Not Another Happy Ending by David Solomons

it's great to be here.’ His inflection carried a hint of transatlantic twang. ‘Even if it's impossible to get a movie off the ground in this country unless your screenplay's full of kids with head lice and outside toilets and some bastard dying of emphysema.’ He flashed a thousand-watt smile. There was some awkward laughter from the audience. ‘And it's a particular thrill for an old dog like me to be asked to present the award for Best New Writer.’ He fished in his top pocket for a pair of standard-issue hipster black spectacles and when they were in place focused on the envelope containing the winner's name.
    ‘The nominations are: Christian Stromain for
The Sons of Memory
; Sharron Lumb for
The Man Who Bought a
Bridge and Learned to Love the Starling's Song
; Jane Lockhart for
Happy Ending
; and Jaswinder Yamanaka for
Rug
.’
    Willie opened the envelope. ‘And the winner is …’
    Jane didn't hear her name being called out. She was otherwise engaged. ‘And another thing, Duval. For the next book I want the final decision over the cover design.’
    Roddy pressed himself back into his seat as they conducted their latest disagreement across him.
    ‘Jane,’ he said. In an attempt to alert her to the news of her win, he gave her a cautious tap on the shoulder, which she ignored.
    ‘Not a chance,’ spat Tom. ‘I'm not letting you near the cover. If your design skills are anything like your fashion sense …’
    ‘What's wrong with my fashion se—?!’
    ‘Two words. Bowler. Hat.’
    ‘Jane,’ Roddy repeated, louder this time.
    ‘What?’ barked Jane and Tom together.
    ‘Uh …’ He waved in the general direction of the stage, where Willie Scott peered into the audience with a puzzled expression, wondering if Jane Lockhart was a no-show. ‘You won.’
    ‘Omigod. I
won
?’
    ‘She won?’ Tom couldn't hide his astonishment.
    Jane got to her feet and half in a daze made her way along the row to collect her prize.
    Willie finally spotted her as she tripped up the steps to the stage and bounced towards him. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Jane Lockhart.’
    A thin microphone poked up from the glass podium. She hesitated, unsure what to say. She hadn't prepared a speech. Never in a million years could she have imagined being lucky enough to—-
    OK, that was a big fat lie.
    She'd been preparing this speech from the moment she wrote the opening line of her very first short story when she was six years old. She thought back. It was possible that the first thing she wrote was in fact the acceptance speech for the award she expected to win for the short story she hadn't yet written. However, for the six-year-old Jane thoughts of an award didn't revolve around commercial success or literary validation, for her it was an escape. To clutch the golden statuette of her fantasies was to transport her to another world, one far away from the concrete tower blocks and endless cold rain.
    She leant forward to say a few considered words into the microphone.
    ‘Now what we have here, ladies and gentlemen, is a real writer.’ Willie cut across her, nudging her aside so that he occupied the centre of the podium. ‘Jane Lockhart has penned an extraordinary debut. At once moving and bleakly inspiring, she writes with an authentic voice, rooted in the reality of misery. And not just Scottish misery, this is universal misery. Now if you've read hernovel with as much care as I have you'll know that she goes to some pretty dark places. I get that.’ He shot her a look of understanding. ‘Writers, eh, Jane? We know what it is to face
el toro blanco—
the terror of the white bull—the blank page. And our curse—or perhaps it's our blessing—is to face it every day of our lives.’ Apparently finished, he pursed his lips and nodded in deep contemplation.
    ‘Thanks ver—’
    ‘The bleakness, the terrible beauty of your prose …’ Willie hadn't finished. ‘You are a writer who does not mistake sentiment for emotion. You play