Not Another Happy Ending

by David Solomons

  Jane snatched the laptop from her knee.

  ‘Hey!’ Darsie objected. ‘What d'you think you're doing?’

  ‘I'm supposed to be the writer. You're the character. Remember?’

  ‘A character without an ending,’ she muttered, folding her arms.

  Jane ignored her and turned to the screen. Delicate sentences formed succulent paragraphs stacked one on top of the other, baked together into a firm, crisp page. Jealously, she began to read. Absorbed in the text she walked back to her desk and set the laptop down beside her own.

  Darsie hovered at her shoulder, looking from the screen to Jane, eager for praise. ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘I think,’ began Jane, ‘that this is the end of Les Misérables.’

  Darsie's eager expression didn't alter. ‘Yes. You should write something like that.’

  ‘Thanks. Great suggestion. Bit French, perhaps? People dying of consumption and all that? I'm a bit more … urban Scotland, Primal Scream, unhappy ‘90s childhood …’

  Willie looked up, some part of the conversation having pierced the armour of his typing. ‘Sorry?’

  Darsie raised a finger sharply. ‘She wasn't talking to you.’

  It took a moment before Jane remembered that Willie couldn't see or hear her. ‘I wasn't talking to you,’ she said apologetically.

  ‘OK,’ said Willie uncertainly, glancing around the room in case he'd missed the arrival of someone else. Then he loosened his shoulders with a shake and returned to work.

  Jane studied him. He was a writer, a kindred spirit. She couldn't imagine that he'd ever suffered from writer's block, but perhaps he could offer some wisdom on the subject. ‘Willie?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Do your characters ever …’ She hesitated. ‘Talk to you?’

  Willie broke off and leant towards her, his eyes locking with hers. Oh god, what had she said? She shouldn't have admitted it. She was a madwoman.

  ‘Sure,’ he said at last. ‘All the time.’

  Relief surged through her. She wasn't alone. He understood.

  Willie patted his typewriter. ‘That's why I've got this.’ A half smirk. ‘Drowns out the bastards.’ He sniffed. ‘See, when I'm writing, I only want to hear the one voice.’ He angled his hands towards his chest and made a flicking motion. ‘Mine.’ Without another word he went back to work.

  ‘Charming,’ said Darsie, arching one perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘Quite the hero.’

  Jane considered the man opposite her. She'd come to the conclusion that there were two Willies: one the supportive, caring man who'd held her when her plant died. The other was a bit of a bastard. Not that there was anything wrong with that. Made things interesting in all sorts of ways; from the bedroom to the bay window. With two writers living under the same roof there was bound to be a bit of creative friction—and some healthy competition. Currently, the score was a whitewash. She was getting creamed.

  Moreover, she knew that on some level he thrived on her discomfort. The longer she was stuck on Chapter 37, the better he looked, sailing through his screenplay. And the reason she knew with such certainty was her own dirty little secret. Uncomfortable as it was to admit, if the situation were reversed, she'd feel the same way.

  There was the ping of the carriage return and Willie tore another finished page from his typewriter. He caught her eye. A flicker of a smile.

  ‘You still blocked?

  She felt her cheeks colour. It was time to face it: no one else was going to help. It was down to her to do something about her damn writer's block.

  Mocha Books was that rarest of flowers, a new independent bookshop flourishing in the shade of the national chains and supermarkets. With a gourmet café grafted onto the bookselling side it had quickly established itself as much for its selection of artisan cheeses as its bold selection of literary fiction.

  Jane pushed open the door. A bell rang to signal her entrance; more like a temple gong, she thought. She pulled up the collar on her coat, eager not to draw attention to herself.

  She hadn't been to Mocha Books before, which was the point of coming here today. Given the delicate nature of the book she planned to purchase she wanted somewhere she was unlikely to be recognised. Not that celebrity was a pressing issue; it was a rare occasion when she was stopped in the street by a fan. And though she'd appeared as a guest on a couple of TV culture shows, they were of the variety broadcast between the hours of midnight and three a.m. on a channel no one had heard of. However, while ardent fans weren't a problem, her local bookstore was. She'd done several signings there and the staff knew her too well. Today she wanted to go incognito. Hence the trip to the north side of town, where the bears lived.

  She went inside and made straight for the self-help section. The plan was to get in and out with as little fuss as possible. She'd even remembered to bring cash in order to avoid having to use a card with her name on it. She browsed the bookshelves, running a finger lightly over the spines as she skimmed the titles. Finally, she landed on a likely candidate and, with a glance over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching, scooped it off the shelf.

  ‘A Hundred and One Ways to Beat Writer's Block?’ said a loud voice.

  Jane winced and turned to see a familiar figure. ‘Hello, Darsie.’

  Her alter ego had picked up on the undercover vibe and sported a pair of dark glasses and a headscarf. Jane experienced a twinge of envy. Whenever she'd tried to pull off the Grace Kelly headscarf thing she always ended up looking like a nineteenth-century peasant. Darsie wore it with aplomb. Rather unnecessarily she raised the sunglasses to show that it was indeed her beneath.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ whispered Jane. ‘Please.’

  ‘Hey,’ said Darsie, tucking a stray hair under her scarf. ‘I'm not the one drawing attention to myself by muttering into thin air.’

  She sashayed along next to the shelf, plucking a series of books, reeling off their titles and loading them into Jane's arms. ‘Beat Your Block to a Pulp. Knock that Block! Lost For Words. What would Jesus Write?’ She screwed up her face at this last one. ‘Seriously?’

  Irritated, Jane set aside the books on a nearby table. One would do—she wasn't that blocked. She swiped the top book from the stack. She'd had quite enough of her fictional shadow.

  ‘So, what's the deal, are you going to stalk me until I finish the novel?’

  ‘Yes, I believe that's how it works,’ said Darsie matter-of-factly. ‘Now, can we talk about the last chapter?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I'm a romantic heroine—I don't want to end up unhappy.’

  Jane shrugged. ‘Plenty of heroines don't get happy endings. Anna Karenina, Juliet Capulet, Tess of the d'Urbervilles—’

  ‘Tess?’ Darsie tutted loudly. ‘Oh come on, Jane. Spoiler alert.’

  Jane ignored her. ‘And anyway, I'm not yet sure what happens to you at the end.’

  ‘But you could make it anything you want,’ Darsie pleaded.

  ‘That's not how it works.’ There was a rhythm to these things; a rightness that could only be achieved by surrendering utterly to the pull of the story. ‘You don't really get to choose your ending. It has to follow from what comes before, or it doesn't feel true.’

  Darsie stopped walking. ‘But that's not fair!’ she wailed. ‘What comes before my ending are four hundred pages of unrelenting Celtic misery.’ She locked eyes with Jane. ‘Tom's right—you can't stop worshipping your pain.’

  Jane stared back at her creation. Darsie needed to understand. ‘Life is hard.’

  ‘OK, yes,’ Darsie nodded, ‘but can it be someone else's life?’ She clutched Jane's hand in hers. ‘Please, I want it all to turn out OK. Jane …’

  ‘Jane Lockhart?’

  Jane turned to see a formidable lady in a twin set, a bale of bubble-wrap in one hand, a copy of Happy Ending in the other, open at the author photo. She looked from the photo to Jane, and beamed.

  ‘I thought it was you.’ She marched
over, tucking the bubble-wrap under one arm in order to offer up a firm handshake. ‘Shona Heywood, proprietor of Mocha Books.’ She gestured grandly to the shop, and then laid a hand lightly on Jane's arm. ‘And may I say it's a pleasure to meet the woman who helped pay for my new kitchen.’ Shona chuckled at her own little joke.

  Jane joined in with a polite laugh. Behind her, Darsie threw back her head and guffawed. Jane sighed inwardly; so much for going incognito. This was exactly what she'd hoped to avoid by coming to Mocha Books. She pressed the cover of Beat Your Block To A Pulp against her chest and hoped Shona hadn't noticed.

  ‘It is. It's her!’ Shona pointed excitedly and suddenly an ambush of excited booksellers and customers materialised from the corners of the shop to surround Jane, cooing praise and hurling questions.

  Her head snapped back and forth to keep up with each fresh voice.

  ‘I just loved Happy Ending … so sad …’

  ‘Can't wait for your new one …’

  ‘Come to our book group …’

  ‘What's it called …?’

  ‘What's it about …?’

  And then from the muddle a clear voice rang out. ‘When's it out?’

  She looked round at the expectant faces. Good question. ‘Umm …’

  Shona hadn't taken in that Jane was struggling to provide an answer; the bookshop proprietor's mind was on loftier ground. ‘It must be difficult,’ she pondered aloud, ‘having so much to live up to.’ She waved a hand as if trying to trap the thought. ‘Really, how does one follow such a staggering success as Happy Ending?’

  By getting stuck on the last chapter of the next book for the rest of your life, thought Jane. She smiled and nodded inanely.

  Shona's hand was at it again. This time it performed a graceful swirl like some interpretive dance move. ‘But we're interrupting the Muse,’ she said huskily. ‘I'm sure you're eager to get back to the page.’ And then with a twinkle, ‘And I have my eye on a gorgeous new bathroom.’

  She chuckled again. Jane forced another laugh and Darsie mimicked her. But then Shona motioned to the book Jane was clutching guiltily to her chest. For a moment, Jane was sure the game was up.

  ‘Oh, and you must take the book,’ said Shona generously, ‘with my compliments.’

  ‘Thank you,’ breathed Jane, relief washing over her. It looked like she'd make it out of here without exposing her secret.

  ‘I must just run it through the till.’

  Before Jane could react, Shona had wrested the book from her grasp.

  ‘No!’ Jane cried out, her outburst startling the crowd.

  But it was too late. Shona's smile slipped as her eye scanned the title. ‘Blocked?’

  She sounded so disappointed that Jane felt even worse. The others could see the offending book now too and a whisper went through the gathering.

  ‘Yes, blocked.’

  ‘She's blocked.’

  They surrounded her in a tight circle. ‘Sorry,’ she heard herself say. ‘I'm really sorry.’ Abandoning the book she pushed her way through the throng, unable to avoid the disillusionment in every face. Flustered, she stumbled to the exit, yanked open the door and hurried out. Behind her the bell tolled.

  CHAPTER 13

  ‘Rain Dance’, Big Country, 1984, Mercury Records

  A PAIR OF black umbrellas stalked along Wilson Street, rain bouncing off their taut canopies. Beneath them, Tom gave Roddy a dark look.

  ‘Your powers are useless, old man,’ said Roddy. ‘The Duval Death Stare won't work on me, pal. I'm immune, see.’

  ‘It's been a week,’ Tom complained. ‘My inbox is empty. Nothing. Rien du tout. Where's my novel?’

  ‘Unfinished?’ Roddy ventured.

  ‘Precisely. She's not as melancholy over her stupid plant as you said she'd be. So much for your plan.’

  ‘Hey, you said it was a great plan.’

  ‘That was before it failed utterly.’

  ‘Whoa, relax. You need to take a breath. You know what impatience gets you? Heartburn. So, chill. Leave it to me. In the words of The Carpenters: We've only just begun.’

  ‘First Keats, now The Carpenters? I'll give you this, you're nothing if not eclectic.’

  ‘Oh yeah. I've got moves you wouldn't believe.’

  They came to the corner of the street just as a car raced through a puddle, sending a spray of dirty water over them.

  Tom hurled abuse at the disappearing tail lights and then wiped a hand across his rain-smudged face. ‘Does it ever stop raining in this damn country?’

  ‘No. Obviously,’ said Roddy, shaking one sodden trouser-leg. ‘But I'll tell you where it doesn't rain. Saint-Tropez.’ He shivered. ‘Here's a thought. Why don't we put a pin in this business with Jane and take a wee holiday …?’

  Tom stood like a statue. A wet statue. He grimaced. ‘You don't know what it's like. There it is just sports cars and yachts and beautiful women.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’ Roddy turned his damp face up hopefully.

  ‘I came here to get away from that.’ He stared grimly into the middle distance. ‘I grew up in a swimming pool, Roddy. My adolescence was an endless parade of girls in bikinis. By my late teens the summers were a succession of Brigittes, Mariannes and Nathalies, riding around aimlessly on the back of my motorbike. We led hollow lives with nothing to do but drink wine and have meaningless sex beneath an unrelenting sun.’

  Roddy sniffed. ‘It's a wonder you're not scarred.’

  Tom ignored him. ‘When the sun is shining nobody can think.’

  ‘Well,’ said Roddy with a rueful smile, ‘we get to do a lot of thinking round here.’

  ‘And that is why I like it.’ They turned into Candleriggs and walked the short distance to Tristesse Books’ gated entrance. ‘So, what do The Carpenters say we should do about Jane now?’

  Roddy nodded, gathering his thoughts. ‘OK. Right, get this. Stephen King, John Grisham, JK Rowling—what've they all got in common?’

  ‘If I published any of them, I wouldn't need Jane Lockhart?’

  ‘Well, yes, but apart from that?’

  ‘Just spit it out, Roddy!’

  ‘OK, OK. They were all, at some point, rejected by publishers.’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Yeah? Clever, huh? Smart, with a twist of bwahahaha!’

  Tom thought for a moment. ‘I can't reject her novel—the point is, I want it.’

  ‘But you're not seeing the big picture. This isn't about you. Once she's delivered on her contract with Tristesse, you said she's moving to Klinsch & McLeish, right? Big Edinburgh rainmakers. Publishers to the elite. The red and white covers every writer dreams of being published in. Well, what do needy writers hate above all? I'll tell you. Not being loved.’

  He left a pause.

  ‘Are you waiting for applause?’

  ‘Maybe. Yeah.’

  ‘Just get to the point, will you?’

  Roddy mimed sucking a pipe. ‘So, Watson, if we want Jane to fall into a state of melancholy, then we must engineer her new publisher to dump her. It's …’ He raised his chin, inviting Tom to finish the line.

  ‘I'm not saying “elementary”,’ Tom said flatly. However he couldn't help but agree that despite the shocking Sherlock Holmes impersonation Roddy had hit on something. What he said about authors was true, in his experience. They were all needy. It was understandable. Most spent their formative years opening the morning mail to find a rejection letter tucked in with the bills. But the same thing marked them out: no matter how conditioned they were to failure, they all lived in hope. Extinguishing that was bound to crush Jane. Tom balked at the thought, but consoled himself that he had embarked upon this distasteful project in order to help her. Crushing her hope was necessary only in the short term.

  ‘The hypothesis is sound,’ he agreed. ‘But how do we get Klinsch & McLeish to drop Jane?’

  ‘Two words,’ said Roddy, raising one finger and then another. ‘Glen. Buchan.’

  There was an old adage that crime and horror writers
exorcised their demons on the page and as a result were amongst some of the most well–adjusted, easy-going individuals you could ever hope to meet. Glen Buchan proved the exception. Despite attaining a level of financial success that would choke a banker and critical praise that had elevated him from genre writer to literary darling, he remained the same misanthropic bundle of hang-ups that Tom had known back when he'd almost published his debut. All of which, Tom reflected with a thin smile, made him perfect for the next phase of the plan.

  The sign in the central foyer of the Thistle Hotel pointed to the conference suite where the creative writing workshop was due to take place that afternoon. When Tom swung through the entrance he found the workshop organiser—a crinkly poet in Harris tweed—standing over the sign locked in a heated discussion with a lanky duty manager.

  ‘But that's what it says,’ said the duty manager patiently.

  ‘Wind Jar,’ said the poet, evidently not for the first time. He spoke with a singsong cadence, his voice a gentle lilt, until it rose to an exasperated squeak. ‘Not Whinger.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed the puzzled duty manager, shrugging his epauletted shoulders and pointing to the sign. ‘Exactly.’

  Tom followed his finger. On the sign was an illustration of a curving amphora pot encircled with a sentence in a faux Celtic script. It read: ‘Whinger Scotland—Capturing the Creative Breath.’

  The duty manager gave one last shrug of incomprehension and politely excused himself, leaving the poet to grumble his dissatisfaction to the air.

  ‘Donald,’ Tom hailed him, ‘still pedalling that Hebridean doggerel you call poetry?’ He made his way across the tartan-carpeted foyer towards the old poet. ‘I could never understand a word of it. Particularly when you read aloud.’ He shook his head. ‘That ridiculous accent.’

  ‘Duval, you little prick,’ chanted Donald MacDonald. His shaggy white beard parted like curtains to reveal a broad smile. ‘Fucking marvellous to see you.’