Not Another Happy Ending (32 page)

Before he could speak she slammed the door in his face. It wasn't the reaction he'd been hoping for, but it was what he expected. Unbowed, he trotted back to the car and popped open the boot. Inside, wrapped securely in plastic and held upright in a cardboard box, was his secret weapon. His last shot.

He knocked on the door again.

‘Please open the door. I'm not good at this countryside stuff.’ The wind moaned down the glen, shapes loomed on the darkening hillside. ‘I think I saw a bear.’ He shivered in the cold. ‘Jane. I'm sorry.’

I'm sorry.

The door inched opened. Jane peered suspiciously through the widening gap. He held out what he had carried from the car.

‘And It Rained All Night’, Thom Yorke, 2006, XL

A
FTER MEETING
T
OM
on the street, Jane had left him clutching his stupid chrysanthemums and hurried upstairs to her flat, her mood swinging from hurt to anger and back again with each step. She made a cup of tea, the ritual soothing and familiar, not noticing until she stirred in the milk that she'd inadvertently used three teabags. He was always amused by the regularity of her tea drinking, noting that it punctuated their editing sessions like a well-placed comma.

Oh, for god's sake! Now she couldn't even make a cuppa without seeing his annoying face. She wanted to be alone. No, she wanted to be anywhere that he wasn't. It seemed that not even her flat offered the isolation she craved. She dug out her backpack from the hall cupboard, hastily threw in a few things and called a cab to take her to the bus stop. When it arrived she crawled on hands and knees into the bay window and raised her head just high
enough over the sill to confirm that he wasn't still hanging around outside.

The cab dropped her off at Buchanan Street. Buses rolled in and out of the station, filling the air with the oily tang of diesel. Her bus departed in half an hour. She sat in the waiting-room, sharing it with a couple of skinny backpackers, young and in love, noisily sucking at each other's face. She mumbled a small prayer that they weren't booked on her bus.

It was hard to believe that just a few hours ago she'd been standing in Tom's office, her anger towards him softening. She'd even experienced a flutter of self-doubt, wondering if she'd been too hard on
him
. And when she'd placed the finished manuscript on his desk she'd imagined how happy he'd be, and that had made her smile.

Discovering the umbrella plant had changed everything. The mystery of its abduction turned out to be easily solved. Eager to exonerate himself Roddy had spilled his guts, no enhanced interrogation necessary. There was no question in her mind that what Tom had done was unforgiveable. Far worse than changing her title.

She boarded the bus, found a seat and settled in for the journey. The miles rolled past and soon, lulled by the fug of the cabin and the grumble of the engine, she fell asleep. She woke with a start ten minutes from her destination.

With a hiss the hydraulic doors sprang open and she stepped out onto the side of the road, the sole passenger
to disembark. There was still an hour before sunset, enough time to make it to the cottage before dark. The bus pulled away, quickly disappearing from sight around the next bend of the meandering road. She heaved the backpack onto her shoulders and set off along the verge. The road wound through moorland hemmed in by hills, their summits shrouded in mist. If the road was lonely then the track she took after about a mile that led to the cottage was utterly forlorn.

By the time she arrived she was cold and hungry. Worse than the physical privation was the realisation that coming here was a terrible mistake. She wanted to forget him and yet this is where it had started. Wherever she looked she saw traces of him. Here was where he fed her the sweets from Glickman's, there the lamp-cord he tripped over as she chased him round the room in pursuit of her manuscript. And here the hearth where they had explored Chapter 17, in intimate detail.

She poked the wood-basket next to the fireplace. It contained a single seasoned log, a few scraps of kindling and a box of matches. She shook the box hopefully, but there was no telltale rattle. It held one match. She laid a fire, such as it was, knelt on the hearth and carefully struck her only match. It rasped against the box, its head snapped off and fell into a narrow crack between two flagstones. Desperately she dug her fingers into the gap, but despite her frantic attempts she couldn't retrieve it. She swore loudly, the sound of her voice startling her in the silence.
He always complained that the countryside was too damn quiet.

Swaddled in the hearthrug for warmth she cracked out her provisions, laying them out on the rough-hewn kitchen table. One sandwich, possibly chicken, it was hard to tell. Two fairy cakes, flattened at the bottom of her backpack. One bar of chocolate, family size. Not exactly a feast but she had been in a hurry when she'd left Glasgow. Anyway, she wasn't hungry.

‘Are you going to eat that?’

Darsie sat at the table, eyeing the chocolate bar.

‘Because if not, I could probably manage a square or two.’ She looked up at Jane. ‘Who am I kidding? I want to take that whole bar and shove it in my gob. I've had a hell of a day. Coming back from the dead takes it out of a girl.’

Jane backed away from her heroine, bumping against the edge of the sink. ‘You shouldn't be here.’

‘You mean because you killed me off in the last chapter?’ A trickle of peaty water stuttered out of the tap. Darsie angled her head thoughtfully. ‘You know those stories where they finally kill the monster but then it turns out it's not quite dead?’

‘This isn't one of those stories.’

‘Well,
duh
, obviously. I'm not suggesting a last-second genre switch. Can you imagine the confusion that would cause your poor publisher? And the booksellers? I mean, where would you shelve something like that? Gritty urban
romance turns into girl versus unstoppable evil in a cabin in the Highlands, with a downer ending. Actually, come to think of it, I can see that selling a truckload.’ She slammed her hand down on the bar of chocolate, clawing it towards her. ‘You really think you can kill me? Tell me, Jane, when you read it back did it ring true?’

‘Yes.’

‘Liar.’

‘I finished the novel. You shouldn't be here.’

‘So, why
am
I here, Jane?’

‘Enjoy the chocolate.’ She walked out of the kitchen. It had been a long day and despite her snooze on the bus she was bone tired. Retreating to the bedroom she lowered herself onto the narrow bed and fell into a fitful sleep. She woke once during the night to find Darsie standing silently at the foot of the bed.

‘Go away! Leave me alone.’ She pulled the blanket over her head. ‘All I want is to be alone.’

She heard his car before she saw it, the familiar cough and splutter as it groaned to a halt outside the cottage. He'd found her, which meant that he'd looked for her. She didn't care, deciding in that instant not to let him inside.

He banged on the door. At first she ignored him—he'd made a wasted journey—but when it became clear that
he wasn't going to leave without encouragement she confronted him on the doorstep. At first she thought he'd taken her words to heart. He returned to his car, but instead of getting into it he opened the boot. The lid screened him—and whatever he was up to—from view, but a few seconds later he was walking back towards the cottage.

Only the thickness of the door separated them.

‘Please open the door. I'm not good at this countryside stuff. I think I saw a bear.’

A bear? Uh, don't think so. Tom was many things, but King of the Wild Frontier was not one of them.

‘Jane. I'm sorry.’

Was that an apology? The wind had picked up and she wasn't sure she'd heard right. She had to make sure. She would see it in his face, know if his contrition was genuine. She opened the door.

He was holding an umbrella plant. A seedling, its solitary shoot sporting five perfect green leaves. It was a romantic gesture, a request for forgiveness, an attempt to reconnect. He shivered pathetically in the cold.

‘Thanks a lot.’

She grabbed the plant and slammed the door again. Pressing her ear to it she listened intently for his reaction.

‘OK. You're right. I deserve that.’ A sneeze. ‘I'll just go shall I? I'll … go.’

She heard his footsteps retreating and hurried to the window to confirm that he was leaving. He climbed
into his car. Moments later the starter motor sent out a whine of distress. He continued in his attempt to start the engine, but it would not catch and its increasingly desperate
chug-a-chug-a-chug-a
echoed pitifully along the glen. Finally, he gave up and she watched him through the rain-streaked driver's window mouthing oaths and slamming the steering wheel in frustration.

He shouldered open his door and hauled himself out. Lifting his mobile phone to the slate-grey sky like some megalithic druid trying to summon the sun, he waved it about in an attempt to catch a signal. When that failed he drew back his arm and angrily hurled the handset far into the neighbouring field.

Cursing, he ducked down briefly out of her sight and when he reappeared was clutching two large handfuls of turf. He flung them at the car, stooped to collect more ammunition, and maintained the assault until its roof resembled a freshly sown lawn. Moving round to the front he continued his tirade at the inert vehicle, and then as Jane watched with mounting concern for his mental health he began to head-butt the bonnet, the dull thud of his forehead repeatedly impacting the sheet metal audible inside the cottage.

It was raining hard now. He leaned against the car, his back to the cottage, hugging himself to keep warm. His hair, always so effortlessly windswept, clung to his scalp like a wet Pomeranian. As she watched, his whole body convulsed in a series of wracking coughs. Still, she
resolved, there was absolutely no chance she would let him inside.

‘It's eight miles to the nearest village. I don't expect to see you when I wake up. Goodnight.’

She tossed him a blanket and left him to dry out in front of the fire. She'd finally managed to light it using the cigarette lighter from his car. She had no intention of sharing the hearth with him. Not tonight. Not ever again.

She stalked from the sitting room and then returned a moment later, deliberately avoiding eye contact. Sheepishly she collected the plant he'd brought with him and, hoping he hadn't noticed, slipped out of the room again. Not that the plant meant anything to her. The bedroom in the cottage could benefit from some greenery, that was all. It was just a plant.

She sat up in bed, eating chocolate and watering it from a chipped cup filled from the kitchen tap. As if this tiny little scrap of green could make a difference to what he'd done. It was laughable. What the hell was he thinking? That was a good question. Realising that tonight might be her last chance to obtain an answer she flung off the blanket and returned to the sitting room, clutching the plant in one hand and the chocolate bar in the other.

He had pulled the armchair close to the fire and sat there muttering into the flames.

‘What were you thinking?’ she asked to the back of the chair.

He stuck his head round and saw what she was holding. ‘About the plant?’

‘Yes. No.’ She'd had it all straight in her head, but he did this to her. Every time. Made it all come out jumpy. Incoherent. She let her fury guide her. ‘About me, idiot!’

She circled round to stand in front of him. He looked white as a corpse, as if all the colour in his face had been washed out by the rain. She saw in his sudden expression of deep concentration that he hadn't been expecting a chance to justify himself to her and was taking great care in choosing his words.

‘No misery. No poetry,’ he said at last.

She screwed up her face. ‘Is that translated from the original bollocks? Because it sounds like it. It sounds like utter French bollocks to me.’

‘Actually it's … never mind.’ He covered his mouth with a fist and gave a hacking cough. ‘OK. Here's the thing. You go to some dark places when you write. You bring out stuff most people prefer to keep locked up. So I thought that if I made you miserable—’

‘—I'd be able to finish my novel.’ She gave a mocking round of applause. ‘Genius! Bravo!’

His head dipped. ‘Yeah. Well, I was wrong.’

‘Of course you were wrong. You don't have to be miserable to write. See, this is a problem created by male poets standing on cliffs staring into the middle distance
and perpetuated by novelists whose emotional intelligence is as pared down as their prose. You don't have to wrestle your inner demons in order to produce great work, you can just as easily be sitting next to a warm fire with a nice cup of tea.’ She'd never thought about where her impulse to write came from. Writing was a reflex. Like vomiting.

‘You write because you have to, because it gnaws away at your insides if you try to ignore it, because if you don't write you might as well be dead. Because nothing else can make you so mad, so frustrated, so happy, and yes, so miserable.
Usually all at the same time
.’

Hang on. Something in what he'd said lingered.

‘What did you mean, “I was wrong”? You got the novel, didn't you? In Tom and Roddy-world, the plan was a roaring success.’

He cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly in the chair. ‘Not exactly. The last chapter … it doesn't work.’

She could feel her lips moving, her tongue forming shapes, but all that came out was a strangled choke.

‘It needs a rewrite,’ he said.

‘How much of it?’

‘All of it.’

She sank onto the hearthrug. Something had been nagging her about the last chapter ever since she'd finished it. The something in question was currently making her way across the room to take up a space on the floor beside her.

‘Told you,’ said Darsie, plucking the bar of chocolate out of her hand and breaking off several squares. ‘Actually I think he's being kind. It's a terrible chapter. Jumps all over the place, doesn't tie anything up satisfactorily, oh and did I mention—’ She shoved her face in Jane's and glowered. ‘I. Die.’