“Rhodes,” their dad said sharply. “That’s enough.”
“Rhodes, no,” Melissa said. She gave a fixed smile, her bottom lip pushing her top lip up, her cheeks puffed out. “We may well relocate to London in any case. Perhaps we should think about having the wedding here.”
“Or in a castle in Ireland like Posh and Becks,” Elle said, in a misplaced attempt to lighten the mood. The four of them looked at her oddly. The drinks arrived, the waiter putting them gingerly down one by one, and there was complete silence at the table.
“Well, it would be wonderful if it was, if it was, if it was here.” Mandana’s stuttering voice was still barely audible. “I am so sorry. For everything.” She stared at her orange juice.
“No,” Melissa said suddenly, putting her hand on Mandana’s knee. She swallowed. “Um—it’s no problem. It’s good we found out now, so we can do something about it. It’s going to be great. If it’s in the UK, I’ll need Elle’s help even more. Thank goodness!”
Mandana nodded gratefully and Melissa smiled at her, and Elle found herself warming to her, though she didn’t think this was at all how Melissa had expected the announcement to turn out. She picked up her martini, and drank half of it in a swift gulp. She’d known it was going to be a long night, but it already was.
JUST BEFORE NINE
Elle left the Savoy and, dodging the rain and the churning buses, crossed the Strand. She passed the entrance to Lion Books and remembered, as she always did here, that terrible interview with Jenna Taylor where all she’d been able to say was, “I’m passionate about reading… I love books, I love them.” She’d seen Jenna at a party about a year after she’d started at Bluebird and, gauchely, bounced up to her and said hello, but Jenna hadn’t recognized her. At least, she’d pretended not to. Elle had been in publishing for over three years now, and she knew enough to know that bouncing up to people and saying hello was not what you did. Sometimes she missed being gauche, though. She felt as if she’d grown up, but not necessarily learned anything.
Elle hurried up Bedford Street, past the big windows of the Garrick where you could see the walls lined with identical paintings of old white men, then past the diamond-leaded, brightly colored panes of the Ivy. In the American diner on the corner of Cambridge Circus they were celebrating the US election with a special red, white, and blue menu, and different seating areas saying “Gore” or “Bush.” When she got to Dean Street, she pushed open a nondescript black door and went inside.
“Hi,” she said uncertainly to the man behind the black reception desk. “I’m here for the Eyre and Alcock party?”
“Great,” he said. “Sign here. It’s upstairs, to the back. The TV’s on but the announcement hasn’t been made yet.”
“Thanks,” Elle said. She gave him her coat and glanced in the mirror. Her hair wasn’t too wet, her black lace choker was still in place, her mascara hadn’t run. She cleared her throat. For the second time that night, she wished she wasn’t nervous, and again, she didn’t know why, she should be used to it all by now.
This was what you were supposed to do if you were in publishing, wasn’t it? Go to cool Booker Prize parties at media hot spots, hang out at Babington House, get a table at Nobu? As she climbed the narrow stairs, from the main room below she could hear guffaws of laughter, a piano playing. Who was in there? Keith Allen and Meg Mathews? Chris Evans and Blur? On the first floor there were two doors. Both had signs, printed on A4 paper and stuck to the door with Sellotape. The first said:
B
OOKER
P
RIZE
P
ARTY
: P
RIVATE
The second:
Publishing Party: Private
Feeling a bit like Alice in Wonderland, Elle pushed the first door open, and went in.
The room was full of people, and everyone seemed to have their backs to her. They were all talking intently, and in the corner was a smallish TV with the Booker Prize ceremony transmitted live from the Guildhall. Elle helped herself to a glass of wine, looking around for someone she knew and trying not to feel like a spare part. She caught sight of a flash of dark blond hair, disappearing between two suits. “Libby!” she cried, and the hair turned around.
“Oh, Elle. There you are!” Libby embraced her enthusiastically, her face breaking into a big smile. “I thought you might not come.”
Elle smelled Anaïs Anaïs and cigarettes, that familiar Libby smell, and closed her eyes briefly, it was so powerful. “I had a shocker—”
“Hold on,” said Libby immediately. “I’m just getting a drink for Jamie. I won’t be a sec.”
She disappeared into the throng. Elle took another large sip of her wine, and remembered she was two martinis down already. But she didn’t care, to be honest. She was happy just to be out of the Savoy. She couldn’t even begin to process how strange the earlier part of the evening had been. The incongruous memory of the four of them around the table—five, now, of course five. Melissa was going to be part of her family. Elle smiled to herself: how could you join something that didn’t exist? She knew that at some point she had to talk to her mother. Go and see her, maybe this weekend? She knew she was free. These days, Elle was always free on the weekends, just in case.
Libby had totally disappeared. Picking a handful of nuts from a passing waiter, Elle looked around the crowded, noisy room. “Well, my money’s on Atwood,” she heard someone behind her say. “But I saw Simon on Saturday at Mark’s, and though he was keeping his cards
pretty
close to his chest I got the feeling that
Passengers
might just steal it.”
“You went to Mark’s?” his companion asked him, running her fingers through a thick beaded necklace. “I did so dreadfully want to go, but we were at Paul’s for the weekend and we just couldn’t drive back for it.”
“Ah. Well. Did you know—”
Elle moved through the crowd, feeling totally invisible. She could hear snippets of conversations.
“Paid over five hundred for it—I know. They’ll never make the money back….”
“She’s moving to another publisher, you know. She’s just had enough, and who can blame her.”
“I said to him, ‘Sir Vidia—enough is enough. Let sleeping dogs lie.’”
Elle felt even more of an outsider, now she was in the thick of the party. Why had she said she’d come, when she didn’t want to?
She knew the answer perfectly well, and it made her even
sadder. She heard a voice and looked up. Libby was standing by the window, laughing with someone. Elle paused, not wanting to interrupt, but Libby saw her and beckoned her over.
“Sorry, Elle,” she said. “So rude of me to invite you and then abandon you!” She tucked her hair behind her ear. “This is Tom Scott, Tom, this is a dear friend of mine, Elle Bee—oh, it always sounds so stupid when I say your name like that. Eleanor Bee.”
Elle nodded up at Tom. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Elle. I work at Bluebird.”
She wasn’t sure whether to refer back to their only, rather unfortunate, meeting at the sales conference, two and a half years ago. Of course he won’t know me, she told herself.
“I know,” he said. He stared at her. “We have actually met before. At the Bluebird sales conference. Your hair was a different color.”
“Oh,” said Elle. “Sorry—well, yes, I do remember you. Just I thought you wouldn’t remember me.”
“Really,” Tom said drily. “That’s kind of you.” He obviously didn’t believe her. Libby laughed.
The scene at the Savoy, the martinis, the walk through the rain, a loud room full of people she didn’t know and feeling dog-tired suddenly all overwhelmed Elle. She had one last look around and put her hand up to her cheek, to stave off the tears she was horrified to feel rising within her.
“Um, I think I’m just going to go,” she said. “Sorry, but I’m really tired, and I’ve got loads on tomorrow.”
Libby watched her through narrowed eyes, and then put her hand on her arm. “Oh, I’m bloody crap,” she said. “You had that drink with your parents, didn’t you. Was it awful?” Elle shook her head, unable to speak, then nodded. “Oh, man. I’m sorry, Elle.”
Miserable and embarrassed, Elle glanced at Tom, but his expression was unreadable.
“Here.” Libby whipped a plate off a passing waitress. “It’s for my friend, she’s feeling faint,” she said. Someone behind them half turned. “Typical Libby,” he said to his companion, and they laughed. “Oh, shut up, Bill,” Libby said flirtatiously, tossing her hair. She handed Elle the plate of canapés. “He’s our MD. He’s so annoying! Here, have some food,” she said, waggling the plate under Elle’s nose.
Elle ate a mini-samosa as Libby watched her intently. “So, it was grim then. Did you meet the American girlfriend? What’s she like?”
“Like an Appleton sister,” Elle told her. “The mean-looking one. They’re engaged.” She picked up another samosa. “And they’re getting married in the US, only it turns out Mum can’t go because she’s got a criminal record in the States.” She threw the samosa into her mouth.
“What?” Libby said, gaping at her. She glanced at a woman passing behind them. “Hiya! Yeah! See you in a bit!” she mouthed.
“Excuse me,” said Tom, making to move off. “Libby, I’ll catch you—”
“Oh, don’t go,” said Elle, hastily swallowing the samosa. “I don’t want to drive you both off. It’s just my family. My parents hate each other and my brother hates us all.” Mad as it sounded to say, as she said this out loud, she felt much better. “Yep. I was just meeting my brother’s fiancée. It’s over now. Done.”
Libby nodded intently, then turned to Bill and started chatting, offering him the plate of canapés. Elle’s face fell. Tom moved a little closer, so he was standing next to her.
“Wow.” He raised one eyebrow. Elle was impressed, she’d always wanted to be able to do that. “Your parents really do hate each other?”
“Yes. Well, my dad definitely hates my mum. And I don’t think she likes him much, if I’m honest.”
“That sounds like my parents.”
“Really?” said Elle, not knowing what else to say.
Tom nodded. “You’re not alone. I mean, I don’t want to sound competitive, but it’s true. Maybe they should get divorced.”
“They did,” Elle said. “So it’s OK.” She tried to sound breezy about it, as if it were all fine, but she couldn’t do it. She thought of her mum’s sad eyes, her dad sitting so upright, so tense, the distance between them as they sat on the same sofa.
“I’m sorry. When?”
“Oh, ages ago now. I was sixteen when they got divorced. It’s just—I can’t explain it. I don’t ever see them together, we’re never all together, and tonight we were, and it made me see—see things I hadn’t noticed before.” Her mother’s shaking hands, the orange juice, the Disney World trip, the ring flashing on Melissa’s finger, her brother and father, how they were so angry with Mum, how Mandana just let them be, as if she deserved it, like a dog being kicked by a gang of boys. “Sorry,” she said, simply. “I don’t normally think about it much.”
Tom watched Elle. She looked up at him. His jaw was angular, dark with six o’clock shadow, and his gray eyes were kind. He said, “Well, that’s something at least. My parents never got divorced, and then my mum died, so my dad was denied the opportunity of cheating on her anymore. He was never quite the same again.”
“Wow,” said Elle. “You win.”
Tom gave a little nod of the head. “Glad to hear it. I can play one-upmanship on the sad families any day. The dead mum means I usually win. So cheer up.” He saw her expression tighten, and said, in a low voice, “Hey, I’m sorry. I was only joking.”
“I know,” said Elle, shaking her head. “It’s just—too many martinis and no food, after a day editing romance novels. It makes you—a bit nuts.” She swayed slightly as she stood in front of him.
“Have a burger,” he said. He put his hand under her elbow. “Here.” He smiled at the waitress and gestured at the plate. “Can I keep this?”
The waitress shrugged. “Go crazy.”
“Eat up,” Tom continued. “Let’s make ourselves really gloomy. Tell me which songs make you cry, childhood pets you’ve lost and the closest you’ve ever come to death.”
Elle laughed. “My dog Toogie attacked an otter in a stream and got put down.”
“That is a depressing story.”
“Yes. The otter was fine. Not the dead dog. Gosh, I was upset.”
He laughed too, and she thought how nice his face was when he was smiling. How nice he was, in fact. It was strange, being able to chat to blokes without worrying that they might think you fancied them or were making a play for them, because she’d never be interested in them, and she couldn’t ever explain why.
Tom changed the subject. “So, you’re editing MyHeart books, then? Do you enjoy it?”
“Enjoy it?” Elle was slightly fazed. People never asked her if she actually enjoyed her job. “It’s great. I do enjoy it. But you can have too much of a good thing, I suppose,” she said in a rush. “Are you—how’s the—are you still agenting nonfiction?” she asked awkwardly. “I should know, I’m sorry. I don’t deal with a lot of agents yet, not unless they specialize in love stories about doctors and nurses.”