Happily Ever After by Harriet Evans Page A

both up by singing the Cardigans’ “Lovefool” in such a painful way that Fred had left without having a shower, claiming he had an early meeting and needed to get home and pick up a suit. Since Fred was, as far as Elle knew, working in a café off Portobello while writing his screenplay that was going to win him an Oscar, this was clearly a lie, but she couldn’t blame him. He hadn’t called her since. Elle had tried to mind, but she didn’t, to be honest. Fred belonged to the era of sleeping on sofas, watching daytime TV, and feeling totally hopeless, and that all seemed years, not months, ago.
     
    Forty minutes or so later, Elle was showered and dressed. It was still early, just after eight, and as she stood in the kitchen, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea, she sifted through her feelings, trying to work out why she still felt she’d missed something. Was it Princess Di, throwing her off? Or was it work? The trouble was, she could never remember anything specifically she hadn’t done. It was the horror that there was another bomb, an uncollected urgent manuscript waiting in the post room, or another Dear Shitley fiasco, just waiting to explode, that she feared the most. In her darker days—and thiswas one of them—she wasn’t sure what the future held. How on earth was she supposed to show them she’d be a good editor when no one had the faintest idea who she was, except maybe vaguely as the idiot who’d ordered Rory a cab that took him to Harlow instead of Heathrow? She was still staring into space as Sam came in.
    “Hiya,” she said. “What a strange morning. I feel very emotional still. Do you feel emotional?”
    “Yes,” said Elle coolly, the post-shower-singing fury having not quite worn off. “It’s weird.”
    Sam looked pleased. Her nose twitched. “We’re so similar. Ready for another Monday?”
    “Not really,” said Elle. “I feel like crap.” She sighed.
    “I don’t,” said Sam. She tucked her hair behind her ears and slung her flowery Accessorize bag over her shoulder. “But then I’m not the one who stayed out with Libby all night Saturday! Am I!”
    She laughed, just a little too heartily but Elle, still cross, bit her tongue. Sam always wanted to come along with Elle. Elle hadn’t minded at first, but after Sam had fallen over onto Karen’s birthday cake at her party in July and then got so drunk she’d passed out at Elle’s friend Matty’s housewarming in Clapham under a pile of coats in the hallway, Elle had started reining in the invitations. They were flatmates, they weren’t joined at the hip. She’d spent her university years being the one who took the drunken mess home and she was damned if she was going to do it anymore.
    “I’m off,” Sam said. She was always in by nine, and usually left before Elle. “You in this evening?”
    Then Elle remembered. She said, “I knew there was something I had to remember. Rhodes is coming over tonight.”
    “Your brother?”
    Elle nodded. “I totally forgot. That’s why…” She trailedoff, and added, “I haven’t seen him for—” She tried to remember. “Well, since Christmas, and then he left early.”
    “How come?”
    “Had a big row with Mum.” Elle didn’t say any more.
    Sam picked up her rucksack and changed the subject. “Wow, this manuscript’s heavy. I’ll see you in a bit?”
    Putting her mug in the sink, Elle grabbed her bag. “I’ll come with you,” she said. She double-locked the flimsy woodchip door, and followed Sam down the stairs, out into the September sunshine.
    “Did you finish it?” Sam said. Elle looked blank. “ Polly Pearson ? Isn’t it brill?”
    Her handbag was suddenly heavy on her shoulder. Elle peeked at it, saw a thick manuscript, untouched since Friday. “Oh, my God.” Elle’s face paled. No wonder her hungover brain was trying to tell her she’d forgotten something. It was two things. Rhodes tonight and now… and now this. She clutched the heavy bag. Of