Happily Ever After (5 page)

To her secret relief, however, Rhodes obviously felt the same way. He’d gone to college in the States and was now an analyst, working for Bloomberg in New York. The last time she’d seen him was at Christmas at Mum’s, and it had been awful—Mum had been drunk, Rhodes had told her she drank too much and was pathetic and anyone could see why Dad had left her, and then stormed out. Elle hadn’t spoken to him since. Mum always drank too much, but it had got worse, that summer in Skye, as their marriage got worse. Elle never knew what came first, like the chicken and the egg. She only knew their old life, where her parents had seemed OK, was over.

So Elle didn’t wonder what might have happened if her parents had stayed together. She knew the real ending after the ending. She wondered about people like Lizzy and Darcy, or Beatrice and Benedick instead. Often she felt she was the only person who didn’t believe they’d stay together, after the book or the play ended. She couldn’t help it; she just didn’t believe it.

She was pondering this, her knees under her chin, legs wedged against the table, when the door slammed and Alex came in.

“Oh, hi, Elle,” he said, not looking at her, and slamming his man-bag down on the table. “How’s it going? Any luck today then?”

“OK, thanks,” Elle said. “Yeah, I—”

“I’m not staying,” Alex said. “Meeting some guys from work at the pub. Just stopped off to change my shirt.”

“Oh, right,” said Elle, who found Alex’s obsession with sharp Ben Sherman shirts half tragic, half touching.

“Hey.” He stopped and grabbed the paper from her. “Can I just check something? Were you looking at it?”

“At the jobs, but it’s fine, there’s nothing in it,” Elle said, desperate to talk, even if Alex obviously wasn’t interested. “It’s a week old, anyway—”

Alex ignored her and started turning the pages. “Our new print campaign for Cape Town should be in here somewhere, we rolled it out last week and the fucking muppets haven’t sent us any copies yet.”

“But this is last week’s—”

He ignored her, and struggled to turn the pages. “That’s fine. Where is it? Hey! There! How cool is that? Yeah, looks good.”

Elle followed his jabbing finger. “‘Visit Cape Town, for a World of Possibilities,’” she read. “That’s great.”

She nodded politely as Alex talked, and looked down again, her eye caught by something, she didn’t know why. And there, right in the middle of the Travel section, amongst ads for holiday lets in Cornwall and cheap flights to Thailand, she suddenly saw the following:

Editorial Secretary Required for Established
Independent Publishing House
Enthusiastic Self-Starter / Graduate.
Must have office experience
Competitive Salary: £11,000
Please send
curricula vitae
by post to:
Miss Elspeth MacReady
c/o Bluebird Books Ltd, Bedford Square

“What’s that doing there?” Elle asked. She snatched the paper out of Alex’s hand. “It’s—what’s it doing there?”

“Don’t know.” Alex stared at her, annoyed. “Actually, Elle, I was looking at that.”

“Sorry, Alex,” Elle said, clutching the paper to her bosom and looking at him imploringly, almost in a panic: what if he took the paper away, flung it out of the window, how would she get it back? “It’s a job, it sounds perfect…. I don’t know why it’s there, it’s in the wrong place…. Please, let me…” She stared again at the text. “‘Send
curricula vitae
… care of Bluebird Books.’” She bit her lip. “Bluebird Books—I’ve heard of them! They’re proper, they—they’re old!” She ran into Karen’s bedroom and scanned the precariously built IKEA Billy bookcase, crammed full of well-worn blockbusters, their cracked spines stamped with gold. “Yes, I knew it! They publish Victoria Bishop! And… Old Tom! They publish Old Tom. Well, Granny Bee would have been pleased.” She glanced at her watch. It was nearly five thirty p.m. Too late to catch the post. There was no telephone number, either.
No,
a voice inside her head said.
You’re going to go for this. You’re going to do something about this, instead of sitting there feeling sorry for yourself.

Elle bit her lip and marched back to the hall, pulled out a telephone directory, and thumbed through it, kneeling on the ground. Alex came into the hall and watched her.

“Can I have the paper back now, please?” he said, reaching forward.

“No! Just give me ONE SECOND, Alex, PLEASE!” Elle heard herself bellowing. Alex stepped back, annoyed.

“You’re really starting to outstay your fucking welcome, you know,” he murmured.

Elle jabbed her finger on the page, and started dialing. It was a week old, that ad—even if it was in the wrong place, what
were the chances? “I’m sorry, Alex,” she said. “It’s probably hopeless, but I’ve got to give it a go—Hello?”

“Good evening,” said a low voice, a girl’s. “Bluebird Books, how may I help you?”

“Hello—yes. I—er—I just saw an advert in last week’s
Evening Standard
for the job of editorial secretary—I wanted to ask if I could still apply? There wasn’t a closing date.”

There was a silence, and then the voice spoke again, this time even lower, much closer to the speaker. “The job ad? You saw it? You want to
apply
? Oh, thank fuck.” She coughed. “I’m so sorry. I mean, thank goodness.”

“Thank goodness?” Elle was astonished. This wasn’t the reception she was used to. The last job she’d rung up about, an editorial assistant’s job at an independent publisher in Bristol, the man on the line had said, “Sorry, position’s been filled,” and put the phone down, like a scene from a film about the Great Depression.

“You don’t understand.” The girl on the other end sighed, and Elle realized she was around her age, despite the huskiness of her Lancashire-tinged voice. “No one’s applied,” she said quietly. “Not a soul. I don’t understand it. And Miss Sassoon keeps checking, and we have to have someone in soon, otherwise she’ll go totally mad—it’s been a week, a
week,
and nothing! Nothing!”

“Look,” Elle said. “I think I know why.”

“Why? Why what?” The voice rose sharply again.

“Well. The ad’s in the holiday homes section,” she said quickly. “It’s a total fluke I saw it.”

“The
what
?”

“Holiday homes. Between an ad for a nice cottage in Norfolk and a bungalow in the Lizard.”

There was a terrible silence, pregnant with meaning.

“Oh… FUCK,” the voice whispered. “FUCK. She is going to kill me. K.I.L.L.L.L. me. How did I—”

“I don’t think it’s your fault, is it?” Elle said. “It’s the people who do the ads, they put it in wrongly.”

“She won’t see it like that. Oh, God, oh, Jesus,” the voice said. “What am I going to do? That’s why. Oh, Jesus. She’s going to ask me tomorrow. Oh, Christ.”

“Listen here—” Elle said, authoritatively. She nodded to herself.
Go for it!
“Why don’t you get me in for an interview. Eh?”

There was another silence. “Yes,” the girl said eventually, breathing out with a long whistle. “OK, can you come in tomorrow, first thing? She’s not got anything on then, neither’s he. And if you’re rubbish, I’ll just confess and we can do it again so we’ve got someone by the time Posy comes back from holiday. ’Cause she said she’d leave if she came back and they hadn’t replaced Hannah… Man alive.” There was a loud thudding sound.

“What was that?” Elle asked, alarmed.

“I was banging my head on the desk. Look, if you come in,
please
don’t tell Miss Sassoon. Please.”

“Of course I won’t,” said Elle. “Who is she, anyway?”

“You’ve never heard of Felicity Sassoon?”

“No, never.”

“And you want to work in publishing?”

“Yes,” Elle said. “Oh, I really do.”

“Well, you’ve got to get this job. So I’m going to help you. Hold on.” There was some rustling on the line. “Just checking everyone’s gone, it’s Rory’s birthday, they’ve gone to the pub. Well, Miss Sassoon’s father set up Bluebird, ages ago. It’s er, something like the last of the old publishers in Bedford Square and she’s really into that, so go on about that, I did and it worked a treat. You’ll be working for her son, Rory. And Posy, who’s another editor. Rory does crime and young trendy fiction, Posy does women’s fiction, sagas, some of Felicity’s
authors.” She stopped. “I mean, I presume you actually want to work with books like that, don’t you? You want to get into publishing? They’ll ask you what you’ve read lately, all that stuff, if you know any Bluebird authors. Have you got something to say?”

Elle took a deep breath. “Well, I loved
Captain Corelli
and I’m halfway through
Bridget Jones,
plus I’m a huge fan of Victoria Bishop and my granny had all of Old Tom’s Devon stories, but I also studied English at university and my favorite author is probably Charlotte Brontë.”

“Oh, they’ll beat that out of you soon enough, but it’s a start. OK, so next—”

“Hold on,” said Elle. “What’s your name?”

“It’s Libby,” said the voice. “Libby Yates. What’s yours?”

“Eleanor Bee,” said Elle. “But call me Elle, everyone does.”

“Do they now.” The laconic tone was back, and you’d never have known she’d been so flustered. “Hello, Eleanor Bee. On with the tutorial. So…”

JUST UNDER TWO
weeks later, on Tuesday 6 May, Eleanor Bee stood at the bottom of the steps of a big house and stared at the blue enamel sign hanging above her.

“I have confidence,” she muttered to herself. She looked down at her smart charcoal gray trousers—new from Warehouse, on Saturday—and the raspberry pink short-sleeved jumper, at her beautiful soft black Mary Janes with the small heel from Pied a Terre which were only twenty pounds in the Christmas sale and which she was still unable to quite believe were hers. It was a beautiful spring day, and the newly green trees in Bedford Square swayed behind her. In the distance she could hear the clanging of a Routemaster bus bell, but otherwise it was completely quiet. Eleanor climbed the stairs and rang on the front door.

She was so nervous, she felt her knees might give way underneath her. She’d been here before, for her interview the week before last, but it seemed ages ago. Perhaps the whole thing was a huge mistake. Elle couldn’t shake the feeling that she was an imposter—she was standing here only because no one else had applied, and because the terrifying Miss Sassoon, who’d briefly interviewed her, had been impressed that she’d heard of
Forever Amber,
because the only other person she’d seen had been some daughter of a friend of a friend, and she’d never heard of it. Well, Elle had thought, why were you interviewing
the daughter of a friend of a friend? That’s no way to find the best people, surely?

“So you’ve read it?” Miss Sassoon had asked.

“Oh, yes.” Elle was very fond of
Forever Amber
. She’d been reading it during the awful holiday in Skye all those years ago. “I couldn’t put it down. I—I enjoyed it even more than
Gone with the Wind
.”

“That,” Miss Sassoon had said firmly, “is a subject for another day.” Elle thought she’d annoyed her, but Miss Sassoon had smiled and called for Libby to show her out, and then she’d been interviewed by Rory, who was very nice, in his early thirties, friendly and far less scary than his mother, so she’d relaxed and just chatted, and he’d teased her about liking the Spice Girls and then she’d left, and Libby had rung her at home that evening to say thanks. “I think they liked you. I know Rory’s bored of temps and the old lady just wants it sorted out, ASAP. You’re definitely in with a chance.”

And for once that chance was hers. They’d given her the job, and she was here and now—she had no idea what came next. Elle rang the doorbell again, more firmly.