1. Buy bin bags
2. Confirm time for bridesmaid dress fitting
3.
Book flights to New York. Today.
4. Email Melissa about mini–photo albums, fake veil, cupcakes in New York.
5. Ring Mum.
And then, because she’d learned now that the only way to write a list was to finish with something you actually wanted to do:
6. Buy
The Reluctant Widow
.
Elle fingered the last few pages of
Frederica,
and stared into space until suddenly Libby nudged her and she heard Bill yelling, “ELLE! ARE YOU LISTENING?”
No, Bill. I was writing out a To Do list because I am organizing a hen weekend which, FYI, is practically a part-time job. Plus you are really boring and a pompous git.
The rest of the room was silent. “Sorry,” Elle said. She glanced at Rory, but he was staring down at his pad. “What’s up?”
“Celine wants to see you afterwards.” Bill smiled evilly. “In her office.”
“OK,” said Elle coolly, trying to channel Libby. “Thanks, Bill.”
On the way out of the meeting room she and Jeremy paused at the door at the same time. Neither acknowledged the other; Elle kept her head down and scurried back to her glass office.
During her first few weeks at Bookprint, she had tried to say hi to the other Bluebirds there, not Rory, but the others: Jeremy, Nathan the art director, Joseph Mile—other than Rory the only editorial survivor besides her. But she’d soon found this was a mistake. You didn’t flourish at Bookprint by talking
about where you’d come from and saying things like, “It’s weird, getting used to it here, we were so close there!” Because no one cared.
No, you devoted yourself to the big new company with the gleaming glass offices in Soho, you swiped your security pass through the glass gates and walked along in clicking heels, carrying your coffee to the glass lifts as though you worked for Willy Wonka. No one smiled at anyone in the lift, but you were on time and you made money for the company. M.O.N.E.Y. The idea of there being a Bernice to wipe the phones and the keyboards with her soft cloth was laughable, as was the idea of Felicity’s fresh hand towels in her office, the family portraits on the staircase, the annual day trip to the seaside. At Bookprint there were Eritrean cleaners who spoke no English and were polite and shy. No one talked to them, you carried on working as they appeared in the offices, like vampires, after dark, as the strip lighting above them buzzed and crackled. There was a vast canteen, endless cream filing cabinets, and lots of dead spaces called “break-out areas.” Sometimes Elle thought she’d stepped out of the eighteenth century and into
The Matrix
.
Elle shared a tiny office with Mary, the cookery editor. Just as she was sitting down, Libby poked her head round the door. “You OK?” she said. “You were miles away.”
“I’m fine,” said Elle. Annabel Hamilton hung behind in the corridor, waiting for Libby to finish up.
Libby frowned. “Has he texted you again?”
Elle tensed. She rolled her eyes towards Mary, Elle’s office partner, who was scrupulously ignoring the conversation, making tiny pencil marks on a manuscript.
“I’m a bit busy now,” Elle said, wishing Libby would go away. “Fancy getting a sandwich at lunch? Or a drink tonight?”
“I can’t. I’ve got lunch with Peter Dunlop.
Shaggy Dog
UK agent,” Libby said. Her face was flushed. “Got an author
drinks thing tonight so I can’t do then. But we should, soon. Just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“Libs, Libs,” Annabel mewled from outside.
Elle nodded. “I’m good. See you later then.”
“Great.” Libby smiled at her. “Laters!” She turned and skipped out. “Hi, Rory!” Elle heard her call.
Elle shrank back, as Rory walked past the office. He turned and looked in, as he always did.
Not for the first time, she wondered how he was getting on here. All he seemed to do was walk up and down the corridor, or sit in his office reading manuscripts he never seemed to buy. At Bluebird, he’d driven them all mad with his energy and over-reaching ambition, but here, it was as if he was stuck permanently playing a small boy on his first day at school, not quite sure whether he was doing the right thing. Even Celine, his best friend back in December, ignored him now. Elle wondered whether he ever regretted the sale. For many reasons. But she didn’t let herself wonder for too long. She had locked her heart up against him, and it would take something extraordinarily strong to break it open.
Rory carried on walking, in his aimless way, and Elle turned back to her screen, her heart beating fast. She started listing the characters in
Frederica
in her head, breathing evenly, trying to stay calm. This was the only thing that worked, she’d found. She had to have something else to think about, a list she could recite, otherwise she thought she’d go mad.
One long dark night in February, when she had thought her head might explode with thinking, she’d crawled over to the shelf, picked up Felicity’s long-rejected copy of
Venetia
, turned to the first page, and started reading. Reading the way she used to, before she’d become an editor. She’d turned one page, then another, till it was almost morning. The next day, she’d gone out and bought another Georgette Heyer and now, it was early
July and she’d read sixteen. She knew it sounded crazy, but she was quite sure if it wasn’t for Georgette Heyer she would have gone mad by now. It had occurred to Elle over the weekend that if she’d been a rapper she’d have got a tattoo to commemorate her idol. Perhaps she should. Where would she get it? On her thigh? Her hip? Above her left breast, in a heart shape?
The first tattoo ever with the name of an author of quality Regency romances, in curly writing, underneath your bra. Yes, she thought, that’s definitely the way to ensure no one ever asks to see you naked again. You might just as well walk around with a big sign round your neck saying SPINSTER, and just as Elle was wondering if that was, in fact, a sign of madness—wanting to get your favorite author’s name tattooed on your bosom—Mary, the editor Elle shared the office with, turned round and said, “Keep meaning to ask. How are the hen weekend plans going?”
“Fine, thanks,” said Elle, grateful for the interruption. Then she frowned. “Oh, except I had an email from my father this morning—he’s very kindly paying for my flight to New York, but he’s gone mad because it’s a hundred quid more than I thought.” Elle shook a fist in mock-fury. “This hen weekend, man!”
“But you’re going to New York!” Mary said. “You’ll have a brilliant time!”
“I know,” said Elle, trying to sound enthusiastic. “It’s just been a lot of hassle. And I don’t even know Melissa that well, that’s the weird thing. We’re flying over to New York together. I don’t know any of her friends…” She hesitated.
“And?” Mary said, curiously.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Elle felt a bit disloyal, but she had to talk to someone about it, and Mary was a calm, wise person. “She’s obsessed with everything being perfect. So two weeks ago she was making me do everything with her, calling me twice a day, asking me to go for fittings with her. I’ve seen her
boobs
four times
. And she’d email three times a day. Bonkers stuff. Like should we have themed T-shirts?”
“What kind of themed T-shirts?” Mary said suspiciously.
“Like the ones Madonna wore saying ‘Kylie Minogue.’ She wants ones saying ‘Melissa’ on the front and ‘Mrs. Bee to Be’ on the back.”
“Wow,” Mary said. “My God, I thought my sister-in-law was bad, but at least she only made us embroider her napkins.”
“She did what?”
Mary shook her head. “Too soon still. I can’t talk about it. Goodness, where does it end?”
“I dread to think,” said Elle. “I said no. I’m already growing my hair so it can go into a stupid chignon, and I don’t even know what they are! God. You wouldn’t ask a load of
men
to grow their hair if they want to be ushers. It’s so bloody stupid. I can’t see her boobs again. I mean, I know she doesn’t know many people over here and she means well but… I’d never met her before November. It’s crazy.”
“Quite right,” said Mary, sympathetically. “Maybe you need to start keeping her at arm’s length.”
“Well, but that’s just the problem. Now I can’t even get hold of her. She’s gone missing. She won’t return my calls, and I don’t know where she is. I haven’t heard from her for days. I spent all weekend making the badges she wanted with sticky-back plastic, and nothing. Not a peep out of her. I’ve obviously done something to upset her, and I don’t know what.”
She had been over the latest dress fitting and the lunch afterwards, ten days ago now, several times in her head. What had they talked about? Had she missed something? Maybe Melissa had been a bit strange—but then she
was
a bit strange.
“Course you haven’t,” said Mary. “She’s probably just busy with everything.”
Elle wanted to agree. “Yeah,” she said. “Probably.”
“Still, the wedding sounds like it’ll be lovely.” Mary smiled, and clasped her hands together. She had just got engaged, and liked wedding chat. “Sanditon Hall is such a beautiful venue, we’ve looked at it ourselves.”
“Oh, really? Good,” Elle said. Between dress fittings for the dark purple silk sheath to be worn with a green-and-gray fascinator that made her look like an aubergine and organizing the hen weekend, she had barely thought about the actual ceremony. Her family didn’t do big parties, or celebrations, never had. “Oh, it will be, it’s just—I don’t know why I’m not looking forward to it.” Then she said, in a rush, “It’s the going-by-myself thing too. Maybe that’s it.”
“You should have someone as your plus one,” sensible Mary said. “She’s American, Americans always have plus ones at weddings, don’t they?” She looked excited. “You could take a date! Ask her.”
“Oh, right,” Elle said. “Who would I take?” She gave what she hoped was a hollow laugh, but it sounded a bit too hollow.
Mary looked round and smiled mischievously. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe you should ask Rory. I always think he’s rather keen on you.”
“Really?” Elle said. She gave what she hoped was a dismissive smile and changed the subject. “Anyway, I hope she hasn’t killed Rhodes and gone on the run.”
There was a silence; Mary laughed awkwardly, and Elle paused: what if something bad really
had
happened, and here she was, joking about it? She shrugged, embarrassed, as Mary went back to checking her page proofs, and Elle opened her emails. There was one from Celine’s assistant.
Celine would like to see you when you have a minute.
Hell. She’d forgotten about it. Well, it could wait another half-hour, couldn’t it? Elle looked down at her nearly finished Georgette Heyer and the assignment she had this lunchtime. It was nearly twelve thirty, it
must
be OK to go now. She picked up her handbag.
“Just going out to get a sandwich,” she said.
The Bookprint offices were housed in a large eighties glass building on Golden Square; on the other side of Soho, just off Charing Cross Road with all the other secondhand bookshops, was Bell, Book and Candle and this was where Elle came, at least once a week, usually twice, either in her lunch hour or on her way back to her flat.
“You finished that one
already
?” Suresh, the elderly man who owned the shop, knew Elle by now. “You want
another
one?”
Elle smiled at him and headed straight over to the shelf in the corner of the shop. She breathed in the old, mildewy smell of secondhand books, as instantly comforting as ever. “Yes,” she said, scanning the shelves. “I’ll just be a minute.”
“OK, OK.” Suresh retreated, muttering to himself.
Left to herself, in the blissful peace and quiet of the darkest corner of Bell, Book and Candle, Elle breathed out, for the first time in days. She felt calm here. No “ping” sound when an email appeared, no brides to chase or bridesmaids calling her, no answering-machine messages from mothers screaming and swearing, no fathers yelling… and yet also no lonely, echoing silence, like the evenings in her new flat. Just the beautiful smell of old books, like mildew and incense and paper, the shuffle of fellow browsers’ feet on the worn lino floor, the very faint burr of traffic outside, and a shelf of unread Georgette Heyers for her to choose from.
Elle often wondered what Felicity’s favorite was. She wished she could talk to her about them, find out what she was doing,
even just say thank you. She’d seen her once, walking down Regent’s Street, in what looked like a gray woolen cape. It was strange, watching her jostling with tourists outside Hamleys: Felicity was born to be inside, holding forth in a meeting room, not someone who mixed with tourists in T-shirts and trainers. She was too far away for Elle to say hello but Elle really wished she’d run after her. She just watched her gray stately form as it was blotted out, swamped in a sea of backpacks and denim.