Not Another Happy Ending

by David Solomons

  ‘Tristesse Books is in deep shtuk.’ He put his head on one side. ‘Was in shtuk. Not now. Your novel has saved the day, if you'll forgive the cliché. Ever notice that things like this rarely happen in real life? I mean, in the nick of time, one second left on the clock.’ With time on his mind he glanced at his watch. ‘Dammit. Nicola hates being kept waiting.’ He grinned. ‘I think it's writing about all those bus timetables.’ With that he launched himself upstairs taking them three at a time. Jane leaned through the doorway and called after him.

  ‘Roddy …’

  She could hear him through the thin ceiling, clattering about on the floor above as he dressed for his date.

  ‘Where shall I leave it?’ she asked more to herself than him. He couldn't hear her above the sound of his own singing, an enthusiastic if tuneless rendition of ‘Singin’ in the Rain’. She debated leaving the manuscript at the door, but was pricked by the idea that Tom would find it there and jump to the wrong-headed conclusion that she was scared to step over the threshold. She refused to give him the opportunity.

  Closing the front door behind her she made her way cautiously along the corridor. It was the first time she'd been back here since that day. The day she discovered he'd changed her title. It was hard for other people to understand why it was such a betrayal. In the intervening months even she had occasionally wondered if she'd overreacted. After all, the book, with its new title, had exceeded all her expectations. But no. That wasn't the point. It was as if they'd had a child together, agreed on his name, but on the way to register it Tom had changed his mind. So instead of a ‘Luke’, they'd ended up with a ‘Pubert’.

  Why was she thinking about their children?

  A plastic bucket squatted beneath a leak in the ceiling. The tick of falling rainwater followed her down the corridor into Reception. Nothing had changed. From the heady tang of freshly unboxed books and the thick layer of dust on the shelves, to the complete absence of anything living—unless you counted mould. What was it with men and their spaces that left to their own devices they would be sure to instal a gumball machine and vintage jukebox, but never any greenery? Before they'd broken up she'd suggested to Tom he might sprinkle a few standard-issue office ferns around the place. Nothing thrived here, he'd said. No kidding.

  The Reception desk lay hidden beneath a mass of unopened mail, proof copies of books and three wobbling stacks of manuscripts. If she left hers amongst this lot there was a good chance it wouldn't be found for years, perhaps then only by some future archaeologist excavating for evidence of an ancient civilisation rumoured to have subsisted exclusively on a diet of fried egg and sausage rolls.

  She decided to leave the manuscript in Tom's office.

  She stared at his door, hoping to find in its cheap oak-veneered panels the courage she needed to turn the handle and enter. She knew that he wasn't on the other side, sitting behind his desk sporting that languid grin, pushing his hand through his stupid wavy hair. That wasn't why she hesitated. Once she entered she would be in the place where their story had begun, and as soon as she put her manuscript on his desk and walked away it would be over. End where you begin. It was a common novelistic device. The familiar sense of place transported the reader in a flashback to the beginning when everything was simple and hopeful, and it was this delicious agony of nostalgia that suffused the final moments of the story. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had changed.

  She couldn't remember opening the door, but then she was on the other side. Perhaps she'd walked through it like the ghost of herself. She stood in the semi-darkness of his office, listening to the sound of her own breathing. Crossing the floor she passed the same battered sofa they'd shared, the same low chair he'd made her occupy while they edited Happy Ending. Several rows of one bookcase were lined with copies of her novel. She ran a hand along their spines.

  She stood before his desk. The bust of Napoleon, the Glasgow snowglobe, the metal holder crammed with his ubiquitous red pencils. Amongst the familiar objects she noticed something unexpected. A business card. One of Willie's. She picked it up and recalled their last conversation when he'd told her about Tom's objection to the screenplay. An image sprang to mind of Tom on his white horse defending, if not her honour, then her novel. Was it possible that she had been too hard on him? If so, then this act was an acknowledgement of that; perhaps even the first small step on the road to a rapprochement.

  She made space on the cluttered surface and set down her manuscript. That was when she saw it, tucked behind a pile of books at the edge of the desk. She could so easily have missed it, and that would have changed everything.

  Her umbrella plant.

  There was no question in her mind that it was hers: the same plant her dad had given her, the same plant she'd nurtured for years. She would have recognised it anywhere. But if it was here then what was the withered plant she'd returned to in her flat all those weeks ago? A substitute? But to what purpose? A cruel prank perpetrated by a disgruntled ex-boyfriend? That didn't seem like Tom's style. He was far more Machiavellian than that. A creeping sensation at the nape of her neck began a cold-fingered crawl across her scalp. It wasn't a plant, it was the tip of an iceberg.

  She heard thudding on the stairs. Seizing the plant she marched out of the office to find Roddy—hair combed, shoes shining, shirt green—about to leave for his date. He reached for the door handle.

  ‘You!’ she snapped.

  He froze at the sound of her voice, his high-spirited singin’ trailing off.

  ‘I want a word with you.’

  She saw him look round slowly, then an expression of fear cloud his face as he registered the plant gripped in her hand like a punch. He offered up a weak-sauce smile.

  ‘Jane …’

  ‘Roddy?’

  ‘I can explain.’

  ‘Was this your idea?’

  ‘No, no,’ he protested, desperately flapping his hands. ‘It was Keats.’

  CHAPTER 25

  ‘Rain King’, Sonic Youth, 1988, Enigma

  SHE WASN'T IN. Stirred up by Benny, Donald and Roddy in the pub, he'd flown across the city in a passionate frenzy to Jane's flat, ready to profess his love. It felt reckless. It felt good. He had run. He'd actually done the romantic running thing. Not all the way here, that would have been unfeasible. But unable to find a parking space right outside her building he'd abandoned his car in a spot three streets away. And then he'd run. Thinking of her with each pace. Thinking of the first time he'd seen her, at Tristesse, scrabbling about adorably on her hands and knees. Thinking about their first kiss, in the cottage in front of the open fire. Thinking about her naked. Mostly thinking about her naked.

  On the way over in the car he'd detoured to buy flowers, petrol station blooms. So when she didn't answer the door he suddenly became a sweaty guy standing outside his angry ex-girlfriend's flat clutching a bunch of dyed chrysanthemums in an unlikely shade of blue never seen in nature. He decided to wait downstairs for her to return.

  He leant against a low garden wall, hunched into his coat, arms folded around the garish flowers. Impulsive romantic declarations were all well and good, but at the very least the object of your affection ought to be in the same vicinity when the mood struck. Waiting around in the cold kind of put a dampener on the whole thing.

  The waiting also brought time to think and with that a prick of doubt. What if she didn't feel the same way? He supposed that was less a doubt and more a certainty. She hated him. That brought an odd smile to his lips. He realised he was relishing the challenge to set her straight. And when she finally came strolling round that corner, hair streaming in the wind, arms swinging at her sides, he would stand before her and there would be no fumbling, halting romantic declaration. That was a peculiarity of the English lover and he was of the line of Cyrano, Abelard, Lancelot. OK, they all died at the end, but the point was that they were eloquent in the throes of love. It was in his blood. Years spent in this rain-sodden country had not dulled instincts he wa
s born with. At least he hoped not. That would be a total scunner.

  He paced up and down in front of her building to keep warm, conscious of suspicious glances emanating from behind the twitching curtains of neighbouring property. He sneezed. Definitely coming down with something. Come on, Jane. Where was she? He nipped to the corner shop for a bag of smoky bacon crisps and a Twix, then returned to his beat. After about an hour a traffic warden ambled past cheerily scrutinising windshields for expired parking tickets. He was about to dash back to his car to feed the meter when two things happened. The rain that had been threatening all day at last arrived and Jane turned into the street.

  He didn't hesitate, striding towards her, chrysanthemums held before him like a sword. She was holding something too, but he was just too far away to make out what. She hadn't seen him yet, her head down, face half-hidden in her hair. The taps opened, the shower turned into a deluge. The flowers bent back under the onslaught. Wind blew rain into his face and he wiped the drops from his eyes, closing the distance between them in a dozen long strides. He started to say her name, but then saw what was in her hands.

  Oh.

  Shit.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ She regarded the flowers with wary disgust.

  ‘Uh … um … I …’

  ‘You know what, I don't care. Get out of my way.’

  She pushed past him, the leaves of her umbrella plant brushing against his arm, close enough for him to see that she'd been crying. Instinctively he reached out.

  ‘Get off me!’ She recoiled, her wet hair whipping. ‘Get away from me.’

  ‘Jane …’

  ‘I don't want to hear it. I don't want to hear any more of your bullshit.’ A stifled sob of disbelief. ‘You made me think my plant was dead. You tried to sabotage my deal with my new publisher. You had a go at my relationship with Willie. All of that I could forgive. But the pub quiz. My dad.’ She shook her head slowly.

  She knew it all; every witless part of his plan. She'll thank me in the end. You moron. You complete and utter tool. He could see her hurt turn swiftly to anger.

  ‘You tried to wreck my life, Tom.’

  She stuck out her chin and marched for the entrance to the flats.

  ‘It wasn't like that …’ Even to his own ears his objection sounded weak and pathetic.

  She stopped, whirled about and with a furious grunt hurled the plant at him. It landed short, the pot cracking as it hit the ground, contents spilling across the pavement, leaving a straggle of leaves and clumps of damp compost. The rain was falling so hard now that it was already washing the remnants of the plant towards the gutter. He dropped to his knees, scrambling to rescue what he could. Precious leaves and roots slipped through his wet grasp and circled down the drain.

  When he looked up, the tenement door was already swinging shut behind her disappearing figure.

  ‘I'm gonnae kill you.’ The threat as cold as lager. Benny Lockhart's face was flushed, his breath coming in rapid wheezes. ‘I should snap that fucking pretty neck of yours.’ He clenched his fists at his sides, turned his back on Tom and walked away, evidently trying to curb his anger. ‘Christ on a bike! What the hell were you thinking, son?’

  Tom had come to the Walter Scott to confess. He'd missed his chance to come clean to Jane, but at least he could tell her dad what he'd done. He was fully prepared to take another beating. Wanted Benny to have a go at him. Not that he expected absolution. What was he thinking? The answer was simple: at the point when he'd attempted to wreck Jane's fragile relationship with her dad he had not been thinking. He hadn't simply crossed the line; he'd struck a red pen through it.

  Benny walked stiffly back to the bar. The two men sat side by side on a pair of stools, not looking at one another, their eyes fixed straight ahead.

  ‘I thought you loved her.’ Benny's voice shook with anger and confusion.

  ‘I do.’

  He gave a harsh laugh. ‘Some way of showing it, son.’

  ‘I screwed up.’

  ‘That what you call it?’

  ‘I'm sorry. Truly sorry.’

  ‘It's no’ me you have to apologise to, son.’

  Following his encounter with Jane in the street he'd headed home to lick his wounds. He'd found her manuscript on his desk. She'd finished it. The cover page declared the novel ‘Untitled’. Did that mean she had a title but wouldn't share it, or that it was open for discussion? It almost felt like a private joke between them. Almost. Eagerly he devoured the final chapter, reading it three times before putting the manuscript to one side. He reflected on the significance of the moment and then went in search of booze.

  A couple of hours later Roddy had returned with Nicola to find Tom asleep at his desk next to an empty six-pack of Babycham. It was all he could find in the flat and he was too broke to contemplate buying anything else.

  ‘The happiest drink in the world,’ proclaimed the label. Someone had given it to him as a joke.

  Roddy prodded him awake, filled him in on what had happened when Jane dropped off the manuscript. He swore he had resisted for as long as possible telling her about their plan, but Jane had forced it out of him.

  Tom told him not to sweat it—this was his mess and he would clean it up. To himself he admitted that might well be impossible.

  The next day he'd returned to her flat in the hope of talking to her. There was no reply when he rung the bell, but on his way out he met a neighbour on the stairs who'd seen her get into a cab with a backpack. He'd tried her phone, but it was off. That's when he'd decided to go see her dad.

  ‘She's gone.’ said Tom.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Benny gave a non-committal shrug and Tom could tell immediately that he knew where she was. He had a good idea himself.

  ‘She's at the cottage, isn't she?’

  ‘She doesn't want to see you.’

  ‘I don't care. I'm going. I'm going right now.’

  ‘Fine. Go.’

  ‘I will.’ He didn't move from the barstool.

  Benny turned to him. ‘Well?’

  Tom gave a sheepish look. ‘You couldn't lend me twenty quid for petrol?’

  He looked over at the empty passenger seat. The last time he'd driven this road she'd been sitting next to him. She'd asked him to her cottage in the Highlands so that they could continue editing her novel. A beautiful young woman asks a man she barely knows to a remote spot for a weekend à deux? He didn't want to fall prey to some cross-cultural misunderstanding, so before they left he'd consulted Roddy on the potential underlying meaning of such an invitation. Roddy insisted that it sounded like the beginning of a film. Porn or horror. Could go either way. His parting words: ‘Just don't insult any in-bred locals carrying chainsaws.’

  As they'd joined the M80 he reminded himself of his golden rule never to sleep with an author. They talked—well, she talked and he joined in when she paused for breath—and whenever he felt the conversation stray into personal territory he would gently steer it back to business. No flirting. He self-censored, striking an imaginary red pen through any innuendo that occurred to him in the course of their chat. He studied her face, trying to discern disappointment or relief at the anodyne conversation.

  Even strapped into the seat she was constantly in motion, stretching her long legs, tapping her feet in time to the music playing on the radio, twisting her hair round a finger, flailing her arms to emphasise a point. She was loose-limbed, carefree. She leaned over to change the station on the radio. Her skin smelled of a delicate floral fragrance; not perfume, he decided, it must be body lotion. Between Stirling and Auchterarder he exerted significant amounts of self-control to stop himself picturing her applying it.

  By the time they passed Perth he wanted her.

  Two and a half hours later they arrived at their final destination, the car bottoming out as it bumped along towards a large pile of stones at the end of a rutted track. The stone pile turned out to be their accommodation. The sight of the dilapidated cottage helped damp
en his desire, the rain and the plumbing did the rest.

  But his respite didn't last long. The weekend was a constant battle with the urge to hold her, kiss her, undress her. Instead he forced himself to talk about the novel. Only the novel. At times he felt he hid his longing so well he must have seemed aloof and surly. He knew that he couldn't make the first move. If she didn't reciprocate then he'd just be some creepy guy hitting on a lone woman in the middle of nowhere.

  And then had come Chapter 17. Oh, marvellous, glorious Chapter 17. Subtext was a beautiful thing.

  His phone chirped at the arrival of a voice message. Typical, just when he was getting to the good part. He pulled off the motorway and checked the display to find half a dozen missed calls and the same number of text messages, all from Anna. Call me back, idiot. The car shuddered at the thunder of a passing lorry. Listening to the blackboard squeal of windscreen wipers he watched the lorry's tail lights disappear in the grey murk, and then couldn't put it off any longer. He dialled Anna. She picked up on the first ring.

  ‘Well?’

  Far from it, he thought. There was nothing to discuss, no need for small talk. He gave her his decision about Pandemic Media. She asked him if he was certain. Then asked him again.

  ‘Yes,’ he confirmed, and rang off.

  He glanced at the empty passenger seat, convinced he could still smell her scent.

  He drove for another three hours, watching the signal strength bars on his phone dwindle until he was beyond the range of the network. It was dusk by the time he reached the cottage in the glen. Surrounding peaks were silhouetted against the grey sky. Fluttering shapes darted across his headlamps. The car bellied along the track, its under chassis grinding like a knife on a whetstone. Faced with a pothole the size of a moon crater he braked to a stop and the car expired with a seizing cough. He drew out the ignition key. Not so much killing the engine as putting it out of its misery, he thought.