Happily Ever After

by Harriet Evans

  “Yes, that’s right. Well, she’s great. Best thing that ever happened to me. So you see, that summer, when I’d just found out, I didn’t know what I know now. I took it out on you and I’m sorry—”

  She didn’t want him to know how upset she’d been. It was all in the past anyway, what was the point? He had a daughter, he was with Caitlin. “How’s Caitlin?”

  “We have a really good relationship,” Tom said. He swerved suddenly to avoid a lorry, thundering the other way down the road. “Sorry,” he said. “Caitlin, oh, yes. She put some great systems in place, and we’ve bought another shop, in Kensington. Might buy another one if a lease comes up in a place I’ve got my eye on. She’s done all that, she had the background, the business degree. I don’t know what I would have done without her, to be honest.” He turned to her, quickly. “Oh, and the Dora Trust just had its third awards ceremony. We’re running a program in ten inner-city girls’ schools, which I’m very proud of. When all’s said and done, things are good. You know, life doesn’t always turn out the way you think it’s going to and then you realize…”

  He trailed off.

  She prompted him. “You realize what?”

  “I was going to say it’s for the best. Anyway.” He shook his head, his face falling into the hard mask of concentration she knew well, eyes fixed on the road. There was an uncomfortable pause. Elle changed the subject.

  “Any vital publishing news I should know about, anything I’ve missed? Please tell me. You know what this wedding’s going to be like. I have to be up to speed, otherwise I’ll be shunned, like an Amish who’s left the fold.”

  Tom laughed. “Hardly. OK. Well, it’s all about Richard and Judy, these days.”

  “Who?”

  He stared at her. “You must have heard of Richard and Judy. The bookclub.”

  “Oh—them. That. Sorry.” Elle nodded. “I have. We’ve got Oprah though, she’s much bigger.”

  “Get you,” Tom said.

  “What else?”

  “Um—I don’t know. Have you read The Da Vinci Code? I actually really enjoyed it. Or the new David Sedaris, I just finished it, it was hilarious.”

  Elle said, “I don’t have time to read books anymore, not for pleasure.”

  “You? You used to read two books a week.”

  “Well, things change. I read dreadful manuscripts and I look at book jackets instead of reading the books.” She cleared her throat. “What else?”

  “Bill Lewis got made redundant, but you probably knew that.”

  “Yes,” said Elle. “Not that sorry, to be honest. He was a crap boss. And he was horrible to Libby.”

  Tom glanced at her. “Yeah, I heard. He’s not got another job. Last I heard his wife had chucked him out. Poor guy, though.”

  “Yeah,” said Elle, thinking of Libby’s tear-stained face, of how badly he’d treated her. “Well, you plow your own furrow, and all that.”

  “Wow, you’re tough,” said Tom. “I’m joking!” he said, as she swiveled round to stare at him. “Don’t worry about Libby, Elle. She’s done all right for herself, as I think we’re about to see.”

  He turned off another road. Elle noticed for the first time what a calm driver he was. She’d been on road trips with Rory, sneaking out to places for the weekend, and it was always a nightmare, crumpled maps everywhere, swearing and shouting, like an Italian opera. She smiled at the thought, caught aback at a fond feeling for Rory for the first time in years. Good, she told herself. It’s his wedding day. It’s right that you think well of him.

  “You’re a very comforting person to be in a car with,” she told him.

  “You too,” Tom said. There was silence. “It is really great to see you, Elle,” he said after a moment. “I think you’re brave to come back. And I’m glad. I’m glad you did.”

  She didn’t feel brave, she felt cold, sneery, and detached from it all and she couldn’t seem to help it. “Thank you,” she said after a pause. “That’s nice. I just hope it’s—oh, it sounds horrible, saying I hope it’s worth it, when it’s someone else’s day. So fingers crossed it doesn’t rain,” she finished, unconvincingly.

  “It’ll be worth it, I promise you,” Tom said. “At the very least, it’ll be lavish, from what I hear. Rory’s such a skinflint, he’s never spent any of the Bookprint buyout money. Apparently Libby’s gone mad with it and he’s furious.” Tom pulled up in a quiet lane, and they got out. “Oh, it’s lovely,” said Elle, staring up at the church, the rolling green hills in the background, the last of the blossom on the trees. She wondered what Libby was doing, where she was.

  Tom shivered. “Weddings give me the willies,” he said, as they walked up the church path. “I always think Grace Poole’s going to jump out and try and burn the place down. Makes me feel trapped.”

  “What a romantic you are,” she said. “Grace Poole didn’t burn the church down. She wasn’t ever at the church, it was the brother. And name me one time that’s ever actually happened.”

  “Never, probably. I just—” He shrugged. “I like the idea of being with someone forever, being married to them, but all this—I mean, they’ve probably never even been to this church, it’s all so fake.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Elle. They paused outside, framed by the porch. “I’m looking on it as a nice day out, like something from a miniseries they’d show on American TV. English country wedding, big white dress, posh people, marquees, you know.” She put her hand on his shoulder, and pulled her strap over her heel again.

  “Come on then,” he said. “Charles? Ready to face the enemy?”

  “No Four Weddings quotes, please,” said Elle. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  It was about thirty seconds before it became amusing. One of the ushers—a long, curly-haired guy who knew Tom—said, with some surprise, “Hello, Scott. What the fuck are you doing here? Bride or groom?” before handing them an order of service and a leaflet.

  PLEASE MAKE SURE YOU RECORD YOUR PRESCENCE AT

  LIBBY AND RORY’S WEDDING!

  BY VISITNG THE PHOTO BOOTH, IN THE ORANGERY AT

  SANDITON HALL TO HAVE YOUR PHOTO TAKEN!

  WE REALLY WANT A RECORD OF ALL OF YOU IN YOUR FINERY!

  CHEERS

  LIBBY AND RORY

  “Bride, please,” said Elle, taking a leaflet and biting her tongue, as the usher led them to their seat. “Wow, what a lovely idea.”

  Tom put his hand on Elle’s shoulder blade, gently pushing her towards the north aisle. She relaxed against him, glad she wasn’t on her own. “Here,” he said, stepping back to allow her in, and she sat down, relieved she hadn’t seen anyone she recognized yet. The church was not big, a beautiful old Saxon building already full of people and vast floral displays, bright greenery and huge pink gerberas. Elle and Tom bent their heads, studying the order of service.

  Tom said, after a while, “‘Please stand for the Wedding Wows’? Who are they? A glee club?” He turned to the front page. “Wedding Wows… Man. Look here! ‘The Marriage of Rory Sassoon and Lizzy Yates’? Lizzy? Did anyone proofread this?”

  “Ssshh,” Elle whispered.

  “Well, she’s an editor,” Tom said. “You’d think she’d have looked over it. Wow. Wedding Wows,” he said again, and Elle bit her lip, trying not to laugh.

  On the bride’s side she recognized a couple of Libby’s old school friends; they stared blankly at her, and Elle realized perhaps they didn’t know her with long hair. They were all in familiar wedding costume: LK Bennett suits, Hobbs and Whistles dresses, the men in morning suits. A few other people were vaguely familiar: there was a bloke called Noel she remembered snogging one drunken evening. Libby’s birthday? Elle turned away and found herself staring directly at Rory.

  He was looking around, nervously, joking with the best man, whom she didn’t recognize. It struck her as appropriate that she’d spent so long in love with him and yet had never even met his best friend. He caught her eye and smiled, baring his teeth with an expression
of mock-terror. She smiled back, giving him the thumbs-up.

  So strange, to be here. A guest at his wedding. This was what she’d allowed herself to dream of only oh-so-rarely, saving it up as a treat for a birthday, after a terrible day at work. She, who had never liked weddings, had allowed herself this fantasy. Her wedding day to Rory. A pretty church in Sussex, festooned with spring flowers. Felicity, sitting in the row behind, decked out in green silk. Rows of ancient Sassoon relatives, and her, Elle, floating down the aisle in cream silk to “The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba,” with eyes only for him… Rory, slightly rumpled, slightly scared, her love, her only one.

  But that wasn’t how it had turned out. She knew she was OK, watching him, in fact she was happy for him, happy for Libby. But she couldn’t help feeling a pang of sympathy for the girl she’d been, who’d loved him so much. She was still dreaming somewhere, hoping this day would come.

  It occurred to her as she looked around that when she’d wanted a big white wedding this really was the one she’d dreamed about. She couldn’t help feeling slightly amused that Libby had nicked that, as well. Not just the man, but the county, the time of year, the setting… Ah, well. Elle shrugged. Time to leave the white dress behind. She breathed out slowly.

  Tom said softly, “You OK?”

  “Sure,” she said brightly. “Sure.”

  Then Handel started playing on the tiny organ and everyone stood up to welcome the bride, and Elle turned towards the west door with a smile on her face, for her old friend, and for the old days too.

  AFTERWARDS, ELLE WISHED someone could have told her in advance how mad this wedding was going to be. She wouldn’t have dreaded it so much had she known about the slight surprised pause as the vicar called Libby “Lizzy.” Or the “Wedding Wows.” Or the Yateses’ growling, furious bulldog, forced to wear a huge wine-red bow around his neck, or the fifty-minute wait outside the church for endless photos during which Libby’s pitch got louder and louder as she yelled instructions at people and Rory looked more and more disconsolate.

  Or, back at Sanditon Hall, the rickety photo booth, the “book-themed” cocktails served at the reception, the six—SIX—bridesmaids, only three of whom Elle recognized, all in matching wine-red, a mean color on blondes and brunettes alike, and Regency-esque straw hats which they all donned for the photos outside, including the obligatory slightly-fatter-than-everyone-else bridesmaid, who was probably perfectly attractive in a nice pair of jeans and Topshop top but, when forced to pour herself into a Pronuptia raw silk floor-length shift resembled nothing so much as a quivering pork chop, all dimpled fat and blotchy purple.

  As they were shepherded into the Orangery, she and Tom were handed a “Great Expectations” (cranberry, orange juice, and champagne).

  “Cheers,” said Elle merrily. She clinked her glass against his. “Here’s to the happy couple. And the happy bulldog.”

  “Oh, yes, Spot,” said Tom. He stepped closer, and said in a low voice, “I take it back about not liking weddings. This might just be the most hilarious thing I’ve ever been to. I think Libby’s gone totally mad, you know. Did you see the lobby? There are piles of Bookprint books arranged in a heart shape.”

  “Hi, guys. Hi, there,” came Rory’s voice. “Hey, you! Hi!” He was pushing his way through the crowd, to where Libby was waiting by the door, at the beginning of the receiving line.

  “Oh, man,” said Elle. “I hate receiving lines. They make me—”

  “Oh, I just remembered something. Excuse me a sec,” Tom interrupted, and suddenly disappeared. After a few minutes in line, Elle realized he wasn’t coming back.

  “Sod,” she said under her breath. “Bloody sod.”

  “I wondered who that was, swearing like an old navvy. Hello, old girl,” said a voice behind her, and a hand slid onto her shoulder.

  “Jeremy!” said Elle with pleasure. “Hey!” She kissed him. “How are you?”

  “I’m well, I’m well. You look great.” She blushed. Jeremy was exactly the same: tanned, gleaming white teeth, sparkling blue eyes. “We hear great things of you from the States. You’ve done us proud.”

  “Aw, not really,” Elle said.

  “It’s true,” Jeremy told her. “I absolutely loved that Diary by Design book, you know, we hope Richard and Judy might pick it next year. Either way it’s going to sell shedloads. Thanks to you we’ll make budget.” As they moved slowly towards the front of the line, Jeremy hissed in her ear, “Did you read that dreadful Byron in Knossos? Yet another Libby special, all hype and no substance. It’s sold about three copies, and we paid a fucking fortune for it—Hello!” he said, turning brightly towards the receiving line. “Yes, I’m Jeremy, I work with Libby and Rory, have done for years. You must be Mrs. Yates! Hi! Lovely to meet you. I love your hat, it’s amazing.”

  “Congratulations!” Elle said, as she reached the bride and groom. “You look absolutely beautiful,” she said to Libby. “You too, Rory,” she added, with a smile.

  “Thanks, Elle,” Rory said. “Thanks a lot.”

  “Well, Elle,” Libby said, in a loud undertone, “I know one thing for sure!” Her voice was too loud. “If you’d been my bridesmaid, you wouldn’t have missed those typos, that’s for sure!! Bloody Annabel.” Her face was red, her lips contorted into a strange grin. Elle channeled all her acting energy, unused since a school production of The Worst Witch in 1988.

  “What typos?” she asked. “I love your dress,” she added, as Libby opened her mouth. “It’s so pretty.”

  “Thanks,” said Libby. She narrowed her eyes, an old Libby habit Elle recognized with a jolt. It meant she was running down her mental checklist. “Hope you like your seating position. Thanks again for coming,” she said, her voice softer than before. “I really am so furious with Annabel about those mistakes. I mean, we’re a laughingstock.”

  “I promise you no one will remember it,” Elle said, squeezing her hand and taking this as her cue to move on. “See you later.” She kissed her again, drawing her close. Libby’s swelling bump pushed against her own stomach.

  “Shame about the typos in the order of service, eh, Eleanor?” came a resonant voice. “I’m sure you wouldn’t have missed them!”

  “Hello, Felicity,” said Elle. She couldn’t kiss her, it’d be too weird, so she shook her hand instead. Next to her, her new daughter-in-law threw her a look of flustered annoyance, and Elle felt a stab of sympathy for her.

  “Eleanor Bee,” said Felicity, in booming tones. “Hello, dear.”

  “It’s lovely to see you again,” Elle said, suddenly shy. After all these years of thinking about her, to be standing in front of Felicity again was overwhelming. She was decked out in raw silk of a violent bright blue and looked exactly the same, even if her hair was a little grayer. She nodded briskly at Elle and arched her firm black brows.

  “Yes. Lovely to see you too. I am Catherine de Bourgh, as you may have heard.”

  “No,” said Elle, shaking her head. Oh, dear, she thought. She’s lost it.

  “Anyway, I expect we’ll talk later.” She turned to Jeremy, saying, “Whom have we here? Aha! Good afternoon, Jeremy,” with a great big smile, dismissing Elle with a nod.

  That was the end of the line, and Elle was left on her own. She looked around, but couldn’t see Tom, or anyone else she knew. She stood on one leg, then the other, and then she downed the rest of her Great Expectations, as a waiter hoved into view.

  “What else have you got?” she said.

  “Well, this is an Animal Farm—” said the waiter, removing a hand from the tray and pointing at one drink.

  “What’s in it?”

  “Mint, vodka, something,” he said disconsolately.

  “That’ll do,” said Elle, taking a glass. “Thanks a lot.”

  There was a small sighing at her elbow, and she turned round. “Oh,” she said. “Hi, Annabel. Good job there.”

  “Oh, hi, Elle, how’s things,” said Annabel, tightly clutching her glass of champagne. �
��I’m so pissed off,” she added, as if she’d last seen Elle yesterday, and not almost three years ago. “Libby’s been really horrible to me about the order of service, and it’s so not my fault, you know?”

  “Oh, dear,” said Elle sympathetically. “Well, at least you’ve told her. It gave us a laugh, if that’s any consolation.”

  “Which one?”

  “Oh…” said Elle. “Well, Wedding Wows instead of Vows was pretty funny.”

  “What?” Annabel cried. “I didn’t even notice that one. Oh, my GOD. This is fucking awful, Libby’s never going to speak to me again. I hate myself.”

  “Don’t say that,” Elle said, resisting the urge to laugh. “It’s a lovely day and everyone’s enjoying themselves. She’s just a bit tense, she’s in a delicate situation, you know.”

  “So how are you?” said Annabel, ignoring this and sighing, so that her pig’s-snout nose flared and her top lip fluttered. “You’re like, amazing over there, people keep saying you’re like bloody running the company, it’s so great for you.” She made this sound as though it was a criticism. “It’s really hard over here, you know, UK publishing’s much harder, because of the…” She paused. “You know, because the market’s more sophisticated and all that, and the discounts are SO BAD.”

  Elle thought of the front table at one of the biggest and best bookstores in Manhattan, the Union Square Barnes & Noble, which regularly had the most obscure literary books on glorious display so they were the first things you saw. She thought of the lovely little paragraphs in the backs of her favorite hardcovers: “A Note on the Typeface in This Text,” the history of the font in which the book was printed, and why they were using it. The paper on US paperbacks was cut from sheets on the grain, so that the spines flopped open in a smooth, silkily satisfying way, instead of sticking up awkwardly and rolling over. These things, the care and attention that made her remember why she loved books.

  She looked at her watch; it was, to her surprise, already nearly three o’clock. If she were in New York it’d be ten in the morning. She’d be up already, perhaps walking to meet Marcy and Steven for brunch at Lucky Strike or somewhere in the Village. Perhaps Mike would be with her. Perhaps afterwards they’d walk through Soho, and she’d buy a top in Anthropologie, and some cute new mugs at that homeware store on Thompson Street, and then she’d get a manicure at New Model Nails on Bleecker while Mike ran some errands, and then they’d queue for lunch at the Spotted Pig and wander up through Chelsea, as far uptown as they could go before she flaked out and got in a cab. Last month, they’d walked all the way from hers up to the Upper West Side and across the park, to Mike’s place on East 77th. She’d begged Mike for a rest in the Sheep Meadow, but he’d made her go on till they got there. Then out in the evening to Happy Endings, her new favorite bar in the East Village, so-called because it had been a massage parlor before. Or perhaps a film—