Harriet Evans - Happily Ever After

She nodded vigorously. ‘Tobias Scott the agent? He’s coming?’

‘Yes.’ Rory said, as they walked down a corridor decorated with fairy lights and a huge sign saying, Welcome to the World of Bluebird . ‘He’s being a right slippery old bastard at the moment. I need to corner him.’

‘Why, what’s he done?’ Elle liked hearing about things like this.

‘They’ve asked for much more money for the new John Rainham contract. Felicity wants to go on with him, of course. I want to tell them to – oh, there’s Emma. I need to talk to her too. Get working.’ He patted her shoulder and wandered off.

Typical Rory. Elle rolled her eyes and turned into the first room, where a pink banner hung outside reading, MyHeart. Enter the Land of Happy Endings . Inside, a few guests stood around with glasses of champagne and in the centre of it all, a beautiful man with no top on, surrounded by women. ‘They are releasing the calendar early this year,’ he was saying. ‘To fulfil your needs , that’s what I haff said.’

Elle stared at him. This must be Lorcan, the famous male model they used on MyHeart’s covers. Lorcan got about fifty letters a week; Elle knew because she had to forward them on to his manager. He had long, thinning, crunchy blond hair and an aquiline nose. His chest was totally hairless – she looked at it suspiciously.

‘Well, I’m very grateful to you, I must say,’ one of the ladies, short and plump and wearing a silver sequinned jacket, was saying. She licked her lips. ‘I always tell people, without you on the cover, no one would buy any of my books!’

Next to her, a rather harried-looking Posy said automatically, ‘Oh, come, Abigail, that’s just not true! Elle, there you are! Come over here, meet some people,’ she cried with a mixture, Elle thought, of relief and annoyance. Posy was often annoyed with you, even if you’d just arrived in the room – you should have been there earlier, or not at all, or something. ‘This is my wonderful secretary, Eleanor,’ Posy said. ‘This is Abigail Barrow, Elle.’

Elle blushed. Abigail Barrow was one of MyHeart’s biggest authors, and a notorious cow. But she wrote the most hilarious sex scenes, and Elle and Libby often took it in turns to read them out on slow afternoons when everyone was still out at lunch. She was very keen on two things: animals and sex noises. Her heroes always grunted, her heroines always moaned in ecstasy. She and Libby had a favourite sentence, culled from a particularly ripe episode in An Engagement with Heartache , when Lady Anthea is receiving attentions from Lord Rockfort: ‘ With a strangled grunt he knew her then, like a neighing stallion knows his sweet lady mare. ’ ‘How well do I know you?’ they’d ask each other. ‘Oh, about as well as a neighing stallion knows his sweet lady mare, thanks,’ and then fall over with hilarity.

‘And here’s Nicoletta Lindsay, and this is Regina Jordan.’

Three authors all in one place; Elle shook hands with them each in turn, politely, trying not to stare, but she couldn’t help secretly feeling slightly disappointed. She’d expected them to be shinier, glowing with some secret creative juice that made them more beautiful, more glamorous, somehow. Regina Jordan wasn’t even a woman; he was a short balding man wearing a blouson leather jacket. He turned away from Elle, addressing Abigail Barrow.

‘I didn’t know you’d been nominated for—’

‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ Elle said to Nicoletta Lindsay, who gave her a thin smile. ‘So, how did you—’

But the sound of a gong, growing louder, came down the corridor, and Floyd appeared in the doorway. ‘Dinner is served,’ he announced.

Lorcan took the lead. ‘Let us leave, ladies,’ he said and held out his arms.

Upstairs, Elle was looking at the seating plan. She flinched in shock as someone pinched her arm.

‘Come here,’ said Rory quietly. She turned round. ‘I’ve moved you,’ he said in her ear.

She could feel his breath on her cheek, and she shivered. ‘Why?’ she whispered. She caught sight of the two of them in the window nearby: her in her floaty grey dress, he in black, whispering in her ear, illuminated by the candles on the tables, like a scene from a story.

‘I was next to Tobias Scott, and the old bastard hasn’t come. He’s sent his son along instead. And I’m not wasting my seat on Tom Scott, he’s absolutely useless. Plus the table’s miles away. So I’ve shifted it around. You can go next to him.’

‘But you’ll be on the—’

Rory shook his head impatiently. ‘It doesn’t matter. Just go and sit down, will you? Table Three, I’ve moved your name card.’

Elle shrugged her shoulders. Fine. If Rory would rather end up on the MyHeart table listening to Lorcan talk about his 1999 calendar than sit next to Tobias Scott’s replacement for the evening, well, his loss. She weaved her way back to table three, as Felicity, resplendent in gold satin, her hair even more magnificently bouffant than usual, sailed through the crowd towards the top table, escorted by the famous Old Tom, here in person, thin, bearded and bent nearly double.

‘Good evening!’ Felicity was saying to everyone, as though she were Queen Victoria at the Great Exhibition. ‘How lovely to have you here. Thank you for coming. Hello!’

Elle found her place and sat down. ‘Hello,’ she said to the man next to her. She looked at his place name. Tony Rooney . ‘Lovely to meet you.’

Tony Rooney nodded and stared into space.

‘So, then …’ said Elle. ‘What do you do?’ She realised she was unconsciously channelling Felicity.

‘I’m the London rep,’ Tony replied, putting down his pint and staring at her. ‘And who are you?’

Elle was discomfited. ‘Oh. Sorry. I’m Elle, I’m Rory and Posy’s secretary,’ she said.

‘Oh, right,’ said Tony. He gripped his tankard and took another gulp, staring morosely into space.

A couple of other people sat down opposite them; Elle looked at Rory, laughing with the MyHeart authors she should have been sitting with, his hand on Posy’s shoulder. Posy was glowing like a Christmas tree. Elle shrugged, trying not to seem disappointed. She had been looking forward to this evening for weeks, but so far the reality was quite different. It was like the evening version of job hunting, where no one is interested in you and the party seems to be happening at another table.

‘So you’re Rory’s substitute, then,’ someone said, on her other side. ‘I wondered who he’d get to swap with him.’

Elle turned round. There was a man next to her, about Rory’s age, maybe younger. He had dark hair, cropped short, and he was tall and angular; his evening dress hung off him, as if made for a larger man. ‘Oh – no, I think the table plan was wrong,’ she lied. ‘I’m Elle, Rory’s secretary.’

‘Hello, Elle,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘I’m Tom Scott.’

‘Hi, Tom,’ Elle said. There was a silence again, and she said desperately, ‘And what do you do?’

‘I’m an agent,’ he said, looking at her slightly irritably. ‘I work with my father, Tobias Scott.’

‘Oh,’ said Elle, enlightenment flooding over her face. ‘Of course.’

From their table, which really was situated in the most distant corner of the vast room, Tom Scott stared out over the massed crowds. ‘I’m not nearly important enough for Rory to waste his time on,’ he said. He took another sip of his wine.

He was kind of rude, Elle thought; there was something she didn’t like about the awkward way his jaw clenched, how his grey eyes narrowed as he scanned the room. Like he simply didn’t want to be there. Libby was next to Paris Donaldson, who was alternately tossing his hair and whispering in her ear. She caught Elle’s eye and winked at her and Elle winked back, trying to look as though she was having the best time of her life, that her corner of the room was a veritable Annabel’s, champagne flowing, gay laughter, wacky fun.