Harriet Evans - Happily Ever After

She turned the corner and checked her watch. It—

‘AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH! OH, MY GOD!’

Elle had bumped into something, and the shock made her fingers squeeze together, popping the plastic lid off her cup and pouring scalding coffee into the air.

‘My – God!’

‘Shit!’ Elle cried, seeing her coffee everywhere, all over this large bulky shape, which she realised was a person, a woman. It stared at her, blazing anger in its green eyes, and she felt her bowels turn to liquid. Oh no. Noooo .

‘What on earth,’ Felicity Sassoon bellowed, brown liquid pouring down her face, ‘are you doing, you stupid little girl ?’

Passers-by on the wide pavement ignored them as Elle dropped her bag and croissant to the ground, and started dabbing at Miss Sassoon, who stood still, dripping with coffee, her huge bouffant grey hair flattened, her pale blue tweed jacket stained with brown. She resembled an outraged plump exotic bird stuck in London Zoo during a downpour. Elle ineffectually patted her, blotting the coffee with her thin brown Pret napkins. She reached her chest, and was about to start there, but Miss Sassoon pushed her away, furiously.

‘Clumsy creature,’ she said. ‘Get off me.’ She looked at Elle properly for the first time. ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she said. ‘It’s you.’

‘Yes …’ said Elle. ‘I’m so … I’m so sorry … Miss Sassoon …’

Felicity Sassoon stared at her, and her eyes narrowed. Elle stood still, the feeling in her stomach confirming what she’d known since she’d woken up.

This was going to be an awful day.

SHE’D ESCORTED FELICITY to the office, into the care of Elspeth, who nearly fainted with alarm when her great leader had appeared stained and bedraggled, the damp residue of coffee-stained napkin clinging to her jacket and skirt, and Libby, who had rolled her eyes at Elle, as if to say, What the hell have you done now? After everyone else had gone back to work, Elle turned on her computer and then, telling Libby she was off to get something from the stationery cupboard, she escaped to the Ladies, where she cried for what seemed like hours but was in fact only a few minutes. She would be fired. Felicity would ring up everyone in publishing and warn them against hiring her. Probably she was doing it now.

When she’d finished, Elle went to the sinks, wiping her nose and staring at herself in the mildewy old mirror. She looked awful: red eyes, red nose, still puffy and ravaged from a weekend of crying and drinking. She rinsed her face with cold water and patted it dry, because that was what heroines always did in novels when they’d had a shock, but it just made her face even redder than normal and took off the Boots concealer she’d so carefully applied to the spot on her cheek. She looked down at the newly laundered towel on the handrail: it was streaked with light brown.

She was just giving another shuddering sigh, when there came a knock at the door.

‘Elle?’

It was a man’s voice. ‘Hello?’ she said suspiciously.

‘Elle, it’s me, Rory. Open the door.’

‘No,’ Elle said, not knowing why.

‘Come on. I wee in the men’s loos, don’t worry. Open the door.’

Elle unlocked the bathroom door and Rory’s head appeared. ‘Dear me,’ he said, looking at her shiny red visage with alarm. ‘What on earth’s wrong?’

Elle burst into tears again. ‘Coffee … Miss Sassoon furious … Poor thing … a punk outside Buckingham Palace, he brought flowers …’

‘What? Who brought flowers?’

‘The punk, he came straight from a night out clubbing and left a wreath.’ She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘I cried all day, those poor boys … oh. Then this morning … wasn’t looking where I was going … I probably scarred her, I’m so stupid.’ Elle sobbed, her hands over her face.

Rory patted her arm comfortingly. ‘It was an accident, Elle. Felicity’s fine. The jacket’s at the dry-cleaner’s already and Elspeth’s bought her some more Elnett, so everything’s OK. Don’t take on so.’

Elle cried even louder. ‘Oh, God,’ Rory said, squeezing further into the tiny bathroom and putting his arm round her. ‘What on earth have I said now?’

‘Granny Bee always said, “Don’t take on so,”’ Elle told him, staring up at him. ‘It just reminds me of her, and she’s dead now too … oh …’

Rory squeezed Elle’s shoulders and smiled. ‘Well, she was right. Elle, please don’t cry. I hate seeing you like this,’ he said solemnly. ‘Now, dry your eyes, and come back out. Felicity wants to see you.’

Elle felt as if ice had been poured down her back. ‘Oh. No,’ she said.

‘It’ll be about Polly Pearson , don’t worry. She’s not going to yell at you.’

Elle didn’t believe him.

‘It’ll be fine,’ Rory said. ‘Trust me?’

‘Yes.’

‘There you go. Don’t look so dramatic, sweetheart.’ He bent down and kissed her, only on the top of the head, but Elle stiffened.

‘I’m OK now,’ she said, and stepped away, trying not to blush.

‘Sorry,’ Rory said easily, after a tiny pause. He patted her arm. ‘I was channelling your granny again. That’s the kind of thing grannies do, isn’t it? I have no idea. Mine ran off with a bearded lady from the circus when I was a young boy. Ready?’

‘Er, sure,’ said Elle. She wished she had some powder – her face was gleamingly shiny – but if she was about to get fired perhaps it didn’t matter. She held her head up high and marched out of the loo, followed by Rory, past an astonished Sam.

‘Don’t let her boss you around,’ Rory whispered in her ear. ‘Good luck, kid.’

Elle knocked on the door. It’s fine, she told herself. I hate it here anyway. I’ll leave and work in a bookshop, and I’ll never have to read another stupid romance novel again.

She knew as she thought it that this was a total lie. That she didn’t mind the monotony of photocopying, the fear of failure, if she could just stay a while longer. She liked it here. She liked the feel and smell of a brand new book, fresh from the printer’s, Jeff Floyd the sales director’s shout of joy when Victoria Bishop went Top Ten, the notion that, unlike school, you went somewhere every day and you wanted to be there so you worked hard, you even enjoyed being bottom of the class, because one day, just one day, you might get better.

‘Come,’ the voice from inside the office boomed, and as she opened the door, Elle was surprised bats and grovelling henchmen didn’t fly out to greet her.

She peered inside. ‘Ah, Eleanor,’ Felicity Sassoon said, behind her vast mahogany desk. ‘Come and sit down.’

‘Miss Sassoon – I’m so so sorry,’ Elle began, shutting the door behind her. She sat down and took a deep breath. ‘Are you – all right?’

‘Yes, of course I’m all right,’ Felicity said impatiently. She fiddled with the ring that was always on the second finger of her left hand, a huge antique amethyst in a claw setting. She was wearing a different jacket. Elle’s eye strayed to the locked cupboard behind her, containing, she knew, the fully designed layouts of the Illustrated Queen Mother Biography , ready to go to press the moment the Queen Mum died. No one had seen inside it for years. What else did Felicity have in there, aside from several Harris Tweed ladies’ jackets? A policeman’s uniform, a sexy maid’s outfit?

Elle blinked. Felicity wasn’t the kind of person who you imagined having a romantic life. Though she had been married to Rory’s father Derek, no one knew his surname, and she was always referred to as ‘Miss Sassoon’. Office legend had it that Felicity had given Derek a heart attack, and that, according to Jeremy, ‘He was glad to get away from her. Died with a smile on his face.’