Happily Ever After

by Harriet Evans

  She could feel the tension around them. It seemed to warm her in the cold night air. Elle cleared her throat and said lightly, “Are you being polite and saying you dumped her?”

  Tom choked with laughter. “I don’t trash talk, Eleanor.”

  “Is it permanent?”

  Tom looked straight at her. “Yes, it is. It is.”

  They were both silent. His phone rang, reverberating on the table, and they both jumped.

  “Shit, that’s her,” he said. “She said she might need to speak to me. Can I just—”

  “Of course,” said Elle. “Of course.”

  He touched her arm. “I won’t be long, I promise. And I want to tell you something when I get back.”

  He stood up immediately, and walked out into the horseshoe-shaped piazza, lined with lights from other restaurants. Elle watched him, stalking across the concrete. Her heart contracted a little for him, and she tried to work out why. He was a curious mix of self-sufficient and vulnerable, and it was so transparent. He wasn’t like most other publishing boys: Jeremy, smooth as you like, or Rory, boyishly charming, or Bill, aggressively laddish, all manipulative in their way. Tom just wasn’t. That was why, she realized, she liked him so much.

  After a few minutes, there was still no sign of him. Elle sighed. She thought he might be a while. Two weeks earlier, they’d gone for a drink in Chelsea, a small pub on a quiet street that wound towards the river. Caitlin had arrived, out of the blue, and tried to pretend it was a coincidence, though it was obvious it wasn’t.

  Elle picked up his Private Eye, which had fallen out of his jacket pocket and was on the floor. She opened it up and thumbed through to her favorite section, “Books and Bookmen,” and her eye was drawn instantly down, in that split second where you almost know you’re about to see something before you read it. As she read, her jaw fell open, and it was only when she heard the crumpling crash of glass that she realized her wineglass had rolled out of her hand, onto the floor. When Tom came striding back towards her, shoving his phone into his pocket, he stopped as he saw her expression, the waitress beside her, sweeping up the glass, Elle putting shards into a filthy napkin.

  She stared up at him, her eyes full of tears.

  “You knew, didn’t you.”

  Tom looked down, and went pale.

  LONG-TERM OBSERVERS of the goings-on at last-man-standing independent Bluebird Books were amazed when Rory Sassoon, son of The Old Gal Felicity Sassoon, outdid himself, even by his own slimy standards. Sleaze Sassoon shafted her back in December to sell out for ££££ to soulless corp Bookprint, run by The Gazelle, aka Celine Bertrand, worker bee for French megacorp BarQue. One might ask, given Sleaze’s total lack of talent, why he was also promoted to the dizzying heights of deputy MD of the nebulous BBE division. But rumor has it he was more than The Gazelle’s colleague for a good few months prior to the sale. Add to the equation his two-year affair with a junior member of staff, and you start to realize why he doesn’t have any time for work. Current BBE MD Bill “Groper” Lewis is also said to be none too happy, especially since he’s just been rapped over the knuckles for his own “dealings” with another junior ed. Rory spilled the beans to his Lady Boss on that one, and it seems the junior ed had taken her revenge by spilling the beans about his own goings-on in return, to anyone who’ll listen! Heady stuff!

  “Did you know?” Elle said. Broken glass crunched as she shifted her feet. “You did, didn’t you?”

  He nodded. “That they were having an affair? Yes, I’m sorry.”

  “So Rory told Celine about Libby and Bill’s affair,” she said. “But who told them about me and Rory?” She jabbed the newspaper. “Are they saying it was Libby?”

  “It doesn’t really matter, Elle,” Tom said. He took her hand. “She probably told someone who told someone else… You know what publishing’s like, it’s all stupid gossip. I think everyone knows by now.”

  She was still in shock. Rory—and Celine. How could she not have seen it earlier? She was so stupid. The whole thing: the idea that you were something to be grubbed over by people in a magazine, a nameless bit of totty. It was… bizarre. It was horrible.

  “But he texted me,” she said. “A few weeks ago. He texted me. I thought—” Her hands flopped to her sides. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  Tom was still by her side. “Do you want to stay, get a drink?”

  The cinema, the meal, their conversation, it all seemed like another evening, before Caitlin rang and this thing appeared. She blinked, trying to transport herself back there. “Not really,” she said. “I’m sorry, Tom.”

  He put his hand on hers. “No one will remember it this time next week. Your name’s not in it.”

  She pulled her hand away and stood up. “It’s not the point,” she said. “I’ll remember. It’s all so… grubby. Everything is. Nothing’s about work, nothing. It’s about who’s sleeping with who.”

  “Whom,” Tom said gently, trying to make her smile. She walked off, and he followed.

  “I’m sorry, this evening’s been ruined,” she said. “Can we do something this weekend? Catch up properly?”

  He faced her, as the wind came in from the river and whipped around them. “I’d like that,” he said.

  “WHY THE FUCK didn’t you tell me?”

  Elle stood in the doorway of Rory’s office. He looked up, panic in his eyes, stood up, and shut the door. Outside, Annabel Hamilton, hurrying along the corridor, stared at them curiously.

  “You should have told me.” Elle moved towards him, shaking her head.

  Rory sighed. “Elle, I’ve been trying to, for the last month or so.”

  “You didn’t try very hard.” Elle wanted to laugh hysterically, go really mad. Smash his glass wall in with a baseball bat, tie that stupid novelty T-shirt from the sales conference round his neck and strangle him. She clenched her fists; she’d tried so hard not to let it all out, and now that she was talking to him all she wanted to do was lose it.

  “I did!” Rory said loudly. He smacked his hands on his desk. Papers flew in all directions, floating gently down onto the gray carpet tiles. “I kept texting you, saying I needed to see you! I needed to talk to you! And you never replied!”

  Elle shook her head. She was so angry: at herself, for believing that she might be in love with him again.

  “Sit down,” Rory said. “Let’s talk about this. I tried to explain—”

  She waved her phone in his face. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” she read, her voice dripping with scorn. “I miss you. Please, can we meet up?” She faced him. “Nothing to do with business? That was less than two months ago, you wanker. You telling me you weren’t still fucking her then?”

  “It’s only been a few times,” Rory hissed. “And never when we were together, they’ve got that all wrong.”

  “You’re lying!” she shouted. “You’re bloody lying! You were cheating on me—”

  He stood up and grasped her wrists. “I wasn’t. I swear to you I wasn’t. It was Christmas, New Year… honestly, it was nothing. Nothing!”

  “Christmas?” Elle’s voice was withering. “So you waited a few days till after we’d split up. Thanks, thanks for your consideration. I suppose I should be grateful, after all you fucked everyone else over, you cowardly, pathetic—”

  “Elle, keep your voice down—” He flapped his hands at her. “Now some shit’s blabbed about it it’s everywhere. She’s furious. I shouldn’t have been texting you, OK? OK?” He gestured for her to come closer, soothingly, like a lion tamer. “It’s just—I was missing you. I thought I should explain, and then I started thinking about us… I thought… I miss the old days. They were good. I—I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have let you go.”

  “I’m the one who ended it!” Elle shouted. “I ended it! You completely broke my heart, Rory, and you treat it like it’s not a big deal! It was for me, it was!”

  Rory glanced behind her, and his mouth dropped open. Elle turned to see Bill Lewis
walking past, staring in open annoyance and curiosity at them. She didn’t care. She flung the door open.

  “Well, that’s done it,” Rory said. “As if I wasn’t in enough trouble. Bollocks.” He put his head in his hands. “Celine is going to kill me. She said she wasn’t sure it was working out. What am I going to do?”

  Elle gaped at him. “I don’t know,” she said. “Is there someone else you can sleep with to keep your job? I don’t know, ask Bill out for dinner.”

  There was a curious liberation in it, in burning her boats like this. They all thought she was second-rate, absent, not much cop—well, let them think she’d gone mad now too. At least now they’d know the truth, know why she’d got the job here.

  “I don’t know how it came to this. It’s all been a mistake,” he said quietly. He ran his hands through his hair, clutching his scalp. The familiarity of the gesture nearly broke her heart. All the things she’d been trying not to think about pulsed dangerously in Elle’s brain. Had Celine sat with him on the big gray squashy sofa in his flat, watching the blossom sway in the square outside? Had she seen the mole on his tummy, the one that smiled when he sat up? Of course she had. What did they talk about, what were they like together… ? Elle put her hands over her ears, unconsciously mimicking him, trying to block out the voices in her head.

  “I can’t stand this…” she said, looking round. “I—can’t do it. I think I’m going mad.”

  Rory’s face was grave. “Oh, Elle,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I’ve made a huge mess of it, haven’t I. I was wrong. Totally wrong.”

  She didn’t say anything, but shook her head, her lips closed tight together. She wished she could hold him, just one more time, just to remember what it was like, before she had to say good-bye again.

  Then he said, “But Elle. I’m serious. You mustn’t tell anyone else.” His expression was urgent, his voice low. “About us, I mean. I’m still trying to manage it with Celine. So—”

  Elle couldn’t listen any longer. “Fuck off, Rory. Just. Fuck. Off.”

  She walked out, slamming the balsa-wood door hard behind her, so that the office frame rattled.

  “Elle, can you find the cover for—” Annabel Hamilton said, bustling up to her, trying to pretend she hadn’t been outside earwigging the whole time.

  “Not now, Annabel.” Elle held up her hand and strode in the other direction. “I’m busy.”

  She pushed open the door to Celine’s office, knocking as she did.

  “Eh?” Celine said, looking up irritably, but when she saw it was Elle smiled brightly at her. “So—this is a bit strange, but Elle—”

  “You knew about me and Rory, didn’t you?” Elle said. She stood in front of Celine’s desk, her hands on her hips.

  “Yes, yes, I did.” Celine didn’t cower, or avoid Elle’s hard gaze. She nodded and patted the desk, indicating Elle should sit down. This coolness threw Elle slightly off. She was empowered with righteous anger and expecting Celine to grovel at her feet. “This business is annoying.”

  She said it “beesniss” and Elle strained her ears, thinking she’d said “bee’s knees.”

  “Nevertheless, it is not important, for the moment. I have heard from the Americans. They would like to offer you the placement.”

  Elle laughed, shortly. She felt completely mad. She was glad she didn’t have a gun. It was as though she were watching herself, standing there with her hands on her hips. “What did you say to them to make them give it to me? Did you tell them you wanted me out of the way?”

  “I made it clear to them that you would be the best candidate. For many reasons.” Celine smiled coolly and pulled at her earlobe.

  “I’m not going, not like that,” Elle said firmly. Celine gave a little laugh. She pushed her hair over her shoulders and stood up, walking over to the big window, with its view over the rooftops of Soho.

  “My dear girl, you are lucky I am giving you this chance at all. I am not trying to get you out of the way. If anything it is a risk for me.” She made a dismissive gesture. “They don’t know and they don’t care, they only care if you’re any good. It’s a blank slate for you.” She drummed her fingers on her rosebud mouth. “Hm. I do think you are talented, but you don’t see it. Those new Dora Zoffany covers—they are much better. You were right.” Elle saw then that the proofed and printed covers were standing on Celine’s shelf, behind her, an example of the best Bookprint could do. She smiled wryly to herself. “That’s why I picked you. You didn’t do anything wrong. Libby did. Yes, Rory may have suggested it but—you and I both know what he says is often not to be trusted. Hm?”

  Elle nodded. “Yes,” she said.

  A glint of something—was it laughter?—flickered across Celine’s face. “So I wish you could see I’m trying to help you.” Her tiny teeth flashed, and she turned back towards Elle. “Really, can’t you see that I am?”

  Elle’s shoulders slumped. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I can.”

  “So,” Celine said. “I shall ring Caryn and tell her that you accept? Yes?”

  They were both silent, and then Elle looked up at her and raised her chin. “Yes. Yes, please.”

  At six, they all went to the pub for Libby’s birthday. Libby had been doing Libby PR for the last week, sending round emails, visiting people in their pods, practically begging them to come. With the appearance of the Private Eye piece, all eyes were on her, but Libby, as ever, flourished under pressure. The turnout at the Crown, a tiny pub behind Carnaby Street, was impressive, given that it was August and half the office was away.

  Elle wasn’t going to go. She was furious with Libby, convinced she’d told everyone the story of Elle and Rory’s affair in revenge for Rory blabbing about her and Bill to Celine. But towards the end of the day the need for a drink overtook her, and the sudden realization that, having not cared about so much this summer, she suddenly didn’t really care about the whole fetid, gossipy, stewy mess anymore. If she was going to New York, and she was, why burn any more bridges before she went? She got to the pub early, and took the seat next to Libby.

  “Hi, love,” Libby said, her smile slightly too bright, though her eyes had bags under them and her normal bounciness wasn’t there. “You OK? Sounds like today’s been rough.”

  “No,” Elle said. “Actually, it’s been pretty great.”

  She didn’t say anything more, just gave the perplexed Libby a kiss and handed her a birthday card, then kept buying the drinks. Three vodka, lime, and sodas weren’t enough to take the edge off, so at about eight o’clock she had a large glass of wine, and things seemed mellower, even funny. It was funny, when you thought about it. Funny in a really fucking pathetic way. Libby shagging Bill… Bill married, Elle shagging Rory, Rory shagging Celine… Elle shagging absolutely no one. She looked around the table. It didn’t really matter anymore.

  I feel nothing for these people, nothing, she thought. She drained her wine.

  “You’re getting through the drinks tonight,” Bill Lewis said. “Drowning your sorrows?”

  Elle didn’t answer him, though it was one of the few times he’d ever addressed her directly. I hate you, she said under her breath.

  “Elle used to fall over after one glass at Bluebird,” Libby said. “Now she can drink us all under the table. You’ve really improved.”

  Improved. The bottles at home that piled up every week, that she put in the bin rather than recycling, too embarrassed to let anyone see how much she drank. It took a bottle now before she felt any discernible difference.

  “You’ve had a rough time of it,” Bill said. “Mind you—” He paused, looked round the crowded table, which had fallen silent. “I’d heard you were a girl with taste, Elle. What I overheard today proves otherwise. Seriously.”

  Oh, yes, I hate you, Bill. You’re the boss, you should be going over figures, or at home with your family, not sitting in a pub with a load of twenty-somethings pulling your macho shit, you idiot. Rage bubbled within her, and she reminded herself a
gain: New York. She was going to New York. She had a chance. She’d mucked everything up, but she’d been given a fresh start.

  Elle got up and walked out of the pub. She didn’t say anything, didn’t wave, just walked out. She walked into the warm summer night, through the crowds thronging the pavements outside the pubs, through the quiet back streets of Marylebone, holding her head up high. She had a shower when she got back. She wanted to scrub the alcohol out of her system, scrub the day away. I won’t miss any of you, she thought. None.

  Except Tom. She realized as she sat in bed, in her vest and shorts, that he was the only person in London she’d miss. She counted on her fingers the things they’d done that summer. It was only a month or so, but it felt longer. They’d seen The Royal Tenenbaums and The Godfather. They’d had pizza, sushi, tapas, and Thai. They’d been to that awful bar on Wardour Street, the Ladbroke Arms, and the place with the margaritas on St. Anne’s Court. She’d been to the Richmond bookshop to pick him up a couple of times, too. And of course there was that evening at the Cross Keys when Caitlin had turned up halfway through, and Tom had tried to get rid of her, and then he’d turned to Elle afterwards and said, “I’m really sorry. I wanted to see you, not her.”

  Remembering his usually hard voice softening, his gray eyes looking straight at her, his light touch on her arm, Elle smiled, and lay back in the darkness of the tiny, hot room. They were meeting up on Saturday. Yes. The thought warmed her. She wasn’t going to miss London, her family, or Bookprint, or anything else, but she’d miss him.

  “WHAT DO YOU want to do, then?”

  Tom stretched his arms. “Nothing. I don’t have to go back to the shop. I asked Benji to stay on a few more hours.” He lay back down on the grass. “We can do what we like. What do you want to do?”

  Elle looked around. They were sitting in Petersham Fields. The Thames flowed slowly in front of them, cluttered with the little ferryboats crossing the banks for 10 pence, and the pleasure cruises and yachts. It was a glorious Saturday, but again there was the feeling that the best of summer was over. Across the river, the trees in Marble Hill Park were pale, brittle green. There was no wind. Everything seemed still, poised on the brink of change.