Harriet Evans - Happily Ever After

‘I’ll try you as well. Thanks for coming, Ambrose.’

‘Ambrose?’ Elle said, more to herself, picking a grape off its stalk.

Tom ignored this. ‘Bye, then,’ he said, and walked away.

‘Why’d you call him Ambrose?’ Elle stood up, feeling a bit dizzy.

Rory laughed. ‘That’s his real name. Hilarious, eh? Changed it when he went to university. His mother knew mine, I used to have to play with him when we went for lunch there, he was a total square, really holier than thou.’

‘I felt a bit sorry for him,’ Elle heard herself say, to her surprise. She watched Tom walk towards the exit, unnoticed by anyone except her, his thin shoulders hunched, his expression dark.

‘Don’t,’ said Rory. ‘I can say this ’cause I know what it’s like. Loathes the job, loathes himself. I just want to shout “Get a Life” whenever I see him. Anyway, forget about Tom Scott. What’s going on?’

Elle shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Is there anything that needs doing? Anyone I need to look after?’

‘Me,’ said Rory, and he put his arm round her. ‘Let’s get another drink. Jeremy’s settling in at the bar over there. Come on.’

It was about one thirty when Elle looked around the room and realised she was, now, way too drunk to be out any more. Four years in Edinburgh had taught her many things, possibly the most useful of which was that she knew she could drink up to a certain point, but after that never did anything interesting like dancing on the bar with her top off or snogging random strangers. She would merely fall over and then probably be sick. The disco had started at eleven and was still going strong; Jeremy was singing along to the Proclaimers and dancing with Oona King. Floyd and a few of the reps were standing around in a circle, pints in hand, tapping their feet to the music and eyeing up various people. Posy and Loo Seat, aka Lucy, were having an intense conversation in a corner about something that involved them stopping to drink more wine and hug each other every few minutes, both with tears in their eyes.

Elle was standing at the bar with Rory, Joseph Mile – the reference books editor – and Sam. They were talking about their favourite books. ‘Your favourite book is Live and Let Die ?’ Joseph Mile was astonished. ‘I must say I’m surprised, even for you, Rory.’

‘Well, it’s just a bit of fun, isn’t it?’ Rory said. ‘It’s a bloody great book. What’s yours?’

‘I struggle between Felix Holt , The Radical , or Jude the Obscure ,’ said Joseph Mile, pushing his fingertips together. ‘Probably the latter.’

How can he be this sober ? Elle thought. She shrank against the counter, hoping he’d ignore her.

‘And you, Sam?’ Joseph Mile said.

‘ Autumn of Terror ,’ Sam said promptly. ‘It’s the best book there is on Jack the Ripper. It is amazing.’

‘Oh.’ Joseph Mile looked as though someone had just presented him with a bucket of vomit. ‘Hm. Elle? You have a favourite book?’

Elle put her hand on the sticky bar surface to steady herself. She couldn’t think of what her favourite book was, all of a sudden. She racked her brains. ‘ Jane Eyre ,’ she said, which was partly true and also because, the previous Saturday evening, she and Libby had rented the video of the newest version starring Ciarán Hinds. ‘Ah,’ said Joseph Mile, drawing a deep breath to expound further. ‘How interesting.’ Next to him, Rory watched Elle, a strange expression on his face.

‘She’s the best heroine –’ Elle began, feeling she ought to expound on exactly why Jane Eyre was a good book. Then she heard herself and stopped. It was suddenly too hot in the room; Elle put her hand to her forehead. ‘The red-room,’ she muttered, turning away from Joseph and Rory towards Sam. ‘The red-room.’

‘What?’ said Sam.

‘Sam, I have to … I’m going … go home.’

Sam nodded enthusiastically. ‘Cool, cool.’

‘I’m getting to go a cab, Sam?’ Sam nodded again, and Elle shook her by the shoulders, intently. ‘Sam! I’m getting to go a – getting to go a cab! Listen. You come with me?’

‘I’m going to stay a bit,’ Sam said happily.

‘You sure? You can come with me.’

‘Sure.’ Sam looked at Jeremy, who was now dancing to Stevie Wonder. She waved at him, and he waved back at her, then at Elle: Elle blushed. Rory caught her eye and smiled. ‘Think I’m going to stay,’ Sam said. ‘See you later.’

‘OK, well, OK then.’ Elle raised her hand. ‘I’m off.’

‘Bye,’ said Sam. Joseph Mile raised his eyebrows very delicately. Rory kissed her cheek.

‘You be all right?’ he said.

Another flush of heat and wine flooded through her. She needed to get out. ‘Yes, yes,’ she said, almost impatiently, and she went downstairs gingerly, her feet now aching in her shoes.

It was a wet, cold night as Elle emerged into a rubbish-strewn side street in Soho. The rain was slick on the ground, and it was eerily empty. She shivered, and looked back up at the lights of the house, still blazing in the dark. She wasn’t quite sure where she was, she still found Soho extremely confusing, so she set off to walk towards what she hoped was the direction of Regent Street.

Her heels clicked on the splashy streets. She pulled her coat tightly around her. There was a noise behind her, and she heard someone running.

‘Hello?’

Elle kept on walking, slightly faster, and didn’t turn round. ‘Hey – Ello?’

Were they saying Elle or Hello? She couldn’t tell. Elle started to trot.

‘Come back!’ The footsteps were almost behind her.

‘Elle! Eleanor Bee!’

She stopped and turned around, as the person caught up with her.

‘Rory?’ she said.

‘I came down to make sure you were OK,’ he said. ‘Suddenly occurred to me I shouldn’t be letting my employees stride off on their own. Especially when—’

‘I’m not drunk!’ Elle said indignantly.

Rory changed the subject. ‘I saw you leave and I know this is a dead end –’ He gestured ahead of him, and Elle saw that the space she’d hoped was a passageway was in fact an entrance to an office block.

‘Oh –’

He steered her back down the road, and turned left again.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Elle, embarrassed, as they walked through the quiet street. ‘I’ll be OK from here. You can go back.’

‘I was leaving anyway,’ said Rory. ‘It’s fine, honestly.’

There was an awkward silence, as Elle tried to think of something to say, not fall over on the cobbles, and not be hopelessly drunk in front of her boss. Eventually, they turned into another street.

‘We’re on Wardour Street,’ Rory said. ‘Here we go.’ He stuck his hand out. ‘I’ll see you part of the way, is that OK?’

‘Sure, sure –’ said Elle, as Rory opened the door to the cab and she climbed in. ‘Aren’t you – don’t you live the other way, though?’

‘I’m staying in Notting Hill with some friends,’ he said, climbing in after her. ‘I’m having my kitchen done.’

She turned to look at him as the cab moved slowly off. ‘Well, thanks,’ she said. ‘Thanks a lot. You’re good boss.’

‘Am I?’ Rory smiled down at her, his face dark in the cab. She knew his face so well, knew him so well, how he drummed his fingers on any spare surface, how he looked vague when trying to get out of things, how his mouth curled to the side when he was making a joke. But she’d never sat this close to him before, because he was her boss. It didn’t feel like that tonight. It was as if they were different people. It was nice. Rory was nice, but then, she’d always known that.