Not Another Happy Ending (11 page)

‘Hi, Jane.’

‘Hi,’ replied Jane automatically. Very occasionally—OK, twice—readers would recognise her in the street and stop to tell her how much they liked her book, but this didn't feel like a fan encounter. For one thing, Red didn't stop to chat, but instead her heels carried her past the clothes racks and out of the shop. The bell sounded a merry ding as the door closed behind her. Jane frowned.
Red looked so familiar, like a distant cousin she hadn't seen in years, but she couldn't place her. Great outfit, though. Maybe she'd put Darsie in that instead.

Tom punched his PIN into the cash machine. Internal mechanisms grumbled like a reluctant parent and the screen flashed its decision.

INSUFFICIENT FUNDS.

Letting rip with a sibilant French oath and thumping the keypad, he retrieved his useless card and, with as much dignity as he could muster, struck off past the line of people waiting to use the cash machine. Roddy tripped at his heels.

‘So, does this mean I'm buying the donuts again?’

Tom cast him a dark look and watched in puzzled silence as Roddy flipped up the furry hood on his coat so that it completely covered his head. It wasn't raining, for a change, and the city was experiencing that most unusual of phenomena, an actual season. Instead of the indistinguishable mush of weather that passed for a climate, the last week had been discernibly summery.

‘I don't get it,’ said Roddy's muffled voice from deep within the hood. ‘Jane Lockhart made you a small fortune. I don't know anyone who's blown as much money as you have in such a short time. And I know people at the Royal Bank of Scotland.’

Tom refused to engage with Roddy's leading remark,
especially since he had a point. It had been more than a year since
Happy Ending
hit the bestseller charts. The sales numbers were strong, but not astronomical. After all, Jane Lockhart was ‘literary fiction’, not ‘vampire romance’. The book had been profitable, but to sell those big numbers the retailers had demanded huge discounts and marketing bungs, which had eaten into his share.

Then he'd taken the remainder of the money and gone on a spending spree, acquiring three debuts within the space of a month, one of them in a competitive auction against three multinational publishers with deep pockets. As soon as he submitted the winning bid he knew he'd paid too much. Ah well, there was always a chance that
Earnest Shards
would find an audience. Hey, who wouldn't love a star-crossed gay love story set in the world of stained-glassmaking in Renaissance Florence?

Tom could hold off no longer. He had to know. ‘Why do you have your hood up?’

‘I don't want to be recognised.’

That was not a reasonable answer. ‘You're an English supply teacher at a state-assisted secondary school in suburban Glasgow.’

Roddy grasped the cords that adjusted the hood and tugged them sharply, sealing himself inside. ‘Exactly.’

Tom's battered green Peugeot limped into a space on the crowded street outside Tristesse Books. The gearbox gave one last tortured whine and the engine shuddered into silence. He climbed out and slammed the door. The
catch was broken and there was a knack to closing it properly. Which was to slam it. Repeatedly.

‘I can give you an hour of secretarial services,’ said Roddy emerging from the passenger side clutching a warm bag of Krispy Kremes, ‘then I've got
Great Expectations
in Maryhill.’

Even as the barbed quip formed on Tom's lips Roddy was raising a finger.

‘Don't,’ he wagged. ‘Just don't.’

There was a rumble of tyres against cobbles and the two men swivelled their heads to see the driverless Peugeot roll gently into the car in front. Bumper lay against bumper like a tired drunk resting his head on a friend.

‘You should probably get that fixed,’ said Roddy.

‘Yeah,’ said Tom with epic disinterest, already turning his back to punch the code into the door entry system.

‘I don't care what you think. I'm telling you, that's not an opening chapter, it's an ice age.
C'est une époque!
’

Tom's voice shook the thin office walls as he harangued Nicola Ball, flaying the latest draft of her novel while simultaneously sorting through the mail, making one pile for bills and another for final demands. If he was honest his foul mood was largely down to the parlous state of the company's finances rather than Nicola's inappropriate semicolon on page eight.

Her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘You can't talk to me like
that,’ she said, her voice quivering. ‘I was voted one of Scotland's foremost novelists under the age of thirty …’

He brandished the manuscript. ‘And that's why I won't allow this piece of crap to be published with your name on it.’

She pursed her lips and placed her hands on her hips. ‘You know what, Tom, you're even more of a bastard since you broke up with Jane Lockhart.’

Roddy stuck his head round the door and chimed in. ‘That's exactly what I said.’

‘Hey,’ Tom snapped. ‘We didn't split up. Because we were never together. It was a falling out. Got it? And, do we need to have another chat about your eavesdropping, Roddy?’

Roddy banged the wall. ‘Flimsy partition. Loud Frenchman.’ He sighed. ‘Now I am bound by the man-code to take your side in this, but what the hell, Tom? Seriously, what were you thinking? You changed the title of a book without consulting its author.’

‘You changed her title?!’ said Nicola, shaking her head in horrified disbelief.

‘I know,’ said Roddy. ‘Right?’

‘No wonder she dumped him.’

‘Uh. I am in the room. And she didn't dump me. Again, we were never
together
.’ He glowered at Roddy. ‘What about the man-code?’

‘Yes, yes, I know. I suppose we could put your behaviour down to an aberration—a temporary loss of faculties
as a result of having sex on a regular basis with the luscious Jane.’

‘You think she's luscious?’ inquired Nicola.

‘Luscious, foxy, a little bit naughty.’

‘Oh.’

Tom watched Roddy slowly comprehend.

‘Not that I fancy her,’ said Roddy quickly. ‘Not my type. My type's much more like … um … really looking forward to your book launch, Nicola. Have you seen the venue? It's a bus garage in Bridgeton. It's going to be a swanky affair.’ He paused. ‘I'm pretty confident that's the first time “swanky” and “Bridgeton” have been used in the same sentence.’

She giggled. ‘You're funny.’ Then she sniffed and wiped a hand across her damp cheek. ‘Roddy, why do I keep letting him do this to me?’ She jabbed a finger in Tom's general direction.

‘I don't know,’ said Roddy. ‘Maybe you're a masochist?’

She appeared to give it some thought. ‘No, I tried that a few times. I quite liked the being tied up part, but in the end it turns out I'm more of a sadist.’

Roddy gulped. ‘That's nice.’

She threw a dark look at Tom. ‘It's just him. He's the only one who can make me feel this …’

‘Vulnerable? Fragile? Waif-like?’

‘… Fucking furious.’

Tom had had enough. He flung a finger towards the
door. ‘The two of you. Leave. Separately.’ He glowered at Nicola. ‘Why are you still here? Go and write!’

Faced with her boiling French editor, her lip began once more to tremble. She gathered the manuscript to her chest and scrambled out.

‘Get thee to a Costa Coffee!’ Tom half-chased her into the passageway. ‘And don't come back until every word sings from the page.’

‘Bye then, Nicola,’ said Roddy trailing after her rapidly disappearing figure. ‘See you at the launch.’

She banged open the front door and hurried out, almost colliding with a woman in a dark blue business suit marching across the courtyard. The square-shouldered suit gave her a purposeful air and she observed the crying girl depart, never once breaking stride in her far from sensible heels.

Tom watched her uneasily from the doorway of his office. Without waiting for an invitation the woman clipped along the corridor, pushed past him, placed her briefcase on his desk and made herself comfortable in his chair.

‘If you try to make me cry,’ she said coolly, ‘I'll inform the Inland Revenue about your yacht.’

‘Anna,’ said Tom, hoping that he was faking enough sincerity. ‘Great to see you.’ He paused before adding, ‘Wasn't
expecting
to see you.’ He followed her inside, inquiring with a nervous laugh, ‘Good news?’

Anna LeFèvre possessed a French surname and was
distantly related to a family of 17
^th-
century Parisian tapestry weavers, but that's where the
entente cordiale
ended, much to Tom's dismay. She was his banker; a Relationship Manager in modern parlance or, as she referred to it, ‘touchy-feely marketing shite’. Spotting her name on the bank's website back when he'd opened his account Tom had sought her out, confident that their French connection would enable him to shave an interest point or two off his overdraft and perhaps bend the lending rules in his favour. His confidence had proved misplaced. Anna was as severe as her dark bobbed hair—and as straight.

She sat behind his desk in his chair while he squatted in the low seat of shame reserved for authors. Her eyes never wavered from the laptop screen as she scrutinised the company's books. Tom could imagine more painful examinations, but they involved disposable gloves and the removal of his trousers. At least Anna stopped at baring his accounts. She scrolled through various ledgers and bank accounts, pausing from time to time in order to raise an eyebrow or cluck disapprovingly. When she had finished she let out a long, low whistle and finally turned to him.

‘You and me are going to lunch.’

‘Great!’

Released from the enveloping sense of dread that had descended upon him since she walked through his door, Tom leapt up and announced happily, ‘We'll go to Rogano. On me.’

She drummed her fingers on his desk.

‘Let's go to the wee café next door,’ she suggested, then glanced back at the screen. ‘And I think I'd better pay.’

A waitress with serious glasses and more serious tattoos landed a couple of plates on their table by the window. Tom surveyed the sandwich on Anna's, then looked at his, then back at hers again.

With a motherly sigh of exasperation, she said, ‘Do you want to swap?’

Barely had she finished the question when he nodded—’Yeah’—and was already sliding the plates by each other.

‘OK? Now can we talk about Tristesse Books’ books?’

Tom took a great bite and answered through a mouthful. ‘Mmm-hmm. But if we have to talk figures, can you do that thing where you use vegetables?’ He plucked a cherry tomato from the weedy salad that accompanied the sandwich and in a business-like voice intoned, ‘Imagine this tomato is my cash flow.’

‘Perhaps you've forgotten, but a tomato is a fruit, not a vegetable.’ She took the tomato from him and plonked it down on the side of her plate. ‘Don't play with your food.’

She hoisted her briefcase on to the table and flipped it open. ‘How many new writers have you thrown money away on this year?’

‘I only throw money away on good writers. Good
Scottish writers.’ He waved his sandwich and grinned. ‘I'm very patriotic.’

She drew out a glossy black folder and a typewritten list. ‘Good, maybe, but commercial?’ She read from the top of the list. ‘
The Thought's Stream
.’

‘It's highly experimental,’ he explained. ‘The main character is a drop of water.’

Unimpressed, her eye fell upon the next entry. ‘
Death of a Conductor
?’

‘Nicola Ball is one of Scotland's most exciting novelists under the age of thirty,’ he shot back confidently, before burying his head in his chest to mumble, ‘who happens to be obsessed with public transport.’

She went through the list one by one, tutting like a schoolmistress reviewing an errant pupil's exam results until she reached the final entry. ‘
Earnest Shards
,’ she sighed dismally.

‘Ah.’

‘Tom, what were you thinking?’

‘It's a wonderful book. It deserves to be published.’

Anna sat back and folded her arms. ‘I admire the sentiment, but you paid too much for it. Don't argue—you know you did. And there's bugger all chance you'll see a penny of it back.’

‘I might,’ he said quietly.

She banged the table. ‘Not unless you get the author to rewrite it with a bunch of vampires and a lot of kinky sex.’

Tom considered the idea for a moment and then dismissed
it with a scowl. He took another bite of his sandwich. ‘It doesn't matter anyway. One hit pays for all the rest—that's how this business works. And I have a bestseller in the wings.’

‘Jane Lockhart, yes. So how's the new book shaping up?’

He made a face. ‘
Je ne sais pas
. I have no idea. She won't let me read a word until it's finished.’

‘You're kidding me, right? Your entire business rests on that novel.’

He gulped. It was the first time he'd heard it expressed as bluntly as that. ‘Relax,’ he said, trying to convince himself as much as Anna. ‘It'll be just like the first one: a bunch of beautifully written, utterly miserable characters, three cremations and seven types of rain. But so long as it does half as well as
Happy Ending
, I'll be able to buy a real yacht.’ He sighed. ‘OK, a big dinghy.’

‘I heard on the grapevine that after she finishes this novel for you she's moving publisher. I have a friend at Klinsch & McLeish says they're in advanced negotiations.’

‘Klinsch & McLeish.’ Tom blew out his cheeks disparagingly. ‘Y'know what they're called in the trade?’ He made a tight fist and then opened it abruptly. ‘Clench & Release.’ He dismissed them with another puff. ‘They're brutal. Bourgeois Edinburgh bastards. They're not right for my Jane.’ He corrected himself. ‘For Jane Lockhart.’

‘So talk to her! Persuade her to stay.’

‘I don't want her to stay. After she delivers her new novel, I want her to go. Far away.’

‘Oh for god's sake, Tom, Tristesse Books is on the verge of compulsory liquidation.’

Tom opened and closed his mouth without speaking. There was no smart answer to that.

‘And I've had an offer,’ said Anna.

‘Well,’ he purred, ‘you're a very attractive woma—’