in October.”
“Oh, right,” said Elle, struggling to remember what she was talking about and not wanting to ask when her mother was in a mood like this. “How’s that going?”
“Good, but I’m very busy with it. So I suppose I didn’t see much of them. Yes, we had a bit of rowdy conversation on Saturday night, but it wasn’t a row. It was just what you do, over supper, you know?”
“About what?” Elle said.
“Oh, do you know I can’t even remember? America, maybe. She was being so patronizing, telling me why America was so great. I think I put her straight on a few facts. Oh, maybe she didn’t like it.” Mandana sounded uncertain. “Elle, I don’t want you to think I did anything—I wouldn’t—Oh, dear. Oh, dear—I really think I must have upset her. And I don’t understand how.”
“I don’t know, Mum,” Elle said, realizing she sounded genuinely upset. She couldn’t bear to see her like that again, knitting her fingers together the way she did when Rhodes came up, desperately trying to please him, placate Melissa, do the right thing, be the mother everyone wanted her to be. She pushed the sound of her mother’s drunk voice on the answering-machine message out of her head. It was a one-off, she was sure, perhaps she wasn’t even drunk anyway, Elle was just looking out for it. “Don’t worry, Mum. I’m sure it wasn’t that. I don’t know what she’s talking about.”
In fact, as she got dressed, she decided she had to put all of them out of her head. Let Rhodes and Melissa go off and do their own thing; she’d had enough of leaving multiple phone messages, sending emails, trying to track them down. Let her father rant down the phone at someone else. Let her mother hang out with bloody Bryan and Anita and drink herself stupid. She was sick of the lot of them.
Ten invigorating minutes later, Elle got out of the shower, and put on her new black long linen skirt, struggling to get the zip up—how could she have put on weight when she’d eaten virtually nothing but Pringles the last
few days?—her duck-egg-blue vest top with lace trim—a triumph from the Whistles sale—and black flip-flops. She threw a thin black cardigan over her tanned shoulders—she’d been sunbathing a lot lately out on the kitchen roof of the flat. It was dangerous to climb onto but lovely once you were out there, hours of lying in the sun like a cat, drinking chilled rosé and reading whatever Georgette Heyer she’d got to. You could waste away a whole summer like that.
She slung her bag over one shoulder, shoved her book and her purse, her Walkman and her phone and keys into it, popped her sunglasses on, and headed out onto the street.
There is something about being on your own during boiling hot weather that is much worse than being alone on a cold winter’s evening, when you can be snuggled up on the sofa with a hot-water bottle, a glass of red, a gas fire, and some comforting TV. When it’s 90 degrees out you should be lying in a park with all your friends or your boyfriend, drinking Pimm’s and eating snacks from Sainsbury’s. Elle walked down Kilburn High Road, feeling the oily, dirty heat soak into her freshly scrubbed skin. She wished she could inhale some sweet, clean air. The street was crowded with shoppers, piling into crap Primark and Peacocks, standing outside the pub laughing, pulling kids and shopping bags along. Everyone was with someone.
She bought a can of Coke and headed towards the train station. Without really thinking about it, when a train arrived she got on it. She sat on the sweltering, graffiti-laced carriage as it trundled through town, and when she got to Richmond she looked around her and realized she didn’t know where she was going. Perhaps she should get on the train again and go back. No. She got off the train and scanned a map.
Five minutes later, still trying to channel the casual “Yeah, I’ve just popped over here for a day out” feeling she’d persuaded herself into, she walked through the open door of a cool, dark shop. A young man was at the till, his dark head bent over, checking off a list.
“Hi,” said Elle. “Is Tom around?”
“Sorry?” The young man looked up and Elle saw it was a young woman, with a gamine, chic bobbed crop. Elle fidgeted with her own messy hair.
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