Not Another Happy Ending Read Online Free PDF

Thomas. Well, when I say “friend” I—’
    ‘Stop talking.’
    ‘Yes. Yes, I think that would be a good idea.’ She dropped her head, stuck out a foot and screwed a toe into the pavement.
    ‘OK,’ he declared. ‘Now our work begins.’
    And with those words the months spent at her desk writing for no one but herself were at an end. Now they would embark on a journey of discovery, together, to prepare her novel for … Publication. Suddenly, the sacrifices seemed worth it: losing touch with friends, turning on the central heating only when the ice was
inside
the windows, baked beans almost every day for three months straight, all to reach this pinnacle of a moment.
    ‘Do you want a roll and sausage?’ asked Duval.
    ‘Do I want a—?’
    He marched off in the direction of the fast-food van.
    ‘Morning, Tommy,’ the owner greeted him. ‘The usual?’
    ‘Aye, Calum, give me some of that good stuff.’ Duval took the sandwich, then showed it excitedly to Jane as if he were a botanist and it a new species of orchid. ‘And not just any sausage, oh no. A
square
sausage. See how it fits so perfectly inside the thickly buttered soft white bap? Genius! But then, what else would one expect from the nation who gave the world the steam engine, the telephone and the television? This is why I love the Scots. Now, a
soupçon
of brown sauce.’ He squeezed a drop from the encrusted spout of a plastic bottle, patted down the top of the roll and sank his teeth into it. Paroxysms of delight ensued. ‘And to think that France calls itself the centre of world cuisine.’
    She wasn't entirely sure he was joking. And then she realised. He'd gone native.
    ‘You must try one. I insist.’ He clicked his fingers as if he were ordering another bottle of the ’61 Lafite.
    Moments later she stood peering at the sweating sandwich in her hands, and beyond it, Tom's grinning face.
    ‘OK,’ he said. ‘
Now
we begin.’
    Ten minutes later they sat beside one another in the window of a café next door to his office. Between them lay the ziggurat of her manuscript.
    ‘Jane,’ he said softly, ‘there is no need to be nervous.’
    ‘Nervous? Me? No-o-o. Not nervous.’ A coffee machine gurgled and hissed, only partially masking the spin cycle taking place in her stomach. ‘OK, a little bit nervous.’
    He smiled. ‘It's OK.’
    It was then she realised what was making her nervous. He was being nice to her. The heat had gone out of his fire and brimstone, his voice, typically tense with anger, now soothed like warm ocean waves.
    ‘Usually I need a run-up before I start editing,’ she said. ‘Y'know: tea, a walk, regrouting the shower.’
    ‘Or we could just begin?’
    ‘What, no foreplay?’ Even as she spoke them she was chasing after the words to stop them coming out of her mouth. But it was too late. He gave a small laugh, the sort of laugh your older brother's handsome friend might give his mate's little sister. Jane's embarrassment turned to disappointment. ‘So, where d'you want to start?’
    ‘Call me crazy, but we could start at the beginning.’
    ‘OK.’ She nodded rapidly, appearing to give his suggestion serious consideration, hiding her mortification at asking such a dumb question. ‘OK yes.’ She clouted him matily on the arm. ‘You crazy Frenchman.’
    He turned the top page of the manuscript. And they began.
    He gave great notes. They were acute, considered, wise. Intimate.
    As he had promised, the process of editing her novel forced them into a curious form of co-habitation. She would arrive at his office each morning and, following his customary breakfast of roll and sausage and black coffee, they would commence work. At first on opposite sides of his desk, then on the third day he came out and sat on the edge, balancing there comfortably, at ease in his body; a move, Jane did not fail to notice, which put her at eye level with his crotch.
    Often she felt like the submissive in a highly specific S&M