the same name as my awful ex, which shows it must be good.” Libby had thought it was rubbish, but Libby would. Elle couldn’t help it, she’d enjoyed it, but was that wrong?
“I couldn’t put it down,” said Sam. “So funny! The bit in the All Bar One!” She hugged herself, and then whipped out her Travelcard. “Here we are, back on Tottenham Court Road,” she sang. “What a lovely—”
“Look, Sam,” Elle said, suddenly desperate for a moment of peace and quiet, “I’m going to treat myself to a coffee and a croissant. I’ll see you in the office. Don’t wait for me,” she added, amazed at how firm her voice was.
Elle stood in the queue, hugging her bag to her chest, smelling the coffee and feeling calmer already. Yes, this was a good idea. Sure, it was £3 she didn’t have, but she needed a pick-me-up, because all that crying and wine-drinking had left her feeling very feeble. She’d think of something intelligent to say about Polly Pearson as she walked to Bedford Square, and all would be well.
As Elle turned off Tottenham Court Road, clutching her paper cup of coffee, with her croissant in a waxy paper bag, sheinhaled again, and smiled. It was a beautiful day now, the trees in the square at their darkest green, about to turn. She was early, too, for once. “ Polly Pearson is a serviceable piece of chick lit, which I found to be—” No, too pompous.
“ Polly Pearson? Oh, thanks for letting me read it, Rory. Yes, it’s very much of the genre but there’s a refreshing lightness of touch which reminded me of a—of a… a sherbet fountain. A feather. A feathery syllabub. Syllabub? Or do I mean sybil?”
She turned the corner and checked her watch. It—
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH! OH, MY GOD!”
Elle had bumped into something, and the shock made her fingers squeeze together, popping the plastic lid off her cup and pouring scalding coffee into the air.
“My—God!”
“Shit!” Elle cried, seeing her coffee everywhere, all over this large bulky shape, which she realized was a person, a woman. It stared at her, blazing anger in its green eyes, and she felt her bowels turn to liquid. Oh no. Noooo.
“What on earth,” Felicity Sassoon bellowed, brown liquid pouring down her face, “are you doing, you stupid little girl ?”
Passersby on the wide pavement ignored them as Elle dropped her bag and croissant to the ground, and started dabbing at Miss Sassoon, who stood still, dripping with coffee, her huge bouffant gray hair flattened, her pale blue tweed jacket stained with brown. She resembled an outraged plump exotic bird stuck in London Zoo during a downpour. Elle ineffectually patted her, blotting the coffee with her thin brown Pret napkins. She reached her chest, and was about to start there, but Miss Sassoon pushed her away, furiously.
“Clumsy creature,” she said. “Get off me.” She looked at Elle properly for the first time. “Oh, for God’s sake,” she said. “It’s you.”
“Yes…” said Elle. “I’m so… I’m so sorry… Miss Sassoon…”
Felicity Sassoon stared at her, and her eyes narrowed. Elle stood still, the feeling in her stomach confirming what she’d known since she’d woken up.
This was going to be an awful day.
SHE’D ESCORTED FELICITY to the office, into the care of Elspeth, who nearly fainted with alarm when her great leader had appeared stained and bedraggled, the damp residue of coffee-stained napkin clinging to her jacket and skirt, and Libby, who had rolled her eyes at Elle, as if to say, What the hell have you done now? After everyone else had gone back to work, Elle turned on her computer and then, telling Libby she was off to get something from the stationery cupboard, she escaped to the Ladies’, where she cried for what seemed like hours but was in fact only a few minutes. She would be fired. Felicity would ring up everyone in publishing and warn them against hiring her. Probably she was doing it now.
When she’d finished,
“I couldn’t put it down,” said Sam. “So funny! The bit in the All Bar One!” She hugged herself, and then whipped out her Travelcard. “Here we are, back on Tottenham Court Road,” she sang. “What a lovely—”
“Look, Sam,” Elle said, suddenly desperate for a moment of peace and quiet, “I’m going to treat myself to a coffee and a croissant. I’ll see you in the office. Don’t wait for me,” she added, amazed at how firm her voice was.
Elle stood in the queue, hugging her bag to her chest, smelling the coffee and feeling calmer already. Yes, this was a good idea. Sure, it was £3 she didn’t have, but she needed a pick-me-up, because all that crying and wine-drinking had left her feeling very feeble. She’d think of something intelligent to say about Polly Pearson as she walked to Bedford Square, and all would be well.
As Elle turned off Tottenham Court Road, clutching her paper cup of coffee, with her croissant in a waxy paper bag, sheinhaled again, and smiled. It was a beautiful day now, the trees in the square at their darkest green, about to turn. She was early, too, for once. “ Polly Pearson is a serviceable piece of chick lit, which I found to be—” No, too pompous.
“ Polly Pearson? Oh, thanks for letting me read it, Rory. Yes, it’s very much of the genre but there’s a refreshing lightness of touch which reminded me of a—of a… a sherbet fountain. A feather. A feathery syllabub. Syllabub? Or do I mean sybil?”
She turned the corner and checked her watch. It—
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH! OH, MY GOD!”
Elle had bumped into something, and the shock made her fingers squeeze together, popping the plastic lid off her cup and pouring scalding coffee into the air.
“My—God!”
“Shit!” Elle cried, seeing her coffee everywhere, all over this large bulky shape, which she realized was a person, a woman. It stared at her, blazing anger in its green eyes, and she felt her bowels turn to liquid. Oh no. Noooo.
“What on earth,” Felicity Sassoon bellowed, brown liquid pouring down her face, “are you doing, you stupid little girl ?”
Passersby on the wide pavement ignored them as Elle dropped her bag and croissant to the ground, and started dabbing at Miss Sassoon, who stood still, dripping with coffee, her huge bouffant gray hair flattened, her pale blue tweed jacket stained with brown. She resembled an outraged plump exotic bird stuck in London Zoo during a downpour. Elle ineffectually patted her, blotting the coffee with her thin brown Pret napkins. She reached her chest, and was about to start there, but Miss Sassoon pushed her away, furiously.
“Clumsy creature,” she said. “Get off me.” She looked at Elle properly for the first time. “Oh, for God’s sake,” she said. “It’s you.”
“Yes…” said Elle. “I’m so… I’m so sorry… Miss Sassoon…”
Felicity Sassoon stared at her, and her eyes narrowed. Elle stood still, the feeling in her stomach confirming what she’d known since she’d woken up.
This was going to be an awful day.
SHE’D ESCORTED FELICITY to the office, into the care of Elspeth, who nearly fainted with alarm when her great leader had appeared stained and bedraggled, the damp residue of coffee-stained napkin clinging to her jacket and skirt, and Libby, who had rolled her eyes at Elle, as if to say, What the hell have you done now? After everyone else had gone back to work, Elle turned on her computer and then, telling Libby she was off to get something from the stationery cupboard, she escaped to the Ladies’, where she cried for what seemed like hours but was in fact only a few minutes. She would be fired. Felicity would ring up everyone in publishing and warn them against hiring her. Probably she was doing it now.
When she’d finished,
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