Not Another Happy Ending

by David Solomons

  The two men embraced warmly and Tom was hit by an overwhelming scent of pot.

  ‘You're one to talk about my accent, young man,’ said Donald. ‘You, with your unfathomable vowels.’ He looked past Tom's shoulder.

  A curious assortment of people had just walked into the hotel. A mixture of young men in black sweaters shouldering battered leather messenger bags, old men in tweed jackets like Donald's, a sprinkling of women in floral skirts and sandals, and a few more in standard issue gothic black.

  ‘Wind Jar?’ ventured Donald.

  The group replied with amorphous nods and muttered yesses.

  ‘Welcome, writers, makars!’ he boomed. ‘Registration is in the Robert Louis Stevenson Suite. Second floor. Please enjoy a complimentary bacon roll. Halal, kosher and vegetarian alternatives are available.’

  The aspirants filed past towards the lifts. Donald shook some hands and made throaty noises of recognition. When they were out of earshot, he gazed after them with a sag of disappointment.

  ‘Same old faces. Same old rubbish. Not a real writer amongst them.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I hope you didn't come here hoping to find the next Jane Lockhart.’

  ‘No, I came to see Glen,’ said Tom.

  Donald swung round sharply. ‘Is that a good idea, Duval? He's not as fond of you as I am—and I'd happily shaft you for a five-hundred-quid advance and a book tour of the provinces.’ He pursed his lips. ‘You're sure about this, after what happened last time?’ Tom nodded determinedly. With a dubious sigh Donald reached into his jacket. ‘That Edinburgh Book Festival ban must be up soon, hmm?’

  Tom pretended to ignore the remark. ‘Where can I find him?’

  The old poet unfolded an itinerary of the day's events.

  ‘He's doing a session on “Generating Conflict” in the James Kelman Conservatory. Ground floor.’

  When Tom arrived the workshop had yet to begin. A pretty volunteer in a purple Wind Jar T-shirt was setting out chairs while at the far end of the conservatory the guest speaker paced up and down between two ferns, head buried in what Tom assumed were his notes for the session.

  Back when Tom had almost published him Glen Buchan had cut a figure as taut and lean as his prose, but almost a decade on his belt was a couple of notches looser and there was the shadow of an extra chin. His debut had launched him onto the literary scene with the force of one of his famously propulsive sentences. Hailed variously as a stunning new voice, a firebrand, and a disgrace, he had gone on to confirm his reputation with his next two novels, at which point the consensus was that he'd peaked. He had produced three more novels since then, failing with each to rouse the same passions as his earlier work. And he knew it. Crippling neurosis was punctuated by moments of unbearable bumptiousness. It was during one of these moments, in a tent at the Edinburgh Book Festival a few years previously, that Tom and he had come to blows. In his usual fashion Tom had bluntly expressed his opinion of Glen's latest novel, his editor and probably his mother. Things had deteriorated swiftly. Eventually the police had to be called and Tom received a five-year ban from the festival.

  By the door was a table piled with copies of Glen's latest novel. Tom picked one up. It was entitled Paranoia Avenue and clothed in one of Klinsch & McLeish's ubiquitous red and white covers.

  ‘Are you here for “Generating Conflict”?’

  Tom looked up from the book to see the pretty volunteer smiling at him.

  ‘Oh, absolutely.’ He beamed back and then banged the book down on the table. The impact echoed round the room like a slapped face. Glen stopped pacing. Irritated, he turned to locate the source of the interruption.

  ‘Hello, Glen,’ said Tom smoothly.

  ‘Well, well,’ sneered Glen, ‘if it isn't Pepe Le Pew.’

  ‘Mr Buchan,’ asked the volunteer gingerly, ‘should I fetch security?’

  He screwed up his face. ‘Do we even have security at this shit excuse for a writing workshop?’

  ‘I don't—’ she began.

  ‘Bugger off, there's a good girl.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Buchan.’ She scurried from the room. As she passed Tom, she muttered, ‘What a total shitebag.’

  Tom opened his arms in a gesture of familiar greeting. ‘Glen.’

  Glen's right eye twitched and he smoothed a lick of sandy hair that had fallen across his shining forehead. ‘Bloody writing workshop, can you believe it? What the hell am I doing here?’

  ‘Giving something back?’ Tom suggested.

  ‘Bollocks. I fucking hate other writers.’

  ‘Weren't you married to one?’

  ‘I hate her especially. You know she won the Costa?’ He paused. ‘Bitch.’

  An armchair nestled beside a low table on which sat a bowl of nuts and a jug of water. Glen poured himself a glass and drained it in a few noisy gulps.

  ‘So, what brings the great Gallic phallus into my presence?’

  ‘I know we've had our differences over the years,’ said Tom.

  Glen snorted.

  ‘But we go way back. And after what happened at Edinburgh the other year, I feel I owe you.’

  Glen tensed, his hand going to his cheek as if remembering an old wound. ‘Go on.’

  ‘So I thought I should tell you. About Jane Lockhart.’ He took a couple of slow steps into the room. ‘Rumour has it she's about to sign with Klinsch & McLeish.’

  Glen's whole body, which had wound itself into a tight ball of expectation, relaxed into indifference. ‘Is that all? I knew that. Everyone knows that.’

  ‘She's good.’

  ‘I know. I read Happy Ending.’

  Tom blew out dismissively. ‘Happy Ending was merely a warm-up. Wait till you read her new one. Reminds me of you … four or five books ago.’

  Glen shrank into himself, folding and unfolding his arms.

  ‘I'm a far better writer now. Technically, I was all over the place back then.’

  Tom helped himself to a handful of complimentary nuts.

  ‘Sure, Glen, sure. I'm not one of those people who think your best work is behind you.’

  ‘Is that it? Is that all you came to tell me, because—’

  ‘There's something else, Glen.’

  His other eye began to twitch.

  ‘It's common knowledge your deal with Klinsch & McLeish is up after this book.’ Tom held up a copy of Paranoia Avenue. ‘Now there's absolutely no truth to the rumour that Klinsch and McLeish are planning to dump you.’ He let the idea hang for a second. ‘Even if your sales numbers recently have been heading down faster than a flaming 747.’

  He tossed the book to Glen, who fumbled the catch with nervous hands. It thudded against the floor. Glen swallowed and stumbled to the chair. He flopped down, gripping the arms to steady himself. Tom knew he had him almost where he wanted him—the pantechnicon had pulled into Paranoia Avenue. Now all he had to do was move Glen into his new address.

  ‘No, for me,’ said Tom, snatching another handful of mixed nuts, ‘there's only one important question.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is Klinsch and McLeish big enough for Glen Buchan …’ he paused ‘… and Jane Lockhart?’

  Tom studied Glen's face for a reaction. The author had broken out in a red flush that was spreading rapidly upwards from his throat. Glen squirmed in the chair, his breath coming in frantic puffs.

  ‘You're right,’ he gasped, his eyes wide with fear. ‘It's either her … or me.’

  Tom looked away to hide his smile of triumph. He would congratulate Roddy later on what had turned out to be a formidable plan. Klinsch & McLeish would be forced to ditch Jane and she'd come back to him nicely miserable, novel in hand. Perhaps if she was suitably contrite he might just agree to publish novels three and four.

  ‘Tom, I want you to publish me.’

  That wasn't the plan. That was the opposite of the plan. Tom started to choke on a complimentary nut. Glen leapt up and hammered him helpfully on the back.

  ‘You discovered me. I've a
lways felt bad about not going with you at the time.’

  Tom gagged. The heel of Glen's hand resounding against his back was only making it worse. He tried to tell him to stop, but the nut had lodged tight in his airway. His vision began to blur.

  ‘As you rightly observed,’ Glen went on with self-involved obliviousness, ‘my deal with Klinsch & McLeish is up. Yes, my numbers are a little weaker than the good old days, but I'm still a strong seller. So what d'you say? Tom?’

  Nothing! He could say nothing. He was choking to death on a nut, couldn't Buchan see?

  And then suddenly he could breathe again.

  Two things flew out of his mouth. The first was a half-chewed walnut; the second an emphatic ‘Non.’

  The answer took them both by surprise.

  Tom sucked in a few deep breaths. Had he really just turned down Glen Buchan? Dazed, he headed for the door.

  ‘What d'you mean non?’ Glen's anxiety was quickly replaced by righteous indignation. ‘You can't say non. Word is Tristesse Books is folding. Just one of my novels would turn it round, like that!’ He clicked his fingers.

  ‘I … I know,’ said Tom quietly, continuing to make his way out.

  ‘Don't you walk away from me, Duval. I swear, you take one more step and I'm moving to Penguin. I mean it.’

  Tom exited the conservatory and trudged along the dim tartan corridor, Glen's voice ringing in his ears, at once strident and wounded. ‘There's something else going on here, isn't there? Don't try to hide it—I'm a master of subtext, you know.’

  CHAPTER 14

  ‘Over the Rainbow’, Eva Cassidy, 2001, Blix Street

  JANE STARED FIXEDLY from the carriage window at the countryside as it sped past in a blur of green fields and industrial estates on the short hop between Glasgow and Edinburgh. She was on her way to meet Klinsch & McLeish, her new publishers. Well, they would be, as soon as she discharged her obligation to Tristesse and delivered her latest novel to Tom.

  She'd left the flat that morning with Willie's objections ringing in her ears. He supported her move to the new publisher, but couldn't understand why she would do so without an agent. It was like taking a carrot to a knife-fight, he said.

  Perhaps she would have signed with an agent if he hadn't gone on about it with such feverish enthusiasm. Since they'd met he'd been trying to push her onto his agent, Priscilla. You two would be great together, he said. Two strong, powerful women who know what they want and aren't afraid to get dirty in order to win. It felt less like he was setting her up with an agent and more like he was encouraging her to take part in some girl-on-girl mud wrestling.

  Eventually she'd caved and agreed to a meeting. She took the train to London—Priscilla only ever came north for the Edinburgh Festival—and pitched up in Soho outside Clarion Creative Management's offices. Priscilla was out. Of the country. After that Willie stopped bugging her about agents.

  Jane intended to sign with Klinsch & McLeish today, despite Willie, Priscilla, and especially Tom.

  She stole a look at the middle-aged woman in a mother-of-the-bride dress occupying the seat beside her. She had boarded the train at Falkirk and stowed a giant handbag in the overhead rack, but not before removing a book from it. It was Happy Ending.

  Last year when her novel had made the Sunday Times bestseller list, Jane, not unreasonably in her view, had jumped to a number of conclusions. One of which was that she'd see it everywhere. However, while bookstores displayed it prominently in their windows, she searched in vain for evidence of people reading it in the real world. And while the book climbed the charts it remained steadfastly invisible on buses and trains, and in the West End cafés she frequented. So during the eight weeks when she was a fixture on the chart she found herself using public transport more than usual and drinking a great deal of coffee across the city. Not that she was looking for people who'd bought her book. Obviously. That would have been hugely egotistical. OK. Maybe looking, just a little. But despite her survey, remarkably, there on the ten-thirty to Edinburgh Waverley was the very first time she'd come across someone reading Happy Ending in public.

  She'd rehearsed the encounter a hundred times. In her imagination it went something like this.

  Jane (dead casual): How's the book?

  Perfect Reader: Unable to speak owing to overpowering emotion laid bare by novel and damp handkerchief clutched to mouth, utters a single moan that expresses her appreciation of writer's deep humanity, flawless plotting and vibrant characterisation.

  Jane (modestly): Oh, I'm glad.

  Perfect Reader: Reacts with questioning look that slowly brightens, like the dawning sun, into an epiphany of understanding, since she is Perfect Reader. Turns to cover, points wide-eyed to author's name. Are you …?

  Jane (diffident nod): Well, yes.

  In reality, Jane couldn't bring herself to make eye contact with the woman. What if she was crying? What if she wasn't crying? There was the flick of another page turning. Jane held her breath and strained to hear anything more indicative of the woman's state of mind. There was a whimper. Oh, good. She risked a glance. The woman was strangely quiet. But a Highland Terrier across the aisle whimpered again, begging for a bite of its owner's sausage roll. As Jane looked away disappointed her eye fell on the book. She couldn't help it. And then she found herself face to face with her reader.

  ‘I'm her,’ Jane blurted.

  The woman gave a quizzical stare.

  ‘Jane Lockhart,’ she explained. ‘I wrote the book.’ Then, for the purpose of avoiding doubt, added, ‘The book you're reading,’

  ‘Oh.’ The woman looked carefully from the cover photo of the crying girl and then to Jane, as if trying to establish some resemblance.

  ‘Hope you're enjoying it,’ Jane said, trying without success to keep the note of pleading from her voice.

  ‘Oh,’ repeated the woman. ‘I don't know.’

  Why not? Is there something wrong with you? Are you incapable of independent thought? Jane wanted to yell. Then noticed the woman's index finger holding her place a few pages into the book.

  ‘Just started it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I found it on the platform. Someone had left it on a bench.’

  The train arrived at Waverley on time.

  Jane scurried out of the station and, with an eye on the lowering clouds gathered over the castle, jumped into a taxi for the brief journey to Klinsch & McLeish's offices.

  She paid the driver, checked the address, which she'd scribbled down on an old receipt, and slowly lifted her eyes to take in the impressive neo-classical façade before her.

  Her new publisher occupied two elegant Georgian townhouses situated in the New Town. The main entrance was through an imposing black panelled door, a fanlight arched over it like a supercilious eyebrow. The door entry system was resolutely old school—a heavy brass knocker. She rapped twice, feeling like Macduff knocking at the gate in Macbeth, except that her murderous act had yet to be committed. Not long now, and Tom and Tristesse would be consigned to her past. Dead to her.

  As she waited, she reflected on how easily Tom had let her go. Not that she'd have stayed, however hard he might have fought for her. But he hadn't. The door swung open and a pretty young woman with a sleek bob and a land–owning accent welcomed her in.

  ‘Ms Lockhart, do please come in. I'm Dr Klinsch's assistant, Sophie.’

  Sophie ushered her into a grand parlour overlooking a peaceful sunlit garden overflowing with white roses and deep-pink peonies, shaded by a grove of stately Scotch elms. The walls of the parlour were painted in one of those drowsy heritage greys and lined with bookshelves parading what Jane quickly realised was every edition of every book published by Klinsch & McLeish. Their distinctive red and white livery hadn't changed over the years, and the candy stripes contrasted the chalky walls. She felt a spike of anticipation; her next novel would be published in one of these covers, and find its place in the continuum of great writing discovered and nurtured by the legendary Dr
Klinsch and Mr McLeish.

  They didn't make her wait long. True to her name, Klinsch marched up to Jane and flung her arms about her in a tight embrace. The good doctor was a small, boisterous woman with vivid blue eyes and perfect skin. She reputedly owed her complexion to a regime of bathing in the blood of debut authors who had ‘disappointed her’.

  ‘Welcome!’ said Dr Klinsch, hugging Jane to her. ‘Welcome to the family!’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jane, slightly bewildered. ‘Thank you so much.’

  Just behind Klinsch the saturnine figure of Mr McLeish loped into the room, bony head bowed, hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘Please excuse Dr Klinsch,’ he said in a rich, bass rumble, ‘she does have a tendency to pee her pants when we sign a new author.’

  Dr Klinsch gave an indignant tut.

  ‘That was one time,’ she muttered.

  They made small talk for a while, the publishers expressing their admiration for Jane's devastating talent and their delight at the imminent prospect of her elevation to the ranks of their authors. Jane responded with suitable modesty, but couldn't help thinking that in all the time they'd been together Tom had never praised her like that. Not that she craved praise. Although, it would've been nice if he'd shown his appreciation once in a while.

  Sophie returned carrying a tray with a bottle of champagne, three glasses and several copies of Jane's new contract. During the last few months she had scoured it from cover to cover, suggested a handful of alterations that Klinsch & McLeish had been only too happy to accommodate. It felt good to be listened to—made a refreshing change from dealing with Tom. Not to mention that the advance they were offering was generous. No less than you deserve, they'd said. Such thoroughly nice people.

  Jane noticed the champagne glasses on the tray were old-fashioned saucers rather than flutes. Tom had half a dozen similar coupes, as he called them. They'd drunk from them the night before she discovered he'd changed her title. She shook herself and remembered where she was. Tom was her past. Today she would drink to her future.

  ‘Klinsch & McLeish,’ she said in an awed tone. ‘I can't quite believe it. I'm going to be published in one of those classic red and white covers.’ She caught herself. That sounded a bit shallow and she didn't want to be taken for a lightweight, not in this company. ‘Obviously it's not just about the covers—but they are so pretty.’ She really had to stop doing that. ‘Your list is amazing too. I mean, you publish Glen Buchan.’