Harriet Evans - Happily Ever After

‘Wow.’ He raised one eyebrow. Elle was impressed, she’d always wanted to be able to do that. ‘Your parents really do hate each other?’

‘Yes. Well, my dad definitely hates my mum. And I don’t think she likes him much, if I’m honest.’

‘That sounds like my parents.’

‘Really?’ said Elle, not knowing what else to say.

Tom nodded. ‘You’re not alone. I mean, I don’t want to sound competitive, but it’s true. Maybe they should get divorced.’

‘They did,’ Elle said. ‘So it’s OK.’ She tried to sound breezy about it, as if it was all fine, but she couldn’t do it. She thought of her mum’s sad eyes, her dad sitting so upright, so tense, the distance between them as they sat on the same sofa.

‘I’m sorry. When?’

‘Oh, ages ago now. I was sixteen when they got divorced. It’s just – I can’t explain it. I don’t ever see them together, we’re never all together, and tonight we were, and it made me see – see things I hadn’t noticed before.’ Her mother’s shaking hands, the orange juice, the Disney World trip, the ring flashing on Melissa’s finger, her brother and father, how they were so angry with Mum, how Mandana just let them be, as if she deserved it, like a dog being kicked by a gang of boys. ‘Sorry,’ she said, simply. ‘I don’t normally think about it much.’

Tom watched Elle. She looked up at him. His jaw was angular, dark with six o’clock shadow, and his grey eyes were kind. He said, ‘Well, that’s something at least. My parents never got divorced, and then my mum died, so my dad was denied the opportunity of cheating on her any more. He was never quite the same again.’

‘Wow,’ said Elle. ‘You win.’

Tom gave a little nod of the head. ‘Glad to hear it. I can play one-upmanship on the sad families any day. The dead mum means I usually win. So cheer up.’ He saw her expression tighten, and said, in a low voice, ‘Hey, I’m sorry. I was only joking.’

‘I know,’ said Elle, shaking her head. ‘It’s just – too many Martinis and no food, after a day editing romance novels. It makes you – a bit nuts.’ She swayed slightly as she stood in front of him.

‘Have a burger,’ he said. He put his hand under her elbow. ‘Here.’ He smiled at the waitress and gestured at the plate. ‘Can I keep this?’

The waitress shrugged. ‘Go crazy.’

‘Eat up,’ Tom continued. ‘Let’s make ourselves really gloomy. Tell me which songs make you cry, childhood pets you’ve lost and the closest you’ve ever come to death.’

Elle laughed. ‘My dog Toogie attacked an otter in a stream and got put down.’

‘That is a depressing story.’

‘Yes. The otter was fine. Not the dead dog. Gosh, I was upset.’

He laughed too, and she thought how nice his face was when he was smiling. How nice he was, in fact. It was strange, being able to chat to blokes without worrying that they might think you fancied them or were making a play for them, because she’d never be interested in them, and she couldn’t ever explain why.

Tom changed the subject. ‘So, you’re editing MyHeart books, then? Do you enjoy it?’

‘Enjoy it?’ Elle was slightly fazed. People never asked her if she actually enjoyed her job. ‘It’s great. I do enjoy it. But you can have too much of a good thing, I suppose,’ she said in a rush. ‘Are you – how’s the – are you still agenting non-fiction?’ she asked awkwardly. ‘I should know, I’m sorry. I don’t deal with a lot of agents yet, not unless they specialise in love stories about doctors and nurses.’

Tom shook his head. ‘Ah, that’s a shame. I do have a submission ready about a doctor and his love for the first female Beefeater, but I guess – not one for you?’

Elle made a mock-sad face. ‘No, sorry.’

‘What about a man with a scabby face and a doctor specialising in skin disorders? Called …’ He trailed off, biting his lip in concentration.

‘ Scabs and the City. Pick Me, Scab .’

‘No. I’ve Got A Flaky Boyfriend .’

Elle gave a snort of mirth, catching wine at the back of her throat. She choked and then coughed, then swilled some more wine. He smiled again. ‘You OK?’

‘Scabs? Beefeaters?’ At the sound of their laughter, Libby turned eagerly back to them. ‘What are you guys talking about?’

‘I was just about to tell Eleanor Bee,’ Tom said, ‘that I’m not an agent any more.’

‘You’re not?’ Elle said.

‘No. As you may have noticed at the sales conference, I was a crap agent. I love books, but I’m no good at looking after authors. I hated evenings like that. I’ve got a bookshop instead.’

‘That’s so great. Where?’

‘Richmond. Just back from the river. It’s quite big, on two floors, and the location’s good, we get passing trade.’

‘Tom’s shop is wonderful, Elle. You should check it out one day,’ Libby said. She put her hand on Tom’s arm. ‘And of course, Tom set up the Dora Trust.’ She nodded at Elle, as if to say, Pretend you know what I’m on about.

‘Oh …’ Elle said weakly. ‘Of course …’

‘You’ve heard of it?’ Tom asked.

‘Yes …’ Elle nodded vigorously. ‘It’s an amazing … trust.’

‘Well, well well,’ came a voice from behind her, ‘what have we here? Number one traitor, Libby Yates, defector to the world of the literary wank? Black-and-white photos of stubbly young male authors a must? Covers with huge block type printed sideways on? Eh?’

‘Oh, go away Rory,’ Libby said, but her eyes lit up and she grinned, and gave him a big hug. ‘How are you? Is it true what they say, that we’re about to buy Bluebird? Will I be your boss this time?’

Rory smiled and pretended to ignore her. He waggled his glass in his hand and looked around, as if noticing Elle for the first time. ‘Hello Elby, where’ve you been? Working the livelong day, eh?’

‘I had … a drinks thing,’ Elle said. He nodded vaguely.

Tom reached out and took Rory’s glass. ‘Hi, Rory,’ he said. ‘Shall I get you a refill?’

Rory looked shocked, as if Tom had tried to mug him. ‘What? Oh, hi, Tom. Thanks, thanks a lot.’

As Tom walked off and Libby turned back to Bill, her boss, Elle whispered to Rory, ‘Rory. What’s the Dora Trust?’

‘Oh.’ Rory rolled his eyes. ‘It’s some prize in memory of Dora Zoffany. Old Ambrose there set it up earlier in the year. It’s to raise the profile of women writers.’ He pronounced it ‘wimmin’. ‘Very PC. He got loads of press for it. And Bookprint’s sponsoring it, guess that’s why Libby’s so keen on him.’ His smile became politely fixed as Tom reappeared.

‘Thanks, mate,’ Rory said, taking the glass off him. ‘Was just telling Elby about the Dora Trust, very exciting, etc. etc. How’s it all going?’

‘Good,’ said Tom. ‘We had a meeting with a PR agency last week. And we’re getting a website, though I’ve no idea what we’ll actually put on it. It’s Greek to me at the moment.’

An agent, a young, wiry guy called Peter Dunlop, plucked at Rory’s sleeve. ‘Rory, hey. How are you?’

Elle scrunched up her nose. ‘Well, we set up a MyHeart database, you’d be amazed how many people have the Internet at home now. Or they just give us their work addresses. We email them once a month to let them know what the new releases are and give them special offers. I know it’s silly, but—’

‘No,’ Tom said. ‘No, that’s not silly at all. It’s great. Why would you think that?’

Elle was embarrassed to find herself blushing. ‘You know, romances, all that. It’s not on a par with –’ She waved her arm round the room. ‘You know.’

Tom smiled in amusement. ‘Are you indicating the Groucho? Or –’ He looked out over the rainy street below, streaked in yellow from the lights. ‘Or the district of London? Or the amazing literary wonderment that is the firm of Eyre and Alcock?’