But even as she sat there, rocking herself, tears dropping freely onto her scabby knees, her dark fringe falling into her eyes, she knew that sounded stupid.
‘London eats up pretty girls, you know.’
‘Not me!’ she assured him triumphantly. ‘I’m not afraid!’
Kathleen Winsor, Forever Amber
‘SO, ELLE, WHAT are you reading at the moment?’
Her palms were stuck to the leather chair and Elle knew if she moved them they would make a loud, squeaking sound.
‘Me? Oh …’ Elle paused, and tried to gently manoeuvre one hand out of the way, but found she couldn’t. ‘I don’t know. Um …’ She racked her brains for the ‘buzz phrases’ she and Karen had gone over that morning in Karen’s tiny kitchen. Karen had written them on Post-it notes.
Buzz phrase. Buzz phrase. Oh, God.
‘Well, I love reading,’ she said eventually. ‘I’m passionate about it.’
Jenna Taylor tapped her biro on the grey plastic desk. She cast her eyes over to the blue fabric wall dividers, then looked back, forcing a smile to her face. ‘Yes, that’s great, so you’ve said. What are you actually reading at the moment, though?’
Elle already knew this interview could not be going more badly. It was like when she’d begun her second driving test by pulling out and nearly crashing into a grey Mercedes which meant an automatic fail, and she’d still had to take the rest of the twenty-minute test. But her mind was a total blank. She could feel the angry red blush she always got when she was flustered starting to mottle the skin below her collarbone, creeping up her neck. Soon her face would be luminous red. She moved one hand. A high-pitched, farting shriek emanated from the chair. ‘Um – what kind of thing do you mean?’
Jenna’s voice was icy. ‘I mean, can you demonstrate that you’re up to speed with what’s going on in the world of publishing at the moment? If you love books as much as you keep saying you do, it’d be great if you could give some examples of what you’ve read lately.’ She smiled a cold smile.
Elle looked around the tiny open-plan office. It was almost totally silent. She could hear someone typing away at the next office space to Jenna’s, and the whirr of the air conditioner, but apart from that, nothing. No one talking at all. They were all reading, probably. Being intellectual. Making decisions about novels and biographies and poetry and other things. How amazing. How amazing that she was even here, having an interview at Lion Books.
‘Lately …’ Elle knew what the truthful answer was, but she knew there was no way she could actually admit it. She was halfway through Bridget Jones’s Diary and it was the funniest book she thought she’d ever read, plus at least once every other page it made her shout, ‘Oh, my God, me too!’
But she couldn’t say that. She was at an interview for one of the most respected publishers in London. She had to prove she was an intellectual person of merit. Intellectual person, yes. She coughed.
‘Well, the classics, really. I love Henry James. And Emily Brontë. Wuthering Heights is like one of my favourite books ever… . I love reading. I’m passionate about …’ Oh, no.
Jenna crossed her legs and wheeled the chair a little closer. ‘Eleanor, look around my office. If you’d done your research you’d know I publish commercial women’s fiction.’ She slapped some spines on a shelf, dragged out a handful of thick paperbacks. ‘Gold foil. Legs in lacy tights. I need a secretary who wants to work with commercial authors.’ Her face was hard. ‘If you like Henry James so much perhaps you should be applying for a job at Penguin Classics.’
Elle could feel hot tears burning at the backs of her eyes. The red blush was crawling across her cheeks, she knew it. I don’t understand Henry James. I only liked The Buccaneers on TV. I’ve applied for jobs everywhere and no one’s interested. I’ve been sleeping on a friend’s floor for three months and eating Coco Pops twice a day. I’m drinking in the last-chance saloon, Jenna. Please, please give me a break.
‘… If you’d told me you liked Bridget Jones, for example, or you were reading Nick Hornby, or Jilly or even bloody Lace I’d have some indication that, despite your total lack of office experience, you were interested in working in publishing. Hmm?’ Jenna fingered a lock of long Titian hair with her slim fingers.
‘I do like Bridget Jones,’ Elle said softly. ‘I love it.’
‘Really.’ Jenna obviously didn’t believe her. She looked at her watch. ‘OK, is there anything else you’d like to say?’
‘Oh.’ Elle looked down at her sweating thighs, clad in bobbling black tights and a grey and black kilt that, she realised now, was far too short when she was sitting down. ‘Just that … Oh.’
I know I screwed this up, can you give me another chance?
I really need this job otherwise I have to go back to Sussex and I can’t live with Mum any more, I just can’t.
I have read Lace, some bits several times, in fact, it’s just I can’t talk about it without blushing.
My skirt is too short and I will address this issue should you employ me.
No, no, no. ‘I – no. Thank you very much. It was lovely to meet you. I … fingers crossed!’ And Elle finished by holding her hands up, making a thumbs-up sign with one, and crossing her fingers with the other.
‘Right …’ Jenna said. There was a pause as both of them stared at Elle’s hands, shaking in mid-air. ‘Thanks for coming in, Ellen. Great to meet you.’
‘Eleanor …’ Elle whispered. ‘Yes,’ she said more loudly. ‘Thanks – thank you! For this opportunity.’ That was one of the phrases, she remembered now. ‘I’m a keen enthusiastic self-starter and I’ll work my guts out for you,’ she added, randomly. But Jenna was ushering her out down the narrow maze of passageways, and Elle realised she wasn’t listening, and furthermore she, Eleanor Bee, still had one hand cocked in a thumbs-up sign. ‘Idiot,’ she muttered, as they reached the lifts.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Jenna smoothed down her lilac crêpe dress and fanned her fingers through her glossy hair.
‘Ah. Nothing,’ Elle added. She got into the lift. ‘Thanks again. Sorry. Thanks then – bye.’
The lift doors closed, shutting out Jenna’s bemused face.
I MADE A thumbs-up sign.
Elle weaved her way down the Strand, swinging her handbag and trying to look jaunty. ‘Let’s all go down the Strand,’ she sang under her breath. ‘Have a banana. Oh, what …’ Her voice cracked, and she trailed off. She glanced at her reflection in a shop window and shuddered. She looked awful, that stupid short skirt, why had she bought it? And that silly blue top, it was supposed to look like silky wool, but what that actually meant was that she had to hand wash it. Her light brown hair was too long and thick, tucked behind her ears and sticking out in tufts. She stared at the window again, and winced. She was looking into the window of a Dillons bookshop with a banner bearing the legend ‘Our Spring Bestsellers’.
‘Captain Corelli’s Mandolin … I