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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
For Natasha and Luke, with love.
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
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
‘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
