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      ‘Well, Eleanor, you won’t remember, but I was impressed with you at our interview. You had opinions about books. And you were enthusiastic. That –’ Felicity stabbed a pencil into her jotter, ‘is a very good thing. Don’t lose it.’

      You won’t remember. Elle wanted to laugh. ‘Thank you!’ she said, her face lighting up with pleasure.

      ‘Go away and read that. What a treat you have in store. Now, I’ve gone off-piste again. One of the pleasures of discussing books, I’m sure you’ll agree.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Back to business. Polly Pearson. Why’s it so marvellously different?’

      Confident now, Elle spoke in a rush, the words tumbling out of her. ‘Well. It’s about someone near my age, living in London, having fun, trying to sort her life out, and she likes watching Friends and ordering takeaways and even though it’s not the best book I’ve ever read, I know about five people who’d like it, and we’ve not had anything like that at Bluebird before.’ Elle wanted Felicity to like it, she didn’t know why, other than that she wanted Rory to be able to buy it and she wanted him to be pleased with her. She delivered the killer line. ‘After all, you always say if when you’re reading it you can think of three people you know who would like the book then you should definitely publish it.’

      The dark green eyes – so like her son’s, Elle had never noticed it before – were scrunched up tight. ‘Hm,’ she said, and Elle detected a note of uncertainty in her tone. ‘Very interesting. I’ll be honest with you, Eleanor. Rory wants us to bid for it. He wants us to go to £200,000, blow the other offers out of the water. He says it’ll show everyone Bluebird can compete at the top. But it’s a hell of a lot of money …’

      She trailed off and stared thoughtfully at Elle. ‘This Bridget Jones vogue, it’s lasting much longer than I suspected. Bridget Jones in New York. Bridget Jones Moves to the Countryside. And I’m afraid I simply don’t get it.’ She sighed; a shadow passed over her face. ‘Rory thinks I’m past it, that I can’t spot a good book when it’s right under my nose,’ she said unexpectedly.

      Elle wanted to reassure her. ‘Look, like I say, it’s not completely fantastic. Perhaps it’s a bit cynically done.’ She stopped, and realised this was true. ‘And the characters are cardboard thin, like she read some other books like it and thought, “I can knock one of these off myself.” But I still enjoyed it.’

      Felicity’s eyes gleamed. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘That is what I wanted to hear. Thank you.’

      Elle smiled with relief. ‘Oh – good. Um – is that all, Miss Sassoon?’ she asked politely.

      ‘Yes, dear,’ Felicity replied. She got out her Dictaphone. ‘Libby. Email to Rory Sassoon, Posy Carmichael …’ She pressed the Pause button. ‘Read Georgette Heyer. Let me know how you get on.’ She made a shooing gesture, and Elle shot out of the cool dark office, shutting the door gently behind her.

      ‘How did it go? Are you clearing out your things?’ Libby asked, sotto voce, as Elle sank into her chair.

      ‘No, it was OK.’ Elle’s shoulders felt as though they’d sunk four inches lower with relief. ‘She just wanted to ask about that Polly Pearson book.’

      ‘Hope you told her it was total rubbish,’ said Libby.

      ‘No,’ said Elle. ‘I said it was OK.’ She paused, and looked down at the battered old Pan paperback in her hand. ‘At least, I think that’s what I said.’

      It wasn’t till after lunch that Elle came back, much restored by a tuna baguette and a walk to the British Museum in the sunshine, to find Rory standing by her desk.

      ‘What did you say to my mother?’ he demanded. He ran his hands through his light brown hair, scrunching it till it stood on end. Elle looked blank. ‘To Felicity, Elle,’ Rory said. ‘About that damned book. Come on, what did you say to her?’

      Elle sat down and put her bag on the floor. ‘I don’t know,’ she began. ‘Why?’

      Rory had his shirtsleeves rolled up and his hands on his hips. He glared at her, his face grim, his eyes dark. She’d never seen him look so angry.

      ‘I went out for the rest of the morning and I get back to this. She’s sent the most fucking absurd email, saying she won’t authorise a bigger offer.’ He scratched his scalp furiously. ‘She says we can match the first offer but no more. We won’t get the bloody thing now, the agent’s after money. This was our chance to show we’re not some piddling old-fashioned grannies’ club, that we’re in the game! She was going for it this morning. What did you say to her?’

      ‘I didn’t say anything!’ Elle said, trying not to squeak. ‘I just told her I really liked it, that it was a lot more realistic than most MyHeart books, and I said I enjoyed it, Sam enjoyed it—’

      Behind her, Libby coughed loudly.

      Rory brandished a piece of paper. ‘Asking the younger members of the office for their views,’ he read, in a low, angry voice, ‘and trusting to my own instinct as well, I came to the conclusion that, in the words of a junior employee, “It is cynically done, with cardboard-thin characters, as if the author had read other books and merely thought she could knock something similar off herself.” And therefore not something Bluebird should be spending its money on, no matter how forceful the desire to surrender to a seductive albeit – I believe fleeting – zeitgeist.’

      He bent down, so his lean face was near hers. ‘Did you say that?’

      Perhaps if Elle had been older or more experienced, she’d have told Rory not to drag her into his feud with his mother. But she wasn’t. ‘I – I did,’ she said quietly. She couldn’t believe this was the same Rory who laughed and joked all day long, who’d been so sweet a few hours earlier, kissed her on the head. ‘But I also told her I enjoyed it a lot, despite all that, I promise, Rory—’

      ‘Elle –’ he began, and then stopped. He closed his eyes briefly. ‘For God’s sake, you don’t get it, do you? This is a commercial business.’ He clenched his hands into fists. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just – now someone else will make it a huge best-seller and we’ll be left trying to persuade Smith’s to take the umpteenth Jessie Dukes about sisters in the Blitz.’ He leaned forward again. ‘You’re a snob, Elle, you know that?’

      ‘No, I’m not,’ Elle said indignantly.

      ‘Yes, you are. I saw you last week, devouring that book at your desk. You told me you liked it.’

      He looked genuinely upset. He’d never been cross with her; it was awful. Posy was stern, sometimes a killjoy: Rory was funny, kind, a bit lazy, sure, but she’d always thought he was on her side. ‘I was, I enjoyed it, but I’m just saying it’s not—’

      ‘Not what? Proper art? Oh, for God’s sake.’ He waved his hand at her, as if she’d disappointed him, played the wrong move in a game she didn’t know she was in. ‘Forget it. It’s OK. It’s her, not you. She’s going to learn one day, and then it’ll be too late.’ He wandered off, and left her staring after him, bewildered.

      RECOUNTING ALL THIS back at home to her brother that evening, Elle was still in shock.

      ‘So I spilled coffee over her, and she didn’t even seem to mind too much! She didn’t shout or anything. I thought I was going to get fired, and then she asked me what I thought of a manuscript!’ She poured Rhodes another glass of wine and drained her own. ‘Honestly, Rhodes – well, you have to meet her to see what I mean, but she’s an amazing woman, really remarkable. Her husband died when she was thirty, left her alone with a small son, and this company to run, and she’s done it – she knows everyone, she’s always going to the most glamorous parties. Last week, she went to the Women of the Year lunch, and Joan Collins was there, can you believe it?’

      ‘Right,’ said

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