investment?’
He was here today, in Glasgow, watching the cash registers ring. Typical.
A reader, delighted to be face to tear-stained face with the author of her misery, offered up a copy for signature. She'd read it three times; this one was for her aunty Avril.
The book fell open at the dedication. ‘To my dad, wherever he is.’
It had been a suggestion of Tom's which he'd made one Sunday morning in bed, during the last stages of the edit, when things were still good between them. Who knows, he'd said with a boyish shrug, perhaps he'll read it and come looking for you. She'd smiled despite herself —she suspected that Tom was a romantic, even though he kept it extremely well hidden. He caught her eye across the room. Oh, and a complete bastard. Don't forget that part.
She swirled her signature across the page. ‘Thanks. Thanks so much,’ she said, handing over the book.
The funny thing was that no matter how often she said it, she meant it every time. People were connecting with her novel. It was amazing. There was so much noise out there, so many other books to choose from, it was nothing short of a miracle they'd found hers. Here she sat in a bookshop surrounded by thousands of titles. She could feel them bristling at being left dustily on the shelf; their characters resentful at hers being singled out for attention. She liked to think of her own characters out there in the world, making new acquaintances. Readers were complicit, referring to them by name, as if they were neighbours or friends of the family. Sometimes the sensation was so intense she forgot that they were just that: characters. The only downside to all this gratitude was the dry throat.
The water jug and glass laid out on the signing table were both empty. She turned to the bookseller at her side and asked for a refill, just as the next eager reader placed his copy down in front of her.
‘Who shall I make it out to?’ she asked on auto-pilot, turning to look up at the man who stood awkwardly before her.
His face was as heavily lined as she remembered, but the skin had lost its sallow complexion and his eyes were no longer dull and milky, but gazed down at her with surprising clarity. In the ageing Polaroid on her Board of Pain he had more hair and perhaps the jaw-line was set firmer, but other than that he appeared younger, more vital than the last time she'd seen him. And he smelt different—cleaner. She knew at once he'd given up the drink.
‘Dad,’ she whispered.
Benny Lockhart twisted his hands and looked away, unsure what to say. He offered a self-conscious smile.
‘Hullo, Jane.’
In the signing line the book group ladies, thirty-something mums and sprinkling of literate males, all highly attuned to drama, sensed a new scene developing before their eyes; a bonus DVD extra playing out right in front of them. Conversations ceased and a hush fell over the room.
Benny shuffled his feet. ‘So, how have you been?’ He rolled his eyes. ‘Christ, what an eejit. How have you been? Like I just got back from a fortnight's holiday.’
Jane pushed back her chair, walked to the other side of the table and, with another low, whispered ‘Dad’, flung her arms about him. The embrace was as much of a surprise to her as it was to him.
She could see that he was uncomfortable with the public display of affection. Who was she kidding—he'd always been uncomfortable with any kind of affection. But then she felt him clasp her tightly, and knew that this time he would never let her go.
Two weeks later Jane was taking advantage of some late summer sun with a walk in Kelvingrove Park, ducking Frisbees hurled by pasty bare-chested Glaswegian boys, listening to happy chatter ripened by the sunshine. She imagined that somewhere in the park someone was reading her book. Her idle afternoon threatened to be ruined when Tom's name flashed up on her phone. She ignored him, but he kept calling, and after the sixth hang-up she answered.
‘What do you want?’
‘You've been shortlisted for the Austen Book Awards. Best New Writer.’
‘Oh my god!’
‘We did it.’
And for the briefest, blissful moment she forgot about their falling out. Hostilities were suspended in the late afternoon glow. There was a pause and in the silence she could hear the rush of the River Kelvin. She waited for him to say something else, perhaps invite her to lunch for a celebratory glass of champagne. Or maybe she should ask him.
‘The ceremony's in London. I'll have Sophie send you the details,’ he said, interrupting her pleasant reverie. ‘And, uh, there's not much left in the budget, so I'm not sure we can afford the train fare.’ He paused. ‘How would you feel about taking the bus?’
The auditorium was full. Five hundred publishers, authors and agents dolled up in cocktail dresses and dinner suits embraced their rivals with hearty greetings whilst silently wishing upon them ignominious failure.
Someone had described the Austen Book Awards as the Oscars of the book industry. Someone in marketing, of course. The comparison was spurious, but what the book award lacked in star-power it made up for in charm. The trophy—inevitably referred to as ‘The Jane’—was a golden statuette of a woman in an Empire line shift, inscribed with one of the eponymous author's less tolerant ideas: ‘The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.’
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