Happily Ever After

by Harriet Evans

  Rhodes and Elle looked at each other. “I never knew that either, Dad,” said Elle, smoothing her fingers over the tablecloth. “And he hit her too?”

  “Oh, yes. A few times. Not regularly, but when he was in a bad way. That’s why she ran off to the States the first time, when she was only eighteen. Then again when she was in her twenties, and she started doing stupid things like selling pot. She was pretty off the rails when I met her, I see it now.”

  Elle realized her mouth was hanging open. She stared at Gray, but he was gazing at John too. Her eyes met Rhodes’s, across the table. He shook his head slowly.

  “And don’t you think all that might have a bearing on the fact that she became an alcoholic?” said Melissa, in her clear, precise voice. She went over to the counter and fetched a water jug. “You know alcoholics are three times more likely to have had parents who were alcohol dependent. You never thought to discuss it with her? You must have known that, you were a doctor.”

  Elle wanted to hug her. John shifted in his seat. “Melissa,” he said coolly, “look, dear. Maybe I’m an old-fashioned sort of chap. But I don’t care to discuss my first marriage with you. It wasn’t a happy one. I love my children, but—”

  “You can’t airbrush her out like that,” said Rhodes. “That’s rubbish.”

  Elle sat there, watching them. The images were stronger than ever now. Mandana reading to them; Mandana in the library, walking shy children in Clothkits pinafores around to the children’s section; Mandana rolling around on the lawn with their smelly dog Toogie. And there it was back again; she blinked, it was horrible: the words Sorry Ellie on that piece of paper, Sorry. I’m sorry.

  Her father was slightly red in the face. She was glad, as if they’d got to him. “We don’t blame you, Dad, but—you mustn’t do that,” she said. “I wish we’d known. She didn’t—what a waste,” Elle said simply, twisting her hands in her lap.

  “It sounds like you do blame me,” said John.

  “Well, you left her,” said Elle. “You broke her heart, you went off with someone else and had a great life. And she didn’t.”

  “It wasn’t like that,” said John. “I never cheated on your mother. I was just…” He rubbed his face and looked up. “I was just very tired, by then. Perhaps I should have done more. Things weren’t right, I know, but after her father died, she changed. It was like a trigger, it was all out in the open. She drank and drank and I couldn’t stop her. And then I’d stopped caring. I just wanted to get away.”

  “But you didn’t mind leaving us behind,” Rhodes said.

  John bit his lip and then shrugged. “I knew she wouldn’t hurt you, you know. And you’ve turned out OK, both of you. She was a great mum.”

  It was a neat speech; there was no way of undoing it without criticizing the person they’d been trying to defend.

  Elle wanted to say, But she crashed the car twice with us in it when she was drunk. And… and I used to drink too, I nearly became an alcoholic, I can say it now. And it nearly killed me when she died. We aren’t a family anymore. She wished she could say it out loud. And then she wondered why she didn’t.

  She took a deep breath, and said, “Dad, but she nearly killed us in the car, twice. I used to drink over a bottle a day and I nearly went the same way as her. I nearly went under when she died. We aren’t really a family anymore. I can’t believe you knew all that, and you never told us, or tried to help her?” There was a pause. “It’s not all your fault, but some of it is.”

  “I—” John said immediately, defensively, and then he stopped again. “Well, I suppose some of it is. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

  In the novels Elle read, whenever there was a reckoning between the family and the wayward son or parent or whomever, people hugged and cried and said, “Forgive me, can we be happy now?”

  Real life wasn’t like that, and they weren’t like that. Rhodes turned and glanced at Elle, and then he nodded, as if replying for both of them.

  “Fine,” he said.

  “Very good,” Gray said softly. He smiled at Elle. “Very good indeed.”

  Elle didn’t know if it was good or not. It annoyed her that Gray was nodding, as though everything was OK now. She was very tired, and tired of trying not to give in and sob, because to think of her mother and how life had twisted and turned out of her reach so that she could never keep up with it made her feel totally hollow and angry, but she couldn’t work out who to be angry with. Her grandfather, for drinking and hitting Mandana? Her dad, for leaving her? Rhodes, Melissa, Bryan, Anita, whoever saw her and failed to help her? Most of all herself, she, Elle, for believing her mother’s lies because she wanted to ignore them, for burying her head in the sand. There was no neat answer, and she couldn’t turn the final page and think, as she could with a novel, That’s the end of the story, all neatly tied up.

  She poured water into the glasses. “Let’s have a toast to Mum,” she said, desperate suddenly to change the subject, to move away from the past. “Water, not wine, I don’t care if it’s bad luck. Wine wasn’t good luck for her. To Mandana.”

  The five of them clinked their glasses together, in the warm, quiet kitchen.

  Damerel strode to the door, and locked it. “And now, my love,” he said, returning to Venetia, “for the fourth time…!”

  Georgette Heyer, Venetia

  MY DEAR ELLE,

  Thank you for your time yesterday. It was good to catch up and to tell you about our plans for Aphra Books. I know how busy you are; my thanks.

  You said you weren’t interested in a move, but I would ask you to reconsider. I don’t know why I keep asking you. But you would be perfect for this job and I dare to say this as someone who has known you a while now, this job would be perfect for you. In this light and just in case it is of interest, I thought I’d break down the terms of our offer.

  Editorial Director. £—salary plus—shares in Aphra books. Seat on the board with monthly board meetings. You would be expected to buy a minimum of 4–5 books a year and contribute to the overall shape of the list. You won’t be managing anything unless you’d like; you’ll be doing what you love best. You, more than most people, know the value of a good book.

  It was delightful to see you again. I do wish you all the best, my dear. I think you’d be happy in London, you know. To know yourself is to know where you’re from.

  Your friend

  Felicity Sassoon

  PS Keep the copy of Venetia for yourself.

  THE SECOND DAY passed, as all conferences do, in a haze of strip lighting and expensive mineral waters. Elle couldn’t remember anything about it; she shook hands, took meetings, answered emails, when all she wanted was to be alone, do some thinking, walk the streets. The final morning at the London conference was exhausting, and irritating: How to Increase Profit Margins. Bigger authors, bigger books. Regularity of delivery more important than delivery of quality, basically, endless discussions about post-Twilight and post–Kite Runner novels which were all going to sell millions of copies, of course.

  She’d sat in the front of the huge conference room with her magnetic name badge pulling at her suit lapel, watching Stuart and Celine set out the ten-step plan to growth in 2009, with a PowerPoint presentation on a screen behind them, as though this were a political party conference. A hundred or so earnest souls sat behind her, scribbling notes. Three along on her row was Rory, nodding knowingly half the time and whispering gossip to his neighbors. Elle had just watched. She didn’t want to write any of it down, instead she just wanted to shout, People want good books. She kept thinking of Obama’s cock-up, last month, which people were saying could cost him the election: You can put lipstick on a pig, but it’s still a pig.

  “Great presentation,” she’d said, shaking Celine’s hand, patting Stuart on the back when they’d come off the stage and she’d leapt up to congratulate them, coinciding with Rory. “Great, very interesting, Celine,” he’d said. Celine had smiled, nodded at him. “I’m glad,” she’d said. “
Thanks, Rory.”

  Elle had felt herself shiver as the two of them jostled to congratulate the big chiefs. Was that it? Was she turning into him, someone who just went along in the slipstream, anything for an easy life? She’d looked down, embarrassed at catching herself momentarily like this, her fingers scrolling automatically over her BlackBerry, and that’s when she’d seen the email from Felicity.

  “It’s just insane, but I love her bravado,” said Gray, chuckling over Elle’s inbox half an hour later in the pub. “She sounds pretty amazing, Felicity. I’d love to meet her one day.” He looked at his watch. “Honey, do you want another drink?”

  “Sure.” Elle was enjoying the cozy warmth of the pub; there was something deliciously indulgent about drinking whisky and ginger ale in the afternoon with the windows fogged up and the rain pouring down outside. She had—unusually for her—bunked off the post-conference debriefing session and come to meet Gray for a drink. She was terrified about saying good-bye to him, she didn’t know why. London was changing her. Gray was the constant in her life, and it was as though she’d signed herself over to him: Here, you. You look after me. You like it, I like it.

  “There’s something about it I love, too,” she said, as Gray pulled out his wallet. “Perhaps I miss it here more than I realize.”

  Gray looked at her, and laughed, “No way. You’re not seriously thinking about it?”

  “No—but—well, maybe, for a second or two,” Elle said. “It’s probably because I’m flying back in a few hours. There’s nothing wrong with speculating, is there? Anyway, you said you’d love to live in London.”

  “When?” Gray said with a faux-grimace. “I never said that.”

  “On Monday, when we were on our way to Rhodes’s—you said—”

  Gray leaned forward. “Honey, I’m sorry. I mean, I love it here but—no way!” He sat back again, against the hard leather banquette. “I couldn’t leave New York. My job, my friends, my life—it’s everything.” He looked as though he was humoring her in explaining.

  “Rachel’s coming over to Oxford for a year,” Elle pointed out. Rachel was Gray’s daughter from his marriage, currently in her second year at Stanford.

  Gray shrugged. “So we’ll visit her. She’s in California most of the year anyway. It’ll be the same.”

  “I thought you liked it here.”

  Gray drummed his fingers on the table. “And I thought you hated it.”

  She took a deep breath. “I thought I did. Maybe I don’t so much, anymore.”

  “Is this because of Monday, the big family showdown? Honey, I know it must have shaken you up, but I don’t think you should start making judgments about your life based on some semi-closure with your father and brother.”

  Elle looked at him, and didn’t say anything. She put her BlackBerry back in her bag. “It’s OK, forget it,” she said. “I just wanted to think about it. It’s fine.”

  “It is fine,” Gray said. “It’s more than fine, OK? Trust me. I know what’s best for you.”

  “You do, don’t you.” She smiled at him, as the pub door opened and a blast of cold wind sent a chill down her back, and she shivered.

  Gray looked at his watch again. “So do you mind if we go now? I want to go to Dora’s, and we won’t have time if we have another drink.” Elle nodded, and stood up. “You’re a wonderful woman,” Gray said, gripping her shoulders lightly and kissing her hair. “I’m really glad you’re thinking that one day you could live in London, that you’re rebuilding some bridges here. That’s amazing. You know, even three weeks ago, you were in a bad place. Now, you’re—a different woman.” He nudged a lock of her hair aside with one long finger, and stroked her cheek.

  “Glad you think so,” said Elle, moving aside. She wasn’t in the mood for Gray’s Mend Elle Therapy Seminar, all of a sudden. She wanted to walk away, tell him to leave her alone, but she resisted the urge, as she always did. It was her, not him. “What time’s your train?”

  “Five.”

  “We should get going, then,” said Elle. “Drain your drink, come on.” She paused. “You don’t leave an empty glass in a pub. Charles II outlawed it. It’s still not done.”

  “Really? I hadn’t heard that tradition.” Gray looked delighted, and swilled down the rest of his drink. She swallowed guiltily, feeling the whisky burning sweetly in her throat.

  They left the pub. Gray put his umbrella up and his arm around her. She leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, as they walked along the wide, slick road. They crossed Harley Street, Gray chattering about whom he would see in Paris and why this was so important for his book. Elle said nothing. She told herself she was tired, the conference and the dinner with her father had taken it out of her.

  Since she’d been back in London, everything seemed grayer, but clearer. She couldn’t explain it. She’d been expecting it to be awful, and it wasn’t. But the strangest thing was, she couldn’t recall her New York self, the one who ran meetings and consoled employees behind closed doors and who had her assistant collect her dry-cleaning, who dined with Pulitzer Prize winners. She wanted that part of herself back, but she also couldn’t remember what it was like to be that Elle. She would catch a whiff of it, like the snatch of a song that still won’t lead you to the chorus, and then it’d be gone. She clenched her jaw and snapped her eyes open, as Gray said:

  “Here we are. What a great place.”

  Dora’s glowed amber in the rain—it had rained nonstop since she’d come back to London, Elle realized then, and her umbrella was permanently soggy. Gray pushed open the wooden door. “After you, my darling.”

  It was funny, being in a British bookshop again. It was a lovely space. The shelves were wooden, there were old mahogany tables piled high with books of all kinds. In the center of the room was the till, behind it were three steps and a children’s area. Craning her neck, Elle could see the BFG painted on its wall, and the sound of a child screaming.

  “Dora’s has a fantastic history section, I’ve heard,” Gray said, his eyes alight with enthusiasm, touching her lightly on the shoulder. “Here.” He bounded across the shop. “Look!”

  “I’m going to check out the Penguin Great Ideas, maybe get one for Rhodes,” said Elle. The sound of the child screaming grew louder as she crossed the floor.

  “Hey!” she heard someone shout. “Look, I’ll—do you want a biscuit? Have this biscuit. And put a sock in it.”

  Elle pulled out a paperback and started thumbing through the pages.

  “Argh. Wretched child. What’s wrong?” the voice said. “Just tell me what’s wrong, and I’ll make it OK.”

  “There’s a cobweb!” the small voice yelled, shuddering. “I don’t like cobwebs! Scary!”

  “Come out here then, let’s go back into the shop. There aren’t any cobwebs there.”

  “I want to take Matilda with me.”

  “Fine,” said the voice. “Let’s take Matilda, just stop bloody screaming. You sound like Alice Cooper.”

  “Alice Cooper-Smith from school?”

  “No. Alice Cooper is a singer. And a golfer, strangely. He wears a lot of black makeup. Here we—Elle? What are you doing here?”

  Elle dropped the book she was holding. “Tom? What are you doing here, more like?” She stared at him, and the little girl holding his hand.

  “I—er, well, I own the shop, remember?”

  “Well, yes,” Elle said. “I meant…” She trailed off.

  “This is my daughter, Dora,” Tom said. “Dora, this is my friend Elle. She could hear you having a major freakout in the back there,” he told Dora solemnly. “She was scared. Now she thinks you’re a monster, not a little girl.”

  Dora glared up at Elle from underneath a blunt black fringe. “There was a cobweb,” she said.

  “I hate cobwebs too,” Elle told her.

  “I worry about them. I worry that they’ll drop on my head and get catched up in my hair.”

  “I worry about that too,” said Elle. “B
ut I’m nearly thirty-four and it’s never happened, so maybe it never will.”

  “There you go,” said Tom. “You’re not alone.” Dora picked up her book and opened it, extremely cautiously. Tom put a hand on Elle’s arm. “God. It’s great to see you,” he said quietly. “You left so quickly on Monday. I wish we’d had more time—”

  “Elle? Come here, I want to show you—”

  Elle turned her head. “Gray, come over here a second.”

  “No, you come.”

  Elle sighed. “No,” she said, trying not to scream with stress, fatigue, surprise, whatever it was that was making her shake, her vision blurry. “Come here, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Gray appeared, holding a thick volume. “This looks interesting,” he said. “It’s a new biography of George III. I didn’t realize—hello. Gray Logan.” He held his hand out.

  “Gray, this is my friend Tom. He owns Dora’s.”

  “It’s my name,” said Dora. “After my grandmother.”

  “Your grandmother was a great woman,” said Gray, looking down at her. “I had the privilege of meeting her once, in the late seventies. She spoke at my college, wonderfully. I loved her books.”

  Tom’s hard gray stare softened. “Thanks.”

  “So you know Elle—?” He left the question hanging.

  “Oh, we worked together—” Elle said, as Tom said at the same time, “We used to hang out, we were friends—”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Elle said, stammering slightly. She glanced again at Dora. “So Dora, how old are you?”

  “I’m six and a half, I’m seven in March.” She tugged her father’s shirt. “Dad, can I go back in with Matilda doll and play?”