Not Another Happy Ending (7 page)

She propped herself up on her elbows. ‘You think it's too sad.’

‘I love sad. I'm French.’ He propped his spectacles on his forehead. ‘The way you describe her mum's death …’

Perhaps it
was
more memoir than fiction, she thought. Certainly it was only the most delicate skein that separated the events in the novel and her real life. But she hadn't acknowledged it—not to him—until now.

‘I was seven when she died.’

‘You must miss her very much.’

‘There were aunties. A
lot
of aunties.’

‘And your dad?’

‘My dad left us. Me.’

‘Do you hate him?’

‘It'd be easier if I did, right? What kind of man walks out on his family like that?’ She shook her head. ‘Maybe I
do hate him, but the fact is I don't know him. Is it wrong, but I wish I knew where he was?’

She flung off the covers and swung her legs onto the floor. ‘I'm going to jump in the shower.’ She stood up. The shirt hung down over her hips, brushing the tops of her bare legs. ‘Coming?’ She waggled her eyebrows.

‘Wait. I have something I need to say.’ He sat up and laid the manuscript on his lap. ‘Jane, I believe we're finished.’

The room went quiet and she took a breath. In her head she started to give herself a talking-to.
Get it together. We were never really a couple
.

Then he patted the manuscript and said, ‘We're finished the edit. I want to publish.’

She exhaled. It took her a moment to register what he'd actually said and then all she could muster was a disbelieving, ‘Really, are you sure?’

He shrugged. ‘We could go through it one more time if you prefer—?’

‘No!’ She squealed. ‘Oh, Tom.’ She leapt onto the bed and flung her arms around him. Finally, it was done. Finished. Over! But even as she thrilled to the prospect of being published she was aware of a small voice in her head ringing like an alarm. ‘Oh-oh. Oh-oh.’ Done. Finished. Over. The edit, not the two of them. So what
did
it mean for them?

She tried to dismiss the nagging voice. What they had was much more than an edit. Wasn't it? He had shared his
deepest feelings.
About her novel
. He'd demonstrated an acute sensitivity to her emotions.
On the page
. She realised with a jolt that everything they'd done together to this point was on the page. Apart from the stuff they'd done under the duvet. Under
this
duvet. Tomorrow there would be no discussion of metaphor, no disagreement over the importance of chapter fourteen. Tomorrow there would be no reason for them to see each other.

‘We should celebrate,’ she said. ‘How about tomorrow I take
you
out for lunch?’

Tom climbed out of bed and started to pull on his clothes, retrieving them from the corners of the room where they had been flung the night before. ‘Can't. Off to Frankfurt first thing.’

She was puzzled. ‘On holiday?’

‘For the Book Fair.’ He fastened his jeans. ‘I need to find the new Jane Lockhart.’

She knew he was kidding, that this was meant to flatter her. But if that was the case then what was this sick feeling in her stomach?

‘A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall’, Bob Dylan, 1962, Columbia Records

T
HE DAY AFTER
Tom announced that the edit was finished, Jane got all the way to the Underground platform before she remembered. She huffed, irritated at wasting her time until it struck her that she could waste as much time as she wanted now. She had absolutely nothing to do.

She trudged home and proceeded to mooch about her flat, rearranging furniture, desultorily flicking through magazines she had been forbidden from reading during the last few months. When they'd started to revise her manuscript Tom had banned all other reading material. No magazines. No newspapers. Definitely no novels. To avoid the possibility of leakage, he had said. He didn't want her influenced by external factors. What about him, she'd teased, wasn't he external? No, he'd said sternly, from this moment on I am inside you. Yeah, he really didn't hear himself.

When he returned from Frankfurt they met up for
dinner, but without the scattered manuscript pages and the low-level squabbling that invariably accompanied the edit, something was missing. She even missed his red pen. Which, she had to admit, did sound somewhat phallic. And yes, they did sleep together that night, but then around midnight his phone pulsed with a message.

‘Who is it?’ she asked sleepily.

‘Nicola,’ he said, the blue glow from the screen illuminating his face. He read her text and smiled. ‘Clever. Very clever.’

She felt a stab of jealousy. ‘What does she want?

‘She's had a thought about how to crack chapter twenty-two and wants to talk it through.’ He climbed out of bed.

Stung, Jane sat up. ‘You're going?’ she said. ‘Now?’

Hurriedly he began to dress. ‘If I don't go to her now then by morning she will have convinced herself that the idea is worthless. She's not like you. She doesn't have your confidence.’

She tried to accept the compliment and to remind herself that Nicola and Tom really was just business, but as she heard the front door click shut behind him the unease she'd felt through dinner swelled into emotional indigestion.

The next date went better. They'd planned to see a triple bill of Kieslowski's
Trois Couleurs
at the GFT, but over drinks Tom asked her if she had any thoughts about her next novel and as she talked to him she realised that she
did. They missed
Blue
as they brainstormed and by the time they made it to the film theatre, they'd lost three and a half hours of Polish miserablism to their conversation and decided to skip the rest of the bill in favour of continuing their discussion over a curry at Balbir's.

As they ate, it occurred to her that as soon as she gave him the next novel it would be followed by another close edit and they'd be back in the place where things between them had flowed easily. She decided to start work on the new novel the very next morning.

When she awoke he had already left. Instead of feeling upset she took advantage of his absence and the peace of the empty flat, leapt out of bed, showered, grabbed a bowl of cereal and sat down at her desk.
File. New Document. Save As
Untitled. That would do for now. She was ready to begin. She loved this moment. The anticipation of what happens next. It didn't matter that the ideas which had seemed so sharp the night before now appeared fuzzy. She was fearless before the blank page. She rested her hands on the wrist pad and, taking a deep breath, hurled herself into the white void of the first draft.

She quickly lost herself in the new book. Her protagonist, Darsie Baird, began to dominate every waking and most of her sleeping hours. Suddenly, she didn't have time to
see Tom and when after a few weeks of writing in her pyjamas she decided it would be nice to shave her legs and drop in on him she discovered that he had gone home to France for a month to see his family. She tried not to be irritated that he hadn't told her, and Roddy mumbled something about him not wanting to interrupt her Muse.

Somehow the weeks had drifted past and now it was the best part of two months since they'd seen each other. A couple of days ago he'd texted her to say he was back in Glasgow and the finished copies of her book were due to arrive that week. She waited as long as she could to call in to the office, unsure which she was more eager to see: her debut novel or Tom.

‘Hello?’ It was Roddy's voice on the intercom.

She stood outside Tristesse, bouncing with anticipation, mouth tilted up to the speaker, one hand supporting a tray of fairy cakes. ‘I was just passing.’ Lie.

There was a buzz and a click and she threw herself through the front door. Balancing the tray she skipped down the corridor towards Reception. The fairy cakes were a bluff. She'd been making batches of them all morning, studding alphabet sweets in the icing to spell out highly amusing and piercingly appropriate lines from classic literature.

At least, that had been her plan. Turns out the surface area of your average fairy cake is not nearly expansive enough to accommodate your classic literary quip. And anyway, even had the cakes been bigger, there weren't
enough e's in her bag of alphabet sweets to manage more than a couple of zingers from Shakespeare and the opening line of
Moby Dick
. In the end she gave up any attempt at cake intertextuality and settled on dropping random letters onto the icing. She was adamant that if you squinted at the last batch you could see a couple of lines from Emily Brontë.

But the fairy cakes were a decoy. A subterfuge. ATrojan horse in sponge form.

She eyed the stacked boxes that lined the narrow passageway, paying more attention to them than usual. One of them could contain
her book
. She'd been waiting for this moment since Tom announced that the edit was finished. He was happy. Or, as happy as the scowling Frenchman ever got. The manuscript had been scoured for solecisms, corrected for commas; it was ready to go to the printer, he announced. And what about the cover?

‘That is up to the publisher,’ he'd said. ‘Trust me.’

And she had.

Tom had insisted that the delivery date was a rough one, that the books could arrive any day that week. She wasn't taking any chances. But she didn't want to seem too keen. Hence the deceptive fairy cakes.

‘Hi, Jane,’ Roddy greeted her. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Yeah, I was just passing,’ she repeated, attempting to sound casual. ‘I was baking this morning and made too many of these.’ Lie.

‘Ooh, fairy cakes. With alphabet letters. Nice touch.’ He took a bite out of one, then snapped his fingers and said through a mouthful of sponge, ‘You know what would be brilliant—if you used the letters to spell out, y'know, famous lines from novels!’

‘Genius!’ she exclaimed with rather too much surprise. ‘I should do that.’ She waited impatiently while he polished off the cake.

‘Umm …’ she began.

‘He's in,’ Roddy nodded towards Tom's office door, ‘if that's what you're asking.’

‘Oh good. Good to know. That he's in.’ She scanned the small Reception room, trying to identify any new boxes. ‘Umm …’

‘Was there anything else, Jane?’

Her gaze fell on a stack propped in front of a life-sized cardboard cut-out of Nicola Ball. They were unopened boxes, shrink-wrapped and pristine, lacking the telltale scuffmarks that indicated stock which had been left lying about the office for weeks. Jane snatched a pair of scissors from Roddy's desk and set about prising open the topmost box. The flaps sprang open and there before her lay four snugly fitting hardbacks.

Her heart sank: it wasn't her novel. The hot pink cover was dominated by a photograph of a grinning little girl under an umbrella, beneath the title,
Happy Ending
. Relief immediately replaced disappointment; it was an awful cover, and the title stank. What kind of a writer would
come up with …? Jane's eye slipped down to the author's name.

Her name.

No. That made no sense. She hadn't written a novel called
Happy Ending
. She read it again and felt a sudden sensation of falling, as in a dream, and was aware of eyes watching her. She glanced up at the cut-out of Nicola Ball. The young novelist's knowing, cardboard expression said, ‘I told you so.’

‘Hey,’ said Roddy, studying the top row of fairy cakes with a quizzical expression. ‘I'm pretty sure that's the last line of
Wuthering Heights
. Jane?’

But she had gone.

‘I'll call you back.’ Tom replaced the receiver as Jane barrelled through the door, brandishing a copy of her novel, her face red with fury. With a grunt she launched the hardback in his direction. He ducked and it hurtled past his ear, slamming against the wall.

‘Now, Jane …’ He held up his hands defensively.

‘
Happy Ending
?
Happy
fucking
Ending
!? What happened to
The Endless Anguish of My Father
? You bastard, you changed my title! To that?!’

‘I told you. The first time we met, I said it must go.’

‘But we never discussed it.’

He shrugged. ‘I knew how you'd react.’

The supercilious, condescending … she quickly scanned
the room for something else with which to assault him and immediately found just what she was looking for.

‘Careful,’ he cried, ‘that's my Young Publisher of the Year award.’

Jane weighed the gold-coloured trophy and drew back her hand. ‘Runner-up,’ she said, heaving it at his head.

It flashed past him.

‘Sonofa—’ cursed Jane, disgusted at her aim—two throws, two misses. What the hell was she doing?

She slumped and the fight went out of her. She studied the man before her, searching his face for a sign, for whatever it was she'd missed that revealed his true nature. Like some spotty teenage girl she'd been distracted by his outward charms. God, she felt such a fool. ‘Who are you?’

‘What?’

‘All that time we spent together working on the manuscript. No one's ever got me the way … You told me to trust you. I did.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘It was a lie. That man would never have done this.’ The words caught in her throat. ‘I don't know you.’

‘Look, it was a terrible title and I changed it,’ he said gently. ‘There's no point being upset about it. What's done is done. Let's move on.’

‘How can this be so easy for you?’ Her voice was low, restrained. ‘You bastard.’

He flinched and colour rose into his cheeks. Now he was angry. ‘Perhaps because I am not a talented writer
whose dad left her with a pathological inability to stop worshipping her own pain.’

‘Worshipping my …’

He closed his eyes, trying to regain control of himself. ‘Please, sit down. Let's talk about the launch.’

‘You know what,’ she said quietly, ‘our deal is one more book and then what's done is done.’

She wanted to turn smartly on her heel, head held high and march from his office. From his life. She needed a good exit, something to show him what she was made of—a full stop at the end of their stupid little relationship, or whatever this was. But her legs felt like they belonged to someone else. And with each step she told herself don't look back. Don't look back at him. Finally, she was outside and she let the tears fall. She made her way quickly across the empty courtyard and back onto the street. With a whir and a click the gates swung closed behind her.