Not Another Happy Ending by David Solomons Read Free Book Online Page A

leant forward. ‘Janet is about to have a new life on the page. Soon, your character will belong to thousands of readers—’ he grimaced ‘—well, hundreds. You two need to go your separate ways.’ He paused. ‘So we are going to make a new memory. One that belongs to you, not her. Here, in this picturesque shit-hole.’
    He pushed the Snowie towards her. ‘You are not Janet.’
    ‘I can't. I haven't had once since Dad …’
    ‘I know.’
    Slowly, she parted her lips. He popped the sweetie on her tongue and her mouth filled with warm chocolate and the crunch of hundreds and thousands.
    In the morning she found him asleep in the armchair, arms wrapped around her manuscript. Was it possible to feel jealous of your own novel? Nothing had happened after Snowie-gate; he had behaved like a gentleman, keeping the conversation professional, the mood workmanlike. Which was absolutely fine with her. A-OK. Hunky-flipping-dory. After all, it was perfectly natural for a modern young woman to invite an attractive man she barely knew to a cottage in the middle of nowhere. A cottagewith one bedroom. There was no pretext; this weekend was all about the sex.
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. The fire had burned itself out overnight. No, that wasn't a metaphor. She gathered a handful of kindling from the basket next to the grate and built a new one.
    At his suggestion after breakfast they spent the day walking the length of the glen. Around lunchtime it opened out to a dark, glassy loch. The sun was breaking through the thick layer of cloud when they came to a large flat rock by the edge of the water and Tom insisted on stopping. He reached into a chic leather messenger bag, and Jane was sure it was to retrieve the manuscript, but to her surprise he produced a couple of gourmet sandwiches from Berits & Brown and a portable espresso maker, from which he proceeded to make the most delicious cup of coffee she'd ever tasted.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked as they ate. The clouds had cleared and now the sun hung awkwardly overhead, lost in an empty sky like a walker who's realised he's been holding his Ordnance Survey map upside down for the last four and a half hours.
    ‘It's a nice day, I thought we should get out.’
    ‘No, I don't mean here. I mean
here
here. In Scotland. At the risk of sounding small-town, can I ask what a Frenchman from the Côte d'Azur is doing running a publishing company in Glasgow?’
    He lowered his espresso cup. ‘You know, Saint-Tropez is a lot like Glasgow.’
    ‘It is?’
    ‘No. Not one little bit.’
    ‘So, you fancied a change of scene?’
    ‘I had to get out. I was living in a pop song. A
French
pop song. Do you know how many hours of sunshine the Côte d'Azur receives annually?’
    ‘How many?’
    ‘A fucking lot.’
    ‘Wait, you're saying you came to Scotland … for the rain?’
    He shrugged and rooted around the ground before picking up a smooth, circular stone.
    ‘Why Glasgow?’ Jane continued. ‘You do know it's Edinburgh that has the book festival, right? And if you want to be a publisher isn't Paris a more obvious choice? Or London, or New York?’
    Gripping the stone in the curve of his index finger and thumb he sent it skimming across the flat loch. It sank on the second bounce. ‘
Merde!
’ He turned to Jane. ‘The world has been overrun by
ersatz
writers, musicians and artists. All we have are writers who write about writing, singers who purposely break up with their lovers so that they may sing about heartache. I came because Glasgow is still somewhere real. And I came to find someone real.’
    His eyes definitely did not bore into her soul. Real eyes didn't do that. So why did she feel so utterly naked?
    ‘Jane, I think I came to find y—’
    ‘
Guten Tag!
’
    Above them on the edge of the loch stood a party of walkers with bare knees, ruddy cheeks—and yellow cagoules. Their round smiles deepened into Teutonic puzzlement when Jane and Tom's laughter shattered the stillness.
    They