Free Happily Ever After by Harriet Evans Page A

thinks I’m past it, that I can’t spot a good book when it’s right under my nose,” she said unexpectedly.
    Elle wanted to reassure her. “Look, like I say, it’s not completely fantastic. Perhaps it’s a bit cynically done.” She stopped, and realized this was true. “And the characters are cardboard thin, like she read some other books like it and thought, ‘I can knock one of these off myself.’ But I still enjoyed it.”
    Felicity’s eyes gleamed. “Right,” she said. “That is what I wanted to hear. Thank you.”
    Elle smiled with relief. “Oh—good. Um—is that all, Miss Sassoon?” she asked politely.
    “Yes, dear,” Felicity replied. She got out her Dictaphone. “Libby. Email to Rory Sassoon, Posy Carmichael…” She pressed the Pause button. “Read Georgette Heyer. Let me know how you get on.” She made a shooing gesture, and Elle shot out of the cool dark office, shutting the door gently behind her.
    “How did it go? Are you clearing out your things?” Libby asked, sotto voce, as Elle sank into her chair.
    “No, it was OK.” Elle’s shoulders felt as though they’d sunk four inches lower with relief. “She just wanted to ask about that Polly Pearson book.”
    “Hope you told her it was total rubbish,” said Libby.
    “No,” said Elle. “I said it was OK.” She paused, and looked down at the battered old Pan paperback in her hand. “At least, I think that’s what I said.”
     
    It wasn’t till after lunch that Elle came back, much restored by a tuna baguette and a walk to the British Museum in the sunshine, to find Rory standing by her desk.
    “What did you say to my mother?” he demanded. He ran his hands through his light brown hair, scrunching it till it stood on end. Elle looked blank. “To Felicity, Elle,” Rory said. “About that damned book. Come on, what did you say to her?”
    Elle sat down and put her bag on the floor. “I don’t know,” she began. “Why?”
    Rory had his shirtsleeves rolled up and his hands on his hips. He glared at her, his face grim, his eyes dark. She’d never seen him look so angry.
    “I went out for the rest of the morning and I get back to this. She’s sent the most fucking absurd email, saying she won’t authorize a bigger offer.” He scratched his scalp furiously. “She says we can match the first offer but no more. We won’t get the bloody thing now, the agent’s after money. This was our chance to show we’re not some piddling old-fashioned grannies’ club, that we’re in the game! She was going for it this morning. What did you say to her?”
    “I didn’t say anything!” Elle said, trying not to squeak. “I just told her I really liked it, that it was a lot more realistic than most MyHeart books, and I said I enjoyed it, Sam enjoyed it—”
    Behind her, Libby coughed loudly.
    Rory brandished a piece of paper. “Asking the younger members of the office for their views,” he read, in a low, angry voice, “and trusting to my own instinct as well, I came to the conclusion that, in the words of a junior employee, ‘It is cynically done, with cardboard-thin characters, as if the author had read other books and merely thought she could knock something similar off herself.’ And therefore not something Bluebird should be spending its money on, no matter how forceful the desire to surrender to a seductive albeit—I believe fleeting—zeitgeist.”
    He bent down, so his lean face was near hers. “Did you say that?”
    Perhaps if Elle had been older or more experienced, she’d have told Rory not to drag her into his feud with his mother. But she wasn’t. “I—I did,” she said quietly. She couldn’t believe this was the same Rory who laughed and joked all day long,who’d been so sweet a few hours earlier, kissed her on the head. “But I also told her I enjoyed it a lot, despite all that, I promise, Rory—”
    “Elle—” he began, and then stopped. He closed his eyes briefly. “For God’s sake, you