Happily Ever After

‘Elle?’

It was a man’s voice. ‘Hello?’ she said suspiciously.

‘Elle, it’s me, Rory. Open the door.’

‘No,’ Elle said, not knowing why.

‘Come on. I wee in the men’s loos, don’t worry. Open the door.’

Elle unlocked the bathroom door and Rory’s head appeared. ‘Dear me,’ he said, looking at her shiny red visage with alarm. ‘What on earth’s wrong?’

Elle burst into tears again. ‘Coffee … Miss Sassoon furious … Poor thing … a punk outside Buckingham Palace, he brought flowers …’

‘What? Who brought flowers?’

‘The punk, he came straight from a night out clubbing and left a wreath.’ She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘I cried all day, those poor boys … oh. Then this morning … wasn’t looking where I was going … I probably scarred her, I’m so stupid.’ Elle sobbed, her hands over her face.

Rory patted her arm comfortingly. ‘It was an accident, Elle. Felicity’s fine. The jacket’s at the dry-cleaner’s already and Elspeth’s bought her some more Elnett, so everything’s OK. Don’t take on so.’

Elle cried even louder. ‘Oh, God,’ Rory said, squeezing further into the tiny bathroom and putting his arm round her. ‘What on earth have I said now?’

‘Granny Bee always said, “Don’t take on so,”’ Elle told him, staring up at him. ‘It just reminds me of her, and she’s dead now too … oh …’

Rory squeezed Elle’s shoulders and smiled. ‘Well, she was right. Elle, please don’t cry. I hate seeing you like this,’ he said solemnly. ‘Now, dry your eyes, and come back out. Felicity wants to see you.’

Elle felt as if ice had been poured down her back. ‘Oh. No,’ she said.

‘It’ll be about Polly Pearson, don’t worry. She’s not going to yell at you.’

Elle didn’t believe him.

‘It’ll be fine,’ Rory said. ‘Trust me?’

‘Yes.’

‘There you go. Don’t look so dramatic, sweetheart.’ He bent down and kissed her, only on the top of the head, but Elle stiffened.

‘I’m OK now,’ she said, and stepped away, trying not to blush.

‘Sorry,’ Rory said easily, after a tiny pause. He patted her arm. ‘I was channelling your granny again. That’s the kind of thing grannies do, isn’t it? I have no idea. Mine ran off with a bearded lady from the circus when I was a young boy. Ready?’

‘Er, sure,’ said Elle. She wished she had some powder – her face was gleamingly shiny – but if she was about to get fired perhaps it didn’t matter. She held her head up high and marched out of the loo, followed by Rory, past an astonished Sam.

‘Don’t let her boss you around,’ Rory whispered in her ear. ‘Good luck, kid.’

Elle knocked on the door. It’s fine, she told herself. I hate it here anyway. I’ll leave and work in a bookshop, and I’ll never have to read another stupid romance novel again.

She knew as she thought it that this was a total lie. That she didn’t mind the monotony of photocopying, the fear of failure, if she could just stay a while longer. She liked it here. She liked the feel and smell of a brand new book, fresh from the printer’s, Jeff Floyd the sales director’s shout of joy when Victoria Bishop went Top Ten, the notion that, unlike school, you went somewhere every day and you wanted to be there so you worked hard, you even enjoyed being bottom of the class, because one day, just one day, you might get better.

‘Come,’ the voice from inside the office boomed, and as she opened the door, Elle was surprised bats and grovelling henchmen didn’t fly out to greet her.

She peered inside. ‘Ah, Eleanor,’ Felicity Sassoon said, behind her vast mahogany desk. ‘Come and sit down.’

‘Miss Sassoon – I’m so so sorry,’ Elle began, shutting the door behind her. She sat down and took a deep breath. ‘Are you – all right?’

‘Yes, of course I’m all right,’ Felicity said impatiently. She fiddled with the ring that was always on the second finger of her left hand, a huge antique amethyst in a claw setting. She was wearing a different jacket. Elle’s eye strayed to the locked cupboard behind her, containing, she knew, the fully designed layouts of the Illustrated Queen Mother Biography, ready to go to press the moment the Queen Mum died. No one had seen inside it for years. What else did Felicity have in there, aside from several Harris Tweed ladies’ jackets? A policeman’s uniform, a sexy maid’s outfit?

Elle blinked. Felicity wasn’t the kind of person who you imagined having a romantic life. Though she had been married to Rory’s father Derek, no one knew his surname, and she was always referred to as ‘Miss Sassoon’. Office legend had it that Felicity had given Derek a heart attack, and that, according to Jeremy, ‘He was glad to get away from her. Died with a smile on his face.’

‘Elle,’ Felicity said firmly, looking down at her jotter. Elle suspected she had her name written down there. Eleanor Bee. Mousy. Moronic. Shy. Skirts too short. Scalded me Monday 1st September 1997. ‘I wanted to ask you something. I noticed earlier, as you were attempting to mop the contents of a paper cup of boiling coffee from my person, that you had the manuscript for Polly Pearson in your bag. Have you read it?’

‘Er …’ Elle was blindsided. She swallowed. ‘Yes, almost all of it.’

‘Did you like it?’

‘Um –’ She hadn’t had time to come up with the apposite, one-line summing-up. Elle cleared her throat and sat on her hands, breathing deeply. She had to tell the truth, otherwise it’d be obvious.

‘Well … I actually quite enjoyed it.’

Felicity frowned. ‘Why?’

Elle fidgeted. ‘It’s romantic, it’s funny, it’s really readable,’ she said, trying to explain.

‘I don’t understand how that’s different from a MyHeart book,’ Felicity said.

‘It’s very different,’ Elle replied. ‘I like MyHeart,’ she added nervously. ‘But they’re … sometimes … maybe they’re a tiny – a bit old-fashioned. Um –’

She slumped down in her chair again, afraid she’d gone too far, but Felicity leaned forward. ‘Go on.’

‘Well, one of the last MyHearts I had to check over, the nurse who had the affair with a doctor had a baby by him and she ran away and never told him because of the shame and now he’s all wounded and thinks she hates him,’ Elle said. ‘That wouldn’t happen nowadays. If I got knocked up by someone at work, you know –’ she waved her arms around, getting into her stride, ‘say Jeremy, I wouldn’t go into hiding, I’d say, “Er – hey, Jeremy, what are we going to do about this then?”’ She paused, as Felicity’s eyebrows shot together. ‘Or – or anyone! You know.’ She could feel her old enemy, the blush, spreading over her collarbone. ‘It’s just a bit unrealistic. Like a Ladybird fairy story where everything’s fine in the end. Women aren’t idiots. I mean, those books are really good, but …’ She trailed off again. ‘That happy ending business – it’s all a bit contrived. I don’t ever believe it.’

‘You don’t believe it?’ Felicity smiled, and her eyes searched Elle’s face. ‘How unromantic of you, Elle, what terrible talk for a young girl.’

It wasn’t true either. The truth was, Elle wanted to believe in happily ever after, more than anything. But to admit it would be to discount what she knew to be the real facts of life. So she didn’t know how to reply to this, didn’t know how to admit that she longed, secretly, to have her perspective changed, by something or someone, she didn’t know which.

‘Look at Princess Diana,’ she said eventually.

‘Diana, Princess of Wales,’ Felicity said, correcting her sharply. ‘She was never a princess in her own right, merely by marriage. A fact she would have done well to remember. She is not the example I’d choose, Eleanor.’

‘But she –’ Elle began, then saw they had veered way off territory. ‘I just don’t like stories where it’s obvious who they’re going to end up with. Real life’s just not like that.’

Felicity shook her head, as if she didn’t know what to do with Elle. ‘Well, I’ll believe you, though I do think that’s sad, dear. Everyone needs some escapism, now and again. What about Georgette Heyer? Do you like her?’

A childhood of Saturday mornings spent at the Shawcross library, reading while her librarian mother stamped books and made recommendations, meant Elle knew Georgette Heyer’s name. She said, ‘I’ve heard of her. I’ve never read her.’

Felicity looked absolutely astonished. ‘What? You’ve never read Georgette Heyer?’

‘No, sorry.’