Not Another Happy Ending (13 page)

‘Who did Ali beat to become World Heavyweight Champion for the first time?’ asked Rory, a man whose moustache could have earned him a place in the Village People.

‘Sonny Liston,’ answered Benny without hesitation.

A gaunt man with a bobbing Adam's apple, whose every utterance was punctuated with a hacking cough, hurled the next question. ‘Which is the only mammal that can't jump—
ACH
!?’

‘The elephant,’ said Benny with a weary sigh. ‘C'mon, the quiz is gonna be harder than that. Get serious.’

Jane glanced round the dark panelled walls of the pub, stained by decades of tobacco smoke, on which hung a series of heavily varnished paintings depicting various Sir Walter Scott heroes. Ivanhoe, Rob Roy and William Wallace gazed proudly from their golden frames. She knew that this quiz was important to her dad. He had left school at fourteen and never thought much of himself. It was the first time he'd ever been good at anything.

‘Who was Shakespeare's wife?’

Jane could tell immediately that he didn't know. She caught sight of Rory's grinning mug, jubilant to have stumped the master. Benny hummed and hawed to buy some time.

‘Shakespeare's wife.’ He scratched his head. ‘William. Shakespeare's. Wife?’

Jane saw him look up hopefully at Scott's heroes on the wall, seeking inspiration. The portraits seemed to confer and then turn to him with a shrug. Got nothing. Sorry.

‘Hi, Dad.’

‘Darlin’!’ Benny spun round.

Things were still new between them, so they danced about as they figured out how to greet one another, ending up in a stiff embrace.

‘Anne Hathaway,’ she whispered.

‘What? Oh, right.’ Clearing his throat, he turned back to Rory and with a casual wave gave him the correct answer as if he'd known it all along.

As Benny ordered a round of drinks, choosing an orange juice for himself and one for Willie, Jane watched a familiar figure enter the pub, shake the rain from his Macintosh and bound up to her dad.

‘Hey, Monsieur L!’

‘Tommy! Good to see you, son. It's been ages.’

Jane couldn't help but notice her dad's face light up when he clocked Tom.

‘It has. How are you?’

‘Not bad, son. So, where've you been hiding yourself?

Tom glanced across the bar at Jane. She scowled.

‘From your daughter mostly.’

‘Aye, well, she's a tough customer that one, don't need to tell me. Wouldn't talk to me for years—not that I blame her. What'll you have?’

‘Nothing,’ said Jane. ‘He's not staying.’

‘Now Jane, c'mon …’ Benny began, but tailed off when he saw the expression on his daughter's face.

‘What are you doing here?’ she snapped at Tom.

‘My favourite author is being adapted by Scotland's most talented screenwriter.’ He made a big show of bowing to Willie, turning up his palms in a gesture that said ‘much kudos’.

Willie was settling himself happily into Tom's oily praise when Benny clicked his fingers. ‘Screen
writer
, that was it,’ he said as if it had been bothering him for ages. ‘No’ screen
printer
. Sorry. Go on.’

Willie's self-satisfied expression slipped for a moment.

Tom put an arm round his shoulders. ‘Naturally I want to know how the big man is getting on.’

‘I wouldn't say I'm the most talented,’ Willie said, demurring with a thoughtful shake of his head. He stopped and seemed to consider. ‘But, who else you gonna pick? Eh?’

Deciding this charade had gone on long enough Jane laid a hand on Tom's elbow and steered him to a corner of the bar.

‘You've got some cheek, showing up here like this,’ she rounded on him when they were out of earshot.

‘It's Friday. Where's my novel?’

Such an annoying man! ‘I'm working on it,’ she said tightly.

Tom shot a sideways glance at Willie. ‘So, you're not suffering with
el toro blanco
?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You're not b-l-o-c-k-e-d?’

‘Why are you spelling it?’

‘It's nothing to be ashamed of, and there are plenty of strategies to overcome it.’

‘I'm not blocked.’

‘For instance, stimulants and narcotics. For a while there, Hunter S Thompson was permanently unblocked.’

She folded her arms. ‘I'm not blocked.’

‘OK, then change your surroundings. Take yourself off to that Highland hellhole–’

‘You mean the cottage?’

‘I seem to remember we had some particularly creative sessions up there.’ He winked. ‘If you know what I'm saying?’

‘Yes,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘There are single-cell organisms that know what you're saying.’

He angled his head thoughtfully. ‘But Willie doesn't know. About us?’

Jane started to answer, but the retort died on her lips.

‘Didn't think so,’ he said haughtily.

OK, that was it. Enough. She marched to the door and flung it open. A squall of blustery rain swept inside, stinging her face. ‘You have a hell of a high opinion of yourself, you know that? Well, let me tell you this, you are the biggest mistake I've ever made. I know that because I'm with someone who loves me now, someone who isn't afraid to say so. And, in case you haven't heard, I'm moving to a new publisher. For the first time in my life I'm truly happy, and it's no thanks to you. So, goodbye, Thomas Duval of Tristesse Books and late of Saint-Tropez. Oh, say hi to Roddy from me. I always liked
him
.’

Annoyingly, he appeared resolutely unaffected by her speech and merely squeezed past her, much closer than necessary, before stopping in the doorway.

‘Out of interest, Jane,’ he asked lightly, ‘what's the title of the new book?’

She hadn't expected that. Damn it. ‘The title? Of the new book?’

‘Yes. You have a title, right?’

‘Of course I have a title.’ She clasped and unclasped her hands.

‘Then you won't mind telling me. It'd be useful to announce it to the trade, put up a holding page on Amazon, that kind of thing.’

‘What if I do mind?’

A smile spread slowly across his face. ‘You don't have a title, do you?’

She hated that he could tell; he knew her better than she cared to admit.

In the silence that followed he leant in towards her; they were almost touching. ‘Until you deliver that manuscript,’ he growled, ‘you're still under contract to me. So, whatever's going on, snap out of it and get writing.’

Before she could stop him he had taken her head in his hands and planted a kiss on her lips.

‘Bye, Jane.’

And then the door banged shut and he was gone without a backwards look.

With a cry of disgust she wiped a hand across her face. What a cheek! She mimicked his smug ‘Bye, Jane.’

A quick glance at Willie determined, to her great relief, that he hadn't noticed the kiss. She'd seen what Willie could do to a punch-bag and, whatever she felt about Tom, she didn't want him beaten to a kung-fooey pulp. Not that the kiss had meant anything. It wasn't like she'd enjoyed it. She shuddered at the idea.

Willie made his way over, his big hands wrapped round drinks for her and the now departed Tom.

‘He's not gone, has he?’ He stared forlornly at the door. ‘But we never got a chance to talk about my screenplay.’

The door swung open again and the young woman in the red dress from the vintage store breezed in. She glided past Jane, right under Willie's nose.

‘Hi, Jane.’

‘Hi,’ replied Jane, gawping at the figure as she made her
way across the packed floor of the bar without breaking stride.

It seemed impossible that she could pass unnoticed, but no one gave the stunning figure in their midst a second glance. Even Willie, who, Jane had noted on more than one occasion, could out-swivel an owl when it came to tracking a hot young thing, took no interest in her hypnotically swaying hips.

‘The French have always appreciated my work,’ he reflected. ‘Connoisseurs of
film
, oh aye.’

Leaving him to ponder his own genius, Jane followed Red across the bar.

‘We should have him round for dinner,’ said Willie, finally realising with an awkward start that he was talking to thin air. ‘Janey?’

Jane tipped open the door to the ladies’ toilets. A single energy-saving bulb cast a weak light across the dingy room.

Red stood over the only working washbasin, carefully applying lipstick in front of a spotted mirror. Something about her was compellingly familiar.

‘I know you, don't I?’ Jane moved closer. ‘Where did we meet?’

Red continued to paint her lips, eyes hidden behind her sunglasses.

‘Chapter 2,’ she said, between puckering up for the next
application. ‘I'm in the opening chapter of course, but I'd say you only really get to know me from Chapter 2 on.’

Jane felt her skin prickle. ‘Darsie?’

Red turned to Jane, swept the sunglasses from her face and pouted, showing off a glossy red mouth. ‘What d'you think?’

Thought, certainly of the logical, coherent kind, was currently cowering on the unwashed toilet floor of Jane's mind with its arms over its head, taking a severe kicking from the thug of mental illness. ‘I think I'm talking to my protagonist.’

‘I prefer “heroine”.’ Extending the lipstick a notch, Darsie began to write on the mirror.

I'm sick, thought Jane. I've actually gone over the edge. ‘What … what are you doing here?’ she stuttered.

‘Nothing's happening in your novel, so …’ Darsie shrugged. And then added brightly, ‘I think they call it a mini-break.’

Mini-breakdown, more like. ‘But … you can't do that. Can you?’

‘To be honest, Jane, I needed to get away or I was going to go …’ she held her hands to either side of her head and widened her big, dark eyes ‘… totally mental. It's a very intense narrative. I personally have suffered a broken engagement and two bereavements so far.’

‘Yes, I know. Sorry.’ Jane winced. Why was she apologising to a fictional character?

‘Oh no, please don't apologise. I think it's going to make me a stronger person in the end.’

She was experiencing a hallucination, that was all. A temporary aberration brought on by overwork. All right, not overwork. You had to be actually working for that to happen. Maybe it was something in the sponge cake? Get a grip, Jane. She had to regain some semblance of control over this situation before it got any more out of hand. Darsie had said something about ‘the end’.

‘The end … yes. So you'll go back? Finish it?’

‘Oh, I can't do that, not without you.’ She finished writing on the mirror and held out the lipstick. It shone in the dim room like a small red flame. Jane took it unthinkingly.

‘Why can't you finish it, Jane? What are you afraid of?’

The toilet door opened and two women in bum-skimming dresses swanned in, brassy and loud, cackling over some shared joke.

Distracted by their arrival, when Jane looked again Darsie had vanished. She was conscious that the other women had fallen silent.

They stared suspiciously at the lipstick clutched in Jane's hand and at the mirror. Jane looked in horror at the phrase scrawled over the washbasin where Darsie had been standing.

Where's my happy ending?

‘Sugar Mice (in the Rain)’, Marillion, 1987, EMI

E
ARLY THE FOLLOWING MORNING
Tom entered the office to find Roddy lying on the sagging sofa in Tristesse Books’ Reception area, hiccupping with sobs, staring at the rain running down the window that overlooked the courtyard. The floor immediately surrounding him was scattered with crumpled, tear-filled tissues and stacks of red and blue covered school notebooks. His knees were pulled up to his chest, a copy of
Happy Ending
propped open on them. He turned the last page, closed the cover and bawled.

‘Oh for … get a hold of yourself, dammit!’ snapped Tom.

‘Gets me every time.’ Roddy held up the book. ‘Three times now.’ He gulped back another wracking sob. ‘That ending …’

Tom snatched the book angrily from him. ‘Don't talk to me about damn endings.’ He gestured to the exercise books on the floor. ‘Now do your marking.’ With that
he marched off towards his office. ‘Oh, Jane says hi,’ he called over his shoulder.

The mention of her name triggered a fresh bout of blubbering. ‘That poor lassie,’ Roddy wailed, ‘She must have led such a shocking life to write like that.’

Tom stopped at the end of the short corridor. There was something in what his friend had just said that struck a chord. He wasn't sure what it meant yet, but he had a feeling it was important.

‘What were you saying?’ he asked Roddy.

‘The lonely page, the endless introspection, the mind plagued with funky thoughts. It's how writers tick, isn't it? No misery, no poetry.’ Roddy reached for another tissue and blew his nose loudly.

Tom heeled shut his office door, flopped down in his chair and, muttering a few choice oaths, hurled the offending copy of
Happy Ending
across his desk, knocking Napoleon to the floor. As he bent to retrieve the fallen emperor his phone rang. He swiped at it irritably.

‘What?’

‘Pandemic Media have upped their offer,’ said Anna, ignoring his bad-tempered tone. ‘But they want an answer by the end of the month.’

He didn't want to hear that, especially not after today. Jane Lockhart had writer's block; their exchange at the Walter Scott had confirmed it. Her new novel wasn't arriving today or any day soon. ‘Anna—’

‘Tom, you're going bankrupt.’

He didn't respond.

‘Did you speak to Jane?’ she asked after a few seconds’ silence.

‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘She's very happy. Happier than she's ever been, apparently.’

‘And her novel?’

Happy. A small thought started to form in Tom's mind. Not like a gentle root sprouting from the rich, loamy earth into the warmth of a clear spring sky. Nothing as bright and hopeful as that. This was a thought born in a much darker place; an evil twin of an idea that latched onto his back with scaly fingers and was now pressing hard. Do it. Do. It. As he considered whether or not to pursue the devilish brainwave, he felt the idea already growing.

‘Hello? Tom, you still there?’