My second novel, Happy Endings, will be released on August 15th and so this will be the last and final excerpt before publication day! Yikes.
The book is written from four first-person perspectives. The main characters are Kate, Ed, Emma and Jack. Today it's the turn of Jack.
Of all the characters in the book, Jack is the only one who knows what it is he wants to do with his life and doesn't change. Originally from Australia, Jack is still struggling to come to terms with the death of his father at age fifteen. Like all the characters, Jack's past plays a bit part in his present and future.Jack is desperate to be a published author for many reasons; to make his father proud, to finally feel like a success, but the biggest reason is his fear of losing his fiancee Emma. Emma is from a well-to-do family and is starting to realise her dream of being an actress, but with Jack unpublished and working in a coffee shop, he feels that unless he becomes a successful writer he'll lose the love of his life.
The eBook of Happy Endings will be released on August 15th. The paperback will be released on October 10th. Enjoy.
Jack
‘Ready?’ said Emma, walking into the room, fiddling with a pair of earrings and looking flustered.
Emma always got nervous when she had business dinners.
Of course, it wasn’t me who was trying to get a part in a film that could
change the course of my whole life. I was nervous too, but trying to keep it
together for her. She had spent years treading the boards, getting small parts
in small plays, a few lines on television and even a couple of call backs for
lead roles, but nothing like this. This was huge. This would make her career
and change our lives forever.
‘Just finishing up, love,’ I said, closing down my
laptop.
‘Do you think Ed’s going to be all right?’ said Emma, zipping
herself into a little black dress she’d treated herself to from Reiss, and looking
every inch the film star: cropped blonde hair, a beautiful face with Audrey
Hepburn features, big green eyes, full, curvaceous lips and the most perfectly petite body.
‘I hope so. He seemed a bit lost in the car.’
‘He did, didn’t he, poor thing. Although if I lost you
for six months,’ she said, looking across at me with a tender smile. ‘I think I’d
be depressed too.’
‘You never have to worry about that. I’m not going
anywhere.’
‘You’d better not, or –’ said Emma with a smile, making a scissor action with her fingers and nodding toward
my groin.
Emma had been telling me to get ready for the last
hour, but I was lost in thought over my book. I needed this novel to be The One
because I’d already decided it would be my last attempt before I gave up and
got a proper job.
I needed to prove to Emma, and more importantly to
myself, that I could do something worthwhile. Ed told me frequently about jobs
he could get me in the City, where I could earn four times the amount I made at
To Bean or Not to Bean, the shitty Shakespearean-themed café I managed, serving
ridiculously named coffees like The Taming of the Brew, the Caramel Macbeth and,
my personal favourite, the Antony and Cappuccino.
I didn’t want to work in a dreary, soulless office,
but it would give us a life. At that moment we were living off hand-outs from
Emma’s parents and in the flat they owned. My life wasn’t mine, or as Ed said
in the pub last week: ‘You’re a man, Jack. You need to be a man. To provide. To
have something to measure your success against. Instead you’re being
emasculated by her in-laws and a job you hate. It’s time to face reality, stop
living a pipe dream and get a proper job.’ I was finally coming to the
conclusion that perhaps he was right.
‘How do I look?’ said Emma, bouncing across the room,
a ball of nervous energy as she gave me a kiss on the cheek.
‘Stunning,’ I said, grabbing her around the waist.
As we headed out of the door, hand-in-hand, and
towards an expensive restaurant in Soho, I looked at Emma and a terrifying
thought suddenly popped into my head. Maybe after dinner, we wouldn’t ever be
like that again.
Matt Wallace was from Glasgow, had directed two very successful films already and was being touted, along with Rhys Connelly, as one of Britain’s brightest young things. He didn’t look that bright or young though as he sat opposite us: he was bald, probably nearer to forty than thirty, with ashen skin and a pair of tatty blue jeans and a creased green shirt.
‘It’s yours,’ he’d said as soon as he sat down.
‘Excuse me?’ said Emma, although we’d both heard him
quite clearly.
‘The role of Sarah. It’s yours. If you want it, that
is.’
Emma started squealing; she cried, hugged me, kissed
me, kissed Matt and I fell to pieces. I was elated for her, but also suddenly petrified
that our lives were about to change dramatically and that, as much as I wanted
the change, I might get left behind in the scramble.
‘Oh my God, I can’t believe it, really?’ she said
about twenty times.
‘Emma, you’re going to be amazing. From the moment I
saw you at auditions you were my first choice,’ said Matt. ‘I’ve asked Rhys to
join us. He should be here any minute.’
My heart began to ache and suddenly I didn’t want to be in that restaurant with
Matt and Rhys Connelly. My chest tightened and I needed some fresh air. Before
I had the chance to go, a hum of muttered voices reverberated around the room
and when I looked up Rhys Connelly was striding confidently towards us. A flash
of paparazzi cameras snapped through the restaurant window like small
fireworks.
Matt made the introductions and Rhys sat opposite us.
I reached across and put my hand on Emma’s leg. Rhys Connelly got his big break
in Matt’s first film, On Primrose Hill,
as the dashing lead in a syrupy romantic comedy. Then he traipsed across the
Atlantic, starred in a huge American production and became a household name.
Rhys was tall, ridiculously handsome and had the swagger and confidence you’d
expect from a film star.
After some polite chit-chat, Emma excused herself to
go to the toilet and so it was just Matt, Rhys and me.
‘So, what do you do?’ said Rhys, looking at me.
What did I do? I wanted to be a writer, but as much as
I wanted to say it, I couldn’t, because their first question would be the same
question I always got. Oh, what have you had published? And the answer would be
nothing. The difference between being a writer and a published writer was the
same as between being Rhys Connelly now or Rhys Connelly two years ago, before
the fame. I hated moments like these.
‘I … umm … manage a coffee shop,’ I said.
Both Rhys and Matt tried to look vaguely interested or
impressed, probably not impressed, but I could see what they were thinking.
Emma’s getting married to a coffee shop manager? That isn’t going to last.
‘Which one? Maybe I know it,’ said Matt.
‘To Bean or Not to Bean?’
‘That is the question,’ said Rhys, laughing.
‘It’s just around the corner from the Globe,’ I added
quietly.
‘Always packed with tourists,’ said Matt. ‘I prefer
somewhere a bit quieter.’
I nodded and smiled because I didn’t know what else to
say.
A waitress suddenly appeared, took our drinks order
with a nervous smile, before returning quickly with a tray of drinks and a
plate of starters. I took a quick sip of beer, picked up a small tart and
shoved it in my mouth.
‘You must be so proud of her,’ said Matt.
‘Of course, yeah, over the moon.’
‘I’m really looking forward to working with her,’ said
Rhys in his sexy Welsh accent.
Everything about the man screamed sexy bastard: the
perfect amount of stubble, the messy long hair that somehow didn’t look too
messy, the casual jeans, the piercing blue eyes and the impossibly square jaw.
‘And you’re OK with the nudity?’ said Matt suddenly.
The nudity? Emma hadn’t mentioned any nudity. The idea
of millions of people seeing her naked made me sick to my stomach, but what could
I say? I knew being an actress brought with it a whole smorgasbord of
unappetising side dishes I had to pretend I liked, whether I did or not, but she’d
never done nude before. I guess it was part of the deal and there was nothing I
could do about it.
‘No worries.’
‘It can be a bit daunting for partners who aren’t in
the business,’ said Matt.
‘Sure,’ I replied, taking another sip of my beer and
grabbing another tart, needing something to settle my churning stomach.
‘And I’ll do my best to be professional with the sex
scenes,’ said Rhys, with a humble smile.
His best? Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Was
his best his best or his worst? I smiled, but my stomach was turning and
twisting with an uneasy jealousy. It wasn’t a feeling or emotion I was used to.
I wasn’t the jealous sort, the typical over-bearing bloke who tried to control
every single thing his girlfriend did in the hope she wouldn’t leave me. It
wasn’t me and I didn’t want those feelings drilling their way down into the
bottom of my stomach and setting up camp. But this was Rhys Connelly, Britain’s
best-looking bloke – what else was I supposed to feel?
It reminded me of the time I went to the fairground
with Dad when I was twelve. I’d asked him a dozen times if I could go on this
one particular ride. It looked terrifying, but thrilling at the same time.
Finally, just before we left, he said we could go on it. We sat together in the
small metal pod and as the man buckled us in the adrenalin and anticipation
pumped through my body. I really thought I wanted to go on that ride. But once
it got started, spinning around and around, going faster and faster, I closed
my eyes and just wanted it to be over. I held on to Dad’s arm and cried until
it stopped. It had seemed so exciting, but once it started, I couldn’t wait to
get off and put my feet back on solid ground again.
Emma came back and sat down. I looked at her and
something inside of me felt numb. She had a twinkle in her eye. She’d finally
found her place in the world. She was going to be a film star and there was
nothing I could do about it. She’d do the film and fall in love with Rhys,
while I’d be the bloke she used to go out with before she became famous. Every
celebrity has one of us. A year from now I’d be doing interviews with Sunday tabloids
to pay the rent on my studio flat in Hackney.
‘Excuse me,’ I said, wiping the corner of my mouth
with my napkin before getting up and walking off towards the toilet.
As I crossed the room, zigzagging my
way between the maze of tables full to the brim with successful, happy people,
all laughing and enjoying themselves, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of
fear. I briefly looked back towards Emma and she was popping the cork of a
champagne bottle. She squealed with delight as its frothy, expensive foam exploded and
then slid down the sides of the bottle like lava and
onto her hands. I looked away and kept on walking towards the toilet. Despite
being in a room full of people in the centre of London, I’d never felt so
completely and utterly alone.
Until next time.
Hugs,
Jon X
