“I’m going to get a drink,” she said to him. “See you in a minute.”
“Sure,” said Jeremy, and with one arm he reached out and grabbed Annabel Hamilton, and started dancing with her.
Elle walked off the floor, twisting her hair up to let the cool air onto her neck, and stood at the bar. The sun had almost set outside, flooding the room with blood-orange light. When she
took her glass of wine, the barman said, “It’s a pay bar now. That’ll be four pounds fifty.”
“Oh,” said Elle, embarrassed. “My bag’s over there, hold on, I don’t have any—”
“Let me, dear,” came Felicity’s voice behind her. “Here,” she said, proffering a five-pound note to the barman. The ornately set diamonds in her ears glinted in the setting sun.
“Thank you,” said Elle, blinking to try and sober up, and thinking she probably shouldn’t be having that extra glass. “That’s very—kind of you.”
“How long are you here for, Elle?” asked Felicity, taking her change and dropping it precisely into her purse.
“Tuesday, off first thing.” She remembered her promise to her mother. The doctor was on Monday. “I hope.”
“You wouldn’t have time for a drink on Monday evening?” Felicity asked. “I have something I’d like to talk to you about.”
“Me?” Elle said, then tried not to sound so surprised. “Um—I’d love to. But I’m not sure yet when I’ll be in town.”
Felicity watched her, pursing her lips slightly as if weighing something up. She said, “Posy and I have started up a new publishing company, did you know that?”
“No,” Elle said, shaking her head, rapidly sobering up. “Gosh, no. When?”
“The company’s going to be called Aphra Books,” said Felicity. “First professional female writer, Aphra Behn. We’ve got some interesting people coming up.” She clenched her jaw, looked about her, and leaned in again. “In fact,” she said, “I wanted to talk to you about joining the team. There. What do you say to that?” She screwed her eyes up and stared at Elle.
“Me?” Elle said. She looked around, just to make sure Felicity wasn’t talking to someone else behind her.
“Yes,” said Felicity, with the air of one conferring a great
honor. “Yes, you. I know it’s a long shot, but both Posy and I think it could work out. We’d have to get you in for an interview, of course.”
Elle shifted uncomfortably. “I’m really happy in the States,” she said, not wanting to say,
Are you mad, do you realize how well I’m doing over there? Do you really think I’d leave it all behind to come back and work for Bluebird, mark 2?
“It sounds wonderful, what you’re doing, but I’m not in a position to move back.”
Raising her eyebrows, Felicity said nothing for a moment. Then she cleared her throat. “Are you really happy over there?” she said. “You always seemed such a London girl to me, loved living there, loved the trade and the people and all of that. Always thought of you when I’d see these girls on the Tube, with their short skirts and their manuscript bags, laughing away at something. You’re quite different, now. Very poised, all grown up. All”—she waved her hand up and down at Elle—“this.”
Elle wished she hadn’t drunk so much. She could feel a hot flush creeping slowly over her and tried to concentrate. “I’m really pleased with the way things have turned out. It was the right thing, going to the States.” She sounded as though she was repeating something, a poem she’d learned by heart.
“But are you happy there?” Felicity asked again.
“You have no idea how much happier I am, actually,” Elle said. “I’d never come back. Sorry.” Why was it suddenly so hot? She had to get outside, get some fresh air. “Anyway, lovely to see you again. I’d better—” She gestured. “Go and find someone. Sorry again about the drink.”
“Of course.” Felicity nodded. “You may well change your mind. Let me know, Elle.”
Elle wanted to laugh, this was ridiculous, who did Felicity think she was, her fairy godmother? “Thank you.”
She pushed her way through the bar, out through the
French windows onto the terrace, and stood there breathing hard, unsure as to why she felt so unnerved.
Felicity’s a dinosaur,
she told herself, thinking of those unblinking dark eyes, the heavy scent, the firm, be-ringed hands dropping change so steadily into their pouch.
She’s only doing it because she doesn’t have enough people to boss around anymore. Don’t worry
.
Elle looked up at the full moon, hanging low above the trees, huge and yellow. Across the fields and lanes towards the moon was her mother, and Elle drank in the relative silence, letting herself wonder how she was getting on. She’d said she was going to do some gardening, maybe meet up with Bryan, sort some clothes out. And it occurred to her suddenly, in the still, sudden calm, that something didn’t ring true. Was it Bryan? The gardening? A spasm of worry about her shot through her body, and then she rolled her eyes, laughing at herself. She could hear Mandana’s mocking laugh, as if she were right next to her.
Stop being such a worrywart
. There were hundreds of nights when Elle wasn’t nearby and she didn’t worry about Mum. It was the height of self-obsession to do so when she was only a couple of miles away. But still, she wished she was at home, right now, chatting to her in the warm night air, not here, hot and drunk and—
She turned, to go and find her bag. Perhaps it was time to leave, anyway.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Rory’s voice called from inside. He was standing on the dance floor, mic in hand. “We’re going to be leaving in a minute, so everyone, make your way to the front entrance for the throwing of the bouquet!” He looked over, through the door, at Elle. “Single ladies especially!”
Elle looked desperately around her, like a rabbit trapped in headlights. She considered flattening herself against the wall
and moving, crab-like, towards the driveway like Tom Cruise in
Mission: Impossible
. Perhaps she should try it. Someone strode through the doors and she jumped.
“It’s only me,” said Tom. He was breathing heavily. “I thought I’d come and find you. Thought you might need rescuing from the bouquet throwing.”
“God,” said Elle. “I don’t need rescuing.” She knew she sounded churlish. “This isn’t a bloody MyHeart novel, you know.”
Rory passed by the two of them. “Come on, you guys? Elle, you have to catch that bouquet!” He nodded. “Libs’ll really want to see you.”
“Wow,” Elle said, suddenly sick of it all.
“Wedding wow,” said Tom, but Elle didn’t laugh. As she watched the guests troop out Jeremy went by, his hand on Annabel’s bottom and his arm draped over her breast, and this only incensed her the more.
“Why didn’t I see it? What he was like?” She drained her glass. “Men. You are so good at it. You’re all the same! You seem different and you are all the bloody same.” She shook her head, feeling the blood rush into it, making her dizzy. “I just don’t get it. I thought I did after all these years and I just don’t see how I could have been so stupid. And English men are the worst. I’d forgotten! All these years and I’d forgotten.” She nodded violently, as if in agreement with herself. “Supposedly charming, pretend to have good manners and sound like Hugh Grant and you’re actually weak, pathetic, lying—”
“Hang on, we’re not all like that,” Tom said.
“Yes, you bloody are, Tom!” Elle exclaimed. “Rory, he’s just like Max, my college boyfriend, and Bill and Fred and Jeremy, and… all of you!”
“You’re the one who’s been off flirting with Jeremy all day, Elle. You can’t have it both ways.”
“That’s got nothing to do with it.”
“Oh, really,” Tom said, curtly. “I don’t believe you.”
Elle carried on; it was as if a light had gone off in her head. “I can’t believe I never saw it before. You say one thing and you mean something else altogether, and women get the rap for being the inconsistent ones! If I go on a date with someone in New York it’s just a date. We don’t have to get paralytically drunk to snog, and if it wasn’t any good we don’t see each other again.” She thought of Mike, cool, kind Mike, with his Brooks Brothers blazer and his direct, quiet manner. She hadn’t thought of him for hours. “We just—it’s good.”
“Right,” said Tom. He stood still, staring at her for a moment. Then he said, “On behalf of my people—sorry.” He stepped back. “Well—I’m going inside too.”
“Fine,” Elle said. She didn’t know why she was so angry with him, but she had to take it out on someone. “I’m going in a minute, anyway, I think.”
“Right,” Tom said again. “So, I guess—I’ll see you around, Elle.”
“Yep.” She crossed her arms.
He turned to go and then looked back, and said, “No. You know what? You’ve been so odd today. I don’t understand it. Is it New York?” He took a step forward, so he was only a foot away from her, and lowered his voice. “I know this is a difficult day for you, but you’re so different. So… I don’t know, hard to talk to…”
“What?” Elle hissed. Another couple turned and stared at them. “I mean—that’s rich coming from you, the most socially awkward person I’ve ever met. Who are you to say that to me?”
“Who am I?” Tom had followed her onto a dark terrace around the corner. The moon cast a grayish purple light onto the flagstones, but the park beyond them was dark, and the noise from the wedding party, by this time on the other side of
the house, was all but inaudible. “I’m—I’m your friend. Well, I was.”
“We’re not
friends,
” Elle said, shaking her head in fury. “We’re not bloody friends. We hung out for a summer a while back, until you—you made it clear it was over. That doesn’t make us friends, Tom. Anything but. You have no idea how much—”
How much you hurt me
. She trailed off.
“You’re right,” Tom said, smiling a strange smile. His hair was ink-black in the moonlight, his face dark, and he towered over her, even in her heels. “I absolutely adored you once, Elle. ’Cause you were adorable, that summer. But you have, you’ve changed.”
“I HAD TO CHANGE!” she shouted. “You don’t understand!” She was shaking, she thought she might faint with fury. “You’re the one who told me how crap I was! How I drank too much, how stupid I was to moon over Rory! You’re the one who played around with me all summer and then went off and did happy families with your ex-girlfriend! I had to make myself into a better person, be the hardest working, the most organized. I can’t go back to the person I was. Who I am now, I’m… people think I’m great.”
“Oh, get over yourself,” Tom said impatiently. “You’re confusing success with importance. You might have done well but that doesn’t mean we should all bow and scrape when you enter a room. If that’s all you’re interested in, then yeah, you’re right, perhaps you did have to change.”
A tear rolled down Elle’s cheek. “I shouldn’t have come.” She yearned to be back home with a strength that nearly felled her. The miles of land and ocean that separated her from Perry Street, from her beloved New York, from her office with “Senior Executive Editor, Jane Street Press” on the door that she could shut, bury herself away with a manuscript, making everything clean and clear, making the people
in the manuscript do what she wanted, have everything the way she liked.
And then Tom leaned forward and kissed her, just like that. She inhaled, quickly, with surprise, made a little noise in her throat.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” he said. He took her hand, and kissed her again. “Maybe you should have come. Elle, I’m real, I’m standing in front of you now. I have a question, and you don’t know what it is. You can’t take a pencil and cross it out.”
Her lips were still tingling from his kiss. “What is it?” said Elle, leaning back away from him, so she could see his face.
“Come back to my room, Elle. Let’s forget this horrible wedding. Admit defeat, come back with me.”
“No,” she said, and she caught hold of his wrist. “Didn’t you just hear what I said? Tom, that’s a terrible idea.”
“It’s not,” he said. She could hear his breathing, heavy and rapid. He kissed her again. “It’s one night, Elle, you’re going back soon. Come with me instead.”
There was a reason she shouldn’t do it, she knew there was. “I told Mum—”
“Your mum told you not to worry about her and have a good time. I heard her.” Her hands were still on his wrist; he gripped her elbow. “Let’s not let this be like last time. I screwed it up that day you left. I wanted to tell you then—but…” He stopped. “Let’s not go into it now. Are you coming with me?”
She knew it was almost certainly a bad idea, but she didn’t care. “Yes, OK,” she said, suddenly bold. She moved one step to her right, and he followed her. “Let me see your face. I can’t see your face.”
Tom laughed softly and moved to his left. She stared at him for a moment, and then kissed him, wanting him more than anything, wanting this. Her eyes glittered in the dark; her heart
was thumping, blood and adrenaline were pumping through her. He tasted sweet, of wine and something else, she could smell the faint scent of sweat on him. He pulled her against him, furiously for a second, and then took her hand.
“Come with me,” he said.
THEY ESCAPED THROUGH
the dark, deserted corridors of the hotel. Tom held Elle’s hand as they walked for what seemed like an age. It felt strange, they’d never held hands before. They got in the lift, and she pushed herself against him, sliding her tongue into his mouth. He stiffened in surprise, and then pushed back against her, holding her head in his hand. She liked kissing in lifts, it felt bad, naughty, reckless. And this was what this was—a reckless thing to do, and she liked to do it, now and again.