out of the cramped room. Posy was waiting for them, resplendent in a floral bias-cut Jigsaw dress. She was wearing blue eyeshadow and mascara and her hair was up. Elle stared; she’d never seen Posy dressed up before. Posy tapped her foot. ‘The authors will be arriving soon,’ she said, in the tones of one announcing the Apocalypse. ‘Let’s go.’
Elle had never heard of a sales conference before she’d gone to work at Bluebird. It was basically the chance for an almighty piss-up, as far as she could tell. There was a presentation, some flashy music on in the background, and then dinner with authors and the reps from all round the country, at a Georgian townhouse in Soho.
The marketing department was in charge for the weeks before the sales conference, and exciting-looking things started arriving for the event: Post-it notes in the shape of hearts and 1998/99 diaries with Victoria Bishop’s new title printed on them – Diary of a Well-Worn Heart – and torches with ‘Be Afraid of the Dark’ for Oona King’s new thriller. Elle thought it was amazing, what they could produce; there was still so much about the whole business that, even after nearly a year, filled her with a kind of wonder that she was here at all. She knew it was tragic to look forward to a work event this much, but she couldn’t help it. Besides, after ten months of working there, she loved nights out with her Bluebird colleagues. Everyone got the same jokes, there was always someone to talk to and something to gossip about: whether Jeremy and Lucy the publicity director were having an affair, what Rory had allegedly said to Felicity during their latest row, how much of a bitch Victoria Bishop really was, and so on.
For this anticipated event Elle had even bought a new dress – dove grey chiffon with beading from Oasis – and the previous night, flushed with excitement and an all-consuming urge to be bold and embrace life, she had walked into a hairdresser’s at the top of Tottenham Court Road and apparently blacked out in an episode of lunacy, because when she came to she saw she’d asked them to cut all her hair off into a crop, which wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t been teamed with a dye job the colour of a field of rapeseed. And it was then that she remembered too late that the urge to be bold and embrace life usually had catastrophic results. ‘Oh, dear,’ she said sadly, grabbing her coat and turning off her computer, catching sight of the yellow hair in the black screen.
Someone lightly touched her shoulder. ‘What’s up?’
Elle turned quickly. ‘Hello, Rory.’ She put her bag over her shoulder, trying to look professional. ‘Right, I’m ready.’
‘Why are you sighing like an old steam engine?’
Elle rolled her eyes back into her head. ‘Er – nothing. It’s silly.’
‘What? Tell me. I’m your boss. We have no secrets.’
‘It’s my … hair. I changed it.’
‘Yes, I noticed that,’ Rory said.
‘Of course you did, it’s horrible,’ Elle said. ‘It’s just horrible.’
‘You look great, Elle, stop complaining. That crop suits you.’
‘Oh.’ Elle smiled at him, but then her face fell. ‘But the colour’s so—’
‘It looks lovely,’ said Rory, slightly impatiently. He looked at his watch. ‘Want to come with me?’
‘Oh. Thanks a lot.’ Elle stared at him. ‘You look lovely too. Black tie’s so flattering, isn’t it.’
‘What a barbed compliment,’ he said, laughing as she flushed with embarrassment. ‘Bet you wouldn’t say that to Jeremy.’
‘Jeremy’s different –’ Elle began in confusion, but Rory steered her towards the stairs.
‘Enough. We’re off to the ball, Cinderelle. Or rather, Soho’s glamorous backstreets. It’s going to be a great night, so stop complaining and enjoy it, your first sales conference. And don’t,’ he said, as they walked towards the front door, ‘drink too much. The wine flows like water at these things. Be careful. I’m responsible for you, after all. No misbehaving.’ He waved his finger at her.
‘Of course not,’ said Elle, feeling much more cheerful.
She annoyed Rory the moment they reached Auriol House by giggling at Jeremy, who was welcoming guests in the doorway. They arrived just after the Irish rep Terry, whom Jeremy was clapping heartily on the back. ‘Go on through, Terry, good to see you, mate. Oh. Hello, Rory. Elle – wow. You look great! Love the hair, babe.’
Elle blushed, stood on one leg and then the other. ‘Oh. Thanks, Jeremy!’ She ran her hand over the back of her head.
‘Come on,’ Rory said testily, pushing her forward with a thumb on her shoulder blade. ‘I have to find Tobias Scott, and you should see if there’s anything you can do.’ He fiddled with his bow tie and Elle thought again how serious he looked. ‘Don’t just stand around looking like a spare part. Felicity hates it. Mingle.’
She nodded vigorously. ‘Tobias Scott the agent? He’s coming?’
‘Yes.’ Rory said, as they walked down a corridor decorated with fairy lights and a huge sign saying, Welcome to the World of Bluebird. ‘He’s being a right slippery old bastard at the moment. I need to corner him.’
‘Why, what’s he done?’ Elle liked hearing about things like this.
‘They’ve asked for much more money for the new John Rainham contract. Felicity wants to go on with him, of course. I want to tell them to – oh, there’s Emma. I need to talk to her too. Get working.’ He patted her shoulder and wandered off.
Typical Rory. Elle rolled her eyes and turned into the first room, where a pink banner hung outside reading, MyHeart. Enter the Land of Happy Endings. Inside, a few guests stood around with glasses of champagne and in the centre of it all, a beautiful man with no top on, surrounded by women. ‘They are releasing the calendar early this year,’ he was saying. ‘To fulfil your needs, that’s what I haff said.’
Elle stared at him. This must be Lorcan, the famous male model they used on MyHeart’s covers. Lorcan got about fifty letters a week; Elle knew because she had to forward them on to his manager. He had long, thinning, crunchy blond hair and an aquiline nose. His chest was totally hairless – she looked at it suspiciously.
‘Well, I’m very grateful to you, I must say,’ one of the ladies, short and plump and wearing a silver sequinned jacket, was saying. She licked her lips. ‘I always tell people, without you on the cover, no one would buy any of my books!’
Next to her, a rather harried-looking Posy said automatically, ‘Oh, come, Abigail, that’s just not true! Elle, there you are! Come over here, meet some people,’ she cried with a mixture, Elle thought, of relief and annoyance. Posy was often annoyed with you, even if you’d just arrived in the room – you should have been there earlier, or not at all, or something. ‘This is my wonderful secretary, Eleanor,’ Posy said. ‘This is Abigail Barrow, Elle.’
Elle blushed. Abigail Barrow was one of MyHeart’s biggest authors, and a notorious cow. But she wrote the most hilarious sex scenes, and Elle and Libby often took it in turns to read them out on slow afternoons when everyone was still out at lunch. She was very keen on two things: animals and sex noises. Her heroes always grunted, her heroines always moaned in ecstasy. She and Libby had a favourite sentence, culled from a particularly ripe episode in An Engagement with Heartache,
