Not Another Happy Ending. David Solomons

      DAVID SOLOMONS was born in Glasgow and now lives in Dorset with his wife, Natasha, and son, Luke. He also writes screenplays.

      Not Another

       Happy Ending

      David Solomons

      

www.mirabooks.co.uk

      For Natasha and Luke, with love.

       ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

      They say that a writer ploughs a lonely furrow. So, with that in mind, I'd like to thank my enormous support team.

      My editor Donna Condon and the team at Harlequin. From the first drop of Sancerre it was meant to be.

      Copy editor Robin Seavill for straightening out my Brontës and my Beethoven.

      Lit agent Stan who has unwittingly unleashed another member of the Solomons family on to the reading public. A mere pawn in our plans for global domination. Bwahahaha.

      Film agents Elinor Burns and Anthony Mestriner for their friendship and advice and for sticking by this one (and all the rest) through thick, thin and meh.

      Producers Claire Mundell and Wendy Griffin, and director John McKay. This might be the first novel to have been produced and directed before it was written.

      Karen Gillan and Stanley Weber for saving me from the inevitable question about who I'd like to play Jane and Tom in a film of the book.

      My son, Luke. For not only giving me the opportunity to name him after a Star Wars character but also reminding me that everything's OK even when it feels like it isn't. Luke, I am your father. Never gets old.

      And my wife, Natasha, a brilliant writer, all round Renaissance woman (though her specialty is the eighteenth century) and the love of my life.

      Table of Contents

       Cover

       About the Author

       Title Page

       Dedication

      Acknowledgements

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Chapter Twenty

       Chapter Twenty-One

       Chapter Twenty-Two

       Chapter Twenty-Three

       Chapter Twenty-Four

       Chapter Twenty-Five

       Chapter Twenty-Six

       Epilogue

       Copyright

       CHAPTER 1

       ‘Here Comes the Rain Again’, Eurythmics, 1984, RCA

      Dear Jane,

      Thank you for submitting your novel, The Endless Anguish of My Father.

      Ten years ago it would probably have received a warm reception, but there is quite enough misery to be found on the non-fiction shelves just now, so, in fiction, we're currently very much into happy stories with happy endings.

      At the moment we are enjoying wonderful success with a novel entitled Come to Me, an exotic and erotic tale of revenge and redemption, with a fabulously feisty female lead and a Hollywood ending. If you were willing to make some adjustments to the novel's dénouement you might also be happy to entertain some other minor reshapings: set it in LA or Bangkok rather than Glasgow, say; make your main protagonist a jet-set-y interior designer, for instance, rather than a shelf-stacker; and tweak the key relationship so that, rather than one between father and daughter, it's between our cosmopolitan interior designer—who is actually, despite her success and fabulous wardrobe, just a little girl at heart—and a father figure, who happens to be a domineering (but gorgeous!) film producer. If you were to reposition the novel in that kind of way, then I'd be very happy to reread.

      You can certainly write, but these days it's so difficult to launch a new writer—however talented—who's writing about the wrong things.

      I have recycled your manuscript.

      Yours sincerely,

      Cressida Galsworthy

      Assistant Editor

      Well, thought Jane, at least Cressida gets points for sustainability.

      She made space on the notice-board—in a moment of dejection she'd referred to it as her Board of Pain, and the name had stuck—and pinned up this latest rejection, then sat back to admire the varied collection of publishers’ and agents’ rebuffs.

      Until she began submitting her novel she hadn't appreciated that there were so many polite ways to say no. Forty-seven examples, to date. The rejection didn't hurt so much; the opinion of some woman in W1 she'd never met was of no consequence to Jane. She had survived far worse in her twenty-five years than anything Cressida—or Olivia or Sophie (so many Sophies)—could throw at her. But early on in the process she realised that the letters could be useful. There were writers who stuck inspirational messages over their desks to spur them on: you can do it … believe in yourself … open that window of opportunity! But encouraging slogans didn't work for Jane; she shrank from their brimming optimism. She was far more likely to want to jump head first out of that window of opportunity. Instead, she bought the board at her favourite vintage store off Great Western Road, nailed it to the wall by the large bay window of her airy, white flat and artfully arranged the naysaying letters. She could hear their honking dismissals as she penned each new query letter and packaged up the latest hopeful submission. I didn't love it. I didn't love it enough. I hated it. Their lack of enthusiasm was grist to her dark Satanic mill.

      The printer spewed out another copy