“Very Pollyanna of you,” said Tom. She turned towards him, effectively shutting Rory out. “I’m on the shop floor, Elle. I see great books by brilliant writers come in and they’ve got no support, no money and then some pile of crap by some supermodel gets published and
that’s
what you see on the side of the bus, it’ll never make any real money for the publisher, they don’t have a long-term career like the brilliant author, but it’s shiny and glittery so fine, let’s ignore the good authors and
chase after the gold at the end of the rainbow.” He was breathing hard; his hand gripped his knee.
“If you didn’t have the supermodel book making money for the company then you wouldn’t be able to pay the ‘good’ author, as you call them,” Elle said. “And who’s to say the supermodel book isn’t good too? If I work hard all year and have two weeks’ holiday in Greece I don’t want some pale, worthy, boring book about middle-class people in London sitting round debating their stupid, self-satisfied lives. Sometimes I want a private jet and a hooker drinking champagne.” There was a ripple of laughter; she hadn’t realized it would sound funny. “It’s true,” she said.
“It’s fantasy,” Tom said. “It’s an illusion.”
She laughed. “I have few illusions, believe me. It’s escapism, it’s what reading’s all about.” She stared at him, her brow furrowed. “That’s what we all want. Don’t we?”
“Not all of us—” Tom began, but Celine interrupted.
“This is fascinating, but I wonder if we could focus back on to the topic of the e-books? How will they—”
“Guys!” Rory hissed under his breath, as Celine spoke. “Include me in the debate, OK? I’m still here, you know?”
Elle realized she was almost facing Tom. He bent his head towards her and looked at her, so that only she could see his expression. His gray eyes were dark, his hands clenched on his knees. She shifted back. She’d forgotten how disquieting she found Tom, how funny he could be and then floor her with his intensity, with the way he’d look at her. Suddenly she was back in the hotel corridor, outside his bedroom, feeling his lips on hers, his hands on her body. Her palms were sweating. She wiped them on her black suit. Damn him. He seemed to know what she was thinking and to enjoy disagreeing with her, and it occurred to her then that it had always been this way. She looked helplessly, from him to Rory, her heart racing, and vowed to concentrate on what Celine was saying.
Snap out of it, Eleanor Bee.
“I SHALL HAVE
the steak tartare, and then the mussels,” Felicity said. She put down the menu. “You?”
“Oh.” Elle scanned the sheet. “The Caesar salad, please.”
“No starter, madame?” the waiter asked.
“Ah. The soup.” Elle was annoyed. She didn’t have long, and she didn’t want to get into a multi-course lunch with endless puddings, coffees, and brandies, which she knew Felicity was entirely capable of. She liked a one-course lunch. Anything more made her bloated and drowsy in the afternoon. And she knew what this was about. Felicity was going to offer her some lame job at her publishing venture, and she’d have to be polite and sound interested.
She didn’t know now why she’d agreed to come. A lingering sense of respect? Wanting to remember the old days, just briefly? But mostly she thought she’d not canceled at the last minute because she couldn’t wait to escape the thick-curtained, low-ceilinged confines of the conference suite. Tom was staying on for the sandwich lunch, and Rory seemed determined to keep her by his side, like a sort of good-luck talisman, and she wasn’t about to tell him where she was going. She’d gone to the loo and then made her escape, hurrying out through the gloomy marble-and-granite lobby into the rain.
“I love it here,” Felicity said, looking around the paneled room. “So
French
. Wonderful! One of the great things about working in Shepherd’s Market, you know, the places to eat. Now,” she said, pushing her wineglass out of the way. “You know I’ve invited you to lunch to offer you a job. You weren’t interested before but I keep the faith. May I tell you about it?”
Elle, who was eyeing the bread basket longingly, jerked her head up and said weakly, “Oh, no, Felicity—I’m not—”
“I know you live in New York, but I had heard that you might consider a move back to the UK,” Felicity said.
“Who told you that?” Elle asked. “It’s not true.”
“Aha,” said Felicity. She tapped one side of her nose with a large finger on which was an antique amethyst ring.
“That ring!” she exclaimed. “It’s the same!”
Felicity looked down at her hands rather doubtfully, as if she expected to see Brussels sprouts growing on her fingers. “Why wouldn’t it be?” she said. “I’ve always worn it. Anyway—”
“Just that,” said Elle, trying to veer the conversation away from job offers, “I used to see it every day; it’s just strange, that’s all. Long time ago.” She stared at the ring again; the memories were flooding back.
“Yes, it was.” Felicity’s eyes flashed. “I can barely remember it, if truth be told. So much has happened since.”
“Do you remember the day I threw coffee over you?” Elle said. “It was the worst day of my life.”
“My dear, I remember it very clearly.”
“I thought you were going to sack me.” Elle gave in, picked up a piece of bread and slathered it in butter.
“How ridiculous.” Felicity smiled at her. “I didn’t recognize you at first, and then you started trying to wipe the liquid off my chest, and I saw it was you. I couldn’t remember your name. And then after our chat I thought, ‘That’s the one who’s so good, but she’s never read Georgette Heyer.’”
Elle laughed, and then she said, “I have a terrible confession. I still have your copy of
Venetia
. I never gave it back to you.”
“A book thief, goodness me. Did you read it?”
Elle said earnestly, “Yes, and I loved it, I loved them all, it was the best recommendation anyone ever gave me, and I’ve never thanked you.”
Felicity shrugged. “Well, isn’t that why one lends a book? Isn’t it wonderful, to know you’ve passed something good on?”
“I don’t know that our sales director would agree with you,” said Elle. “He likes people to buy new books.”
“Reading isn’t just about sales, Elle.” Felicity waved to the waiter, for another glass of wine. “You?” she said.
“No—er, no, thanks,” said Elle. “Anyway—I’ll send it back to you. I’m—”
Felicity waved this away. “Please, goodness no. Now,” she went on, leaning forward. “On to business,” she said, carrying on firmly. “I want to offer you the job of Editorial Director, at Aphra Books. Here we are. You’ll have two editors reporting to you. I want you to shape the list. You can be on the board if you’d like; I’d like that. To work with me and the team to take us to the next stage. It’s entirely possible, you know. We’ve had two Richard and Judys and one book shortlisted for the Orange, and we’ve only been in business for four years. But we need more.”
“Of course,” said Elle. “Everyone wants more. Our margins—”
Felicity put her hand on Elle’s. “No,” she said. “We need more good books. That’s all. Picked by someone who loves reading more than anything else, and that’s why I thought of you.”
Elle smiled, and nodded. She didn’t know why she felt so sad. Someone who loves reading more than anything else.
“Where’s Posy?” she said.
Felicity took some more bread. “Oh, she moved to Oxford last year. She needed a change. Dear Posy, but she got so gloomy. She’s working at a small publisher now, very happy I hear. Joined a choir.” She made a small conducting gesture with her hands. “So. What do you think?”
Elle was torn between amusement at this dismissal of Posy and a slight feeling of annoyance that she wanted to suppress. She said, “Felicity, I don’t think you understand. It sounds wonderful, but I’m not looking to move, not at all. My fiancé’s in New York, apart from anything else. We’re getting married in March.”
“Congratulations,” said Felicity, looking up as the starters arrived. “Ah. Wonderful, Pierre.” She started eating, leaving Elle staring into a bowl of anemic-looking soup in silence.
It was a good tactic; after a few moments, Elle said, “So I’m sorry, but it’s really a no.”
“This steak is delicious. I don’t think you’ve heard enough yet.”
Trying not to lose her temper, Elle said, “Like what?”
“Well,” said Felicity. “You’d be working in Shepherd’s Market, after all. It’s lovely.”
“Right,” said Elle. “I was thinking more, what’s the package like?”
“We’d be very competitive,” said Felicity. “I know you’re doing well over there.”
Elle bit her lip. “Felicity, please don’t take this the wrong way, but—er, I run a division.” She thought, not for the first time, that if she were a man she’d just say it, without apology. “I don’t really edit anymore. I manage twenty-five people and I’m on the board. I have a budget of millions. I was hoping my next role would be to be running a company. A big company. Not—” She put her spoon angrily into her soup, and it splattered her. “Not editing books at a tiny start-up. Please, I don’t want to be rude, but I think I should just be honest.”
“You know what this all reminds me of,” said Felicity cheerily, as if Elle hadn’t spoken. “It’s rather like this business with the banks at the moment. I rather agree with those who think we’d be better off as a country if we weren’t this huge global financial center. If people went to… Geneva. Or Berlin. Or New York, for all of that. I’d rather we weren’t as rich and everyone was more equal and we spent more time making good things rather than making money.”
Elle frowned. “What’s that got to…” she began, then she
trailed off. “Right. Well, point taken, but I like things the way they are.”
“No problem, no problem,” Felicity said, waving her fork at her. “Try some of this steak tartare. Have you read
American Wife
? Did you love it? I thought it was marvelous.”
“No—not yet. I don’t have time to read books for pleasure anymore.”
“How sad.”
Elle ignored her, and took a forkful of the steak. It was delicious. She could feel the raw red meat in her mouth, tender and full of flavor, the egg and pepper coating it. She closed her eyes and let the meat melt in her mouth, then reached for another piece of bread. “Maybe I will have a glass of wine.”
“Excellent idea,” said Felicity. “Everything in moderation is good for you, my dear.”
“It’s so funny, sitting here with you,” Elle said. “If my twenty-two-year-old self could see me now, she’d be amazed.”
“You never know what’s around the corner. When Bluebird ended, I was devastated. Thought my life was over. Now I’m glad. Best thing that ever happened, in fact.”
“Really?” Elle couldn’t believe that was true. “The end of Bluebird, the best thing that could have happened? I don’t believe it.”
“Oh yes,” said Felicity. She nodded, smiling, turning the old ring around her finger. “I run my own company my own way now, I can do things the way I like and it usually works out for the best. Most importantly, I found out before I needed to rely on him that I can’t trust my son. I realized I had to look after my own future. And, Elle dear, the end of Bluebird meant the end of your relationship with him, and if only for that it was a good thing.”
Some bread stuck at the back of Elle’s mouth. “What?” she said, coughing.
“Oh, it’s eons ago now. Let’s not dwell on it,” said Felicity. Elle gazed at her, half in horror, half in fascination. “My dear, I’m not stupid. I thought there was
une affaire
but I hoped it was just a flirtation. I worried for you but what could I do? You were easily the kind of girl who’d spend her whole life mooning after someone who didn’t love her, like Posy. He did the same to Posy, you know,” she said, as Elle shook her head, grimly fascinated. “Two, three years and then he threw her over for a literary agent. Poor girl. Never got over it, never. Didn’t want you to end up like that.”
“I didn’t know—” Elle began. “Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? He’s very happy with Libby.”
“Oh, Libby, of course. They’re
perfect
for each other,” said Felicity, with heavy emphasis. She chewed some bread noisily, making a growling sound in her throat. “That girl is the most competitive person I’ve ever met. Wasted her time trying to compete with him, with you, with everyone. Now she competes with other parents. Went into training for the mothers’ race at my granddaughter’s nursery last summer. Told me with pride she was the thinnest woman she knew who’d had children.” Felicity pursed her lips. “Oh, well. What’s sauce for the goose. If Bluebird hadn’t ended, if we hadn’t all had that awful time afterwards, well, all these good things wouldn’t have come of it. So I for one am jolly glad. And I’m glad for you. I’m glad you had the presence of mind to get out.”
“I never thought of it like that.”
“It’s true, isn’t it?”
“It is. And thank you for, well, not saying anything. Only I’m not the kind of girl to moon, honestly. I’m not the kind of girl who’s sentimental about anything, anymore. I used to be, that’s really not me. Don’t worry.”
The waiter took their plates away. Felicity nodded. “Yes,” she said. “It’s a shame in a way.”