Happily Ever After (34 page)

“Mum might disagree with you,” Elle said. “I sometimes think she wishes things had turned out differently.” She spoke carefully. “Her life—it’s—you know. It’s been hard for her.”

To her surprise, her father put his hands on hers, a very un-Dad-like gesture. “Forget about her, Ellie. You worry about her too much, always have done. I wonder sometimes, ah—well, I wonder if something is missing. Now this is none of my business—” A light perspiration glowed on his smooth forehead as he spoke. “But I think New York sounds like a wonderful plan. And I think if they offer it to you, you should go. Why?” He held up one hand, forestalling her question. “I think a change would do you good.”

Elle watched him carefully. “I think Mum thinks it’s a stupid idea,” she said.

John squeezed her hand. “Your mother is selfish,” he said sadly. “She is, Elle. She has problems, I know, but she’s often not very nice.” The words were so simple, it was strange. “I’m sorry to say it, but I think she’s using you, and you can’t see it.”

“She’s got loads on,” Elle said. “That’s why she said she doesn’t want any more alimony, you know?” She wanted him
to believe her. “Things are going well with Bryan, and the textiles business, she and Anita have all these plans—” She hated the way her father was so hard on her mother. “She’s the one who’s too busy to see me, Dad, honestly.”

He smiled. “I don’t believe everything she says, I’ve learned not to.”

“How would you know? You never speak to her,” Elle said hotly.

They were both silent.

“Do you want to know why they canceled the wedding?” John said. He raised his head a little, like a general, the morning of the final battle.

Elle held her breath, bit her lip, and nodded. “Yes,” she said quietly.

Her father said in a monotone, “They went to stay with her for the weekend. She’d forgotten they were coming. They had an argument. She scratched their car with her keys. Ran around it scratching the paint. Then she was sick. Then she made them leave. Told them she never wanted to see them again. Some of the things she said—” He shook his head. “To her own son. I can’t believe it.”

It was very strange, hearing her father say those words, to her. Elle breathed in, and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Did they say—do they think she was drunk?”

John rubbed his face, his fingers tightly pressed together, a neat, furious gesture. “She said she wasn’t. I think she was. They weren’t sure, they didn’t see her drinking. She was always very good at hiding it.”

I think she was
… “You weren’t there, though, you don’t know.” Elle held up her hand, defensively. “I know, but maybe they had a big argument and she—well, maybe it’s worse than it sounds. Rhodes and Melissa don’t make much effort with her, Dad.”

Her father’s lips were set in a tight line. “Elle—”

“She doesn’t drink, Dad—she hasn’t for ages, almost a couple of years now.”

“I don’t believe it,” said John. “She’s done this before, too many times.”

“But even if she did—is that really a reason for the way they behaved?” Elle deliberately kept her voice quiet, her tone even. “To cancel everything, leave everyone else dangling, run off to New York and get married there, just to spite her?”

“They weren’t trying to be spiteful. I’ve spoken to Melissa. She wanted everything to be just right. I can appreciate that.”

“I don’t think that’s the way to deal with it. She’s still our mother.” Elle took a deep breath. “Look, Dad, I see Mum more than any of you. At least once, twice a month, OK?” She could feel herself going red. “She used to drink too much, but that was because she wanted to forget about herself for a while. She was unhappy for a long time.” She stopped and looked at him. “I know you didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but neither did she. All I’m saying is, one falling off the wagon isn’t the end of the world. She didn’t kill anyone. She finds Melissa hard to talk to and the fact is, she finds Rhodes intimidating. I hear the way he talks to her.” She downed the rest of her wine and poured herself some more, aware of the irony of what she was doing. “You know what, Dad, he talks to her like you used to. Like she’s worthless, like she’s a piece of shit.”

She found she was shaking. She took another sip.

John watched her. She stared back at him, genuinely intrigued to hear his reply. She never discussed these things with her father. She’d never had him with his back against the wall before either. He’d been either at work, or in the garden, or annoyed in some way, and then he was gone.

He cleared his throat. “OK then. Maybe you’re right,” he said. As if she’d told him it might rain tomorrow. He drew
a finger across the wooden table. “But if you ask me, if they offer it to you, I think you should go to New York. Leave your mum behind.” Then he paused. “I think you’re hiding behind all this, anyway. This isn’t how I thought you’d end up. You’re wasting your life. I think. That’s all.”

She hated the finality of his tone, as though he were standing over the conquered enemy, nodding at his victory. Elle sat on her hands, wondering how to say all the things she wanted to him, and then he looked at his watch. “Shall we have coffee, and then I should be off soon after, if I don’t want to feel the wrath of the A23,” and she knew that was it, her slot with him had come to an end.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE
you’ve never seen
The Godfather
,” said Tom, as they walked along the South Bank. He took a sip of beer from a bottle and inhaled the evening air. It was dark, one of the first slightly chilly August nights, a tiny sign that summer was coming to a close. “How about we head to Gabriel’s Wharf? There’s a great pizza place, just by the river.”

“Fab,” said Elle. “That was absolutely brilliant.”

“What was your favorite bit?”

“‘I don’t want my brother coming outta that toilet with just his dick in his hand,’” Elle said, in her best “fuggeddaboudit” voice.

“Wait till you see
Godfather Part II
,” Tom said. “It’s even better. We should rent the video one evening. It’s pretty long. So maybe one afternoon.”

“Um—that’d be great.”

“How did your interview with Celine go then?” Tom said. He put his hand on her elbow, steering her out of the way of an oncoming Rollerblader. “When did I see you, Thursday? It was on Friday, right?”

“Yep. It was OK. I don’t really know. It’s just—” Elle hesitated. “I’m never sure if she knows what she’s talking about. She asks about books I’ve read and when I tell her, it’s obvious she’s never heard of them. I mean, she’s heard of
White Teeth
and
Harry Potter,
but that’s about it. So how does she know if I’ve given the right answer?”

“I bet you were great,” said Tom. “Anyway, you love talking about books. It doesn’t matter if she’s heard of them or not, it’s whether you sounded convincing. I bet you did.”

“Ready to fly the flag for Bookprint UK and not shag anyone,” Elle said. She shrugged. “Oh, I don’t even know if I want to go or not. I—well, I’ll see.”

“Well, if you’re going to go, go for the right reasons. Celine—well, I think she’s mad, anyway. Just don’t go because you’re running away from stuff.”

Elle stopped underneath some trees. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” said Tom.

“I think running away from stuff’s a very good reason to get away,” said Elle. She bent her neck back, staring up at the starry sky. “To leave it all behind… That’d be great.”

“But it’ll still be there when you come back,” Tom said. “If you don’t sort it out.”

Elle said, “My family’s never going to change. This job’s never going to get any better. My love life’s not going to improve. Libby’s not going to stop winding me up. I feel like… I’m ossifying. And I’m twenty-eight in October. It’s not right. I mean, I’m old, but I’m not that old.”

“Old! You’re still a baby, Elle.” Tom dumped his bottle into a bin. “Come on, hurry up. I’m starving.”

He was in a strange mood that night, Elle didn’t know why. He smiled and laughed, and was as good company as always. But Elle felt he was distant. They sat outside, a faint breeze from the wide, black Thames ruffling their napkins, Elle’s skirt, her hair.

“Everything OK?” she asked him. “You seem a bit quiet.”

Tom put a huge piece of pizza in his mouth, which prevented him from answering. He nodded. “Mmmmhmm,” he said.

“Good. Just—you know. If there’s something you need to talk about. Buddy.”

“Buddy?” He said the word as though he’d never heard it. “Right. Buddy.” He looked up, then down.

Elle was feeling reckless. “We are buddies, aren’t we?” She didn’t know why she said it. She wanted to rock the boat.

“Course we are.” His eyes searched her face. He looked tired, she thought. The summer was dragging on, long, dry, and too hot. She wished autumn was already here. “You’re—we’re, well, this summer, the last few weeks, yes, we’ve become good friends.” He shook his head, then screwed his eyes shut and swallowed.

“Is that all you think we are?” Elle asked.

“What about you?” he said, instantly. “Is that what you think?” She held her breath. He looked as if he were about to say something, then he stopped. “I’m really tired, sorry. I’ve had a bit of a rough weekend.”

“Is everything OK with you and Caitlin?” Elle asked, trying to maintain her calm.

“No, not really. We split up.”

“Oh.” Elle put her fork down. “Oh, my goodness. Tom, I’m sorry.”

“It’s OK, really it is.”

“When?”

“Saturday. It was mutual.”

“Really?”

Tom sighed. He was still wearing his glasses from the cinema, and he took them off, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. His jaw was rigid. “Sort of. We realized it had to end, we both want different things. And I’ve been thinking this summer… about it all.”

She could feel the tension around them. It seemed to warm her in the cold night air. Elle cleared her throat and said lightly, “Are you being polite and saying you dumped her?”

Tom choked with laughter. “I don’t trash talk, Eleanor.”

“Is it permanent?”

Tom looked straight at her. “Yes, it is. It is.”

They were both silent. His phone rang, reverberating on the table, and they both jumped.

“Shit, that’s her,” he said. “She said she might need to speak to me. Can I just—”

“Of course,” said Elle. “Of course.”

He touched her arm. “I won’t be long, I promise. And I want to tell you something when I get back.”

He stood up immediately, and walked out into the horseshoe-shaped piazza, lined with lights from other restaurants. Elle watched him, stalking across the concrete. Her heart contracted a little for him, and she tried to work out why. He was a curious mix of self-sufficient and vulnerable, and it was so transparent. He wasn’t like most other publishing boys: Jeremy, smooth as you like, or Rory, boyishly charming, or Bill, aggressively laddish, all manipulative in their way. Tom just wasn’t. That was why, she realized, she liked him so much.

After a few minutes, there was still no sign of him. Elle sighed. She thought he might be a while. Two weeks earlier, they’d gone for a drink in Chelsea, a small pub on a quiet street that wound towards the river. Caitlin had arrived, out of the blue, and tried to pretend it was a coincidence, though it was obvious it wasn’t.

Elle picked up his
Private Eye,
which had fallen out of his jacket pocket and was on the floor. She opened it up and thumbed through to her favorite section, “Books and Bookmen,” and her eye was drawn instantly down, in that split second where you almost know you’re about to see something before you read it. As she read, her jaw fell open, and it was only when she heard the crumpling crash of glass that she realized her wineglass had rolled out of her hand, onto the floor. When Tom came striding back towards her, shoving his phone into his pocket, he stopped as he saw her expression, the waitress beside her, sweeping up the glass, Elle putting shards into a filthy napkin.

She stared up at him, her eyes full of tears.
“You knew, didn’t you.”

Tom looked down, and went pale.

LONG-TERM OBSERVERS of the goings-on at last-man-standing independent Bluebird Books were amazed when Rory Sassoon, son of The Old Gal Felicity Sassoon, outdid himself, even by his own slimy standards. Sleaze Sassoon shafted her back in December to sell out for ££££ to soulless corp Bookprint, run by The Gazelle, aka Celine Bertrand, worker bee for French megacorp BarQue. One might ask, given Sleaze’s total lack of talent, why he was also promoted to the dizzying heights of deputy MD of the nebulous BBE division. But rumor has it he was more than The Gazelle’s colleague for a good few months prior to the sale. Add to the equation his two-year affair with a junior member of staff, and you start to realize why he doesn’t have any time for work. Current BBE MD Bill “Groper” Lewis is also said to be none too happy, especially since he’s just been rapped over the knuckles for his own “dealings” with another junior ed. Rory spilled the beans to his Lady Boss on that one, and it seems the junior ed had taken her revenge by spilling the beans about his own goings-on in return, to anyone who’ll listen! Heady stuff!