Elle was standing at the bar with Rory, Joseph Mile—the reference books editor—and Sam. They were talking about their favorite books. “Your favorite book is
Live and Let Die
?” Joseph Mile was astonished. “I must say I’m surprised, even for you, Rory.”
“Well, it’s just a bit of fun, isn’t it?” Rory said. “It’s a bloody great book. What’s yours?”
“I struggle between
Felix Holt, The Radical,
or
Jude the Obscure
,” said Joseph Mile, pushing his fingertips together. “Probably the latter.”
How can he be this sober?
Elle thought. She shrank against the counter, hoping he’d ignore her.
“And you, Sam?” Joseph Mile said.
“
Autumn of Terror,
” Sam said promptly. “It’s the best book there is on Jack the Ripper. It is amazing.”
“Oh.” Joseph Mile looked as though someone had just presented him with a bucket of vomit. “Hm. Elle? You have a favorite book?”
Elle put her hand on the sticky bar surface to steady herself. She couldn’t think of what her favorite book was, all of a sudden. She racked her brains. “
Jane Eyre,
” she said, which was partly true and also because, the previous Saturday evening, she and Libby had rented the video of the newest version starring Ciarán Hinds. “Ah,” said Joseph Mile, drawing a deep breath to expound further. “How interesting.” Next to him, Rory watched Elle, a strange expression on his face.
“She’s the best heroine—” Elle began, feeling she ought to expound on exactly why
Jane Eyre
was a good book. Then she heard herself and stopped. It was suddenly too hot in the room; Elle put her hand to her forehead. “The red-room,” she
muttered, turning away from Joseph and Rory towards Sam. “The red-room.”
“What?” said Sam.
“Sam, I have to… I’m going… to go home.”
Sam nodded enthusiastically. “Cool, cool.”
“I’m getting to go a cab, Sam?” Sam nodded again, and Elle shook her by the shoulders, intently. “Sam! I’m getting to go a—getting to go a cab! Listen. You come with me?”
“I’m going to stay a bit,” Sam said happily.
“You sure? You can come with me.”
“Sure.” Sam looked at Jeremy, who was now dancing to Stevie Wonder. She waved at him, and he waved back at her, then at Elle: Elle blushed. Rory caught her eye and smiled. “Think I’m going to stay,” Sam said. “See you later.”
“OK, well, OK then.” Elle raised her hand. “I’m off.”
“Bye,” said Sam. Joseph Mile raised his eyebrows very delicately. Rory kissed her cheek.
“You be all right?” he said.
Another flush of heat and wine flooded through her. She needed to get out. “Yes, yes,” she said, almost impatiently, and she went downstairs gingerly, her feet now aching in her shoes.
It was a wet, cold night as Elle emerged into a rubbish-strewn side street in Soho. The rain was slick on the ground, and it was eerily empty. She shivered, and looked back up at the lights of the house, still blazing in the dark. She wasn’t quite sure where she was, she still found Soho extremely confusing, so she set off to walk towards what she hoped was the direction of Regent Street.
Her heels clicked on the splashy streets. She pulled her coat tightly around her. There was a noise behind her, and she heard someone running.
“Hello?”
Elle kept on walking, slightly faster, and didn’t turn round. “Hey—Ello?”
Were they saying Elle or Hello? She couldn’t tell. Elle started to trot.
“Come back!” The footsteps were almost behind her.
“Elle! Eleanor Bee!”
She stopped and turned round, as the person caught up with her.
“Rory?” she said.
“I came down to make sure you were OK,” he said. “Suddenly occurred to me I shouldn’t be letting my employees stride off on their own. Especially when—”
“I’m not drunk!” Elle said indignantly.
Rory changed the subject. “I saw you leave and I know this is a dead end—” He gestured ahead of him, and Elle saw that the space she’d hoped was a passageway was in fact an entrance to an office block.
“Oh—”
He steered her back down the road, and turned left again.
“Don’t worry,” said Elle, embarrassed, as they walked through the quiet street. “I’ll be OK from here. You can go back.”
“I was leaving anyway,” said Rory. “It’s fine, honestly.”
There was an awkward silence, as Elle tried to think of something to say, not fall over on the cobbles, and not be hopelessly drunk in front of her boss. Eventually, they turned into another street.
“We’re on Wardour Street,” Rory said. “Here we go.” He stuck his hand out. “I’ll see you part of the way, is that OK?”
“Sure, sure—” said Elle, as Rory opened the door to the cab and she climbed in. “Aren’t you—don’t you live the other way, though?”
“I’m staying in Notting Hill with some friends,” he said, climbing in after her. “I’m having my kitchen done.”
She turned to look at him as the cab moved slowly off. “Well, thanks,” she said. “Thanks a lot. You’re a good boss.”
“Am I?” Rory smiled down at her, his face dark in the cab. She knew his face so well, knew
him
so well, how he drummed his fingers on any spare surface, how he looked vague when trying to get out of things, how his mouth curled to the side when he was making a joke. But she’d never sat this close to him before, because he was her boss. It didn’t feel like that tonight. It was as if they were different people. It was nice. Rory
was
nice, but then, she’d always known that.
“Yes, you are,” she told him. “Sorry, I’m a bit drunk. But I can say it ’cause I’m drunk. You’re really nice man. And I like you.”
“Well,” Rory said softly. “I like you.”
He leaned over, and put his hand gently on her cheek, and kissed her. Elle didn’t move for a second, but then she relaxed, and kissed him back. Rory slid his other arm round her and pulled her towards him. She could taste wine and cigarettes on him; she knew he was drunk too. The funny thing was, it should have felt odd. But it didn’t. He carried on kissing her, and she slid her tongue into his mouth, loving the taste of him, suddenly desperate to feel more. His hand moved over her body, gently tracing the outline of her breast, and it felt wonderful, his fingers on her dress, the fabric moving against her hot skin.
After a minute, Elle broke away, her lips throbbing, her cheeks burning. She looked into the rearview mirror, but the cab driver was gazing straight ahead. She glanced at Rory, and gave a weak laugh.
“What?” he said, stroking her cheek.
“I’m going to wake up tomorrow and think, ‘Oh, my God, I kissed Rory last night,’” Elle mumbled, into his shoulder.
Rory closed his eyes and smiled. “What will you think after that?”
“How lovely it was.”
He kissed her again. “Really?”
“Really,” Elle said. “This is weird,” she added.
“I don’t think so,” Rory said, smiling, and she looked at him and knew he was much drunker than she’d realized, but it was Rory, it’d be OK, wouldn’t it?
Vaguely Elle wondered if she’d wake up in a minute, or what would happen tomorrow, at work: would she lose her job, would people find out, was this the right thing to do? But as she looked down at his hand, moving up her leg, she knew that at this exact moment, she didn’t care. He was a man, she was a woman. Worry about it tomorrow, Elle, she told herself. Just for once, worry about it tomorrow.
“I thought you liked Jeremy,” Rory whispered in her ear. She could feel his warm breath against her skin, her neck.
“I like you more,” said Elle simply, without time to think this through, and she realized it was true as she said it. She kissed him again.
“Oh, really,” Rory said. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. Very glad.”
He pulled her towards him, as the cab rolled west through the rainy, deserted streets.
I have noticed that when things happen in one’s imaginings, they never happen in one’s life, so I am curbing myself.
Dodie Smith,
I Capture the Castle
IT HAD RAINED
for almost two weeks now, nonstop. Huge swathes of the countryside lay under water, and Elle was becoming used to opening her curtains every morning to gray skies, slicing rain on metallic streets. Her umbrella was never dry; it sat, soggy, in the bottom of her damp handbag.
Elle hurried up the stairs of the Savoy and paused at the entrance to the American Bar, gathering herself. She ran her hands through her hair, then rummaged for some lip gloss. She had dressed with care this morning; but she wished she wasn’t so nervous. Coming somewhere like here didn’t bother her these days. Agents didn’t bother her, authors, bosses—she wasn’t a little girl anymore, she was twenty-six now. No, it was the meeting itself she was dreading, and why? It was only
them,
after all. She smiled at the urbane waiter at the door and scanned the room, trying to look calm, confident.
“Elle, love? Over here!” someone called from the farthest corner of the bar. “We’re here!”
Her mother was standing up, waving enthusiastically. Her voice was too loud; Elle walked over, feeling herself flushing with embarrassment. Mandana was smiling, her face red with pleasure. Elle returned her tight hug, thinking how thin she was, birdlike in fact.
“Hi, Dad,” she said, kissing her father on the cheek.
Her father and brother had stood up, identical in shape, both twice the size of her mother. “Hi, Elle, love,” John said. He gave her a strong hug. “Lovely to see you.”
“I’m sorry I’m late.” She hugged him back. “I got caught up at work, I was editing—”
“It’s fine.” Rhodes gestured for her to sit down. “You’re here now. We’ll get you a drink. So this”—he stepped aside, as if he were making a big reveal with a cloak—“is Melissa.”
Elle leaned forward and shook hands with Melissa, who stayed seated. “Hi!” she said, smiling to reveal perfect white teeth. “It’s such a pleasure finally to meet Rhodes’s sister. He’s told me so much about you!” Her gray cashmere cardigan slid off one slim shoulder. Melissa gracefully slipped it back into place, and put her hands back in her lap.
“Waiter?” Rhodes called. “Elle, what do you want?”
As Elle looked for a seat, her parents moved so far apart that she had no choice but to sit between them. She put her bag on the floor, and glanced blankly at the menu. “Oh—er—” she said.
“Elle?” Rhodes said again.
“Oh—I’ll have a vodka martini, please, with a twist,” said Elle, and then instantly wished she hadn’t. She had wanted to seem sophisticated, and it looked quite the opposite, ostentatious and stupid, and besides, lately, she had stopped drinking when Mum was around.
“Mum?” Rhodes said. “Another drink?”
There was a pause. “Oh, I’ll stick to the orange juice, thanks!” Mandana said. She raised her glass. The hand that clutched the tumbler shook slightly.
Having taken the rest of the order, the waiter moved off and there was a silence.
“Sorry I’m late,” Elle apologized again. “I have to go on somewhere afterwards, and I was in meetings all day.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Rhodes’s nostrils flared. “Melissa, you should know we’re lucky Elle’s been able to drop by, even for a few minutes—”
Melissa cut in, smiling again. “Wonderful that you’re here, anyway!” she said. “And wonderful to meet you all.”
There was another silence. The last time her family had been together was when Elle had graduated from Edinburgh, over four years ago. Before that, God only knew. She stole a glance at her father, immaculate in his dark blue wool suit. He looked older than Elle remembered, but he always did. In her mind, he was ten years younger, around the time he’d left. It was strange, how ageing affected people. It was in his eyes, around his mouth. An expression; she couldn’t explain it. Elle smiled at Melissa.
“So, welcome to the UK!” she said brightly. “What have you been doing since you arrived? Have you been on the London Eye?”
“Actually, I did a Masters at LSE so I’ve spent a lot of time in London,” Melissa said, one slim, perfectly manicured finger fiddling with the pearl earring in her finely scrolled ear. “And I just love it. It’s my favorite city, you know? So I’ve been catching up with some old friends, and we saw the Tate Modern, and Rhodes took me to Jamie Oliver’s new restaurant on Sloane Street, which is truly amazing.”
Next to Elle, Mandana nodded politely, the tiny circular mirrors on her fabric waistcoat flashing as they caught the light. Elle could tell she wasn’t really listening, though; neither was her father, nor, in fact, was Rhodes.
“So you’re missing the US election!” Elle said, aware that, like her mother, her voice was slightly too loud. “That must be weird.”