Not Another Happy Ending Read Online Free PDF Page A

of editing at a distance, he explained, with notes issued coldly via email; adding with a grin that he preferred to see the whites of his writers’ eyes.
    ‘Readers are only impressed by two things,’ he said. ‘Either that a novel took just three weeks to write, or that the author laboured three decades.’ He sucked his teeth in disgust. ‘And then dropped dead, preferably before it was published. No one cares about the ordinary writer. The grafter. Like you.’
    Ouch. A grafter? Really? She'd been harbouring hopes that she was an undiscovered genius.
    ‘And publishers are no better.’ He turned onto Trongate, carving a swathe through commuters and desultoryschoolchildren, warming to his theme. ‘Do you recall that book about penguins?’
    ‘Which one?’ The previous year the book charts seemed to be awash with talking penguins, magically realistic penguins, melancholy penguins, there had even been an erotic penguin.
    He slapped a hand against her manuscript. ‘My point exactly! One book about penguins sells half a million copies and suddenly you can't move for the waddling little bastards.’ He stopped, slumping against a doorway. His shoulders heaved like a longbow drawing and loosing. ‘The giants are gone,’ he said sadly.
    Giants? Penguins? Was every day going to be like this? He set off again at a lick.
    ‘So many modern editors neglect the great legacy they have inherited. They are uninterested in language or, god forbid, art; and would prefer a mediocre novel they can compare to a hundred others than a great one that fits no easy category. They care only about publicity and book clubs and film tie-ins.’ He spat out the list as if it curdled his stomach. ‘Most editors are little more than cheerleaders, standing on the sidelines waving their pom-poms.’ He turned to her. ‘I have no pom-poms,’ he growled. Then thumped a palm against his chest. ‘I care. I care about the work. I care about your novel.’
    He stopped again and she felt she ought to fill the silence that followed. ‘Thanks,’ she said brightly.
    Duval cocked his head and looked thoughtful. ‘Of course, it is not a
good
novel.’
    Sonofa—
    ‘But it could be.’ He pushed a hand through his hair. ‘So I say this to you now, without apology. From this moment, Jane, we will spend every waking hour together until I am satisfied. It will be hard. Lengthy. I will make you sweat.’
    Uh, could he hear himself?
    ‘I will stretch you. Sometimes I will make you beg me to stop.’
    Apparently not.
    ‘I do this not because I am a sadist—whatever you might have heard—I do this to give an ordinary writer a chance to be great.’
    That was terrific, she was impressed—moved, even—but could he not give the ‘ordinary writer’ stuff a rest?
    They came to a busy intersection. Pedestrians streamed past them. At the kerb the drivers of a bus and a black cab loudly swapped insults over a rear-ender; the aroma of frying bacon fat drifted from a van selling fast food. He ignored them all, shutting out the traffic and the smells and the noise, for her.
    ‘I promise that no one has ever looked at you the way I shall. Not even your lover.’
    Jane swallowed. ‘I don't have a lover,’ she heard herself admit. ‘Right now I mean. I've had lovers, obviously.Not loads. I'm not, y'know, “sex” mad. I don't know why I brought up sex. Or why I put air quotes round it. I'm totally relaxed about … y'know …
sex
. And yet I just whispered it. Very relaxed. I think it's because you're French. You're all so lalala let's have a bonk and a Gauloise. Oh god. I'm so sorry about … well, me, Mr Duval. Should I call you Mr Duval? It sounds so formal. Maybe I could call you Robert.’
    ‘You could,’ he said, ‘but my name is Thomas.’
    ‘Thomas! Yes. I knew that. I was thinking of the other one. From
The Godfather
? Played the accountant.’
    ‘Tom.’
    ‘No, it was definitely Rob—oh, I see. Tom. Short for Thomas. I had a friend called