Harriet Evans - Happily Ever After

‘Elle,’ Felicity said firmly, looking down at her jotter. Elle suspected she had her name written down there. Eleanor Bee. Mousy. Moronic. Shy. Skirts too short. Scalded me Monday 1st September 1997. ‘I wanted to ask you something. I noticed earlier, as you were attempting to mop the contents of a paper cup of boiling coffee from my person, that you had the manuscript for Polly Pearson in your bag. Have you read it?’

‘Er …’ Elle was blindsided. She swallowed. ‘Yes, almost all of it.’

‘Did you like it?’

‘Um –’ She hadn’t had time to come up with the apposite, one-line summing-up. Elle cleared her throat and sat on her hands, breathing deeply. She had to tell the truth, otherwise it’d be obvious.

‘Well … I actually quite enjoyed it.’

Felicity frowned. ‘Why?’

Elle fidgeted. ‘It’s romantic, it’s funny, it’s really readable,’ she said, trying to explain.

‘I don’t understand how that’s different from a MyHeart book,’ Felicity said.

‘It’s very different,’ Elle replied. ‘I like MyHeart,’ she added nervously. ‘But they’re … sometimes … maybe they’re a tiny – a bit old-fashioned. Um –’

She slumped down in her chair again, afraid she’d gone too far, but Felicity leaned forward. ‘Go on.’

‘Well, one of the last MyHearts I had to check over, the nurse who had the affair with a doctor had a baby by him and she ran away and never told him because of the shame and now he’s all wounded and thinks she hates him,’ Elle said. ‘That wouldn’t happen nowadays. If I got knocked up by someone at work, you know –’ she waved her arms around, getting into her stride, ‘say Jeremy, I wouldn’t go into hiding, I’d say, “Er – hey, Jeremy, what are we going to do about this then?”’ She paused, as Felicity’s eyebrows shot together. ‘Or – or anyone! You know.’ She could feel her old enemy, the blush, spreading over her collarbone. ‘It’s just a bit unrealistic. Like a Ladybird fairy story where everything’s fine in the end. Women aren’t idiots. I mean, those books are really good, but …’ She trailed off again. ‘That happy ending business – it’s all a bit contrived. I don’t ever believe it.’

‘You don’t believe it?’ Felicity smiled, and her eyes searched Elle’s face. ‘How unromantic of you, Elle, what terrible talk for a young girl.’

It wasn’t true either. The truth was, Elle wanted to believe in happily ever after, more than anything. But to admit it would be to discount what she knew to be the real facts of life. So she didn’t know how to reply to this, didn’t know how to admit that she longed, secretly, to have her perspective changed, by something or someone, she didn’t know which.

‘Look at Princess Diana,’ she said eventually.

‘Diana, Princess of Wales,’ Felicity said, correcting her sharply. ‘She was never a princess in her own right, merely by marriage. A fact she would have done well to remember. She is not the example I’d choose, Eleanor.’

‘But she –’ Elle began, then saw they had veered way off territory. ‘I just don’t like stories where it’s obvious who they’re going to end up with. Real life’s just not like that.’

Felicity shook her head, as if she didn’t know what to do with Elle. ‘Well, I’ll believe you, though I do think that’s sad, dear. Everyone needs some escapism, now and again. What about Georgette Heyer? Do you like her?’

A childhood of Saturday mornings spent at the Shawcross library, reading while her librarian mother stamped books and made recommendations, meant Elle knew Georgette Heyer’s name. She said, ‘I’ve heard of her. I’ve never read her.’

Felicity looked absolutely astonished. ‘What? You’ve never read Georgette Heyer?’

‘No, sorry.’

‘I am amazed. Never read Georgette Heyer. My God.’ Felicity bowed her head as if she were a medium, acknowledging Georgette Heyer’s spirit in the room. ‘She is, quite simply, the best. Jane Austen would have liked her.’ She breathed in slowly through her nostrils. ‘And I do not say that lightly.’ She reached behind her and handed Elle a copy of Venetia . It was a seventies paperback with a view of a girl in a cornfield. ‘Take this. I am dumbfounded you haven’t read her. You, of all people.’

‘Why me?’ Elle said, biting her finger nervously.

‘Well, Eleanor, you won’t remember, but I was impressed with you at our interview. You had opinions about books. And you were enthusiastic. That –’ Felicity stabbed a pencil into her jotter, ‘is a very good thing. Don’t lose it.’

You won’t remember. Elle wanted to laugh. ‘Thank you!’ she said, her face lighting up with pleasure.

‘Go away and read that. What a treat you have in store. Now, I’ve gone off-piste again. One of the pleasures of discussing books, I’m sure you’ll agree.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Back to business. Polly Pearson . Why’s it so marvellously different?’

Confident now, Elle spoke in a rush, the words tumbling out of her. ‘Well. It’s about someone near my age, living in London, having fun, trying to sort her life out, and she likes watching Friends and ordering takeaways and even though it’s not the best book I’ve ever read, I know about five people who’d like it, and we’ve not had anything like that at Bluebird before.’ Elle wanted Felicity to like it, she didn’t know why, other than that she wanted Rory to be able to buy it and she wanted him to be pleased with her. She delivered the killer line. ‘After all, you always say if when you’re reading it you can think of three people you know who would like the book then you should definitely publish it.’

The dark green eyes – so like her son’s, Elle had never noticed it before – were scrunched up tight. ‘Hm,’ she said, and Elle detected a note of uncertainty in her tone. ‘Very interesting. I’ll be honest with you, Eleanor. Rory wants us to bid for it. He wants us to go to £200,000, blow the other offers out of the water. He says it’ll show everyone Bluebird can compete at the top. But it’s a hell of a lot of money …’

She trailed off and stared thoughtfully at Elle. ‘This Bridget Jones vogue, it’s lasting much longer than I suspected. Bridget Jones in New York. Bridget Jones Moves to the Countryside . And I’m afraid I simply don’t get it.’ She sighed; a shadow passed over her face. ‘Rory thinks I’m past it, that I can’t spot a good book when it’s right under my nose,’ she said unexpectedly.

Elle wanted to reassure her. ‘Look, like I say, it’s not completely fantastic. Perhaps it’s a bit cynically done.’ She stopped, and realised this was true. ‘And the characters are cardboard thin, like she read some other books like it and thought, “I can knock one of these off myself.” But I still enjoyed it.’

Felicity’s eyes gleamed. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘That is what I wanted to hear. Thank you.’

Elle smiled with relief. ‘Oh – good. Um – is that all, Miss Sassoon?’ she asked politely.

‘Yes, dear,’ Felicity replied. She got out her Dictaphone. ‘Libby. Email to Rory Sassoon, Posy Carmichael …’ She pressed the Pause button. ‘Read Georgette Heyer. Let me know how you get on.’ She made a shooing gesture, and Elle shot out of the cool dark office, shutting the door gently behind her.

‘How did it go? Are you clearing out your things?’ Libby asked, sotto voce, as Elle sank into her chair.

‘No, it was OK.’ Elle’s shoulders felt as though they’d sunk four inches lower with relief. ‘She just wanted to ask about that Polly Pearson book.’

‘Hope you told her it was total rubbish,’ said Libby.