Free Happily Ever After by Harriet Evans

more than anything. But to admit it would be to discount what she knew to be the real facts of life. So she didn’t know how to reply to this, didn’t know how to admitthat she longed, secretly, to have her perspective changed, by something or someone, she didn’t know which.
    “Look at Princess Diana,” she said eventually.
    “Diana, Princess of Wales,” Felicity said, correcting her sharply. “She was never a princess in her own right, merely by marriage. A fact she would have done well to remember. She is not the example I’d choose, Eleanor.”
    “But she—” Elle began, then saw they had veered way off territory. “I just don’t like stories where it’s obvious who they’re going to end up with. Real life’s just not like that.”
    Felicity shook her head, as if she didn’t know what to do with Elle. “Well, I’ll believe you, though I do think that’s sad, dear. Everyone needs some escapism, now and again. What about Georgette Heyer? Do you like her?”
    A childhood of Saturday mornings spent at the Shawcross library, reading while her librarian mother stamped books and made recommendations, meant Elle knew Georgette Heyer’s name. She said, “I’ve heard of her. I’ve never read her.”
    Felicity looked absolutely astonished. “What? You’ve never read Georgette Heyer?”
    “No, sorry.”
    “I am amazed. Never read Georgette Heyer. My God.” Felicity bowed her head as if she were a medium, acknowledging Georgette Heyer’s spirit in the room. “She is, quite simply, the best. Jane Austen would have liked her.” She breathed in slowly through her nostrils. “And I do not say that lightly.” She reached behind her and handed Elle a copy of Venetia. It was a seventies paperback with a view of a girl in a cornfield. “Take this. I am dumbfounded you haven’t read her. You, of all people.”
    “Why me?” Elle said, biting her finger nervously.
    “Well, Eleanor, you won’t remember, but I was impressed with you at our interview. You had opinions about books. Andyou were enthusiastic. That ”—Felicity stabbed a pencil into her jotter—“is a very good thing. Don’t lose it.”
    You won’t remember. Elle wanted to laugh. “Thank you!” she said, her face lighting up with pleasure.
    “Go away and read that. What a treat you have in store. Now, I’ve gone off-piste again. One of the pleasures of discussing books, I’m sure you’ll agree.” She glanced at her watch. “Back to business. Polly Pearson . Why’s it so marvelously different?”
    Confident now, Elle spoke in a rush, the words tumbling out of her. “Well. It’s about someone near my age, living in London, having fun, trying to sort her life out, and she likes watching Friends and ordering takeaways and even though it’s not the best book I’ve ever read, I know about five people who’d like it, and we’ve not had anything like that at Bluebird before.” Elle wanted Felicity to like it, she didn’t know why, other than that she wanted Rory to be able to buy it and she wanted him to be pleased with her. She delivered the killer line. “After all, you always say if when you’re reading it you can think of three people you know who would like the book then you should definitely publish it.”
    The dark green eyes—so like her son’s, Elle had never noticed it before—were scrunched up tight. “Hm,” she said, and Elle detected a note of uncertainty in her tone. “Very interesting. I’ll be honest with you, Eleanor. Rory wants us to bid for it. He wants us to go to £200,000, blow the other offers out of the water. He says it’ll show everyone Bluebird can compete at the top. But it’s a hell of a lot of money…”
    She trailed off and stared thoughtfully at Elle. “This Bridget Jones vogue, it’s lasting much longer than I suspected. Bridget Jones in New York. Bridget Jones Moves to the Countryside . And I’m afraid I simply don’t get it.” She sighed; a shadow passed over her face. “Rory