Happily Ever After

by Harriet Evans

  “It’s so funny, sitting here with you,” Elle said. “If my twenty-two-year-old self could see me now, she’d be amazed.”

  “You never know what’s around the corner. When Bluebird ended, I was devastated. Thought my life was over. Now I’m glad. Best thing that ever happened, in fact.”

  “Really?” Elle couldn’t believe that was true. “The end of Bluebird, the best thing that could have happened? I don’t believe it.”

  “Oh yes,” said Felicity. She nodded, smiling, turning the old ring around her finger. “I run my own company my own way now, I can do things the way I like and it usually works out for the best. Most importantly, I found out before I needed to rely on him that I can’t trust my son. I realized I had to look after my own future. And, Elle dear, the end of Bluebird meant the end of your relationship with him, and if only for that it was a good thing.”

  Some bread stuck at the back of Elle’s mouth. “What?” she said, coughing.

  “Oh, it’s eons ago now. Let’s not dwell on it,” said Felicity. Elle gazed at her, half in horror, half in fascination. “My dear, I’m not stupid. I thought there was une affaire but I hoped it was just a flirtation. I worried for you but what could I do? You were easily the kind of girl who’d spend her whole life mooning after someone who didn’t love her, like Posy. He did the same to Posy, you know,” she said, as Elle shook her head, grimly fascinated. “Two, three years and then he threw her over for a literary agent. Poor girl. Never got over it, never. Didn’t want you to end up like that.”

  “I didn’t know—” Elle began. “Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? He’s very happy with Libby.”

  “Oh, Libby, of course. They’re perfect for each other,” said Felicity, with heavy emphasis. She chewed some bread noisily, making a growling sound in her throat. “That girl is the most competitive person I’ve ever met. Wasted her time trying to compete with him, with you, with everyone. Now she competes with other parents. Went into training for the mothers’ race at my granddaughter’s nursery last summer. Told me with pride she was the thinnest woman she knew who’d had children.” Felicity pursed her lips. “Oh, well. What’s sauce for the goose. If Bluebird hadn’t ended, if we hadn’t all had that awful time afterwards, well, all these good things wouldn’t have come of it. So I for one am jolly glad. And I’m glad for you. I’m glad you had the presence of mind to get out.”

  “I never thought of it like that.”

  “It’s true, isn’t it?”

  “It is. And thank you for, well, not saying anything. Only I’m not the kind of girl to moon, honestly. I’m not the kind of girl who’s sentimental about anything, anymore. I used to be, that’s really not me. Don’t worry.”

  The waiter took their plates away. Felicity nodded. “Yes,” she said. “It’s a shame in a way.”

  Elle said nothing. Afterwards, they stood outside the restaurant, in the chill autumn wind. She kissed Felicity on the cheek.

  “Just think about it all,” Felicity said. “All of it.”

  Not quite sure what she meant, Elle thanked her for lunch and walked back to the hotel. She had barely been outside since she’d got here. It started raining again; it had been raining almost since she arrived. Elle walked through Shepherd’s Market and past Heywood Hill bookshop, where Nancy Mitford had worked. She walked up to Berkeley Square and around, trying not to think too much, just letting London wash over her. Office workers late back from lunch scurried along the sides of black railings, early copies of the Evening Standard held above their heads. One girl stepped in a puddle and laughed, shaking her black-denier-clad foot out of the shoe while her companion watched, amused. Elle carried on walking, happy in her solitude. It struck her then that she didn’t mind the rain. In fact, she’d missed it. It was cool and smelled metallic, the streets were beetle-shiny, clean, and deserted.

  “GABBY AND KENNETH live around here, but you know I’ve never visited this part of Primrose Hill before,” said Gray, as they walked up Kentish Town Road that evening. He swerved around a queue of people waiting for the bus. “It’s great.”

  “This isn’t Primrose Hill,” Elle said with a snort of derision. Gray’s positivity was grating. “Typical. It’s Kentish Town. It’s nice, but I don’t know what they’re going on about. Primrose Hill.” She laughed, as if Rhodes and Melissa had committed a hanging offense in describing their location thus. She picked her way past an overflowing rubbish bin and, taking Gray’s elbow, steered him left. “Off here. How was your day?”

  “Wonderful. I went to the library, then I had lunch with Roger, and then I took a walk in Green Park, had a drink at the Stafford, it’s my favorite hotel. Dropped into Hatchards. So I’ve done three of the things I wanted to do already.” He tapped a tree trunk thoughtfully with his umbrella. “I’m very glad I came.”

  “Good,” said Elle. She hunched her shoulders up around her ears and then released them, feeling the bones in her neck crunch. They turned onto a quiet side street, with pretty little houses, each painted a different color.

  “So today was no worse than you’d thought,” Gray said.

  “Um…” Elle hitched her bag over her shoulder, struggling to recall the day. In the afternoon they had had a three-hour workshop on Synergy, where they’d been divided into groups and given a project (on Synergy) to complete. She had been in charge of a group that included Mary, her old friend from Bookprint UK, and Jeremy, that old, incorrigible flirt, who hadn’t, she was relieved to discover, changed at all. It made a welcome, if tedious, contrast to the morning, and the lunch. “In some ways, it was OK. In some ways… worse than I’d thought.”

  “How so?”

  She shrugged, and smiled at him. “There are some people I don’t like bumping into back here. Ancient history.”

  “Oh, I get it.” Gray smiled. “A woman with a past, that’s what I’ve always loved about you. I have this image of you in your twenties in a hotel bar in Piccadilly somewhere, allowing men to light your cigarettes and buy you martinis.”

  “You make me sound like a prostitute, and no, it wasn’t at all like that, believe me,” said Elle. “Also, I was earning about fifty pounds a week after everything else was paid. That doesn’t buy you many martinis at bars in Piccadilly.”

  “Well, I had a great afternoon at the London Library,” said Gray, seamlessly carrying on. “I read the diaries, and I found a book on Paul Revere that’s never been published in the US. Exactly what I needed, and I might submit an idea on Benjamin Franklin in France to the New York Times magazine when we’re back.” He rubbed his hands.

  “You like it here, don’t you,” said Elle.

  “Oh, yes,” said Gray. “Like you with New York. I think I could live here.”

  She thought of her lunch with Felicity, which had stayed with her all afternoon, Felicity’s voice buzzing in her ear even through the maelstrom of discussion points and pie charts. “Do you really?”

  “Oh, sure. I absolutely do love it.” Gray took her hand. “Hey, do you have time for a drink tomorrow?”

  “Not tomorrow, no,” Elle said. “The conference is all day and there’s a big dinner in the evening.”

  “Oh.”

  I told you it’d be all work if you came, she wanted to say.

  “Well, Wednesday, then? My Eurostar train isn’t until five, and I want to revisit a delightful pub in Marylebone where I used to go with Adam. The Duke of York, it’s wonderful.”

  Elle marveled at how easily pleased Americans were with British pubs. She knew the Duke of York, she’d met Karen there for a drink once on one of her previous trips as Karen was something high up at the BBC now and it was close to Portland Place. It was a totally featureless place, nothing interesting about it at all.

  “What about the Windsor Castle, down the road?” she said. “Much nicer, it’s got loads of memorabilia and hilarious photos all over the walls.”

  Gray looked disappointed. “I wanted to go to this bookshop in Marylebone, on the High Street,” he said.
“It’s called Dora’s. Is it near? I can’t be late for the train.”

  “That’s in Richmond.”

  “No, there’s one in Marylebone, everyone keeps telling me I have to go there, it’s wonderful apparently.”

  A six-year-old called Dora who loves Hannah Montana. “Oh,” Elle said, remembering. “Sorry, of course. I know the bloke who started them up.”

  “Really?” Gray said. “Dora Zoffany’s son? What’s his name? Tom something, not Zoffany. I hear he’s a great guy. Passionate about good books.”

  Elle looked down at the rainy street. She kicked at a cracked paving stone and said, annoyed, “Why is someone only passionate about books if they’re into literary books that win prizes? Why can’t you be passionate about books and only read romance?”

  “OK, OK,” said Gray, holding up his hands. He gave her a crooked smile. “You’re right. You can be. Everything’s great. It’s all great. Yes?”

  “Yes,” she said, relaxing against him for a second. “I’m sorry I’m such a cow.” He kissed the top of her head.

  “You’re not a cow,” he said. “You’re a porcupine, very prickly, but with a delightfully unusual scent.”

  Elle pushed him away, laughing, and looked up at the house number on the door in front of them. “Well, we’re here,” she said. She went up the front path and pressed the doorbell.

  EVERY TIME ELLE saw Rhodes these days, she was struck anew by how like their father her brother had become; a swarthier, bulkier version. She and her brother were very different, so different it was easy, in a way. They had nothing much in common. Rhodes liked running machines, John Grisham thrillers, the Financial Times. Elle couldn’t remember where he worked now—a rival to Bloomberg, she knew that much, doing the same thing, she thought. She should know, but she’d asked twice and to ask again would just be rude. Terrible, how hard it was to retain knowledge you didn’t fully understand, whereas the first week’s sales of all her authors and the name of every Georgette Heyer hero were imprinted in her mind forever more. But their differences didn’t upset her or bother her as they used to. She’d come to understand how relationships change. You get some people wrong. Some you get totally right. Some people are your best friends and then pass out of your life without a murmur.

  She’d seen Mike, her old boyfriend, on 5th Avenue, a couple of springs ago, walking past the Banana Republic opposite the Cathedral. She was on her way to meet Gray in the Park. The pavement was busy; there was a girl next to him, a coral cashmere cardigan draped around her shoulders, a quilted Chanel bag slung across her chest. Elle’s instinct had been to turn away and hide, but he’d seen her first. “Elle?” he’d said. “Hi, how are you? Come, meet Rose.”

  She’d smiled at him. “Hi, Mike,” and turned to Rose. But the coral-cardigan girl moved off, with a gaggle of her friends. Rose was on Mike’s other side, every inch a Brooklyn hipster: vintage paisley shirt, black glasses, capri pants, cloth bag. The top had a stain on it. “Hi,” Elle said, trying not to show her surprise.

  “We just ate pizza, and I’m covered in marinara sauce,” Rose explained, gesturing at her top.

  “How are you?” Mike had said. “I saw your name in Gray Logan’s new book, I meant to email you.” She’d nodded, unsure of what to say next. Yes. We’re sleeping together. “Well, it’s great to see you.”

  “And you,” she’d told him. There was an awkward pause.

  “We’d better go,” he’d said. “Good luck, Elle, take care.”

  He’d squeezed her arm, lightly, and walked off. Because that was all you needed to do, you didn’t need to promise undying friendship, you simply said, Hey, our relationship ended, but I wish you well. Elle often thought of that encounter when worrying what to do with ex-authors she’d bump into in the Village, or colleagues from the UK she’d come across over the years, or Libby, or even Sam. Funnily enough, she could envisage having a drink with Sam more readily than Libby, and that was strange. Too much water had flowed under their bridge with her and Libby, she knew. They’d been too close and become too different, whereas Sam was part of her past, but she was grateful to her for her years of friendship. Like Rhodes. She didn’t have to ring him every week but she did have to see him from time to time. After all, it was strange to think it, but he was the only other person who’d been through what she had.

  “Yes, it’s a testing time, but we’re all in it together, and we’ll come out of it stronger.”

  “Dad, I want some juice.”

  “Go and ask Mummy. I’m talking.” Rhodes turned back to them. “Where was I?”

  “You were saying how Hank Paulson is a misunderstood man,” Gray said.

  “Yes. Well, not misunderstood. Just that this is a bad time but we have to ride it out.”

  “You’re so calm,” Gray said. He put his gin and tonic down carefully on the polished mahogany side table. “Every day I read in the paper how we’re on the verge of total financial collapse, the Senate’s voting for a bailout, countries, whole countries going bankrupt, and you think we have to ride it out?”

  “Panicking only makes it worse,” said Rhodes. “Believe me, these things pass.” He looked towards the corridor. “Was that the door?” He stood up. “Just one second, Gray. Hold on, please.”

  Melissa stood in the doorway. “Rhodes, there’s someone at the door,” she said. She looked at her husband accusingly.

  “You’re right by it, can’t you get it?” Rhodes said, annoyed.

  “I don’t have my glasses on. I don’t like answering the door to strangers.”

  He nodded. “Lauren, get off.” He prized his daughter’s hand off his leg.

  “Can I freshen anyone’s drinks? Are we all doing OK in here?” Melissa asked. “We should be ready to eat in a—Lauren, honey, what are you doing?”

  “I want some more juice,” Lauren said. “Daddy said he’d get me some.”

  “Interesting. I think you’ve had enough, Lauren.” Melissa stroked her daughter’s hair. “I think you should go to bed. Do you want—” She bent down and whispered, but loudly enough that everyone could hear, “Do you want Elle to read you a story? She’s your aunt, she’s come to see you.”

  “My aunt, like Aunt Francie who has the garden with the big slide?”

  “Yes, just the same.”

  Elle looked at the blond, curly-haired child, who was her nearest relative apart from her dad and her brother, her half-siblings, too, she supposed. She looked just like Melissa. This was her family. These were her flesh and blood, her relatives in the world now, the little blond girl and her beefy dad, scratching his chest and walking towards the door.

  “No,” said Lauren. “I don’t.” She crossed her arms. “I want Gray to read Charlotte’s Web to me,” she whispered to her mother.

  “You want Gray,” Melissa said. “Well, honey, I’m not sure—”

  “I’d love to,” said Gray, standing up. “Charlotte’s Web is a fine choice. It’s been a long time since I read it.”

  “Gray is a famous writer, honey, you know,” said Melissa, smiling slightly at Gray. “So you mustn’t take up too much of his time. You’re very lucky.”

  There were footsteps along the corridor.

  “I’m going to be your uncle soon,” Gray told Lauren, who stared at him. “I’m marrying your aunt.”

  Aunt, what a weird word. Aunt. Aunt. Aunt. It lost all meaning when you said it multiple times. Then Gray looked over towards the hall. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Gray Logan.” He held out his hand.

  Elle turned her head and saw the figure standing in the hallway.

  “Dad?” she said. Her eyes darted from her father to her brother. “How—lovely!”

  “I knew you didn’t have time to come to Brighton.” John put his hat down on the table next to them and kissed Elle, squeezing her shoulders. “And I didn’t want to make you feel guilty. So when you said you were seeing Rhodes I invited myself up for the night. It’s been too long and I wanted to see you,” he said in a r
ush, which Elle found comforting: like all the Bees, he never acknowledged the status quo. “And I’m dying to meet this chap.” He clasped Gray’s hand. “Good evening, sir, how very nice to finally meet you.”

  Elle stared at her father, at his smooth blue wool jumper, immaculately pressed navy trousers, shiny shoes. He looked younger, as he pumped Gray’s arm up and down. She stood on one leg, then the other.

  “Can Elle read to me as well?” said Lauren, also standing on one leg and now giving Elle a toothy grin.

  “No, Lauren,” Rhodes said, behind her father. “You missed your chance. Elle wants to talk to Grandpa. She hasn’t seen him for ages.”

  They were in the tiny sitting room with the low ceilings, the sound of rain pelting outside, through the cream-colored shutters on the bay window, and as Lauren started to cry the five of them, Elle, Gray, Melissa, Rhodes, and John, all looked down at her, the fire casting huge shadows of them on the cream walls, as though they were giants.

  “I’ll take you up,” Gray said. He came forward and took Lauren’s hand and she, out of surprise, stopped crying.

  “Ah—I’ll come with you, she doesn’t like strangers,” Melissa said. “Let’s go.” She nudged him out of the room.

  Left alone, Rhodes, Elle, and their father glanced at each other.

  “Well, well, here we are.” John sank into the chair Gray had been sitting in by the fire. “Very nice.” He put his hands neatly on his knees. “Well. Isn’t this lovely.”

  Rhodes said, “When was the last time the three of us were together?”

  “Mum’s funeral,” Elle said automatically.

  “I think,” John said as if Elle hadn’t spoken, “it was Alice’s sixteenth, last summer.”

  Rhodes pulled at his wristwatch. “Dad, can I get you a drink? We have wine, a gin and tonic, there’s beer, anything you want. What do you want?”

  “Wine, I’d love a large glass of white wine.”

  It was so strange, to sit here in this unfamiliar house with the sound of a strange child shouting upstairs, looking at her brother and her father next to each other, hands clasped between their legs, faces set in the same expression, so eerily similar, though Rhodes was bigger, more ebullient somehow. Her brother slapped his thighs and stood up to get the drinks. John brushed a speck of dust off his immaculate trousers. Elle watched him, remembering how much it used to upset her after he left them, when he’d arrive to take them on day trips, out to Brighton or Hastings for the day, and she wouldn’t recognize his clothes. Every time he came back to Willow Cottage, before they had to move, something would always be different, and it simply rammed home what she tried to forget—that her father had moved on. He had a new life, and it invigorated him. He was happy in a way he hadn’t been with their mother, while she stayed the same, and in the end it killed her.