Not Another Happy Ending by David Solomons

the fat-bottomed glass. The pale liquid caught the light of a streetlamp.
    ‘I'm off to bed. Got Jane Austen with my Fifth Years first thing tomorrow,’ Roddy said wearily. ‘Or, as I prefer to call it, Pride and Extreme Prejudice. Are you crying?’
    ‘No.’ There was a snuffle from the darkness.
    ‘You are. You're crying like a little girl.’ He took a step into the room. ‘What are you reading?’
    ‘Nothing.’ Tom attempted to hide the manuscript propped open on his lap, but it was too late. ‘It's a non-fiction proposal,’ he said, ‘about the endangered Chinese Crested Tern.’ He wiped his cheek. ‘Very moving.’
    ‘Bollocks. It's Jane's novel, isn't it?’
    Tom shot him a look. ‘You can never tell her. Never. Promise me, Roddy.’
    ‘OK, OK. But I don't know what you're so worried about—if you hadn't noticed, Glasgow city centre on a non-football Saturday is
chock-a
with reconstructed males in floods when they discover Boots has run out of their Hydra Energetic Anti-Fatigue Moisturiser.’ He yawned. ‘How many times have you read that book anyway?’
    ‘A few.’
    ‘Uh-huh. I'll leave you two alone then. There's a box of man-sized tissues by the sofa.’
    ‘Roddy!’
    ‘For the crying, sicko.’
    ‘Ah, right. Thanks.’
    Roddy shook his head and, smiling at his friend's mood, set off upstairs.
    ‘She's more real than any writer I've ever known,’ Tom whispered. ‘She stands there, a red flame in a downpour. I think she's the one.’
    Roddy froze, then quickly trotted back to the doorway. ‘Oh my god. So it's finally happened. The lothario—what's French for lothario?—doesn't matter—anyway, the great lover from Saint-Tropez meets the girl of his dreams and—
twist ending—
turns out she's a redhead from the Gallowgate. It's love across the borders.
Jeux Sans Frontières
. Or is that
It's a Knockout
?’
    Tom scowled. ‘She's the one
Tristesse
has been waiting for.’
    ‘Oh,’ said Roddy. ‘No bridesmaid dress for me then.’
    ‘I don't care if her novel sells a single copy, it is a great piece of work.’ He reflected on that with a tilt of his head. ‘Naturally, I wouldn't object if it does sell a few copies.’
    ‘Naturally.’
    ‘Shitloads would be good, actually.’
    Tom drained his glass and thumped it down on the table. ‘But she can write, Roddy. The darkness, the terrible beauty of her prose. She does not mistake sentiment for emotion, she plays with language, sometimes it almost destroys her. She leaves a piece of herself on every page. She is unafraid to use her life, her self—whatever the cost. It's very brave.’ He took a deep breath. ‘In her soul she is a poet.’
    ‘That's nice.’ Roddy studied his friend in the gloom. ‘Have you told her?’
    ‘Don't be ridiculous.’
    ‘Why not? People like to be told they're doing a good job.’
    ‘Such petty considerations do not concern an artist such as Jane.’
    ‘An
artist
…?’ Roddy's face lit up. ‘Oh wait a minute, you
do
fancy her, don't you?’
    Tom pursed his lips and blew out dismissively.
    Roddy pointed excitedly. ‘Did you just
pah
? You did. You just
pah'd
.’
    ‘I did not. And that is such a cliché. I thought you were going to bed.’
    Roddy narrowed his eyes. ‘Have you two … done it yet?’
    Tom threw up his hands. ‘Typical Anglo-Saxon prurience. Next you'll be asking me if I first requested her father's permission.’
    ‘You did! You two did it.’ Roddy's voice dropped to an appalled whisper. ‘But what about the golden rule—don't shag your own novelists?’
    ‘I never said it was a
golden
rule.’ Tom shrugged. ‘It's just a rule.’
    ‘It's the bloody Prime Directive, mate!’
    ‘This is not the time to be quoting
Star Wars
.’
    ‘
Trek
, you philistine.’
    ‘Well then, say it why don't you?’ Tom invited the expected disapproval with a brusque wave. ‘No good will come of this. You cannot work together and sleep together. Come on, where is your petty bourgeois