“To Gray Logan?” Rory shook his head. “Wow, I heard you were seeing him, but—that’s great, Elle! Massive fan of his. We must have you both down to Kent for lunch!”
“Oh,” said Elle. “Yes, that—we really must.”
“Congratulations,” said Tom. He looked up at her. “I’m really happy for you.”
“Thanks,” she said. She could feel her skin flushing red. “It’s not a big deal.”
He turned to her, and she wished she’d never said anything. “Why?”
“Oh—” Elle waved her hand, suddenly conscious of her ring like never before. It was so big. Like a bauble. She had bought rings like this from Hamleys with her Christmas pocket money. 5p a time, they’d cost her, big glass diamonds, gold with green emeralds. The thin gold or silver paint always wore off, leaving a greenish-black mark on her finger. “It’s just—I didn’t think I’d be the sort of person who got married, that’s all.”
“What, you don’t want a Jane Austen–themed wedding with six bridesmaids in massive hats?” Tom said. “I’m surprised. I thought that was your kind of thing.” Elle glared at him, but Rory was checking his BlackBerry, his chin sunk into his chest, and didn’t hear them. “That was the last time I saw you.”
There was a pause.
“Er—” said Elle. “Yes.”
He leaned towards her. “Elle, I’m so sorry about your—” he began, but from the side, Rory suddenly said, “Hey, Tom, how’s Dora? Mum was asking.”
“She’s very well,” Tom said. His knee was against hers; next to her, the arm of Rory’s battered navy suit was pressing into her arm. “She’s very into Hannah Montana, I’m sorry to say.”
“Who’s Dora?” Elle asked, feeling stupid.
“My daughter,” Tom said. “I called her Dora too. I shouldn’t have done it. Very confusing.”
“How old is she now?”
“Six—” Tom said, and then he leaned forward. “Elle—”
Next to them, Celine tapped the microphone. “Good morning,” she said, covering it and turning to them. “We are starting in a moment. Please let’s have a good, robust discussion. No holds barred. Any questions?”
Each of them shook their heads, mutely. “Good morning again,” said Celine to the rest of the room. “Let me introduce the three speakers for our debate on e-books. Rory you will know, as he works here and has responsibility for them in the BBE division at Bookprint UK.” She shot him a disdainful look. I love Celine, Elle found herself thinking, staring at her perfectly poised head. “Tom Scott is owner of the UK’s fastest growing independent book chain, facing many challenges, including digital publishing. And Eleanor Bee is the publisher of Jane Street, one of Bookprint US’s most successful imprints. She started out in the UK and moved to the US seven years ago. She took over Jane Street last year and has added five million dollars to their turnover already.”
Yeah, Elle thought, scanning the room for someone to be impressed by this. But they were all listening politely, and she realized the majority of them didn’t know or care in the least that she’d once been a scruffy talentless mess in too-short skirts with a tendency to burst into tears and lose prawn sandwiches in filing cabinets. It was her story, not theirs.
There was a shout from the back, and Celine looked up. Someone from the IT team whispered something to her from the bottom of the stage. “We have a slight problem with the sound, so it’ll be another minute,” she said coolly.
The panel sat back again, and Rory once more began tapping away at his BlackBerry.
Tom cleared his throat. She gave him a tight, polite smile.
“I wanted to say I was sorry about your mum,” Tom said quietly. “It must have been very hard.”
Elle nodded firmly. “It was. Thanks for your lovely letter. I’m sorry I didn’t reply.”
He shook his head. “Of course.” He looked almost angry, his jaw rigid, the way he always did when he was upset about something. She remembered that, too. “You should have called me. I wish I could have helped.”
“Helped?” Elle said, blinking as the audience receded. How could he have helped, how could anyone, anyone but her have helped? She bit her lip.
I shouldn’t have spent the night with you, she wanted to say. If I’d come home she wouldn’t have died. I’d have gone looking for her, I’d have found her, it would’ve been OK. But I didn’t, I was with you, instead of with her, and that’s why.
Tom didn’t try to coax anything out of her, in the way some of her other friends had done, convinced that if they didn’t personally witness her grief through tears, then she wasn’t properly grieving. He just nodded. “It’s stupid of me to say it. But I wanted you to know. She was lovely, I’m glad I met her. I am… really sorry.”
“Right, then,” Celine said, speaking into the microphone. “Back on track. As you know, digital is the biggest challenge facing us…”
Elle had perfected an excellent “focused and interested” face, and she assumed this while her mind drifted back to the days after she’d found her mother; she didn’t know why, perhaps because she was seeing her brother tonight, perhaps because she so rarely allowed herself to mention it. She looked over at Tom; people didn’t bring up her mother with her anymore. She’d made it clear, soon after she got back to New York, that she wasn’t going to talk about it.
She’d destroyed the note that said Sorry Ellie. It wouldn’t have mattered whether she had or not: it was burned into her brain forever. Often, afterwards, she thought she saw it, the two words jostling in the corner of her eye, in a meeting, on a screen while they were watching TV, while she was talking to Gray’s friends over supper.
Everything else had been sorted out. Rhodes had sold the house and tied up the last of the loose ends, and she’d never been back to the village, not once, and she never would. Everything about her life now was designed to be as far removed from memories of Mandana as it could be. She didn’t keep her mother’s things around. Tried not to have anything obvious that reminded her too much of her. She didn’t come back to England in the spring, either.
Just keep on going, don’t stop, because then it falls apart. She’d learned that was the best way.
“. . . Yep, we do have a lot of ground to catch up,” Rory was saying. “But I just feel… I just think if… good books will sell, and that’s what we really have to focus on. Like there’s this guy we’re publishing at the moment, Paris Donaldson. Amazing guy. Been publishing him for years, never broken through, sells about—”
Elle looked around, and realized that she was in the middle of the panel discussion, which was now apparently in full swing. She had once, after a very bad night when the image wouldn’t go away, driven to JFK to pick Gray up, and when she got there didn’t remember getting in the car or any of the rest of the journey. The effect was just the same. She blinked; she wished she wasn’t so tired.
“Paris Donaldson is not the issue, if you’ll forgive me,” Tom was saying. “The issue is that authors with real talent get overlooked in favor of commerce, and—”
“That’s rubbish,” Elle said wearily. “I get so sick of this discussion. The same thing was happening twenty, a hundred years ago. Look. I read about fifteen manuscripts a week, and those are the ones people think it’s worth my while to read, and they’re nearly always terrible. The trouble is too many people think they can write, and the truth is they can’t, they shouldn’t bother. If someone’s good, they’ll rise to the top. It may take a while but it’ll happen.”
“Very Pollyanna of you,” said Tom. She turned towards him, effectively shutting Rory out. “I’m on the shop floor, Elle. I see great books by brilliant writers come in and they’ve got no support, no money and then some pile of crap by some supermodel gets published and that’s what you see on the side of the bus, it’ll never make any real money for the publisher, they don’t have a long-term career like the brilliant author, but it’s shiny and glittery so fine, let’s ignore the good authors and chase after the gold at th
e end of the rainbow.” He was breathing hard; his hand gripped his knee.
“If you didn’t have the supermodel book making money for the company then you wouldn’t be able to pay the ‘good’ author, as you call them,” Elle said. “And who’s to say the supermodel book isn’t good too? If I work hard all year and have two weeks’ holiday in Greece I don’t want some pale, worthy, boring book about middle-class people in London sitting round debating their stupid, self-satisfied lives. Sometimes I want a private jet and a hooker drinking champagne.” There was a ripple of laughter; she hadn’t realized it would sound funny. “It’s true,” she said.
“It’s fantasy,” Tom said. “It’s an illusion.”
She laughed. “I have few illusions, believe me. It’s escapism, it’s what reading’s all about.” She stared at him, her brow furrowed. “That’s what we all want. Don’t we?”
“Not all of us—” Tom began, but Celine interrupted.
“This is fascinating, but I wonder if we could focus back on to the topic of the e-books? How will they—”
“Guys!” Rory hissed under his breath, as Celine spoke. “Include me in the debate, OK? I’m still here, you know?”
Elle realized she was almost facing Tom. He bent his head towards her and looked at her, so that only she could see his expression. His gray eyes were dark, his hands clenched on his knees. She shifted back. She’d forgotten how disquieting she found Tom, how funny he could be and then floor her with his intensity, with the way he’d look at her. Suddenly she was back in the hotel corridor, outside his bedroom, feeling his lips on hers, his hands on her body. Her palms were sweating. She wiped them on her black suit. Damn him. He seemed to know what she was thinking and to enjoy disagreeing with her, and it occurred to her then that it had always been this way. She looked helplessly, from him to Rory, her heart racing, and vowed to concentrate on what Celine was saying. Snap out of it, Eleanor Bee.
“I SHALL HAVE the steak tartare, and then the mussels,” Felicity said. She put down the menu. “You?”
“Oh.” Elle scanned the sheet. “The Caesar salad, please.”
“No starter, madame?” the waiter asked.
“Ah. The soup.” Elle was annoyed. She didn’t have long, and she didn’t want to get into a multi-course lunch with endless puddings, coffees, and brandies, which she knew Felicity was entirely capable of. She liked a one-course lunch. Anything more made her bloated and drowsy in the afternoon. And she knew what this was about. Felicity was going to offer her some lame job at her publishing venture, and she’d have to be polite and sound interested.
She didn’t know now why she’d agreed to come. A lingering sense of respect? Wanting to remember the old days, just briefly? But mostly she thought she’d not canceled at the last minute because she couldn’t wait to escape the thick-curtained, low-ceilinged confines of the conference suite. Tom was staying on for the sandwich lunch, and Rory seemed determined to keep her by his side, like a sort of good-luck talisman, and she wasn’t about to tell him where she was going. She’d gone to the loo and then made her escape, hurrying out through the gloomy marble-and-granite lobby into the rain.
“I love it here,” Felicity said, looking around the paneled room. “So French. Wonderful! One of the great things about working in Shepherd’s Market, you know, the places to eat. Now,” she said, pushing her wineglass out of the way. “You know I’ve invited you to lunch to offer you a job. You weren’t interested before but I keep the faith. May I tell you about it?”
Elle, who was eyeing the bread basket longingly, jerked her head up and said weakly, “Oh, no, Felicity—I’m not—”
“I know you live in New York, but I had heard that you might consider a move back to the UK,” Felicity said.
“Who told you that?” Elle asked. “It’s not true.”
“Aha,” said Felicity. She tapped one side of her nose with a large finger on which was an antique amethyst ring.
“That ring!” she exclaimed. “It’s the same!”
Felicity looked down at her hands rather doubtfully, as if she expected to see Brussels sprouts growing on her fingers. “Why wouldn’t it be?” she said. “I’ve always worn it. Anyway—”
“Just that,” said Elle, trying to veer the conversation away from job offers, “I used to see it every day; it’s just strange, that’s all. Long time ago.” She stared at the ring again; the memories were flooding back.
“Yes, it was.” Felicity’s eyes flashed. “I can barely remember it, if truth be told. So much has happened since.”
“Do you remember the day I threw coffee over you?” Elle said. “It was the worst day of my life.”
“My dear, I remember it very clearly.”
“I thought you were going to sack me.” Elle gave in, picked up a piece of bread and slathered it in butter.
“How ridiculous.” Felicity smiled at her. “I didn’t recognize you at first, and then you started trying to wipe the liquid off my chest, and I saw it was you. I couldn’t remember your name. And then after our chat I thought, ‘That’s the one who’s so good, but she’s never read Georgette Heyer.’”
Elle laughed, and then she said, “I have a terrible confession. I still have your copy of Venetia. I never gave it back to you.”
“A book thief, goodness me. Did you read it?”
Elle said earnestly, “Yes, and I loved it, I loved them all, it was the best recommendation anyone ever gave me, and I’ve never thanked you.”
Felicity shrugged. “Well, isn’t that why one lends a book? Isn’t it wonderful, to know you’ve passed something good on?”
“I don’t know that our sales director would agree with you,” said Elle. “He likes people to buy new books.”
“Reading isn’t just about sales, Elle.” Felicity waved to the waiter, for another glass of wine. “You?” she said.
“No—er, no, thanks,” said Elle. “Anyway—I’ll send it back to you. I’m—”
Felicity waved this away. “Please, goodness no. Now,” she went on, leaning forward. “On to business,” she said, carrying on firmly. “I want to offer you the job of Editorial Director, at Aphra Books. Here we are. You’ll have two editors reporting to you. I want you to shape the list. You can be on the board if you’d like; I’d like that. To work with me and the team to take us to the next stage. It’s entirely possible, you know. We’ve had two Richard and Judys and one book shortlisted for the Orange, and we’ve only been in business for four years. But we need more.”
“Of course,” said Elle. “Everyone wants more. Our margins—”
Felicity put her hand on Elle’s. “No,” she said. “We need more good books. That’s all. Picked by someone who loves reading more than anything else, and that’s why I thought of you.”
Elle smiled, and nodded. She didn’t know why she felt so sad. Someone who loves reading more than anything else.
“Where’s Posy?” she said.
Felicity took some more bread. “Oh, she moved to Oxford last year. She needed a change. Dear Posy, but she got so gloomy. She’s working at a small publisher now, very happy I hear. Joined a choir.” She made a small conducting gesture with her hands. “So. What do you think?”
Elle was torn between amusement at this dismissal of Posy and a slight feeling of annoyance that she wanted to suppress. She said, “Felicity, I don’t think you understand. It sounds wonderful, but I’m not looking to move, not at all. My fiancé’s in New York, apart from anything else. We’re getting married in March.”
“Congratulations,” said Felicity, looking up as the starters arrived. “Ah. Wonderful, Pierre.” She started eating, leaving Elle staring into a bowl of anemic-looking soup in silence.
It was a good tactic; after a few moments, Elle said, “So I’m sorry, but it’s really a no.”
“This steak is delicious. I don’t think you’ve heard enough yet.”
Trying not to lose her temper, Elle said, “Like what?”
“Well,” said Felicity. �
�You’d be working in Shepherd’s Market, after all. It’s lovely.”
“Right,” said Elle. “I was thinking more, what’s the package like?”
“We’d be very competitive,” said Felicity. “I know you’re doing well over there.”
Elle bit her lip. “Felicity, please don’t take this the wrong way, but—er, I run a division.” She thought, not for the first time, that if she were a man she’d just say it, without apology. “I don’t really edit anymore. I manage twenty-five people and I’m on the board. I have a budget of millions. I was hoping my next role would be to be running a company. A big company. Not—” She put her spoon angrily into her soup, and it splattered her. “Not editing books at a tiny start-up. Please, I don’t want to be rude, but I think I should just be honest.”
“You know what this all reminds me of,” said Felicity cheerily, as if Elle hadn’t spoken. “It’s rather like this business with the banks at the moment. I rather agree with those who think we’d be better off as a country if we weren’t this huge global financial center. If people went to… Geneva. Or Berlin. Or New York, for all of that. I’d rather we weren’t as rich and everyone was more equal and we spent more time making good things rather than making money.”
Elle frowned. “What’s that got to…” she began, then she trailed off. “Right. Well, point taken, but I like things the way they are.”
“No problem, no problem,” Felicity said, waving her fork at her. “Try some of this steak tartare. Have you read American Wife? Did you love it? I thought it was marvelous.”
“No—not yet. I don’t have time to read books for pleasure anymore.”
“How sad.”
Elle ignored her, and took a forkful of the steak. It was delicious. She could feel the raw red meat in her mouth, tender and full of flavor, the egg and pepper coating it. She closed her eyes and let the meat melt in her mouth, then reached for another piece of bread. “Maybe I will have a glass of wine.”
“Excellent idea,” said Felicity. “Everything in moderation is good for you, my dear.”
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