course. “I promised Rory… I said I’d finish it over the weekend.”
“But you’ve read most of it,” Sam said perkily, holding the straps of her rucksack and whistling as she strode along, like one of those stupid creatures in the Girl Guide handbook. Elle looked at her with loathing.
“That’s not the point—” Elle squeezed her eyes tightly shut. “I wanted to gather my thoughts, have a proper response. Be… you know, like Libby. Have something to say.” Rory and Posy never asked her opinion on anything. She was virtually invisible, to them, to Felicity, to everyone . This was the first manuscript about which they’d said, “Elle, we’d like to know what you think.” As though they were interested in her opinion. Libby was the one who could chat fearlessly to Rory and Jeremy in the pub, whom the authors knew when they rang up: “Yes, Paris, it is Libby,” she’d say, if she picked up Elle’sphone for her. “How are you? What can I do for you today?” She was able to go up to agents at launch parties and introduce herself, and she always knew the right thing to say: “Hi, I’m Libby, Felicity’s assistant? Yes, we spoke last week! I just wanted to say how much I loved Broken SWAT Team / Mother of All Ills / Lanterns Over Mandalay .”
Sam cut in on her thoughts. “Hey, do you want to go to Kensington Palace after work and lay some flowers?”
“No,” said Elle crossly, though she did want to, very much. She pulled the dog-eared manuscript out of her bag and started reading it as she walked along the street. “I need to finish this before we get in.”
“Fine,” said Sam. “I’ll hold you.” She took her elbow and grinned at Elle, as Elle walked off the curb. A bus swerved to avoid her, then hooted loudly, the passengers shaking their fists at the pair of them.
SAM GABBED ALL the way in on the Tube, about how much she loved Dave (though Elle had met him but once since she’d moved in), and about how her sister had told her yesterday if the baby was a girl she’d call it Diana Frances, in tribute. But Elle had become adept at blocking out Sam’s voice. She smoothed the manuscript on her lap and began to skim the last seventy pages, eyes darting in panic over the double-spaced lines. It was eight thirty. She had an hour.
The novel was called Polly Pearson Finds a Man, and unusually it had been sent to Rory, not Posy. It was by an Irish fashion journalist called Eithne Reilly, and already there was an offer on the table of £150,000 for two books, a sum so huge Elle found it hilarious.
“Jeremy says everyone’s going to go mad for it,” said Sam. “Oh. We’re at Oxford Circus already, isn’t it amazing how quickly the journey goes when there’s someone to chat to!”
Elle looked up, wild-eyed. “Help me. Does Colette get her comeuppance?”
“Yes, she gets fired. And it turns out Roland is a real bastard, and Max is lovely, and she’s got it all wrong, because Colette lied to her about the Gucci account.”
Elle turned to the last page.
“Damn you, Polly!” Max Reardon said, striding towards her. “I want you to come back to Dublin with me. As my wife, not as my features editor!”
“Max…” Polly stared at him with huge blue eyes, filling up with water and running down her cheeks. “Oh, Max… Yes, please! Only one thing?”
“What, darling?” said Max, enfolding her in his arms and kissing her.
“I want the job too. And I know what my first commission will be. ‘How to Find a Man.’”
The End
“That’ll have to do,” she said, stuffing the manuscript into her bag. “At least I know what happens in the end. Big surprise, it ends happily ever after.” Elle followed Sam as the Tube doors slammed open.
“Isn’t it amazing? Did you like it?” Sam said, as they climbed onto the escalator, surrounded by silent fellow commuters.
“Sort of,” said Elle. “It’s so cheesy but it’s romantic. I loved Max even though he’s got
“But you’ve read most of it,” Sam said perkily, holding the straps of her rucksack and whistling as she strode along, like one of those stupid creatures in the Girl Guide handbook. Elle looked at her with loathing.
“That’s not the point—” Elle squeezed her eyes tightly shut. “I wanted to gather my thoughts, have a proper response. Be… you know, like Libby. Have something to say.” Rory and Posy never asked her opinion on anything. She was virtually invisible, to them, to Felicity, to everyone . This was the first manuscript about which they’d said, “Elle, we’d like to know what you think.” As though they were interested in her opinion. Libby was the one who could chat fearlessly to Rory and Jeremy in the pub, whom the authors knew when they rang up: “Yes, Paris, it is Libby,” she’d say, if she picked up Elle’sphone for her. “How are you? What can I do for you today?” She was able to go up to agents at launch parties and introduce herself, and she always knew the right thing to say: “Hi, I’m Libby, Felicity’s assistant? Yes, we spoke last week! I just wanted to say how much I loved Broken SWAT Team / Mother of All Ills / Lanterns Over Mandalay .”
Sam cut in on her thoughts. “Hey, do you want to go to Kensington Palace after work and lay some flowers?”
“No,” said Elle crossly, though she did want to, very much. She pulled the dog-eared manuscript out of her bag and started reading it as she walked along the street. “I need to finish this before we get in.”
“Fine,” said Sam. “I’ll hold you.” She took her elbow and grinned at Elle, as Elle walked off the curb. A bus swerved to avoid her, then hooted loudly, the passengers shaking their fists at the pair of them.
SAM GABBED ALL the way in on the Tube, about how much she loved Dave (though Elle had met him but once since she’d moved in), and about how her sister had told her yesterday if the baby was a girl she’d call it Diana Frances, in tribute. But Elle had become adept at blocking out Sam’s voice. She smoothed the manuscript on her lap and began to skim the last seventy pages, eyes darting in panic over the double-spaced lines. It was eight thirty. She had an hour.
The novel was called Polly Pearson Finds a Man, and unusually it had been sent to Rory, not Posy. It was by an Irish fashion journalist called Eithne Reilly, and already there was an offer on the table of £150,000 for two books, a sum so huge Elle found it hilarious.
“Jeremy says everyone’s going to go mad for it,” said Sam. “Oh. We’re at Oxford Circus already, isn’t it amazing how quickly the journey goes when there’s someone to chat to!”
Elle looked up, wild-eyed. “Help me. Does Colette get her comeuppance?”
“Yes, she gets fired. And it turns out Roland is a real bastard, and Max is lovely, and she’s got it all wrong, because Colette lied to her about the Gucci account.”
Elle turned to the last page.
“Damn you, Polly!” Max Reardon said, striding towards her. “I want you to come back to Dublin with me. As my wife, not as my features editor!”
“Max…” Polly stared at him with huge blue eyes, filling up with water and running down her cheeks. “Oh, Max… Yes, please! Only one thing?”
“What, darling?” said Max, enfolding her in his arms and kissing her.
“I want the job too. And I know what my first commission will be. ‘How to Find a Man.’”
The End
“That’ll have to do,” she said, stuffing the manuscript into her bag. “At least I know what happens in the end. Big surprise, it ends happily ever after.” Elle followed Sam as the Tube doors slammed open.
“Isn’t it amazing? Did you like it?” Sam said, as they climbed onto the escalator, surrounded by silent fellow commuters.
“Sort of,” said Elle. “It’s so cheesy but it’s romantic. I loved Max even though he’s got
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