Not Another Happy Ending

by David Solomons

  ‘Ah yes, Glen,’ said McLeish. ‘Fabulous writer, a prose alchemist, popular without being populist.’

  Klinsch chimed in, expressing her high regard for their star author before adding, ‘You know you have something in common.’

  OK, that was more than she'd ever expected; they were comparing her to Glen Buchan. To Tom she'd been no more than a grafter. Well, ha! Stick that in your Gitanes and smoke it, Duval!

  ‘Really? You think so? I mean, he's up there with McEwan and Byatt.’

  An awkward glance passed between Klinsch and McLeish. ‘Quite possibly. No, dear, what I mean is that you were both discovered by your former publisher.’

  She hadn't been comparing her to Buchan after all. Jane felt her cheeks redden; no doubt they were now the same colour as one of the legendary covers.

  ‘Tom discovered Glen Buchan?’

  ‘It didn't last,’ said McLeish with a dismissive wave. ‘They had a terrible falling out and went their separate ways long before Glen's debut was published.’ A smile slid across his thin face. ‘By us.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jane. ‘Sounds like Tom.’

  ‘Anyway, enough of the past,’ said Klinsch, producing a fountain pen. ‘Here's to the future.’

  With a gentlemanly flourish McLeish drew out a seat for Jane and spread the contract on the table before her.

  Klinsch eased the pen into Jane's hand. The contract lay open at the signature page. All she had to do was reach out and make her mark.

  That was all.

  ‘Blocked on this too?’

  Darsie sat on the other side of the table, wearing a long, green silk gown with a lace neck, her hair hidden under a wimple. Stretching her long neck and angling her head to take advantage of imaginary footlights, she declaimed, ‘I am in blood Stepped in so far that should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.’ She grinned. ‘What d'you think? If the romantic heroine thing doesn't work out, I'm thinking of a sideways move into tragedy.’

  Jane was acutely aware that she'd frozen over the contract. She could feel Klinsch & McLeish's expectant gaze.

  ‘Will you excuse us—me—for a moment?’

  She had to get out of there and collect her thoughts. A splash of water would help. Klinsch pointed her along the corridor to the nearest bathroom. Avoiding their perplexed looks and apologising as she left, she hurried out.

  Jane closed and locked the door. The bathroom was little bigger than a converted cupboard and painted a deep red that tricked her focus and made the room swim. She felt like she was standing inside a beating heart. Darsie leaned against the basin, leafing through a Klinsch & McLeish classic edition of Macbeth.

  ‘It's funny, at the start I thought I was Lady Macbeth,’ she said, ‘but now I'm wondering if I'm Banquo's ghost at the feast, haunting you for your unforgiveable crime.’

  ‘What crime?’

  ‘Killing off Tom.’

  ‘I'm not killing him off,’ Jane objected. ‘He's not a fictional character.’

  Darsie planted a hand on her hip.

  ‘Oh, so if he were fictional it'd be all right to snuff him out, yeah, is that what you're saying?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jane. ‘No.’ She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. ‘I don't know. I'm leaving him. It's not the same thing.’

  ‘He could've tried a bit harder to persuade you to stay.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But he didn't.’

  ‘No.’ The red walls pulsed.

  ‘You should ask him to help you. With the ending.’

  Jane snorted. ‘No way.’

  ‘Why not? He's good at that stuff. Didn't he make Happy Ending a better novel?’

  It was true. She'd given him a ragged manuscript full of stray commas and potential. He'd shaped her—it—into a novel. But she couldn't ask him for help—wouldn't—not after all that had happened. If she crawled back to him now he'd gloat and she couldn't bear the look on his smug, handsome face.

  ‘I have a few ideas,’ said Darsie. ‘For the ending.’

  Jane stiffened. ‘You're giving me notes?’

  ‘At least I'm trying to finish it. What are you doing—taking day trips?’

  ‘I'm doing my best. It's just … hard.’

  ‘Yes. Well, I've figured out what's going on.’ Darsie adjusted her wimple. ‘You can't write the last chapter because once it's done you'll have no reason to see Tom ever again.’

  Jane paused and then let out a loud laugh.

  ‘Jane, dear?’ From outside the door came Dr Klinsch's concerned voice. ‘Everything all right?’

  ‘Yes. Fine,’ she called. ‘Be out in a minute.’

  Jane opened both taps on the basin and rounded on Darsie. The running water muffled their conversation.

  ‘In case you haven't noticed I'm about to go back in there and sign with a new publisher. Oh, and one more minor detail—I'm not writing my ending. I'm writing yours. And I'm not you.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Darsie. ‘And your first novel wasn't a barely fictionalised account of your relationship with your father.’ She smiled knowingly. ‘Oh, and remind me, what's your middle name again? Jane Darsie Lockhart.’

  ‘That means nothing,’ she blustered. ‘And anyway, I was thinking of changing your name. I …’

  Deciding that arguing with her creation was a frustrating exercise that kept leading her back down the same dead end, Jane resorted to a more basic tactic. She shut her eyes and counted to five, then opened them again, hopefully.

  ‘Still here,’ said Darsie gleefully.

  When she returned to the parlour it was to find Mr McLeish holding out the fountain pen and contract.

  ‘Now then, young lady,’ he said. ‘All ready to go with a real publisher?’

  Jane hesitated, at once unsure and excited. It was time to make up her mind. But really, was there anything to decide? As she reached for the proffered pen Dr Klinsch was already uncorking the champagne.

  CHAPTER 15

  ‘Rain, Rain Go Away’, Bobby Vinton, 1962, EMI Columbia

  THE AROMA OF viciously fried and battered fish filled the tiny kitchen. Tom sat gloomily at a pullout table watching Roddy bustle about in a black and white pinny that looked suspiciously like half of a kinky French maid's outfit, and a pair of oven gloves emblazoned with the line, ‘souvenir of Arbroath’.

  Tom reflected on the latest plan, not that there was much to reflect upon. It had nose-dived. Like the previous one. And not only had he failed to make her miserable, but he'd also lost her to Klinsch & McLeish.

  He didn't want her back—she didn't want to stay—but knowing that there existed a piece of paper with her signature on it next to Klinsch & McLeish's felt like divorce, not separation. Sure, they were never going to reconcile, but until today the door had been open. Now it was shut and padlocked.

  Roddy knelt at the oven, peered through a dark glass door smeared with the burnt-on fat of a lifetime of reheated takeaways and ready meals, and made appreciative noises at two chunky paper-wrapped bundles inside. With the care of a cordon bleu chef he adjusted the oven temperature a notch. It was Thursday, and on Thursday dinner consisted of a couple of large fish suppers from Mario's.

  The notion of a fish supper was peculiarly Scottish, considered Tom. Before he'd arrived in Glasgow the word ‘supper’ conjured for him a plate of food, flavours and textures distinct and in balance, beautifully seasoned, accompanied by a selection of appropriate side dishes, all perfectly cooked. Here, it meant fish. And chips. The latter dished up with what he could only describe as a shovel. It wasn't food; it was heavy artillery. He loved it.

  Roddy shook his head gravely and for a moment Tom was sure that the fish suppers had gone the same way as yesterday's steak pie, which had ended its useful life as a burnt offering to the god of blocked arteries.

  ‘You really turned down Glen Buchan?’ Roddy collected cutlery from a grimy drawer, wiped it carefully on his sleeve and laid two place settings.

  ‘I
don't want to talk about it,’ said Tom.

  Roddy studied the wine rack, humming and hawing over his selection to complement tonight's repast, which puzzled Tom since there were only two bottles on the rack, and one of them was vodka.

  ‘Call him,’ said Roddy, sliding out a cheeky Chilean Sauvignon Blanc. ‘Tell him you made a mistake, that you'd be honoured to publish him. Then you can stop all this nonsense with Jane.’

  Tom toyed with his knife. There was a stain of indeterminate origin on the stainless steel.

  ‘But I don't want him. I can't publish Glen Buchan—I hate his writing.’

  Roddy unscrewed the wine cap, making a ‘pop’ with his mouth as he did so, then filled two glasses.

  ‘So, let me get this straight, you only take on writers you love?’

  Tom wasn't falling for that one. ‘Writing I love.’

  ‘How intéressant,’ mused Roddy, ducking down to open a cupboard under the sink.

  ‘No. No, it isn't. Now can we get back to making Jane miserable? I know, we could force her to read her Amazon page. Or make her go on a “Meet the Bloggers” tour.’

  Roddy stood up holding a pair of silver candlesticks, yellow with tarnish. Two stubby ends of candles poked up from their holders. He placed them on the table next to a hulking ghetto blaster that appeared to have fallen through a wormhole from 1985. It wasn't obsolete technology, Roddy maintained, it was vintage.

  ‘I could show her the review,’ said Tom. Jane's debut had been greeted with overwhelming praise in every quarter, except one. The London Review of Books had dedicated a whole page to an excoriating review. Thankfully, the publication was subscription only and he'd destroyed the office copy before cancelling his own subscription. He was sure she'd never seen the offending article.

  ‘You wouldn't,’ said Roddy uneasily. ‘Remember Keats.’

  ‘Again with Keats!’

  ‘One bad review finished him off. Never wrote again. You want Jane melancholy, not rocking in a corner staring at the wall.’

  Roddy shared out the fish suppers from the oven and sat down.

  He dimmed the overhead light, struck a match and lit the candles. A soft glow suffused the room. He stabbed the big plastic play button on the ghetto blaster's tape deck and Scottish sadcore drifted across the table.

  Tom was suddenly aware that the room had taken on a romantic ambience. He looked slowly from the candlesticks to his friend. ‘You know,’ he said. ‘One of us really needs to get laid.’

  There was a crinkle of paper as Roddy unwrapped his supper. He glanced up with an expression of yearning.

  ‘Oh god, yeah.’

  They ate quickly, talking through mouthfuls of orange haddock and salty chips.

  Tom paused, a forkful midway to his mouth.

  ‘OK, here's a thought.’ He made tiny brooding circles with the fork. ‘We could kill her dog.’

  Roddy looked confused. ‘I didn't know she had a dog.’

  Tom waved the fork meaningfully. ‘She doesn't. We could buy her one … and then kill it.’

  Roddy gave an uneasy glance.

  ‘It wouldn't be a cute dog,’ Tom said, not altogether reassuringly.

  Roddy swallowed a bite. ‘You don't think that's a bit, how can I put this …’ He paused. ‘Psychotic?’

  But Tom wasn't listening; another idea had sprung from the first.

  ‘You're right, she hasn't got a dog.’ He grinned darkly. ‘But she does have a screenwriter.’

  The fork made more lazy circles as he figured out a plan. He'd tried to sabotage Jane's career, but that had failed. It was time to get personal. Her relationship with Willie was a pillar of her life; if he could topple it then she was sure to descend into melancholy.

  Roddy looked alarmed. ‘I'm not helping you kill Willie Scott.’

  His voice was a distant buzz. This would work, Tom decided. Willie would fall. He must.

  ‘It's simple, really. Willie is patently out for all he can get from Jane. He's inveigled his way into her life, moved into her flat, and has persuaded her to let him adapt her novel even though a brief look at his résumé demonstrates how ill-suited he is to the task.’ Disappointment kindled into determination. ‘All we have to do is open Jane's eyes. She will see that she's with a man who doesn't care for her beyond what he can extract from her talent. She will end it with him and be left miserable and alone. The perfect combination to get her writing again.’

  Roddy chewed thoughtfully. ‘But if you've proved he was so terrible for her then why would she be miserable about ending it?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘Everyone is miserable after a break-up.’

  ‘Like when you and Jane broke up?’

  ‘How many times must I say it? We never broke up because we were never together. But just for that I'm eating your chips.’ He reached over and, ignoring Roddy's protests, grabbed a handful from his plate.

  He ground the hot chips between his teeth. He couldn't stop her getting together with Klinsch & McLeish, but he was damn well going to make sure she dumped Willie Scott.

  A red double-decker bus threaded its way through the city centre, circled George Square half a dozen times and then headed east towards its final destination in Bridgeton. Tom had chartered the bus at great expense for the launch of Nicola Ball's latest, Death of a Conductor, and he intended to get his money's worth. The bus side was emblazoned with a suitably moody poster advertising the novel: an image of a lonely, rain-streaked bus shelter, and the terse log-line: Stop Means Stop.

  On the upper deck Tom guided Nicola through a round of interviews with print journalists and literary bloggers. The questions were always the same. Is it based on real life? How much are you like the main character? Listening to her answers, he wasn't sure if Nicola was selling herself or her book, and more to the point, whether these days there was a difference.

  He didn't organise a public launch for all of his authors—most of them weren't great in public, either too easily flustered or, frankly, staggeringly dull—but Nicola was young and pretty and at ease in front of a microphone.

  ‘I'd like to talk about the character of the conductor's widow,’ began the literary editor of The Scotsman. ‘Now, your own mother was widowed in a tragic bus accident …’

  Tom tuned out. Jane Lockhart had also suffered from this line of questioning. Too many readers believed what she did was simply raid her family archives and dump her feelings onto the page. But there was so much more art to her writing than that and in his opinion Jane hadn't received nearly enough credit for the alchemy she performed in transforming reality into fiction. With a twinge of regret he remembered that he was one of those who had never said it to her.

  The big depot doors rattled apart and the bus grumbled through into a vast shed lined with commercial vehicles decked out in the bright corporate liveries of half a dozen Scottish operators. Corinthian radiator grilles of Leyland Lions and Albion Valiants shone in serried ranks along each wall. The punchline to the joke that began ‘How do you lose a ten-ton bus?’ was right here.

  They came to a halt with a squeal of air brakes at the edge of a crowd of invited guests. Tom turned his attention from Nicola to look out the long window. In a space set aside for the event, waiters ferried trays of sparkling wine and canapés between small knots of people significantly overdressed for a Friday afternoon in Bridgeton. He had sent Jane an invitation to the launch, signing it from Nicola in order to ensure her presence. He searched the gathering and saw that his ruse had worked. She was here, and she'd brought Willie. In Roddy's suburban commando speak, the plan was ‘good to go’.

  Tom frowned. As well as her useless boyfriend Jane had also brought cupcakes. She balanced the array of sickly coloured treats on a tray.

  He disembarked and addressed the guests, saying a few words about Nicola's prodigious talent, which made the young writer well up (a glance at Jane confirmed that his praise had elicited a pleasing shade of green from her, or perhaps it was just the reflection of the coachwork on
the Glasgow Corporation omnibus she was standing beside).

  He toasted his young charge and passed her into Sophie Hamilton Findlay's capable hands. When she was safely ensconced behind a tower of hardbacks at the signing table, Tom snagged another glass of wine from a passing waiter and prepared to initiate the plan, which Roddy had bestowed with the name ‘Kill Will’.

  ‘Ah, the number 15 to Meiklewood.’ Roddy ambled up and cast a wistful look at the destination board on the front of a green and white sixty-seater. He creased his brow. ‘Where the fuck's Meiklewood?’

  Tom ignored him. He tracked Jane through the crowd as she passed out cakes from her tray. ‘She's still baking,’ he said sullenly.

  Roddy held up his fingers in the sign of the Cross. ‘Back, cupcakes of Satan!’

  ‘You don't understand,’ said Tom. ‘Baking is bad. Baking is the writer's dirty little secret. First, it involves lots of time-consuming measuring and many, many bowls. Then they have to keep checking the oven so they can't possibly write anything in between, and clearing up all those bowls takes ages. Before you know it, the afternoon has disappeared. But, most importantly, people eat their cake and instantly appreciate what they've done. So, although they've written absolutely nothing all day, it makes them feel productive.’

  Roddy shook his head. ‘Devious bastards.’ He took a sip of wine and glanced at Nicola. ‘Though she's a nice kid. Bet she doesn't know one end of a slotted spoon from the other.’

  Tom frowned. ‘Surely it's obvious.’

  ‘Well, yes, but … I was just trying to make a point. About Nicola not being a devious baker.’

  ‘I'm not even sure you use a slotted spoon in baking.’

  ‘All right! God, I really don't care. I was just remarking upon what I perceive to be the amiability of Nicola Ball. Nice kid.’