something like this, sitting in cafés discussing life and books long into the night, feeling the city under her feet, the still-terrifying but exhilarating sense of possibility out there. Daily life at Bluebird was alternately monotonous and scary: after four months she was starting to see just how far away was her dream of being a glamorous editor. You didn’t get to be a glamorous editor by sending faxes to important literary agents called Shirley that began, “Dear Shitley.” Glamorous editors didn’t leave prawn sandwiches in filing cabinets, stinking out the office for a week with a smell so awful Elspeth became convinced they were being haunted by the ghost of a disgruntled author. They didn’t photocopy four hundred pages of manuscript upside down, resulting in an entirely blank pile of paper, and they certainly didn’t pass out in a corner of the pub after too many house whites, to the amusement of their colleagues. Yes. Elle knew she had a lot to learn.
The two of them had stayed out so late that they were shivering in the night air as they said their good-byes. As ever, Elle had felt guilty, creeping back to Ladbroke Grove at two in the morning, but Sam had been fast asleep. However, the next morning she woke Elle up by knocking on her door in floods of tears, her eyes huge, her fingers in her mouth.
“Princess Di’s dead,” she said, and Elle made her repeat it, because it just didn’t sound true.
They had spent all day crying, watching TV and listening to Capital play sad songs, going out in their pajamas to the shop next door to get chocolate and Bombay mix and cheap wine and now it was Monday, and life was supposed to go on as normal, and of course it would, because it was stupid, Elle hadn’t actually known Princess Diana. But, like so many girls, she felt as if she had, as if she—not that she belonged to her, that was stupid. But as if she sort of knew her, that if they’d ever met they’d have been friends.
Tears pricked Elle’s eyes as she remembered the coffin coming off the plane, the Prince of Wales standing ready to greet it, his face lined with grief. “The breaking of so great a thing should make a greater crack”: that was Shakespeare, wasn’t it? Oh, how pretentious it was, quoting Shakespeare. If Libby could hear her, she’d laugh her head off. Elle pulled the duvet over her, the Monday morning feeling of dread stronger than ever.
Suddenly, footsteps came padding loudly towards the bathroom, and the door was slammed with a bang. Elle winced, preparing herself. The radio came on, Chris Evans’s voice slow and clear.
“It’s Monday and, well, look, it’s a hard day for us all, and we want to remember a wonderful woman, so here’s Mariah Carey and ‘Without You.’ In memory of our Queen of Hearts.”
“Yooooou…” came Sam’s voice, shrieking tonelessly through the paper-thin walls. “. . . WITHOUT YOOOOOOOU…”
Sam was “a morning person,” as she frequently told Elle when Elle asked her to please not tunelessly wail “Mr. Lover-man” at 6:45 a.m. Being a morning person, it seemed, meant not being bothered by the fact that you were totally tone deaf. Elle turned onto her stomach and screamed into her pillow, as she did every single morning. If she was ever called for jury service and there was someone on trial who’d killed theirflatmate or neighbor for something similar, Elle knew she’d have no hesitation in finding them not guilty. Every evening, she told herself Sam wasn’t so bad, that actually they had a laugh over a glass of wine and some trashy TV. And every morning she woke up to what sounded like a drunk tramp gargling with petrol and razor blades, and she felt murder in her heart.
She even blamed Sam for the breakup of her semi-relationship with Fred. They’d seen each other, admittedly rather halfheartedly—he’d gone away for two weeks and not told her—during the summer. The second or third time he’d stayed over, Sam had woken them
The two of them had stayed out so late that they were shivering in the night air as they said their good-byes. As ever, Elle had felt guilty, creeping back to Ladbroke Grove at two in the morning, but Sam had been fast asleep. However, the next morning she woke Elle up by knocking on her door in floods of tears, her eyes huge, her fingers in her mouth.
“Princess Di’s dead,” she said, and Elle made her repeat it, because it just didn’t sound true.
They had spent all day crying, watching TV and listening to Capital play sad songs, going out in their pajamas to the shop next door to get chocolate and Bombay mix and cheap wine and now it was Monday, and life was supposed to go on as normal, and of course it would, because it was stupid, Elle hadn’t actually known Princess Diana. But, like so many girls, she felt as if she had, as if she—not that she belonged to her, that was stupid. But as if she sort of knew her, that if they’d ever met they’d have been friends.
Tears pricked Elle’s eyes as she remembered the coffin coming off the plane, the Prince of Wales standing ready to greet it, his face lined with grief. “The breaking of so great a thing should make a greater crack”: that was Shakespeare, wasn’t it? Oh, how pretentious it was, quoting Shakespeare. If Libby could hear her, she’d laugh her head off. Elle pulled the duvet over her, the Monday morning feeling of dread stronger than ever.
Suddenly, footsteps came padding loudly towards the bathroom, and the door was slammed with a bang. Elle winced, preparing herself. The radio came on, Chris Evans’s voice slow and clear.
“It’s Monday and, well, look, it’s a hard day for us all, and we want to remember a wonderful woman, so here’s Mariah Carey and ‘Without You.’ In memory of our Queen of Hearts.”
“Yooooou…” came Sam’s voice, shrieking tonelessly through the paper-thin walls. “. . . WITHOUT YOOOOOOOU…”
Sam was “a morning person,” as she frequently told Elle when Elle asked her to please not tunelessly wail “Mr. Lover-man” at 6:45 a.m. Being a morning person, it seemed, meant not being bothered by the fact that you were totally tone deaf. Elle turned onto her stomach and screamed into her pillow, as she did every single morning. If she was ever called for jury service and there was someone on trial who’d killed theirflatmate or neighbor for something similar, Elle knew she’d have no hesitation in finding them not guilty. Every evening, she told herself Sam wasn’t so bad, that actually they had a laugh over a glass of wine and some trashy TV. And every morning she woke up to what sounded like a drunk tramp gargling with petrol and razor blades, and she felt murder in her heart.
She even blamed Sam for the breakup of her semi-relationship with Fred. They’d seen each other, admittedly rather halfheartedly—he’d gone away for two weeks and not told her—during the summer. The second or third time he’d stayed over, Sam had woken them
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