Happily Ever After by Harriet Evans Page B

up to see Rory behind her. He patted her head. “She’s the best, aren’t you, Elle?”
    “Sure she is.” Tom shrugged, and the shoulder pads in his too-big dinner jacket rose up and down again. “Sorry to have missed you this evening, Rory.”
    “Yes,” Rory said easily. “We need to talk soon. Are you around tomorrow?”
    Elle saw the flash of panic in Tom Scott’s eyes. He’s totally out of his depth, she thought. “Er, sure. Give me a—no, I’ll call you.”
    “I’ll try you as well. Thanks for coming, Ambrose.”
    “Ambrose?” Elle said, more to herself, picking a grape off its stalk.
    Tom ignored this. “Bye, then,” he said, and walked away.
    “Why’d you call him Ambrose?” Elle stood up, feeling a bit dizzy.
    Rory laughed. “That’s his real name. Hilarious, eh? Changed it when he went to university. His mother knew mine, I used to have to play with him when we went for lunch there, he was a total square, really holier than thou.”
    “I felt a bit sorry for him,” Elle heard herself say, to her surprise. She watched Tom walk towards the exit, unnoticed by anyone except her, his thin shoulders hunched, his expression dark.
    “Don’t,” said Rory. “I can say this ’cause I know what it’s like. Loathes the job, loathes himself. I just want to shout ‘Get a Life’ whenever I see him. Anyway, forget about Tom Scott. What’s going on?”
    Elle shrugged. “I don’t know. Is there anything that needs doing? Anyone I need to look after?”
    “Me,” said Rory, and he put his arm round her. “Let’s get another drink. Jeremy’s settling in at the bar over there. Come on.”
     
    It was about one thirty when Elle looked around the room and realized she was, now, way too drunk to be out anymore. Four years in Edinburgh had taught her many things, possibly the most useful of which was that she knew she could drink up to a certain point, but after that never did anything interesting like dancing on the bar with her top off or snogging random strangers. She would merely fall over and then probably be sick. The disco had started at eleven and was still going strong; Jeremy was singing along to the Proclaimers and dancing with Oona King. Floyd and a few of the reps were standing around in a circle, pints in hand, tapping their feet to the music and eyeing up various people. Posy and Loo Seat, aka Lucy, were having an intense conversation in a cornerabout something that involved them stopping to drink more wine and hug each other every few minutes, both with tears in their eyes.
    Elle was standing at the bar with Rory, Joseph Mile—the reference books editor—and Sam. They were talking about their favorite books. “Your favorite book is Live and Let Die ?” Joseph Mile was astonished. “I must say I’m surprised, even for you, Rory.”
    “Well, it’s just a bit of fun, isn’t it?” Rory said. “It’s a bloody great book. What’s yours?”
    “I struggle between Felix Holt, The Radical, or Jude the Obscure ,” said Joseph Mile, pushing his fingertips together. “Probably the latter.”
    How can he be this sober? Elle thought. She shrank against the counter, hoping he’d ignore her.
    “And you, Sam?” Joseph Mile said.
    “ Autumn of Terror, ” Sam said promptly. “It’s the best book there is on Jack the Ripper. It is amazing.”
    “Oh.” Joseph Mile looked as though someone had just presented him with a bucket of vomit. “Hm. Elle? You have a favorite book?”
    Elle put her hand on the sticky bar surface to steady herself. She couldn’t think of what her favorite book was, all of a sudden. She racked her brains. “ Jane Eyre, ” she said, which was partly true and also because, the previous Saturday evening, she and Libby had rented the video of the newest version starring Ciarán Hinds. “Ah,” said Joseph Mile, drawing a deep breath to expound further. “How interesting.” Next to him, Rory watched Elle, a strange expression on his face.
    “She’s the best