Not Another Happy Ending

by David Solomons

  The auditorium was full. Five hundred publishers, authors and agents dolled up in cocktail dresses and dinner suits embraced their rivals with hearty greetings whilst silently wishing upon them ignominious failure.

  Someone had described the Austen Book Awards as the Oscars of the book industry. Someone in marketing, of course. The comparison was spurious, but what the book award lacked in star-power it made up for in charm. The trophy—inevitably referred to as ‘The Jane’—was a golden statuette of a woman in an Empire line shift, inscribed with one of the eponymous author's less tolerant ideas: ‘The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.’

  To win a ‘Jane’ was worth bragging rights for a year, but more importantly a bump in sales of anything from a hundred to two hundred thousand copies; a career-defining number.

  ‘Did you try the fishy one?’ Roddy sat awkwardly between a taciturn Jane and Tom. ‘Very tasty. I don't normally go for the fishy ones.’

  He had been invited to the ceremony less as a plus one and more as a referee, and had so far spent the evening overcompensating for their sullen silence with interminable chat about the venue—’That's some lovely cornicing’—the traffic in the West End of London—’Surprisingly not as bad as I expected’—and now the canapés served at the reception prior to the ceremony—‘Wonder what kind of fish it was. Do you—?’

  ‘Eel,’ snapped Tom.

  ‘Eel?’ Roddy's lip curled in distaste.

  ‘Raw eel,’ added Tom.

  ‘You're kiddin’ me?’

  ‘Not at all. It is only in Glasgow that sushi comes deep fried.’

  ‘Don't you pick on Glasgow,’ hissed Jane. ‘You're only visiting.’

  ‘Ah, the famous Scottish hospitality,’ said Tom. ‘Feel its friendly embrace. Come in and warm yourself by this roaring candle.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘And so speaks the nominee in the category for Best New Writer. Such eloquence.’

  Jane wriggled in her seat, incensed. Roddy stuck out a hand between her and Tom.

  ‘Keep the heid, Jane—he's not worth it.’

  ‘I wasn't going to hit him,’ whispered Jane, mortified that Roddy's restraining arm was meant for her. ‘You really think I'd lamp him?’

  Roddy looked thoughtful. ‘You do have a tendency to … throw stuff.’

  She heard Tom chuckle, and bit her lip. ‘Oh for god's sake,’ she huffed, folding her arms and looking straight ahead, hoping neither man could see her cheeks flush in the dim auditorium.

  The event's shimmering host introduced a new presenter. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it's my pleasure to welcome award-winning screenwriter Willie Scott, all the way from LA, to present the award for Best New Writer.’

  Willie Scott strutted to the podium, a ‘Jane’ in one hand and an envelope in the other. He wore a sleek, black suit, his hair surfed across his head in a perfectly coiffed wave, and his skin displayed a taut southern Californian glow, so it came as something of a surprise when he opened his mouth and out came a Scottish accent.

  ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, it's great to be here.’ His inflection carried a hint of transatlantic twang. ‘Even if it's impossible to get a movie off the ground in this country unless your screenplay's full of kids with head lice and outside toilets and some bastard dying of emphysema.’ He flashed a thousand-watt smile. There was some awkward laughter from the audience. ‘And it's a particular thrill for an old dog like me to be asked to present the award for Best New Writer.’ He fished in his top pocket for a pair of standard-issue hipster black spectacles and when they were in place focused on the envelope containing the winner's name.

  ‘The nominations are: Christian Stromain for The Sons of Memory; Sharron Lumb for The Man Who Bought a Bridge and Learned to Love the Starling's Song; Jane Lockhart for Happy Ending; and Jaswinder Yamanaka for Rug.’

  Willie opened the envelope. ‘And the winner is …’

  Jane didn't hear her name being called out. She was otherwise engaged. ‘And another thing, Duval. For the next book I want the final decision over the cover design.’

  Roddy pressed himself back into his seat as they conducted their latest disagreement across him.

  ‘Jane,’ he said. In an attempt to alert her to the news of her win, he gave her a cautious tap on the shoulder, which she ignored.

  ‘Not a chance,’ spat Tom. ‘I'm not letting you near the cover. If your design skills are anything like your fashion sense …’

  ‘What's wrong with my fashion se—?!’

  ‘Two words. Bowler. Hat.’

  ‘Jane,’ Roddy repeated, louder this time.

  ‘What?’ barked Jane and Tom together.

  ‘Uh …’ He waved in the general direction of the stage, where Willie Scott peered into the audience with a puzzled expression, wondering if Jane Lockhart was a no-show. ‘You won.’

  ‘Omigod. I won?’

  ‘She won?’ Tom couldn't hide his astonishment.

  Jane got to her feet and half in a daze made her way along the row to collect her prize.

  Willie finally spotted her as she tripped up the steps to the stage and bounced towards him. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Jane Lockhart.’

  A thin microphone poked up from the glass podium. She hesitated, unsure what to say. She hadn't prepared a speech. Never in a million years could she have imagined being lucky enough to—-

  OK, that was a big fat lie.

  She'd been preparing this speech from the moment she wrote the opening line of her very first short story when she was six years old. She thought back. It was possible that the first thing she wrote was in fact the acceptance speech for the award she expected to win for the short story she hadn't yet written. However, for the six-year-old Jane thoughts of an award didn't revolve around commercial success or literary validation, for her it was an escape. To clutch the golden statuette of her fantasies was to transport her to another world, one far away from the concrete tower blocks and endless cold rain.

  She leant forward to say a few considered words into the microphone.

  ‘Now what we have here, ladies and gentlemen, is a real writer.’ Willie cut across her, nudging her aside so that he occupied the centre of the podium. ‘Jane Lockhart has penned an extraordinary debut. At once moving and bleakly inspiring, she writes with an authentic voice, rooted in the reality of misery. And not just Scottish misery, this is universal misery. Now if you've read her novel with as much care as I have you'll know that she goes to some pretty dark places. I get that.’ He shot her a look of understanding. ‘Writers, eh, Jane? We know what it is to face el toro blanco—the terror of the white bull—the blank page. And our curse—or perhaps it's our blessing—is to face it every day of our lives.’ Apparently finished, he pursed his lips and nodded in deep contemplation.

  ‘Thanks ver—’

  ‘The bleakness, the terrible beauty of your prose …’ Willie hadn't finished. ‘You are a writer who does not mistake sentiment for emotion. You play with language, sometimes I could feel it almost destroy you.’

  In the audience, Tom looked up from beneath the hand he'd clamped over his face when Willie had begun talking. All that crap about the blank page and the reality of misery, he'd thought, seriously, what the hell? But the stuff he was saying now, that was different.

  Tom tugged Roddy's sleeve. ‘That's what I said.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘About Jane. That night after the poker game? Remember I told you?’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ Roddy vaguely recalled the conversation. ‘Shame you never told her.’ He nodded to the stage where Jane gazed wide-eyed at Willie Scott.

  Willie took her hands in his and said softly, though still loudly enough for the microphone to pick it up, ‘In your soul, Jane, you are a poet.’

  ‘Putain,’ Tom cursed, slamming the arms of the seat. From the row behind, someone shushed him.

  Applause rolled out across the hall. The authors in the audience ap
plauded in appreciation of Willie's praise, the rest applauded to encourage him and Jane to vacate the stage.

  Jane reeled. Sure, Willie's Hollywood shtick was excruciating, but that last part had somersaulted her opinion of him. No one, no one, had ever talked about her writing like that before. Willie planted a kiss on her cheek.

  ‘Congratulations. And here, I believe this belongs to you.’ With another electric smile he handed her the ‘Jane’.

  ‘Hey,’ he feigned surprise, ‘it's already got your name on it.’

  The party after the ceremony carried on late into the night. Music! Dancing! Socially awkward writers! It was a rare affair.

  Sitting alone at a table on the edge of the dance floor, Jane accepted the congratulations and best wishes of at least, oh, three people. Two of whom were waiters. Tom sent over a bottle of champagne, but he didn't count. She had banished him to the other side of the table. He didn't appear to be suffering, surrounded as he was in a bubble of publicity girls, his greatest hardship the threat of being struck by an errant hair-flick. At his shoulder Roddy flapped hopefully.

  Jane knocked back a glass of Tom's champagne and wondered whether she was being too hard on him. Briefly she considered dragging him away from Sophie, Sophie and Sophie, inviting him over to share their mutual moment of triumph. After all, he was her editor and she almost certainly wouldn't be here tonight if he hadn't spent so long working with her on the novel.

  ‘Y'know, I won an award once.’

  Jane looked up to see Willie Scott standing over her, a copy of Happy Ending in one hand, a golden signet ring like a sword pommel flashing from the little finger of the other as he drew down a memory from the air.

  ‘Best Moon Landing in a Stricken Rocket-Ship in a TV Movie,’ he said, proudly.

  ‘That was you?’ Jane said with a gasp of mock amazement.

  ‘I know. Impressive, huh?’ He grinned and gestured to an empty chair. ‘May I?’

  ‘Sure. Why not.’

  He slid in beside her. Somewhere between presenting her on stage with the award and joining the party he had discarded his tie and popped the top two buttons on his shirt, revealing a portion of improbably groomed chest.

  Willie was in his forties, though at what end Jane couldn't judge. His age seemed to depend on the angle you looked at him, his face like one of those collector's cards you used to get in cereal packets with a cartoon image of a duck or a monkey which, when you tilted it, would appear to smile or throw a banana. From one angle he displayed enough frown lines to suggest a life well lived, but turning him a few degrees revealed suspiciously dark hair for a man of his age.

  Her first impression of him had not been a good one. On stage he had hogged the microphone and was clearly revelling in the spotlight; she'd had visions of having to wrestle the ‘Jane’ from his grip. Not so much lounge lizard as lounge T-Rex, she'd decided. But then he had said those things about her writing and she had glimpsed someone else behind the smile and the hair: a man not afraid to look her in the eye and say what he felt. And a Scottish man too, which was the biggest surprise. She knew other men of his generation, barely able to speak, only ever dredging up passion on the football terraces or at the dog track. But Willie had left all of that behind to go and seek his fortune in Hollywood. Whether he had hit gold, she had no idea, but she sensed that he had found something infinitely more enriching.

  ‘I know this isn't cool, but, what the hell.’ He opened the novel in front of her at the title page and fished a pen from his jacket. ‘Could you make it to Willie?’

  She laughed. ‘I'd be delighted.’

  He hunched closer so that they couldn't be overheard. ‘If you don't mind talking shop for a minute, who has the film rights?’

  ‘Um, no one.’

  ‘You're kidding me. Well, they'll be snapped up now. Who you with?’

  ‘Who am I with?’

  ‘Representation. Who's your agent?’

  ‘Um …’

  Willie sat back. ‘You don't have an agent?’

  ‘I never needed one. Tom … my publisher drew up the contract and I—-’

  His face twisted in horror. ‘Stop! Please, you're killing me. Here.’ He dug out a small silver box of business cards and pressed one into her hand. ‘My card. My agent's Priscilla Hess at Clarion Creative Management.’ He ran a finger along a name and number printed at the foot of the card. ‘That's her direct line. Call her.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I'm serious. Actually, forget it, I'll get her to call you.’ He motioned to the room and beyond. ‘Jane, what you've got to realise is that out there it's just sharks and leeches.’ He laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘You need looking after.’ Then with a world-weary sigh and a shake of the head that suggested he knew what was down the road for her—that he had perhaps been down a similar road himself—Willie gathered his signed book and got up to leave.

  ‘Thanks for this. By the way, I really meant it—what I said on stage—you've got a rare talent. Be careful they don't take too much advantage of you.’ He smiled ruefully and began to walk away.

  Suddenly, Jane knew she wanted him to stay.

  ‘D'you want some champagne?’

  He froze in his tracks, then turned round with a pained expression. ‘I can't.’

  ‘Oh, I understand,’ she said, trying to make light of the rejection. ‘You've probably got some Hollywood starlet waiting at the Ritz …’

  ‘It's not that,’ he gestured to the bottle. ‘I'm off the booze. Seven years sober.’

  A layer of Willie's brash exterior rubbed off with his admission. He looked like a man far from home. And Jane couldn't help reflect that before her dad had shown up in the bookshop three months ago she had often imagined him returning to her with just those words.

  ‘We could just talk,’ Jane offered.

  He extended a hand. ‘Or we could just dance.’

  The dance floor was full of middle-aged revellers shimmying and bobbing to the song thumping out of two speakers the size of coffins. She knew this one. She let him steer her into the throng. He was a smooth mover and full of what they called in her town, great patter. But there was more to him than that. She had already glimpsed some part of it; she resolved to unearth the rest. He was damaged and she would heal him.

  The song blasted across the dance floor as Willie whirled her around. She threw back her head, and for a moment she noticed a figure at the edge of her vision. It was Tom, a statue on the periphery of the frenetic party. The only cloud on her horizon.

  CHAPTER 8

  ‘Dry the Rain’, The Beta Band, 1998, Regal

  SUCCESS HADN'T GONE to Jane's head. Actually, on second thoughts, that's exactly where it had gone. After winning her ‘Jane’ she'd gone out the following day and bought herself a hat from the venerable Lock & Co in St. James's, hatters to the gentry since 1676. After contemplating a range of fabulous Panamas (originally made in Ecuador, it transpired) and almost plumping for a cool red Fez with a black tassel, she'd settled on a riding hat—a dressage model in deep blue with a polished fur felt. When she'd studied her reflection in the mirror, red hair tucked out of sight, a few wisps artfully poking out, she decided it made her look like the Mad Hatter. She paid cash.

  Back home her spending spree continued. She replaced the threadbare rug in the living-room with a handmade Persian, and the old paper lantern that for years had cast a dusty light from the ceiling-rose gave way to a multicoloured Venetian glass chandelier, which hung over her latest addition, a polished Steinway upright. Her dad had wanted her to learn the piano—all the posh kids at private school took lessons, he said—and after a lucky streak on the horses he'd paid for her to visit a prim tutor on the Southside, but then, as usual with him, the winnings dried up and the lessons stopped.

  The dressage hat wasn't the only thing she'd brought back from London. Willie Scott had called her the following week. He was in town, visiting his old ma in Newton Mearns. He had some news he thought she'd be interested to hear. H
ow about lunch? His treat. They met in town, at Rogano, an upscale Glasgow classic with a dining room like a golden-age ocean liner; the kind of restaurant where the fish was never fried, only ever tempura. Jane had mixed feelings about the venue: she'd been only once before, when she signed with Tom. Perhaps this time would take away the sting.

  Lunch had gone well. Very well. Willie had no sooner sat down than he informed her that he had passed her novel to a couple of buddies in the business. She hadn't understood. The film business, he'd explained; was there any other kind? Oh, yes. Of course. So, you ready for this? One of them wants to option the book. Did he mean they want to make it into a film? No, he grinned. They want to make it into a movie.

  Their starters arrived and they ate and talked about growing up in Glasgow and what it was like being an in-demand screenwriter in LA until the waiter cleared their plates. There was one other thing about the movie deal.

  Willie dabbed his mouth with a white napkin. ‘I want to write the adaptation.’

  ‘You do? But what about all your Hollywood projects?’

  She was puzzled—he'd spent the last hour regaling her with tales of his numerous movie deals.

  ‘Oh, them. Aye.’ He smoothed the napkin across his lap. ‘They can wait. This is what I want to do now. Your novel touched me in a way I've never felt before. I'm from that world. I know those characters.’ He reached across the table and took her hand. ‘Trust me, Jane. I'm your man.’

  They'd started seeing each other the following week. Jane wasn't daft, she knew what people on the outside would say: he wasn't Mr Right, he was Mr Rebound. She didn't care; he was fun, full of great stories and she felt better about herself being around him.

  A few things about him surprised her. For a writer he wasn't widely read; adamant that The Godfather was an original movie and wouldn't believe her increasingly shrill protests until she marched him to a bookstore and shoved a copy of Puzo's novel into his hands. Even his film knowledge displayed some startling gaps, though he had a ready response for each omission. Sense and Sensibility? Frock Movie. West Side Story? Musical. The Seventh Seal? Swedish. And Black and White. Some Like It Hot? He shrugged and then displayed a scoundrel's grin. Nobody's perfect.