Not Another Happy Ending

by David Solomons

  She knelt down. The page was marked up with notes in his familiar red pen, first impressions scratched out hurriedly as he read. But amongst them was something else. He'd written her name. There it was scrawled in the margin in his distinctive hand—just her first name. She tried to tie it to the paragraph opposite, looking for some significance, something to explain what it was doing there, but it seemed that in the midst of his reading he had simply felt the need to write out her name. When she read it she couldn't help but hear it in his voice.

  She screwed up the page and felt the cold tiles on her back as she slumped against the bathroom wall and studied the shape of the swaying bough through the frosted glass of the window. She wasn't sure how long she sat there, but the next thing she knew it was dark and she was at her desk, the Prophetic Sad playing on her turntable.

  I tell myself I can't hold out forever.

  She looked round the room: the withered umbrella plant; the row of red and white Klinsch & McLeish spines along her bookcase; the pub quiz trophy. The page on which he had written her name.

  But you can't see my tears in the rain.

  The laptop lay open, the page frozen at Chapter 37. The cursor blinked.

  Jane began to write.

  CHAPTER 23

  ‘I Can See Clearly Now (the Rain is Gone)’, Johnny Nash, 1972, Epic

  ‘THAT'S QUITE A SHINER.’ Benny Lockhart scrutinised Tom's latest black eye, or, more accurately, the black eye he had sustained on top of his previous black eye. His vision had almost returned to normal after his latest run-in with Willie's fist, but the eye still throbbed and the skin around the socket was the colour of a ripe plum.

  ‘Was it over a woman?’ inquired Donald MacDonald.

  ‘Over an ending,’ explained Roddy.

  Donald nodded with the appreciation of a man who had experience of such things. He sloshed a whisky chaser into his pint, adding, ‘Of course, your compatriot, Alexandre Dumas, fought his fair share of duels.’

  ‘Yeah, this was less pistols at dawn, more pissed-up in Partick.’

  Tom surveyed the diverse group propping up the bar in the Walter Scott. A poet, an alcoholic, a teacher and a Frenchman walk into a pub. It was the set-up to a joke, although the punchline escaped him for now.

  He'd asked them all here tonight. In less than twenty-four hours Anna was expecting an answer regarding Pandemic Media's offer. Tristesse Books was on the ledge, a bloodthirsty crowd far below chanting ‘jump’. Partly he wanted to canvass the other men's opinions, but mostly he wanted their company as he drank himself into oblivion, or as close to it as his limited resources would allow.

  Donald peeled back the sleeve of his tweed jacket to expose a sandy-haired arm mottled with liver spots. He pointed to an old scar.

  ‘FR Leavis, 1965. We came to blows over a review he gave me.’ He took a step back from the bar and with surprising agility kicked his leg up onto it then rolled back his trouser-leg to reveal another ancient wound. ‘Norman Mailer. Skye Book Festival, 1969.’

  Not to be outdone Roddy turned his head to one side and tapped a finger over a tiny mark behind his left ear. ‘Inter-schools badminton championships, under-15s, quarter-finals, 1998.’

  ‘That, young man,’ said Donald, squinting, ‘is hardly a wound. Indeed it is no more than what my six-year-old granddaughter would refer to as a boo-boo.’ He took a thoughtful pull on his pint. ‘Health and Safety killed off the brawlers. These days you can't throw a punch without a risk assessment.’

  Tom nursed his pint of lager and studied Benny. Jane's dad remained conspicuously silent as the others recounted the origins of their injuries. Tom had no intention of bringing him into this particular conversation, since his answers were likely to be far more troubling than bad reviews and badminton. However, Donald had no such inkling.

  ‘What about you, sir?’ inquired the poet. ‘A man of the Glaswegian persuasion must surely have a notable mortification of the flesh, or two.’

  Benny nodded slowly. ‘I've handed out a few doin's over the years, aye, got my head kicked in a few times too. But never over a book.’ He stared into his orange juice. ‘Money and women.’ He put his head on one side. ‘Mostly women.’ He turned to Tom. ‘Why were you so worked up, son? It's just words.’

  How could he explain it to Benny? Their experiences were so different. Perhaps unbridgeable. Tom's life revolved around words: shaping them, binding them, publishing them. In his world what Willie had done demanded confrontation. It was ignorant. It was criminal. But in his dudgeon an uncomfortable thought needled away: was it any worse than what he had done by changing Jane's title without telling her? With a pang he remembered that despite his best intentions, he had never quite got round to apologising for that—and it was too late now.

  ‘Let me get this right, son.’ Benny leant on the bar. It was clear to Tom that his explanation hadn't satisfied Mr Lockhart. ‘You read Willie's play, got mad about the ending and told him to change it—a man who'd already decked you in a garage in Bridgeton under totally humiliating circumstances in front of a hundred folk?’

  ‘A hundred and fifty,’ added Roddy helpfully.

  ‘And I wouldn't say totally humiliating,’ said Tom quietly.

  ‘Over an ending?’ Benny shook his head incredulously.

  Donald chuckled into his pint. ‘I believe Mr Lockhart's exposition contains a subtext.’

  ‘I don't know about that,’ said Benny. ‘I just think there's more to this than meets the eye.’ He rolled his shoulders and gave an awkward cough. ‘Now I'm no’ very good at “expressin’ my feelings” but you young guys, you're into all that shite, aye?’

  ‘I know men who have degrees in that shite,’ said Roddy.

  ‘Aye, well.’ Benny swallowed. ‘See, the only feelings I give a damn about are my Jane's, right? I fucked up her life for long enough, now I want to make it better.’ He looked at Tom. ‘And I think you do too.’ In a reflex action, seeking Dutch courage for what he had to say next, Benny gulped down the rest of his orange juice and banged the glass down on the bar. ‘You didn't get your head caved in for an ending, son.’ He squirmed. ‘You love her.’

  Tom didn't reply at once. After all his talk of words he couldn't find a single one. Donald laughed out loud—a deep, joyful sound—and began to declaim in a booming voice. Poetry curdled the thick air.

  As he recited his paean to true love, the rest of the pub fell uncomfortably silent at the dubious development in their midst. When he finished the only sound was the TV commentary rounding up the racing results and then the burble of regular conversation closed over the hush like returning seawater as the drinkers turned back gratefully to their pints.

  Roddy gawped. ‘That was beautiful. One of yours?’

  ‘Edwin Morgan,’ said Donald tersely. ‘Bastard.’ He turned to the barman. ‘Mein host, another round for my friends.’ He thumbed at Tom. ‘And a double for the young man having the amorous revelation.’ He laughed again. ‘Oh, and before you ask me for my advice on women, don't. Three divorces, all my fault, apparently. According to my beloveds I made the same mistake each time.’

  ‘And what was that?’ asked Roddy.

  ‘No idea.’

  Tom's tongue had ceased working, awaiting instructions from his brain, which was replaying Benny's words in a loop. You love her. You love her. You love her. It was a lie, what they said about realisation. The writers had it wrong; realisation didn't ‘dawn’, nothing so disconnected as sitting on a rock with your arms around each other watching the sun come up. Realisation was a plummeting elevator. The precipitous snap of steel, followed by a churning freefall. But at least you knew where you were going. Finally.

  He'd come to Scotland to escape the endless sunshine that bleached ideas and enervated imagination. She'd come to him out of the rain-dark streets. But he'd made the same mistake everyone else had. Confused the writer with the writing. She wasn't some miserable novelist in thrall to her pain. The sun came out.

  He loved h
er.

  ‘Tom? Tom?!’ Roddy's voice sounded far away. ‘I think he's having a stroke.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Donald MacDonald, in a field by the sound of it, the wind blowing away his words. ‘What we are witnessing here is a coup de foudre, a thunderbolt of love. And in the original French too.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Marvellous!’

  Tom felt a hard hand grip his shoulder, calluses rubbing through his shirt, and he was back. Benny's eyes locked on his.

  ‘I'll be honest wi’ you,’ said the older man, ‘If you don't get over there right this minute an’ tell her how you feel, then you and me are gonnae have words.’ His hand dug into the fleshy part of Tom's shoulder. ‘And I'm no talking about your kind of words, I'm talking real words, from my side of town. Y'understand?’

  ‘I understand,’ said Tom. ‘But …’

  ‘But what?’ said Benny sharply.

  He'd tried to do the honourable thing by her. She'd chosen the other man. He hadn't respected her title, but felt he had to respect that. ‘She's with Willie now.’

  Donald MacDonald elbowed his way between Tom and Benny, his bushy eyebrows clashing in the centre of his forehead like two small storm clouds. ‘I beg your pardon, monsieur, but you should be ashamed of yourself. A Frenchman unwilling to declare his amour for fear of upsetting marital convention?’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘A sad day for the République. The Tricolour will hang at half-mast.’

  ‘She isn't,’ said Benny.

  ‘What?’

  ‘With him,’ he explained. ‘Willie moved out.’

  Roddy, who until that moment had been listening to the unfolding revelations in open-mouthed silence, let out a girlish squeak of excitement at this sudden reversal.

  ‘Behold,’ boomed Donald, ‘the peripeteia around which our story turns!’

  ‘He's gone?’ Tom had to confirm he'd heard right.

  ‘I bloody hope so,’ said Benny, clutching his lower back, ‘I'm no’ carting that desk back up those stairs.’

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for, man? The Muses have conspired to give you a third act.’ Donald gestured magisterially to the pub door. ‘Allez-y!’

  CHAPTER 24

  ‘Looks Like Rain’, The Grateful Dead, 1990, Arista

  THE END CAME swiftly. After weeks of pent-up frustration the last chapter burst onto the page as fast as she could type it. Occasionally an idea would overtake her fingers to leave a pile-up of misspelled words and random letters, which she would have to go back over and decipher. But she knew where she was going. She pushed on towards the novel's climax. In the end it was so obvious she wondered what had kept her from seeing it all this time. Darsie and Tony Douglas were clearly not meant to be together. More than that, she'd realised that they weren't meant for anyone else either.

  Neither would make it out alive; both had to die in the final chapter.

  She wiped away a tear for their imminent demise. Even now she had the power to make things turn out all right. One word could change the outcome. In her head she heard Darsie's desperate pleas, but hardened her heart against them and bent to her task. The world didn't need another happy ending.

  First she killed off Tony. A serial betrayer whose love for Darsie was a sham, he deserved to die. But even as she dispatched him she took no delight in his end. A flurry of keystrokes sent him to his shocking fate at the hands of the razor gang.

  Then it was Darsie's turn to shuffle off the mortal coil. It would be an epilogue of sorts, set some twenty years after Tony's murder, Darsie's passing altogether slower and more painful than his swift, brutal exit. She needed to suffer all that time, broken with the knowledge that he never loved her. Where's my happy ending? Don't look for it here, sweetheart. Over six agonising pages she dies trembling and forgotten in an empty corridor of the hospice calling out his name.

  And then it was over. She rested her fingers against the warm keys and looked up from the page, half expecting to see Darsie lounging on the sofa and in the next moment knowing that she would never see her again. The gauzy, vivacious Darsie snuffed out, her dirty laugh silenced forever. The loss palpable. That feeling of closing a book and saying goodbye to beloved characters, but amplified by the knowledge that she did this. In cold ink.

  There was no point hanging around. The sooner she delivered the novel the sooner she could get on with the rest of her life. She brought up Tom's email address and attached the manuscript, but as she was about to press ‘Send’ she hesitated. One click and it would finally be over between them.

  She discarded the half-composed email, telling herself she couldn't bear him thinking she was avoiding the awkwardness of a confrontation. Far from it, she relished the opportunity. She loaded her printer with a fresh ream of paper, hit print and settled down to wait for the finished manuscript. She would look him in the eye, hand him the novel and tell him precisely what she thought of him. One last time.

  He wasn't in. The office was closed and the flat above it in darkness. She clutched the newly minted manuscript, still warm from the laser printer. So much for the dramatic showdown. It was one of real life's letdowns that people rarely showed up on cue.

  She cupped a hand to the large plate-glass window that overlooked the courtyard and peered inside for any signs of life. As she scanned the silent and empty office a face smiled back at her from the shadowy space between two tall book stacks. She jumped back. It was her own face, smile set in cardboard. The life-sized promotional cutout was an old friend, having accompanied her on every leg of her debut book tour before being retired to the store cupboard. Tom must have fished out the doppelganger in preparation for the launch of the new book.

  She remembered the day the picture was taken, turning up at the office, excited at the prospect of a professional photoshoot only to discover that Tom was to be her David Bailey. On seeing her disappointment he had professed a deep interest in portrait photography and affected an indignant air when she teased that maybe he was just trying to save a few quid on a proper photographer. Then he'd led her upstairs to find that he'd set up a tripod and camera. In his bedroom.

  When she'd given him a dubious look he explained that the light in here was perfect. His bedroom? Yes. He'd pointed to an airy window explaining that its north-facing aspect offered the classic portrait light. Think of Vermeer's Girl with a Pearl Earring, he'd said, and then instructed her to get her kit off.

  When she'd roundly objected he gestured to an outfit laid out on the bed: a pair of houndstooth trousers, an orange shirt and a silk waistcoat. She loved it all. It was exactly the sort of thing she'd choose herself. And in the right sizes. You bought this? He'd been offended by her surprised tone, given her one of those Gallic shrugs. It was the first time she'd undressed for him.

  ‘Jane.’

  Aware that she was smiling at the memory she swiftly wiped it from her face. But it wasn't him.

  ‘What're you doing here?’ asked Roddy.

  He seemed confused to see her. In fact she would say he was disappointed to find her outside the office.

  ‘Did Tom get hold of you?’

  So he was looking for her, presumably to continue plaguing her for the stupid novel. Well, today he was in luck. ‘No, I haven't seen him. But I know what he wants.’

  ‘You do?’

  She noted the surprise in his voice. Why so taken aback? It wasn't as if her delayed novel was news.

  ‘And do you feel the same way?’ he asked tentatively.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About him?’

  Infuriating, deceitful, egotistical? She was sure he had a similar list of her bad points. She shrugged. ‘I expect so.’

  Roddy reacted to her answer with a gasp of pleasure. ‘That's wonderful! Seriously, great stuff.’ He punched the air. ‘Result! I'm dead chuffed.’

  Unsure why her continuing disdain for his best friend should elicit such a giddy response she offered up a thin smile and let him ramble on.

  ‘It's in the air. You can feel it all around
. Donald MacDonald said it. Well, Edwin Morgan wrote it, but Donald said it. Your dad was right.’

  ‘My dad? What's he got to do with … whatever the hell you're on about?’

  ‘We were in the pub. I had to leave them there because I have a date. With Nicola. Just came back to get changed. I bought a new shirt. It's verde. Nicola likes me in verde. Says it brings out the colour of my eyes.’

  ‘You were in the pub with my dad?’

  ‘Yeah. Me, Donald, your dad—and Tom, of course.’

  Tom and her dad had met up behind her back. Her dad had always liked Tom, but couldn't he see that this wasn't the time to be firming up their friendship? While she was endeavouring to detach herself from the clutches of her former publisher her dad was making him his new drinking buddy. It wasn't right.

  Roddy opened up the office and went inside. He held the door for her. ‘I'm sure Tom'll be back soon. Why don't you wait?’

  ‘I don't think so. I just came to give him this.’ She held out the manuscript. ‘It's my novel. I finished it.’

  Briefly Roddy lifted his eyes to the cloudy heavens. ‘It's all just coming together today, isn't it? Well done. Seriously, I know it's not been easy.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Out of interest, would you say you've been feeling any more melancholy of late?’

  ‘Melan—?’

  ‘Never mind.’ He studied the manuscript and blew out. ‘I can't tell you what a relief it is to see that. Between you and me, your book is the only thing keeping this place,’ he clapped a hand against the doorpost, ‘from going tits up.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ It was the first she'd heard that the company was struggling. Although now when she thought back to her meeting in Edinburgh with Klinsch & McLeish, Dr Klinsch had made a puzzling reference to Tom's troubles. At the time Jane had assumed that the good doctor was referring to her—she was Tom's biggest trouble, unable to finish her promised novel. It turned out she had been more correct than she knew.