Happily Ever After. Harriet Evans

Tom, folding his napkin up into a tight square.

      ‘Well – all I mean is, you must be very proud of her.’

      ‘Of course I am,’ he said. He turned to her, a frown puckering his forehead. ‘It’s just I don’t generally sit there thinking of her as a world-class novelist, you know. She was just my mum.’

      ‘OK. I’m sorry.’ Elle gave up. Fair enough. He obviously didn’t want to talk about her, and she could hear her voice, sounding high and stupid again. She wished she could simply say how much his mother’s books meant to her, and how sad she’d been when she’d died, three years ago.

      But Tom Scott didn’t seem to need her sympathy or attention. He turned away and began a conversation with Lorcan’s agent, so that his back was almost facing Elle. Thankfully, just then the tables were swapped so that each rep was moved around, and Tony Rooney left after the chicken, to be replaced by Jeanette, who covered Kent, Surrey and Sussex, and who was lovely, if a little obsessed with the sales ordering systems and their implementation. At least she looked Elle in the eye, though, and they had a long conversation about stock levels and ordering up books from the warehouse which Elle, after the evening so far, found extremely comforting.

      By pudding, Elle was a bit drunk. She was two glasses of champagne and several glasses of wine down. Not that it seemed to matter – everyone else was, too. The noise was louder and as pudding was served, the dinner began to break up. Tom Scott stood up and nodded at her.

      ‘Nice to meet you, Elle,’ he said. ‘Good luck with the job.’

      ‘She doesn’t need any luck,’ a voice behind her said, and Elle looked up to see Rory behind her. He patted her head. ‘She’s the best, aren’t you, Elle?’

      ‘Sure she is,’ Tom shrugged, and the shoulder pads in his too-big dinner jacket rose up and down again. ‘Sorry to have missed you this evening, Rory.’

      ‘Yes,’ Rory said easily. ‘We need to talk soon. Are you around tomorrow?’

      Elle saw the flash of panic in Tom Scott’s eyes. He’s totally out of his depth, she thought. ‘Er, sure. Give me a – no, I’ll call you.’

      ‘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