Not Another Happy Ending

by David Solomons

  ‘So, how's the screenplay coming along?’ she enquired gently.

  Willie continued to type. ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Your screenplay? I was just thinking we haven't really discussed it much … at all … and since, well, I wrote the novel, maybe I could, y'know …’ She plucked one of her editing pencils from its holder and underlined her suggestion in the air. ‘What I mean is, we should have more ebb and flow.’

  Willie paused for what seemed an age, pursing his lips in contemplation.

  ‘That's not a bad idea,’ he said at last, nodding.

  Jane felt a weight lift, a sudden sense of vindication sweeping over her. Ha! Tom Duval. Ha! In your fuzzy face! Shows what you know. My screenwriter boyfriend and I are going to sit here and have a far-reaching discussion about his adaptation of my novel. We are together. We are as one.

  ‘You know that scene in the book where her father goes on a bender and doesn't show up for the mother's funeral?’ Willie shuffled the pages of his screenplay, finding the relevant section.

  Of course she did. Jane lost herself in the awful memory of that day. ‘Yes. I remember,’ she said quietly.

  Willie propped his spectacles on his forehead. ‘Would you miss it?’

  Her mouth flapped. It was a key scene, a devastating moment in her life and her fiction. If he was messing with that, what the hell else was he doing to her book?

  ‘What? You can't—Willie, I think we need to talk this through.’

  ‘I know what this is about,’ he said in a voice of irritating calm.

  ‘I really don't think that–’

  ‘You haven't written a word in two weeks so you want to talk instead of dealing with your blockage.’

  ‘How many times, I am not blocked.’

  He stroked his chin. ‘This writer I knew on Rain Town got stuck on a Long-Lost Sibling story arc. Thought it would end his career, but he beat it.’

  She knew she should have pressed him on what other drastic changes he was making to her novel, but he was offering a potential cure. She cursed herself for asking. ‘How?’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Wrote naked.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘Seriously.’ He leaned in, resting his arms on the desk and fixing her with a meditative gaze. ‘Being naked you release yourself from the restrictions of the everyday so that you can express your ideas in an uninhibited fashion.’

  She wasn't buying it. ‘Uh-huh. You just want to be able to sit there and write while you stare at my tits.’

  He grinned. ‘They are great tits.’

  The excitement began after lunch. Willie had insisted on taking her out to the Ubiquitous Chip for a quick bite of baked parmesan custard with anchovy toast; his way of apologising for the ‘crude remark about her tits’. The quick bite had turned into a lazy lunch. Jane's sclerotic progress with the last chapter ensured she was in no hurry to return to the flat, and Willie was on good form, displaying his usual mix of crude humour and flashes of boyish vulnerability. She laughed a lot around him when he was like this; it reminded her why they were together in the first place. It was sometime after 3 o'clock, over cheese and tequila, that the call came in from his agent.

  Willie examined the phone. He was an analogue guy and the touchscreen was his bane. In his eagerness to answer he stabbed at it, inadvertently putting the call on speaker.

  ‘I have Priscilla Hess for you,’ chirped an assistant at Clarion Creative Management.

  There was the click of a connection being made during which Jane watched Willie straighten in his chair. His expression swung between hope and dread. He was like this every time she called. Priscilla brought tidings from the wide world of showbiz. It could be a request for a meeting from some hot director or a new screenplay commission. However, in the time she'd known him he hadn't received one of those calls. It was always the other side of the coin: a producer passing on one of his pitches, the heart-sickening thud of rejection.

  ‘Willie,’ said a clipped female voice from the phone. It sounded as if she was in traffic.

  ‘Priscilla,’ said Willie with forced bonhomie. Jane knew he just wanted her to deliver the news fast, and if it was bad that it not spoil his lunch. She felt stirrings of sympathy. ‘How ya doing?’

  ‘I'm in LA. Thought you were in town.’

  Willie cleared his throat with an awkward cough. ‘Not for a while, Priscilla. I'm on the Happy Ending script, remember?’

  There was a pause that might have been a transatlantic time delay, but which Jane had a feeling was Priscilla deciding whether or not to bother lying that she did recollect what her low-level client was working on.

  ‘You'll be getting a call today about a new project.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ He adjusted his grip on the phone.

  ‘From Fox.’

  He fumbled the handset, which fell into the dregs of an espresso granita. ‘Shit.’

  ‘Willie?’

  He bellowed into the speaker as he retrieved the phone. ‘I'm here. Right here. Did you say Fox?’ He shook off the coffee drips. ‘Twentieth Century Fox?’

  There was a sigh from the other end of the line. ‘One piece of advice,’ offered Priscilla.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don't fuck it up.’

  The line went dead. Willie lowered the phone and looked at Jane, his anxiety melting away like warm granita, replaced by a youthful grin.

  They headed back to the flat immediately. He wanted to prepare for the call: throw a few punches at the speedbag, centre himself with a spot of yogic breathing. Jane was curious why Priscilla hadn't imparted more details. What was the new project about, for instance? She hadn't forgotten their earlier conversation in which he'd all but confessed to perpetrating a wholesale rewrite of her novel and despite the nice lunch there was a part of her that hoped the answer to her question, ‘will you have to go to LA?’ would be a big, fat ‘yes’.

  ‘Don't worry about that, Janey,’ said Willie, putting an arm round her. ‘Happy Ending is my number one priority. Until I write Fade Out, The End, it's all about your novel. Well, my adaptation.’

  ‘Oh. Good,’ she said, trusting that in his excitement he wouldn't notice her lack of enthusiasm.

  The call came just before four-thirty. Willie would usually have been returning from his daily run in the park about then, so he was fizzing with pent-up energy when the withheld number flashed up. He put the phone on speaker and began to pace back and forth in front of his desk.

  ‘Mr Scott?’ an American voice blared out.

  ‘Mr Fox!’ said Willie and then grimaced. ‘I mean, you're the guy from Fox, right? Not Mr Fox. He'll be the boss I'm guessing.’

  He glanced over at Jane who was holding her head in her hands.

  ‘Yeah. So, Mr Scott—Willie—let me get right to it. Our senior development executive has been looking for a screenwriter with a distinctive voice for a very special project we have slated for next year.’

  Willie shot an excited glance at Jane.

  She motioned him to keep cool.

  ‘Oh aye?’ he swaggered.

  She motioned again: OK, not that cool.

  ‘Aye—’ said the voice.

  Jane puzzled for a moment; she could have sworn that the West Coast LA accent had slipped into the West Coast of Scotland variety.

  ‘I mean … yeah.’ The twang returned. ‘And when she heard you were adapting Jane Lockhart's Happy Ending, she was excited.’ The voice rose an octave. ‘We were all excited.’

  ‘I'm excited,’ Willie beamed. ‘But it's not just adaptations—I have original material, too.’

  ‘That's terrific,’ enthused the voice.

  It was clear to Jane from the way he oversold it that the LA movie executive couldn't give two hoots about Willie's original material.

  ‘You can share all that with our senior VP … uh … Bob … and our deputy head of acquisitions … Www … Wanda …? Vonda. Yeah, Vonda. They're flying over this Friday. You live in London, right?’

&n
bsp; ‘Mainly,’ lied Willie. ‘I have a place upcountry too,’ he dropped in casually.

  ‘Well, apologies, it may involve dragging you out to the middle of nowhere. We're scouting Steven's next pic.’

  Willie perked up and Jane had a premonition about what was about to come out of his mouth.

  Don't say it, she willed him. Don't say it.

  ‘Steven?’ Willie shifted the phone to his other hand. ‘Steven Segal?’

  Jane winced.

  ‘Uh, no.’ The voice dripped with disapproval. ‘Soderbergh. He'll probably drop by and say hi. If that's OK?’

  So-der-bergh, mouthed Willie excitedly. ‘Aye, that'd be OK,’ he said, endeavouring to make it sound like he and Stevie were always bumping shopping trolleys in Whole Foods.

  ‘I'm sending you the itinerary. See you Friday, Mr Scott. Looking forward to meeting you.’

  ‘Likewise. Can't wait to meet you, bubeleh.’

  There was a click and the call ended.

  ‘Bubeleh?’ asked Jane.

  Willie shook his head. ‘I have no idea.’ He walked briskly round to her side of the desk and pulled her to him. His eyes shone with excitement. ‘Jane, I think this might be it. The big one.’

  ‘I thought Happy Ending was the big one,’ she said with a note of chagrin.

  ‘Well, yeah. Obviously it is a big one,’ Willie back-pedalled, ‘but, c'mon, Soderbergh. We're talking Hollywood royalty and indie cred up the wazoo.’ He studied his phone, as if some residue of the call lingered; it was no longer a mere handset, it was a relic through which the deity had spoken to him. ‘I've been waiting my whole career for that call.’ He looked up. ‘You should come.’

  ‘I don't think so.’

  ‘C'mon, we'll make a trip of it. I'll book us a nice hotel, we'll take in a show, all that tourist bollocks.’

  She kissed him, saying it was a lovely offer, but this trip was about him; he needed to focus without any unnecessary distraction. She didn't say that the prospect of a few days alone in her flat was making her turn whooping cartwheels in her head. Laughing with him over lunch, now eager to see the back of him, she was aware that her feelings for Willie pinballed from one moment to the next. It was exhausting.

  Willie spent the remainder of the week working on his treatments: the original film ideas he'd mentioned on the call with LA. He explained to Jane that it wasn't enough simply to walk into the room and talk to these guys—they were used to a show. He stalked about the flat practising his pitch. He put on voices, injected meaningful pauses, even threw in a few props. When he was satisfied that he had it down pat he turned his attention to the other part of the sell. Movie execs had notoriously short attention spans, he told Jane, so it was important to grab them with what he called a ‘log-line’; a pithy phrase that encapsulated the movie in twenty-five words or less.

  ‘OK, OK, here it is.’

  Jane was staring out of the window wondering about dinner when he rushed breathlessly into the living room clutching a sheaf of pages. This would make it the sixth occasion that afternoon; on each he had presented her with a log-line more honed and polished than the last. They were all for the same movie idea, which, as far as she could tell from his excitable description, involved a World War Two tank division battling occult forces through France after D-Day.

  Willie cleared his throat. He waved a hand, painting an imaginary cinema marquee: ‘Demons.’ He paused for dramatic effect. ‘In tanks.’ He beamed. ‘What d'you think?’

  ‘Well,’ Jane began. ‘It's definitely shorter than the last one.’

  His face crumpled. ‘You hate it.’

  ‘I don't hate it. It's just, maybe I'm not the best person to judge a film about possessed tanks.’

  ‘Fair point.’ He shuffled the pages. ‘OK, OK, try this one.’ He flicked the new top sheet with the back of his hand. ‘A tight-knit family makes a desperate bid to escape the clutches of a totalitarian regime during a talent competition.’ Another meaningful pause. ‘On Mars.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, mystified.

  He elaborated. ‘It's kind of Alien meets The Sound of Music.’

  Jane couldn't help herself. ‘So … in space no one can hear you yodel?’

  ‘Oh, very bloody amusin’.’ He scowled, then fell silent, clearly mulling what she'd said. He piped up. ‘Can I use that?’

  Friday rolled around. Willie was booked on the first shuttle to Heathrow. He stood by the window looking anxiously for his cab, about to call the dispatcher when it pulled up out of the pre-dawn murk.

  ‘That's me, Janey. I'm off.’ He snatched a single piece of carry-on luggage and hurried out of the room.

  ‘Hey, what about my kiss?’ she said sleepily. She was still in her pyjamas and planned to go back to bed as soon as he'd gone. Tonight was the pub quiz final and she needed to rest up. Until the phone call from LA, Willie had planned to be there to support her. Not that she minded, but he hadn't said anything about missing it. She suspected that in all the excitement about his trip it had simply slipped his mind.

  He trotted back into the living room, dropped his case and took her in his arms. His lips brushed hers.

  ‘Go,’ she said when the kiss had ended.

  He gazed at her fondly. ‘In a second.’ He stroked her hair. ‘Jane, this is an important trip for me. These guys are working with Soderbergh. And they called me. That just never happens.’

  ‘Yeah, you're right, it doesn't,’ she agreed. Something about the phone call had been bothering her. Maybe that was it.

  ‘And it's all because of you,’ said Willie. ‘Truth is, I'd never have got their attention if I wasn't adapting your novel.’

  ‘Oh, rubbish. You're a great writer.’

  Willie thought for a moment. ‘Aye, you're right.’ He gathered his case and started for the door.

  Jane remembered something and crossed quickly to her desk. She picked up a large buff envelope and hurried after him.

  ‘Willie. Here.’ She held out the envelope.

  ‘What's this?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘Relax, it's not a court summons,’ she said, mildly aggrieved. ‘It's my novel.’ She waggled her head. ‘Well, the first thirty chapters. You could read it on the plane, and if you have any thoughts, notes, y'know …’

  ‘Aye. Terrific.’ He took the envelope and stuffed it unceremoniously into his bag. The door clicked shut behind him and he was gone.

  Jane stood for a while listening to the sound of the empty flat then turned on her heel and padded back to her bedroom.

  ‘Charming,’ said Darsie, who lay stretched out on the bed like some starlet, clad in a gauzy red silk dressing gown, hidden behind an eye-mask. She lifted one corner of the mask. ‘He could at least have pretended to be interested.’

  ‘He's excited about his meeting.’

  Darsie propped herself up on one elbow. ‘Why are you making excuses for him?’

  It was a good question. ‘Because …’ she began, and then realised that she didn't have a good answer.

  ‘Do you love him?’

  The answer was yes. On paper, at least. Sure, he could be insufferably self-regarding, but when he wasn't puffing himself up he was kind and funny and vulnerable and handsome. A great guy, on paper. Her whole life was on paper. ‘Just because I don't hear violins doesn't mean I don't, y'know …’

  Darsie rolled over. ‘I understand. He's no romantic hero.’

  ‘No, thank god.’

  Darsie sat up. ‘You don't want a hero?’

  ‘What the hell does that even mean? In my experience men are not heroes. Men leave. They do terrible things and then they walk out of your life. So no, I'm not waiting to be swept off my feet.’

  ‘Well, I want a hero.’

  Jane couldn't hide her disappointment. ‘I wrote you to be more than that. You're not just some paper-thin heroine in a bodice ripper, you have levels.’

  ‘Y'know what, you can keep your levels. If it's a choice between being deep or being happy, I'll
take happy.’

  Was that the choice—engaged sorrow or unthinking happiness?

  ‘So that's why Tony Douglas is such a bastard.’

  Why was she bringing up the hero of her novel? Strictly speaking he wasn't a hero, more an anti-hero, although she disliked using either term, reducing as they did complex characters to ciphers.

  ‘He's horrible, mean-spirited, and yet I keep going back to him,’ mused Darsie. ‘Is that the sort of man you want?’

  ‘No. Of course not. And I'm not defined by a man.’ She paused. ‘He's not that horrible.’

  ‘Oh, he's dreadful. The things he's done to me …’ She shook her head slowly and then stopped. A curious expression slid across her face. ‘Wait, you like him, don't you?’

  ‘Of course not. I mean, not like that. I like him as a character. Between the sheets—pages.’

  ‘Do you like him better than me?’

  ‘It's not a popularity contest I'm writing, it's a novel.’ She crossed to the window. ‘Some characters can do the most dreadful things, but if they're compelling enough then once you're hooked you go with them. It's not just that you want to know what happens, but even if what they're up to is morally questionable you find yourself—against your better judgement—willing them to succeed. You'll forgive them anything.’ She shrugged. ‘It's one of the differences between fiction and real life.’

  She turned to the bed. Darsie had gone.

  CHAPTER 17

  ‘I Made It Through the Rain’, Barry Manilow, 1980, Arista

  TOM HAD BEEN surprised at the ease with which he and Roddy had fooled Priscilla into believing they were Fox movie executives looking to connect with her client, but even more gratifying was how easily they had persuaded Willie into getting on a plane to London—at his own expense, no less—and then forging into the depths of the Home Counties for an imaginary meeting. Based on the dismal showing of their previous machinations, he had half expected Willie to see straight through the ruse and march into Tristesse to deliver another beating. He winced at the memory of the previous one; the bruises hadn't completely faded.

  ‘I thought you said you could do an American accent,’ Tom complained to Roddy soon after he'd hung up on the faked phone call.