Happily Ever After (6 page)

“Helloooo?” an elderly voice said into the intercom.

“Hello? It’s Eleanor… Eleanor Bee. It’s my first day, I’m Rory and Posy’s new secretary, they told me to get here for ten…?”

“First floor. Please commme innnn….” the intercom said in querulous tones.

Elle climbed the wide stairs to the first floor and at the top she pushed open a swinging door to be greeted by Elspeth MacReady, office manager, wiping her hands on her skirt, and bending double, her rheumy eyes darting unhappily about her.

“Good morning, Eleanor,” she said formally. “Good to see you again. Welcome to Bluebird Books. Mr. Rory is in a meeting. He asked me to get you settled in. Here we are.”

Elle looked around her, taking it all in once more. A real-life publishing house. Where people made books, all day. And she was here, she was one of them! What a magical place! Strung out across the oatmeal carpet on the huge first floor were a collection of yellowing wooden desks surrounded by wall dividers, graying filing cabinets, and books. There were books everywhere, on shelves, in piles on floors, spilling out of cardboard boxes. It was strangely at odds with the beautiful old wood paneling on the walls, the four or five old portraits in gilt frames. She could see Bedford Square in the sunshine from the huge windows.

“Do you know where you will be sitting?” Elspeth asked. “Has anyone explained to you the rules for the kitty, or about the keys?”

“No,” said Elle. “I only really—I met Rory briefly and then—”

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear.” Elspeth shook her head. “Someone should have told you—” She sighed, and her long thin frame shuddered.

“I’m sorry,” Elle said.

“It’s fine. Now. Where to start. Firstly, each employee is issued with a key. This key is extremely important. The last person to leave the building at night turns the lights off and locks the front door with the key.”

“Yes…?” Elle said weakly. “Then what?”

“Well, that’s it,” Elspeth said. “But it’s
very important
.”

“Of course.”

“And we ask that people, if they wish to join, contribute two pounds a month to the kitty for tea and coffee, and Miss Sassoon
very kindly
provides biscuits.”

“Right,” said Elle. “And…?”

“Well, that’s also it,” said Elspeth. “For the moment,” she added, firmly. “Ah. Here is your desk. And this is Libby. Have you met already?”

“Yes,” said Elle, smiling gratefully at Libby, who was typing furiously, a Dictaphone machine next to her keyboard. Libby stopped and took her headphones off, raising a hand in greeting and pushing her dark blond bob out of her eyes. She was wearing Anaïs Anaïs; Elle remembered it from their first meeting.

“Hi, Elle. Nice to have you here.”

Elle looked away from her, blushing as if they had been caught red-handed, like secret lovers. She stared at the desk in front of her. “Oh, my goodness,” she said.

“Is there a problem?” Elspeth asked, panic in her voice.

“I have a phone,” Elle said, unable to believe it. “And a computer.”

“Of course you do,” Elspeth said. She looked at her suspiciously.

A voice from the office behind them boomed, “Elspeth. Come here, please.”

Like a cartoon character, Elspeth shot across the floor. Elle watched her open the old wooden door, saw a flash of a flared dark-pink corduroy skirt, a woman whose hair was swept into a big bun, fat fingers with two massive rings cutting into them, and the big carved wooden desk she’d sat at the previous week for her interview.
Felicity.
“Rory says the manuscript—” she heard, and then the door shut.

“Take a seat then,” Libby said, watching her. “Don’t stand around looking like a lemon.”

“No,” Elle said hastily. She sank down into the scruffy black chair in front of her and put her hands tentatively to the keyboard. There was an empty blue plastic in-box, a shiny black phone with a tangled cord, and a wire pen holder, with four biros and a pencil in it. She stroked the keyboard of her computer, opened the top drawer of the desk. “There are Post-its,” she said, almost to herself. “I have my own Post-its.”

Libby smiled. “You are daft.”

She put her headphones back on and carried on typing. Elle opened the drawers a couple of times and pressed the button on the front of her gray computer monitor. She stared at the shelves by their desks. Trying to look like she had something to do, she reached over and picked some books out. There were old hardbacks, each stamped at the bottom of the spine with a gold bluebird, and lots of paperbacks, most of them pretty old, some green-and-orange Penguins. Lots of Victoria Bishops in hardback, all called things like
To Carry the Night
and
Lanterns Over Mandalay,
lots of Thomas Hodgsons:
Old Tom on Dartmoor, Old Tom’s Springtime, Christmas with Old Tom
… She rolled her eyes. How boring!

There were lots of thrillers. She stood up and picked a few off the shelves.
Funeral in the Bunker,
which had a big swastika across it. Old historical novels, called things like
Katharine’s Promise
and
To Catch a King.
One shelf had a row of copies of the same book,
Quantox’s Dilemma,
the only vaguely new thing she could see anywhere, by someone called Paris Donaldson, with a hilarious photo of the author, in black-and-white, posing looking moodily into the distance. Elle wanted to laugh. He looked a bit like her flatmate Alex.

But it was the bottom shelf that was most alarming. It stretched out on either side of the desks, row upon row of books all with a heart on the spine entwined with the words “MyHeart.” Elle’s eyes nearly popped out as she read the titles.
He Was a Sheikh… She Was a Nurse. My Lord, My Captor. The Dastardly Duke’s Revenge. Devil in a White Coat.

“Oh, my goodness…” Elle whispered, trying not to laugh. “Libby… what’s MyHeart?”

Libby looked up at her, and then took off her headphones again with a sigh. “What?”

“What’s MyHeart?” Elle pointed.

“Our romance list. We publish two a month. Posy’s in charge of it.”

“So… I’ll have to work on those books then?”

“Er—yes.” Libby raised an eyebrow. “Why, is that a problem?”

Elle blushed. “No, of course not! It’s just… they’ve got such funny names, don’t you think?”

“MyHeart is the most successful part of the company, apart from the four big authors,” Libby said. “I wouldn’t make fun of it anywhere near Felicity, if I were you.”

Elle flushed with shame, feeling perspiration flowering on her forehead, under her armpits. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” How stupid she sounded! Her eyes were dry; she rubbed them. She thought she might still be a bit hungover. The bank holiday weekend, despite her best intentions, had been a big one, from which she was still recovering. The beautiful weather and the Labor landslide meant everyone was in a euphoric mood. They’d stayed in Holland Park all day, drinking, chatting, flirting. She’d even snogged Fred again, and this time she’d really enjoyed it. It was nice, kissing someone in a park as evening came, feeling the moist grass between your toes, his lips on yours, your fingers twining with his…

Libby carried on typing. Elle sat up straight and blinked hard, wondering what the hell she should do next, when the door to Felicity’s office opened and Rory emerged with a woman in her mid-thirties. The carved wooden door closed again as though someone were standing behind it, showing people in and out, in the manner of an audience with the Queen.

Rory was frowning. “We should have gone for it, Pose. It’s lunacy to be turning it down. Don’t listen to her.”

The woman ignored him and walked towards Elle. “Eleanor? Welcome! I’m Posy. Nice to meet you. Sorry not to have before. So glad you’re here!” She was pretty, rather flustered
looking, with pink cheeks and thin hair which curled tentatively at her neck and behind her ears; she looked the way a Posy should. “Now—” She pulled up a chair and sat down next to Elle at her desk. “Let’s go through some things, shall we?” She smiled, and ran her hands over her forehead. “You’ve met—”

“Hey, Posy, give the kid a chance.” Rory stood behind her and put his hand on Posy’s shoulder. “Hi, Eleanor. Great to see you again. Welcome. Has Libby been showing you the ropes? You should cultivate her, even if she is a bit stroppy and supports a rubbish football team.”

Libby, who had carried on typing throughout this exchange, could obviously hear enough of it through her headphones, as she raised one palm. “Talk to the hand,” she said.

“Rory,” Posy said. “Why don’t I run Eleanor through some stuff, take her round and introduce her to people.”

“Good idea, very good idea,” Rory said. “We can take her to lunch afterwards.”

There was a slight pause. “Well…” said Posy. “Abigail Barrow’s just delivered and I have to—I can’t really.” She turned to Elle. “Sorry, Elle. We’ll take you out another time.”

“Oh, no, please, I’ll be fine,” Elle said hurriedly. She couldn’t imagine anything worse, sitting with her bosses making small talk. And anyway, she wanted to fulfill her cherished lunch plan: find a Pret A Manger, have a sandwich, and sit in a park with the
Evening Standard
like a proper office worker.

Rory leaned forward. “I’ll clear out. Why don’t we have a chat after Posy’s finished with you. We’re really glad you’re here,” he said. “It’s a nightmare, getting used to things. I hated it, when I first started.”

“Were you a secretary?” Elle asked.

Posy gave a snort of laughter. “Rory! That’s a good one. He’s never sent a fax in his life. Now, come on, Elle, let’s—”

“Only ever worked at Foyles and here, for my sins,” Rory said, ignoring her. He grimaced. “I’m nepotism in human form, you know. My mother wanted me to be involved in the business, and—well, I love books, of course, though we need to change. It’s an interesting time to be in the game.”

“‘The game,’” Posy scoffed, sitting back down again. “Rory’s very flash, Eleanor. I’m staid and boring and like actually editing my books and building authors. Rory has a horror of the mid-list and he only likes authors who look attractive in photos.”

“Like Paris Donaldson,” Elle said seriously, but was surprised when Posy roared with laughter and Rory, after a second of looking annoyed, slapped his hands on the desk and joined in.

“She’s sharp, that one,” Rory said. “Yes, like Paris Donaldson, exactly. All the guys wanna be like him, all the girls love him. Gold dust.”

“I think he’s a prick,” said Posy. “But we don’t agree about anything, do we, Rory?”

“No, my love,” Rory answered easily. “We don’t. I’ll leave you two to it. Good luck again, Elle.”

He wandered off, whistling. Elle saw the look Posy gave as her eyes followed him. “Er…” she said, after a moment. “Right, let’s get on with it.”

By lunchtime, Elle was ready for food, and she could have done with a large drink, too. Her head was buzzing. She had been walked through everything by Posy, who would say, “It’s
very
important you don’t forget to do this,” and, “Please make sure you
always
check this
extremely carefully,
” but if Elle was honest she hadn’t understood about seventy-five percent of what she’d been told. Posy kept explaining things and Elle kept writing them down in her ring-bound notebook, sentences that didn’t seem to make any sense.

You need to keep an eye on Jews to make sure you don’t run out of stock
didn’t look right, in fact it looked downright disturbing.

When proof covs come in from prod send 1 to agent 2 to the author, with note from Posy pp me file the other two, one in the author file, one in the covs circ file.
What did this mean?

If Ed Victor or Abner Stein phones get Posy immediately. No matter where she is. If someone called Lorcan phones put him on hold and find P or Tony, don’t let him ring off,
impossible to track down.

But if woman called Georgina King phones saying she’s a My-Heart author and she has the support of the RNA, get rid of her. Do
not
put her through to P. She is a lunatic.
Elle had nodded and stuck a Post-it on the bottom of her monitor with “Georgina King Lunatic” in large letters, trying to look as though she was On It. Finally Posy said, “Is that all starting to make some sense? Is there anything you’re not clear on? I know it must seem a bit overwhelming, but just ask if there’s anything. Really important you ask.”

Just ask
. Elle was so used to hearing that, in every job she’d had, temping, summer jobs, Saturday jobs.
Just ask.
It was a load of rubbish. They never meant it. If you did pluck up the courage to ask they looked at you as if you’d just been sick all over them. And where should she start, anyway? RNA? Grid? Jews? But this time she had to try. She took a deep breath. Which should she pick?