“Why? Isn’t this a better company?” Melissa asked.
“It’s bigger, I don’t know if it’s better. It’s strange.” Elle couldn’t explain the hugeness of the Bookprint building, the fact that three times since January she’d forgotten what floor she was on, that each evening on her way to the lift she walked past row after row of desks and had no idea who the people who sat at them were, or what they did.
“Don’t you have any friends there? Didn’t anyone come with you? I thought Rhodes said you knew someone, your boss, someone?”
“My friend Libby works there. But she was there already, and we’re—quite different.” She had to perk it up a bit, she just sounded pathetic. “A couple of people from Bluebird, that’s the old company. But it’s not the same.”
She didn’t know why she was talking to Melissa, of all people, about this, only that she had to tell someone. Her throat hurt from not telling things. Eight, nine months ago she couldn’t wait to get to work, couldn’t wait to live the drama and excitement of her life, the desperate longing for him, the happy certainty when she and Rory were together, the fact that the office was a stage where she could, every day, watch the man she loved and see him watching her, smiling at her, sharing their secret. Every morning Elle would wake up glad to be alive. She’d even got used to Sam singing in the shower. Now Sam was in Hertfordshire and Elle had moved, in March, into a tiny damp almost-bedsit in Kilburn. She worked in near-silence with people she didn’t know and she had lost Rory. Lost him because she’d let him go. And she couldn’t allow herself to regret the decision.
Perhaps it’d be different if she didn’t see him anymore. But she couldn’t help thinking about him, how he was, whether he thought of her. Then, two weeks ago, he’d texted. And she had her answer.
I can’t stop thinking about you. I miss you. Please, can we meet up and just talk? Somewhere away from the office? Nothing to do with business?
He wasn’t her boss anymore, so Elle didn’t know why he’d say that about business, but she didn’t know what to do, full stop.
The following night at the Chandos, the Bookprint local, a tiny little pub off Carnaby Street, she’d finally crumbled and told Libby. Libby wasn’t excited or seduced by the romance of it, as Elle had hoped she might be. She’d been pretty strange about it, actually.
“You dark horse! Eleanor Bee!” She’d stared at Elle appraisingly, as if she’d got her all wrong. “Rory? Seriously? All that time?”
“Er—yes,” Elle had said, wondering if it sounded as though she’d just made it up. Had she? Had the last eighteen months been all some weird dream?
“Well, I never.” Libby shook her head. She gave a curious smile. “The dirty dog. I don’t believe it.”
“Oh,” said Elle. She narrowed her eyes. “Well—er, it’s true. And I don’t know what to—”
“I thought you didn’t like men in publishing,” Libby went on. “You always said you weren’t interested.”
Elle had tried not to sound impatient. “I don’t remember. That was ages ago. Look, I wish I hadn’t told you. I wanted your advice.” There was silence. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if I made a terrible mistake. If I’m still in love with him.”
Libby had said decisively, “I think it’s pretty crap of him, actually. Taking advantage of you like that… and he’s
still
taking advantage of you. Don’t reply.”
“I can’t not reply,” Elle said.
Libby was suddenly furious, more angry than Elle had ever
seen her. “He’s exploited you, Eleanor. He’s totally taken you for a ride.”
“Well, maybe but—” Elle didn’t quite agree. “I mean, what was in it for him? It’s not like I’m Celine or someone and he was trying to persuade me to buy the company. I was just his assistant editor. We were—I really thought we were in love.”
“You were easy prey.” Libby shook her head. “He shouldn’t have done it. Oh, Elle.”
Elle looked around the tiny pub and downed the rest of her drink, wishing she hadn’t told Libby, wishing she was back at home. She fingered the book in her bag.
“What are you reading?” Libby demanded.
Elle didn’t want to tell her that, either. She didn’t want to give anything more away to her. She said, after a pause, reluctantly, “
Faro’s Daughter
.”
Libby looked blank. “Don’t know it.”
“It’s by Georgette Heyer.”
“Oh.” She shrugged. “One of those Felicity books. Right.”
Now, Elle could feel her face reddening with annoyance as she recalled the conversation. Strange that it should have got to her like that, though: these days, she just didn’t care much about anything, really. Her job, her flat, her love life, the summer weather, anything. “Heigh-ho,” she said, taking a gulp of her Rioja. It was delicious, heavy, powerful, warming in her throat. She changed the subject.
“Oh, by the way, Melissa, I wanted to ask you if you’d thought any more about dinner with Mum, some time in August? The three of us, or maybe more if there are other people who can’t go to New York for the bachelorette party? She mentioned it last week.”
This was also a lie; Mandana hadn’t mentioned anything. In fact, Elle felt she deliberately avoided talking about the
wedding, a combination of childishness and shame about the fact that it was taking place here because of her. But since Melissa and Rhodes had moved back to London in February when Rhodes’s job demanded it, the fact that they were more on the scene now only served to highlight how obvious it was that Mandana wasn’t making any effort with Melissa. They were too different, it was the simple truth. Elle wished she’d at least try, though.
“Yes! Of course, now I wanted to talk to you about that.” Passers-by jostled past each other on the crowded pavement. Melissa studied them for a moment and then she said, “What would your mom like to do at the wedding, does she want to be involved? I gave her my step-mom’s email so they could exchange information and what color they’ll be wearing so they don’t clash.”
“Oh, great,” said Elle, unsteadily.
“But is there something else she’d like to do? I feel like she’s holding back, or perhaps she’s just not that interested.”
Since this was the exact truth, Elle didn’t know what to say. “Oh, no,” she said emphatically, the glow of wine giving her conviction. “
That’s
not true.”
Melissa smoothed her hair over her shoulder with one hand. “Well, we’re going down to see her in a couple of weeks. Rhodes wants to spend some time with her. Make sure she’s doing OK. You know, ahead of the wedding.”
A warning light began to flash in front of Elle’s eyes. “What do you mean, make sure she’s doing OK?”
Melissa said, slowly, “I think he—well, just checking in. You know.”
“Right.” Elle didn’t know why she felt so defensive. “I think Rhodes sees things that aren’t there anymore.”
“I don’t know that he does, sometimes,” Melissa said. “Some of the stuff he told me about her when she was drinking…
Maybe she didn’t show you all of it, maybe she waited till you were at college. He worries she’s started again, or she’ll start again. I don’t know.” She shrugged, tentatively.
“He left as soon as he could!” Elle wanted to laugh. “Melissa, seriously! I’m the one who spent the most time with her. If she had a drink problem I’d know.”
“My dad was an alcoholic for ten years before I knew,” Melissa said, matter-of-factly. “I guess that’s all I’m saying.”
Elle’s mouth opened. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know that,” she said.
“It’s fine. He still is.” Melissa took a bowl of olives proffered by the waiter and neatly moved the side plates out of the way. “Doesn’t go away, you know. He hasn’t had a drink since ’95. He gave up the day he woke up in the clink for the third time in a year. Drove into a tree, off Interstate 87. Wasn’t hurt, but that was luck. He could have killed people.” She moved one slim finger slowly over one of the side plates. It left a streak on the gleaming white china.
Unbidden, the time Mandana had crashed the car into a hedge on the way back from school flew into Elle’s head. But it was once and it had just started raining, that really wasn’t the same thing. “That’s terrible,” she said.
“It was terrible waiting for him to get back from work, never knowing where he was. I’d bargain with God.
This time, just this once bring him back this time, I’ll do my math, I’ll eat my crusts, I’ll even stop teasing Francie about her bangs
.” She smiled. “My sister was too young to remember it. So now I’m grown up, you see, I have to have things the way I want them. Otherwise it’s all wrong.”
She clutched her stomach, as if instinctively, and then was still.
“Well, I’ll ask Mum—maybe we should go out, have a day at a spa, or something—” Elle said weakly, though the idea of
Mandana in a fluffy white dressing gown having a manicure was incongruous. She’d scream with derisive laughter at the idea. “I’ll talk to her. Don’t worry.” Then she said gently, “I know Rhodes finds her difficult sometimes. But I promise, she just wants him to be happy.”
Melissa put her hand on Elle’s. “We’re all like that, I guess. I should stay out of it. Happy families, hey. It’s been so great, spending this time with you. I really feel like we’re all getting closer. That’s what family’s all about, isn’t it!”
She smiled her big smile and once again, Elle shifted, uncomfortable in its huge beam. She felt she was further away than ever from knowing her future sister-in-law.
“I’M BLOODY SICK
of these books,” Bill Lewis, managing director of the BBE (Bookprint Press, Bluebird and Eyre and Al-cock) division, said, attempting to throw the submission letter across the room. It juddered ineffectually in the air and landed a few centimeters away from him, on the pale ash table. Everything at Bookprint was either glass or pale ash. “They said it’d be a flash in the bloody pan, and it’s been five years. No sign of it ending either. If I read one more submission letter about a girl who works for an advertising agency in London who loves shopping and her boss, I’m going to go mad.”
“This one’s different, though.” Annabel Hamilton (junior editor, Bookprint Press) looked peeved. She glanced at Libby, her personal heroine, but Libby was doodling on her minutes and didn’t look up. “She’s a witch, the heroine, and she can’t find a man?”
“Ha!” Bill Lewis gave a hollow laugh. “There’s always something. This one’s different. She’s Asian, she’s gay, it’s set in Bogota, it’s set in a fight club.” His voice rose, till it was almost hysterical. “But they’re
always the bloody same.
I hate Bridget Jones. Hate them all! Bloody pink covers.”
No one said anything; they shifted awkwardly in the glass meeting room. Elle, who had been reading surreptitiously under the table, came to at this last sentence.
“That’s not right,” she said, mildly. “
Bridget Jones’s Diary
didn’t have pink on the cover. And it had a quote from Nick Hornby. And it isn’t girlie. It’s just very funny.”
There was a silence, and Elle blushed, wishing she’d kept her mouth shut. Editorial meetings here were so incredibly long, every book thrashed over and over even when she wanted to shout,
“No one, NO ONE here wants to buy a book narrated by a policewoman who enjoys holidays on nudist beaches! Why are we
all sitting here discussing it for ten minutes, Bill, you massive perv? Why?”
Bill turned to Rory. “So, Rory, what do you think? Do you have an opinion?”
Rory had been staring down at the table. “Um—” he said. “I agree with Elle.”
“You would,” said Bill, crossly. Elle flicked a glance at Rory, but he was scanning the minutes. No one else met her eye. She knew they all thought she was a waste of space, the hangover from quaint, past-it Bluebird who could only talk about romance novels and sagas. She knew she should care but these days, she didn’t.
“OK, still on new projects,” Bill said. “Who’s next?”
“I’ve got
Shaggy Dog Story
to talk about,” Libby said, next to Elle.
Bill sat up. “Of course. Great. Libby, do you want to explain to everyone what this is?”
“Sure. It’s a first-time author. Wonderful idea. I want you to imagine—” Libby launched into a crisp, concise pitch, and Elle drifted off again. It was a novel about a boy whose dog talks to him. Elle thought it sounded bonkers, but there was a huge auction going on and it was being compared to
Flaubert’s Parrot
and
The God of Small Things,
so what did she know.
“So we’ll be going to best bids later,” said Libby. “We’re at one-seven-five for one. That’s for this room only, guys, OK?”
Everyone nodded. “Sounds great, Libby,” Jeremy murmured. “Yeah,” someone else echoed. Elle turned the page.
“Libby, do let us know if you want sales figures or anything that’ll help,” Sally, the sales director of the BBE division, was saying.
“Great, Sally,” Libby said, smiling at her. “Thanks!”
“That’s exciting,” Bill said, nodding at Libby. “Keep us posted, Libby. OK. What’s next?”