Dirty Minds
Dirty Minds
T A Williams
Tom, a widower and aspiring author (with a penchant for Hobnobs) is in need of a new start. Inspired by his therapist, the ‘Fifty Shades Phenomenon’, and his lack of literary success, he sets out to write an erotic novel – after all, how hard can it be?But as writing erotica proves a challenge for a man more unsure than hardcore, Tom finds himself enlisting the help of an eclectic group of co-authors. Brought together by their authorial ambitions and fondness for innuendo, their project becomes a collaboration that will change lives, open minds … and prompt the purchase of an unfortunate PVC catsuit.Praise for TA Williams'…a very funny story… If you want to read a story with a real plot, and characters that have that real feel to them, and still have some nice fluffiness on the pages of your read, you should definitely pick up Dirty Minds. It was a truly enjoyable read, and I can only recommend it!' - (un)Conventional Bookviews
Tom, a widower and aspiring author (with a penchant for Hobnobs) is in need of a new start. Inspired by his therapist, the ‘Fifty Shades Phenomenon’, and his lack of literary success, he sets out to write an erotic novel – after all, how hard can it be?
But as writing erotica proves a challenge for a man more unsure than hardcore, Tom finds himself enlisting the help of an eclectic group of co-authors. Brought together by their authorial ambitions and fondness for innuendo, their project becomes a collaboration that will change lives, open minds … and prompt the purchase of an unfortunate PVC catsuit.
Effortlessly witty and insightful, Dirty Minds is the story of seven writers, determined to make their mark on the publishing industry. Just as soon as they’ve finished their tea.
Dirty Minds
T. A. Williams
Copyright (#ulink_3b7c21f1-46bc-584f-8c1c-c97e40803c01)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2013
Copyright © T. A. Williams 2013
T. A. Williams asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2013 ISBN: 9781472018182
Version date: 2018-07-23
T. A. WILLIAMS lives in Devon with his Italian wife. He lived and worked in Switzerland, France and Italy, before returning to run one of the best-known language schools in the UK. He has taught people from all over the world, among them Arab princes, Brazilian beauty queens and Italian billionaires. He speaks a number of languages and has travelled extensively. He has eaten snake, live fish, and alligator. A Spanish dog, a Russian bug and a Korean parasite have done their best to eat him in return. He has written historical novels, humorous books and thrillers. His hobby is long-distance cycling, but his passion is writing. You can follow him on Twitter, @TAWilliamsBooks or visit his website: www.tawilliamsbooks.com
I would like to thank Clio Cornish, for her belief in me as a writer and for her insightful suggestions. Thanks also to Alex Baker, who loves good grammar as much as Tom does.
To Mariangela and Christina
For their support
With love.
Contents
Cover (#ua44bf42a-91d3-5b08-a664-1fd6ab6b4440)
Blurb (#u98d7b578-18ee-5c9c-bae8-de1fa34c3020)
Title Page (#uc1622de6-0950-5910-87b7-84b1e5163cf0)
Copyright (#ulink_192646fb-9adb-5c37-9c79-77c3b828d022)
Author Bio (#u21c140dc-b26d-5200-bb0a-da9bf61ded93)
Acknowledgements (#ud8bc9eb7-590f-5dfd-bdc0-06d1ab9806b6)
Dedication (#u2c704981-22c2-5b0f-8cca-4800382050a4)
Chapter One (#u98031c6e-c18f-52c9-9538-1e7765c638bc)
Chapter Two (#u2fe1dc86-a1c4-5359-a1dd-33c2128d9fd8)
Chapter Three (#u5cb4195e-59de-58e0-824a-db06481c2f56)
Chapter Four (#u6f747207-607e-5e0c-b4eb-5d5fe12b1d69)
Chapter Five (#u8cd1fa4e-1e2e-5420-a0d4-6f6f8250af57)
Chapter Six (#u91dd2836-518e-54be-a329-30d41e6f5b37)
Chapter Seven (#u1e8defad-7ea4-55ee-a4c4-763b6ddd569f)
Chapter Eight (#u5c4f71f2-f198-59f1-b49e-894f87dbff7e)
Chapter Nine (#u24d57b29-4ed2-5f65-a5e1-4d6ade00e397)
Chapter Ten (#udc04a369-23a2-5a58-9a91-bdd78e345509)
Chapter Eleven (#ufd0849af-418b-5db4-bbf9-d39c25804e6e)
Chapter Twelve (#u14c6e7d6-cbc1-535a-bd0f-ac9287ddac14)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
FEMALE WRITER
WANTED
To collaborate in writing
Erotic Novel
Experience and imagination
Essential.
Apply:
Box 1546
‘So what’s new in the world of literature, Tom?’
She said the same thing every week. It was pretty obvious that she saw creative writing as a valuable tool in his rehabilitation. He took a surreptitious glance at his watch and sighed: Ten more minutes to go. Casting around for an answer, he hit upon e-publishing. Before long, he found himself trying to explain the phenomenon to her, while she took notes.
‘You’re sitting on the 8.15 to Waterloo, surrounded by commuters. Imagine if you pulled out a well-thumbed paperback, with a huge naked bum on the cover.’
‘A huge what?’ She looked up from her note-pad.
‘Bottom, Cynthia. Or anything naughty. What I mean is that the cover of the book looks smutty. Maybe boasting a tasteful title like Gladys is Taken Roughly from Behind, or whatever.’
‘Is there a book with that title, Tom?’ She was writing again.
‘What? No … or maybe. I don’t know. The title’s not important. Just imagine the scene. You’re sitting on the train, reading porn. It’s a fairly safe bet you would get some very disapproving looks from your fellow commuters.’
‘Well, I should think so, too.’
‘That’s the point I’m trying to make. E-books give you anonymity. I’m sure that’s why Fifty Shades of Grey has sold so well. She started out with it as an e-book, and it sold like hot cakes. You download it onto your tablet, and you can read it anywhere you like. I daresay you can even read it on your phone, if your eyesight’s up to it. And nobody has a clue as to what you are reading. Now do you see?’
‘I suppose so. So what are you saying? Do you want to write a … rude book?’
‘Erotic novel, Cynthia. That’s what they’re called. And, no, I don’t. We were talking about e-books, and I was just giving you an example.’ He sighed inwardly. What had he done? He watched her scribbling furiously. Now she had a whole new line of attack. She didn’t waste much time in launching into it.
‘Do you read a lot of … this sort of book?’ She was looking at him over the rims of her glasses. She often did that. Maybe she thought he would feel less under analysis that way.
‘No, I don’t. And, Cynthia, before we get onto the subject once more, I’m not sexually repressed or frustrated.’
‘Of course you’re not, Tom. Although it would be quite understandable, quite normal, given the circumstances.’
‘Well I’m not. Really.’
‘Of course you’re not.’ As she repeated her words, he could plainly hear that she wasn’t convinced. ‘But writing is very good therapy, you know.’
‘I know, Cynthia. I spend hours every day doing it.’
‘Yes, but your books are a bit bleak, a bit morbid.’ Ever since he had been persuaded to give her his latest manuscript, she had been like a dog with a bone.
‘I’ve told you, the Middle Ages were a cruel time. Some terrible things were happening back then.’
‘Of course, Tom. That’s why I think you should go for a change of subject. Try something lighter, something frivolous.’
‘To be perfectly honest, Cynthia, I really haven’t felt light or frivolous for a hell of a long time now.’
In spite of her best efforts, the session ended, as so often, on a depressing note.
The following Sunday morning was grey and cold, even for February. He was reading the books section of Saturday’s Western Morning News. As usual, he scanned the new releases with brooding resentment.
‘What have they got that my three haven’t?’ He prodded the dog with his foot. ‘Look, Noah, two of them are historical novels, too.’ All he got in response was a long-suffering sigh.
An article headed EROTIC HISTORIES AND MURDER MYSTERIES FOR THE YEAR AHEAD caught his attention. The writer was interviewing the new fiction previewer of The Bookseller magazine, Cathy Rentzenbrink. When asked if erotic fiction had had its day, she replied. ‘No. Erotica will continue to do well … I think there will be more historical erotica – think Fifty Shades of Lady Jane Grey … ’
He put the newspaper down. Pulling himself to his feet, he filled the kettle and stuck it on the stove. Sensing movement, the dog opened one eye. There was just a chance that the chocolate Hobnobs might be brought out of the fridge. Noticing this sign of interest, Tom addressed him.
‘Cynthia might be right after all, Noah. Maybe that really is what I should go for. Another historical novel, but an erotic one this time. If the publishers don’t want my serious stuff, I’ll give them a bit of smut. And they can pump it out as an e-book. An erotic e-book.’
He spooned coffee into his mug and added hot water. What was it Cynthia had said? ‘Something light, something frivolous’? Maybe something lightweight would do him good. It might even be fun. And, in this house, fun had been in short supply for two long years now.
He was unconcerned that he had no previous experience of either erotic or electronic literature. He remembered a battered copy of Emanuel does Somewhere or Other that lived in the staff lounge of his first place of work. Unfortunately he had only flicked through the photos and could recall none of the text. Over the years, he had occasionally seen bits of dirty movies, but the dialogue rarely got beyond ‘Oh my God, that’s huge’ or ‘Yes, yes, yes’. But surely, with a fertile imagination, in spite of his far from encyclopaedic experience in the subject, he could give it a go.
The secret of success in historical fiction is research. His previous books were all set in the Middle Ages. He had read a huge amount about the period between the First Crusade and the trial of the Knights Templar. As a result, he felt he knew a good deal about that period. So what about an erotic novel set way back then?
The problem that immediately faced him was one of degree. The modern reader is regularly blasted with images of near-naked men and women. It wasn’t like that back then. A loose lock of hair, hanging out of a lady’s wimple would have been enough to give all the Knights of the Round Table a hard-on. A bare ankle and they would have been bursting out of their codpieces.
‘And don’t let’s forget that personal hygiene was very different in those days. Are you listening, dog? That’s never been your strong suit.’
All his reading had told him that water was, quite rightly at the time, deemed dangerous. Washing only took place in the Middle Ages if one was unfortunate enough to fall into a river. So it was a fairly safe bet that, as the Marquise pulled down Sir Shagalot’s undergarments, a toxic cloud, possibly accompanied by blood-sucking parasites, would have assaulted her.
So, regretfully, he decided to set his novel in a different, more hygienic period. The question was which? This would mean research. The research, he realised, would have to encompass more than the historical setting. He would need experience of other erotic novels, particularly those with a historical setting. He turned to the internet.
A search for ‘historical sex’ brought 195,000,000 results in 0.25 seconds. Clearly he was not the first to think of this topic. The websites varied from encyclopaedia entries, through cases of historical sex abuse, to explicit sex sites. He tried again. This time he added the word ‘stories’. This came up with 4,906,000 results, including a wide selection of titles and collections. He started to read.
It didn’t take long before he was disgusted and appalled.
‘I don’t believe it: “He pined me down and riped off my bloomers.” Has the writer no shame? How could anybody call that literature, Noah?’ He found himself snorting again. ‘And what about this? “He managed to undone his breachers.” It isn’t even the right tense – undo, undid, undone, everybody knows that! The writer is semi-literate at best. Maybe a foreign student practising his English. A Labrador could do better. And yet this story has been viewed 46,600 times. It’s unbelievable.’
Apart from eccentric spelling, some of the punctuation left a lot to be desired. His eyes fell on the line ‘Why are you still up Anna?’ He checked the context. Yes, there was definitely a comma missing before the girl’s name; a comma that could make quite a difference to Anna. There was no doubt that the spelling and grammar were, to his eyes, far more obscene than the graphic description. But some people shock more easily than others.
Gradually, as he clicked his way through the websites, he managed to find better quality writing. As far as the period in history was concerned, there seemed to be a distinct preference for the nineteenth century. Regency romps outnumbered the others by far. The characters enjoyed names like Rafe, Marcus, Hermione or Jocasta. Maids seemed to have a particularly bad time of it. Masters were universally sadistic, mistresses of the house overwhelmingly Sapphic. As a critique of the British aristocracy, it was pretty uncompromising. The vast majority of lords, earls and duchesses of that era were kinky as hell. Orangeries, boathouses and pergolas were the venues of choice, if the dungeons were otherwise engaged. Bodices were indeed ripped, silk hose laddered and whalebone snapped. The men were, without exception, amazingly well-endowed. The women, whether willing partners or not, always capable of arousal: ‘I’m sorry, my lord, but I’ve got a headache,’ was not a common line in this genre.
An amazing amount of whipping, beating, slapping and spanking went on. Riding crops were particularly popular, although leather belts could be pressed into service if a crop was unavailable. Scented candles, mood music and gentle foreplay were spectacularly missing at that time, at least as portrayed by writers with names like Lacy Bows, Virginia Silk or Moon Love.
Those names set him thinking. He knew that a woman had written Fifty Shades of Grey. From the reviews he had read, she had aimed it at women. At first sight, it looked as though these internet stories were also the work of female writers. Was he getting out of his depth here?
‘Do we know enough about women, Noah?’
The Labrador’s interest in the opposite sex had been removed by the vet some years previously. He was going to be of little help.
‘If you can’t beat them, join them. No pun intended, old chum. What I need is some female input.’
And so it was that the idea came to him. He needed a female co-author, maybe with a name like Lacy Bows or Virginia Silk. He would place an advert.
As for himself, should he also adopt a nom de plume? If so, should it be masculine or feminine? As he intended collaborating with a woman, it seemed sensible to go with a man’s name. Indeed, the book itself should bear the names of both writers. But adopting an alias would be wise. If the book were to hit the headlines, then it might be better if the postman did not recognise him as the writer of a pile of filth.
‘Not filth, though, Noah. It’s erotica we’re purveying. This will not be a dirty book. The trick is to produce something erotic and arousing, but still tasteful. We have to ensure that we are graphic enough to titillate, but not vile enough to disgust.’
Easier said than done.
Chapter Two
He wasn’t sure what to expect. Maybe nothing, maybe a sack full of replies. As it turned out, he got nine.
Two were instant rejections.
‘“Seperate”? Now really!’ He was snorting out loud. He found himself doing that more and more these days. In the same paragraph he found another spelling mistake and several inappropriate semi-colons. The snorting grew louder. Seeing no point in progressing beyond the first paragraph, he discarded the letter. He tried the next one.
‘Oh dear lord!’ This time the Labrador opened an eye in mild surprise. Pleased at this sign of participation, he addressed his comments to the dog, something else he found himself doing more and more often of late. ‘Since when have plurals required apostrophes? Even you know that, Noah. Lynn Truss wouldn’t approve.’ This followed the same fate as the other letter.
The remaining letters looked more promising. He took them down to the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea. As he took the milk out of the fridge, his eye fell on the chocolate Hobnobs. He put the packet on the table. The dog, roused by the sound of the fridge door, materialised at his feet, Big mournful eyes focused on the biscuits. He picked up the next letter.
‘“Dear Sir/Madam”’ Only then did it occur to him he should have revealed his gender in the advert. To him it had seemed obvious. He was a man and, as such, he could only write from a male perspective. All right, he told himself, there’s such a thing as imagination. But if he were to write a work capable of catapulting him up the cresting wave of Fifty Shades of Grey, he was going to need both points of view. It was so obvious he had omitted to mention it.
The writer of this letter sounded bright, sane and interested in the project. Her literary credits were little better than his, but her CV did at least indicate a good education. She included no personal details about herself. He applauded that. Her address was in North London and she included an e-mail address. At the bottom of the page, above her signature, she had scribbled the words, ‘I think this could be fun’. She signed the letter Janet Parr. Insofar as an e-mail address confirms anything, hers confirmed her name.
He tucked the letter under the biscuits, mentally including it in the ‘Possibles’ pile. Before he could pick up the next letter, he heard a jingling noise. The dog had fetched his lead from the chair and was indicating that it was time for a walk.
‘All right, Noah. A bit of fresh air will do us both good.’
Although the rain had stopped for the moment, the grey clouds looked foreboding and the field was saturated. Mud built up under the soles of his Wellingtons as he splashed along the path. He had to keep stopping to scrape it off. Undeterred, the Labrador headed straight for the river and plunged in. Tom located a suitable stick and threw it for him. The game consisted of his attempting to pick up the stick, retrieved by the dog, without getting soaked as the dog shook himself. As usual, Noah won.
While he walked along the riverbank, gradually getting wetter and wetter, his mind was free to wander. This new project looked like being a breath of fresh air. And Cynthia was right. He knew he needed something to take him out of himself, away from his misery. Whether a smutty book was the answer to his problems remained to be seen.
He came to the fallen tree where they had both sat so often, watching Noah playing puppy games. He closed his eyes and saw her face again, still so clear in his memory. Not the pain-wracked gauntness of her final weeks, but her young, fresh face from the early days. His head dropped. The dark thoughts returned to fill his head once more. The dog, recognising the symptoms, realised the game was over. He came across and nuzzled Tom’s hand.
‘Thanks, Noah. You’re a pal.’
Pleased to be acknowledged, the dog shook himself again, this time at very short range. The freezing shower roused Tom and set him off again along the path.
He breathed deep and forced his mind back onto happier things. The choice of a historical period wasn’t going to be easy. As for a place, well, here in Devon was as good as any. And he knew it so very well. But the subject matter wasn’t going to be straightforward. His experience of smut was very limited.
His musings were interrupted by the arrival of a very bouncy Springer spaniel. It appeared from behind, almost taking his legs out from under him as it squeezed past on the narrow path. Wheeling round, it leapt up to greet him, catching him painfully in the lower abdomen. As he folded forwards, clutching himself, he heard a familiar voice.
‘I’m so sorry, Tom. She’s very excited today, for some reason.’ It was the lady from the house by the river. He knew the dog was called Sophie. He had been told her owner’s name but had forgotten it. She was wearing her usual shapeless waterproof jacket and a woolly hat obscured most of her head.
‘Oh, hello. Sophie took me by surprise, I’m afraid. I was miles away.’ He removed his hands from his groin and managed to stand almost upright again. ‘Here comes the rain.’ In true British tradition, it seemed sensible to turn the conversation from his bruised genitals to the weather.
‘Sophie, bad girl. Stay down. Just push her away, Tom, if she tries that again. Yes, it’s looking really grey up there now. Might be wise to head for home. You all right? You look a bit glum.’
‘All right? Yes, fine thanks. Just lost in my thoughts, I’m afraid.’
‘Cheer up. It may never happen.’ She turned away with a wave.
He kept his voice low, so she wouldn’t hear. ‘It already has.’
The other respondents to the advert all had their merits. One had clearly decided that he was a woman, the others hedged their bets. One already had a published book to her credit. Closer inspection of the title, and a quick check on the laptop, revealed it to be self-published. This was not necessarily a bad thing. At least it showed she had the will and the stamina to write 100,000 words. Over his years of fruitless attempts to find a publisher, he had also come perilously close to going it alone. Only a lingering sense of pride had stopped him. He now knew that pride is a luxury aspiring writers can ill-afford.
The Case of the Velvet Ball Gown did not immediately leap out and grab him. From the bookseller’s blurb it sounded like a fairly ordinary murder mystery. And at £13.99 in hardback he couldn’t imagine she had sold thousands. Her signature, CV and e-mail address matched. The name was Rosalind Waters, and her address was in Hammersmith, London.
Deciding on the other four did not take long. The one who assumed he was a woman sounded a bit vague. She had not bothered to enclose a CV, although she mentioned a degree in French. All she provided was her name, Penelope Grainger, and an address in Nottingham. She listed no writing credits. He decided not to allow this to colour his judgement. He had, after all, nothing but a short story and a couple of textbooks to his credit. On the other hand, she wrote clearly and correctly. No split infinitives, misplaced punctuation, or prepositions floating at the end of a sentence. He liked that. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.
The next was from a woman called Ariadne Anstruther.
‘Noah, have you ever met an Ariadne? I’m sure I haven’t. I suppose she abbreviates it, but how the hell do you abbreviate Ariadne? She can hardly call herself Arry? What were her parents thinking? Mind you, there was that child named after all the players in the winning world cup football team … ’
Her CV looked impressive, at least educationally. She had a first class degree in English, plus an MA in Creative Writing. She was working as a journalist in South London and wrote articles for various magazines. No book credits yet, but work in hand.
‘I like the sound of this one, Noah.’ She was given pride of place, on the top of the ‘Possibles’ pile.
The next was less impressive, at least visually. The paper was flimsy, the presentation of the letter poor, and the style rather staccato. There was little attempt at politeness. She claimed to have written a number of short stories but without any luck on the publishing front. This lack of success endeared her to him, so he added her to the pile. Her address was in Bristol, her name Maggie Perkins.
The last sounded very nice, maybe a bit too nice. She gave the names of her three ‘little ones’, along with details of a few articles she had had published. Her educational background was Oxford, no less. She wrote in a clear, open style. Her home was in Stevenage, and her name Tiffany Rossi. Whether the surname was her maiden name, or her husband’s, was not clarified. Certainly the name Tiffany didn’t sound very Italian.
In the end, he added all of the letters to the ‘Possibles’ pile. He now had to whittle his six possible co-authors down to one winner. He would need to devise a test of some kind. And he would need to decide upon a time and a place for the book. As he scratched the dog with his foot, it occurred to him that he could kill two birds with one stone: He would ask his Possibles pile as part of their test. Maybe one of them had a favourite period of history. He could then research it. A trip to the university library, a few days of study, and he would be ready to go.
His copy of Fifty Shades of Grey arrived on the Saturday. He settled down to read it that evening. It was hard going. It took him until the following Wednesday to get through it. He could only cope with short bursts, not because of the content, but the style. When he finally set it down, it left him puzzled.
He told Cynthia all about it at his next session.
‘Leaving aside the sentence construction and the punctuation, it’s nothing like as erotic as I thought it would be. It’s all relationship stuff, with a bit of sex thrown in. Well, all right, there’s more than a bit of sex, and it is a bit bizarre, but I was expecting more. I am quite disappointed.’
‘Would you have preferred more sex?’ He recognised her tactful tone. It was the same one she had used a few months earlier when enquiring, casually, if he masturbated regularly. This time he restrained himself.
‘It’s not a question of preference. This book has been hyped up as the smuttiest thing ever to hit the mainstream, and it isn’t. Have you read it?’
He had the satisfaction of seeing her cheeks flush. Did this mean she had read it? He took the opportunity to go on the attack.
‘They say it’s a book by a woman for women. Did you think that? Did it speak to you, Cynthia?’ He was delighted to see her discomfort grow.
She cleared her throat before replying. ‘Mmm, I don’t know. I only flicked through it.’ She looked up from her pad. He noticed that she had stopped writing. ‘My sister gave it to me to read.’
‘Do you and your sister often read that sort of thing?’
‘No, of course not.’ Her tone was unusually sharp. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. ‘But the fact remains, that one of you forked out good money to buy it. And millions of others have done the same.’
She collected herself. ‘So is that what you plan to do, then? Write something similar?’
He told her about the Western Morning News article. She scribbled dutifully. ‘So, you see, Cynthia, I think you were right. I maybe do need to try something frivolous.’
She looked up from her pad with a broad smile. She so rarely displayed emotion that it took him aback.
‘Tom, that’s really good news. I’m so glad you think like that. I’m sure you will benefit greatly from a change of direction in your writing. Less medieval warfare, mutilation and death, more fun and–’ she hesitated, searching for the word ‘–smut. Why not?’
‘There is, of course, the question of the subject matter. I just hope I know enough about it.’
After Tom had left the consulting rooms, Cynthia wandered through to reception. Debbie was in the process of closing up.
‘Hi, Cynthia. How’s it going with the gorgeous professor?’
‘Definite progress, Debs.’ She decided that client confidentiality would not be breached if she mentioned his new project. ‘He’s going to write a dirty book.’
Debbie’s eyes opened wide. ‘Well, be sure to tell him if he needs any help with his research, I’m always available.’
For a moment, Cynthia felt like saying ‘Join the queue’ but she retained a dignified silence.
Chapter Three
It was pouring outside. Janet’s new shoes were sodden. Just getting from Highgate station to the door had soaked her. Dumping her umbrella in the pot behind the door, she reached for the envelope lying on the mat. She turned it over in her hands. It was a white A4 envelope, thick enough to contain two or three sheets of paper. Her name and address were handwritten, indicating presumably that he did not have a secretary. He had opted to call her ‘Ms Janet Parr’. She remembered that she had not indicated her marital status in her letter to him.
She hung her raincoat by the mirror and sat down on the bottom stair. Kicking off her shoes, she pushed them under the radiator. The handwriting told her little about him. It did, however, tell her a little about who he was not. It was neat and clear, not the flowery hand of an elderly person, nor the scrawl of a medic. The letter size was large enough to make it unlikely to be the work of an accountant or scientist. It was not flamboyant enough to be that of an artist. The postmark showed it had been posted at 5.30 p.m. the previous evening, in Exeter, Devon.
He had sealed the letter and then added a strip of adhesive tape. She approved. This was the sign of a thorough and cautious mind. She reflected that it also reduced the chance of the postman finding himself with sheets of erotic prose spilling out into his hands. As she broke the seal she wasn’t sure what to expect. The size of the envelope gave her hope that she might be successful. After all, previous rejections had rarely exceeded a card, an e-mail or a single sheet of paper. Would this contain erotic prose, she wondered?
It did not. There was a letter, neatly set out, signed Thomas Marshall. In it, he informed her that she had been shortlisted for the position. The position was to co-author a piece of historical erotica; she providing the female input, he the male. In order to allow him to make a final decision, he was asking the shortlisted candidates to complete a specimen piece of work. Details were to be found on the enclosed sheet. She turned to the next page with interest. It was brief and to the point.
Please choose a period in history and a location with which you are familiar. Using these parameters, please write a minimum of one thousand words, describing a sexual encounter involving one, two, three or more people of either sex. Choice of characters and sexual act(s) totally your own.
So far so good, she thought to herself. Pretty much what she had been expecting, ever since her inexplicable decision to answer the advert. It seemed reasonable that he would want proof that she could write. And there was always the question of whether she knew enough about the subject. That had been worrying her quite a bit. She read on.
It may be useful if you remember the following:
Fifty Shades of Grey, at the last count, has sold 65 million copies. It is the fastest selling paperback of all time. It does not, however, just consist of sex scenes. We need to be capable of producing a story that compels the reader to turn the pages. The sex scenes should add spice rather than being the main substance.
When assessing how graphic to make your description, I would suggest that we are setting out to shock, ma non troppo. Try writing something you might not feel comfortable showing to your mother. At the same time, it should not unduly shock your sister or your best friend.
She reflected that her mother would, without question, have shocked less easily than her big sister. At the same time she was grateful to him for spelling it out. The sheet ended with notes about the contractual arrangements, reimbursement of expenses and division of royalties. It all looked fair. He ended with the words:
Collaborative writing will involve joint decision-making and, inevitably, compromise. Please bear this in mind if you are offered the position. For my part, I pledge that I will endeavour to keep an open mind at all times.
She folded the pages and slipped them back into the envelope. She knew she could write. She had been writing articles, stories and unfinished books for as long as she could remember. But she had never tried anything like this before.
‘I’d better talk to Melissa.’
Chapter Four
‘Ariadne, oh Ariadne darling.’
Jimmy was affecting a high-pitched, nasal whine. His voice echoed up the stairs.
Clinton stirred. Out of habit, he looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was almost lunchtime.
‘Thank God it’s Saturday.’
‘Who’s Ariadne?’ The girl’s voice was sleepy.
‘That would be me.’
He climbed out of bed and opened the curtains. A gusty wind whipped the rain diagonally across the glass. He could barely make out the shape of the houses across the road: A good day for going back to bed again. He turned away and surveyed the chaos in the room. Her clothes were strewn across the floor, as were his. Her red bra was draped across the reading light. The Chablis they had spilt on the desktop was congealing, the shape of her buttocks still discernible in the sticky mess. He licked his lips. Among all the other tastes, there was definitely Chablis.
He opened the door, and wandered out onto the landing.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, put some clothes on, Clint.’ Jimmy had brought the post upstairs.
‘That’s Ariadne, to you, James.’ He did his best to imitate Jimmy’s high-class accent. Jimmy did it better, but then he always had had a way with words. ‘Leave the letter there, my man. One is going for a piss.’
When he emerged from the bathroom, he picked up the large A4 envelope, addressed to Ms Ariadne Anstruther. He took it back into the room. Dolores had gone back to sleep, so he didn’t disturb her. He dug out a clean sweatshirt and jeans and sat on the edge of the bed, as he pulled on socks and shoes.
Inside the envelope was a letter addressed to Ms Anstruther. He checked the signature. He had been right in his assumption that it was a man. Feeling hungry, he wandered downstairs to the kitchen. Jimmy was sprawled in the lounge, watching football.
‘Coffee?’
Jimmy raised a thumb.
Clinton went into the kitchen. As the coffee machine wheezed into life, he read through the letter. When the green light came on, he made two big cappuccino coffees. He went back into the lounge.
‘Here.’ He pushed the cup into Jimmy’s hand. ‘And take a look at this. We have a result!’
‘One thanks one, Ariadne dearest. Pray tell me, is this coffee the finest arabica, or is one slumming it with Brazilian?’
‘Just read the fucking letter, Jimbo.’
Jimmy read it through. From time to time, he looked across at his friend. Finally he laid it down.
‘Historical, that’s awesome. What the hell do you know about historical sex?’
‘I know sex, Jimmy. The historical is just a matter of digging around a bit on the internet. All we’ve got to do is choose a century. You know anything about history?’
‘I know it’s light years since I got lucky.’
‘I’m serious. I need a time and a place.’
‘I’m serious too. What I need is a woman. And you also need what he calls an “encounter”.’
‘That’s the easy part. I won’t just write it, I’ll perform it.’ His thoughts flitted briefly back the girl upstairs. ‘If I haven’t already done it.’
Jimmy had a stroke of genius. ‘How about cavemen? If we go with cavemen, there’s no dates to get wrong, or other stuff. Imagine if we made it, say, only a couple of hundred years ago. Have you any idea what was going on then, who the king was, or stuff like clothes? Hell, the ladies’ underwear was probably whalebone corsets.’
‘And chastity belts.’ Clinton really didn’t know much about history. ‘Cavemen is good. I like cavemen. I always thought Barney Rubble’s wife was hot.’
‘Wilma?’
‘No, the other one, I’ve forgotten her name. Wilma was Fred Flintstone’s wife. But cavemen is good. Now what about where?’
‘Does it matter? If we are going back a few million years, anywhere will do.’
‘How many million years are we going back?’
‘Ten, maybe?’ Jimmy was a good accountant, but he didn’t know much about history either.
‘Fine, we’ll make it ten million years ago. As for the place, we’ll need caves. You any idea where there are caves?’
‘Underground.’
‘Yeah, right,’
‘I think this is where we turn to our faithful laptop. We’ll find some caves somewhere easy enough. Cheddar Gorge, maybe? That sounds like the kind of place we want.’
‘Now then, all I’ve got to do is to decide what sort of sex to give him.’ Clinton was going to enjoy this part of it.
‘Caveman sex. Hit them over the head with a club and drag them into the cave. But he’s probably looking for a bit more than that. All this talk about Fifty Shades of Grey, he probably wants it a bit weird.’
‘You don’t get much weirder than hitting a chick over the head and dragging her into a cave.’
‘Yes, nowadays. But way back then, they were all doing it. Ten million years ago, stockings and suspenders would have been really kinky.’
‘Jimmy, my boy, stockings and suspenders are dead kinky nowadays, too.’
Chapter Five
‘Fancy a walk?’
The dog’s response to the question was animated. He rushed over to the chair in the corner and fetched his lead. Tom pulled on his heavy jacket and a woolly hat. Outside it was blowing hard, although the rain had stopped. If anything, it was colder than before. It looked like February was going to be bad all the way through to the end. He clipped on the lead and let himself be tugged down the road. By the time they reached the footpath, the rain had started again. He pulled up his collar with grim resignation.
‘Well, we’re here now.’
He released Noah to run in the field, while he reviewed his plans for the new book. Clearly, if they were to convince a publisher to take them on they would need to come up with more than just sex. He needed a compelling storyline, and one that would appeal to women. But what did women want to read? He had hardly so much as spoken to one for two years now. And Cynthia didn’t count. What would Diane have said? He was feeling more and more out of his depth.
Apart from wading through that damn book, as he found himself calling it he had continued his investigation of erotic literature. There turned out to be hundreds of websites specialising in stories of a sexual nature. Many of the collections were so big that readers were offered the chance to select whatever specific genre they preferred. Underneath the title and brief synopsis of each story, there would be symbols or words, specifying the contents.
He soon worked out that MM, FFM, FFF referred to the gender of the participants. Some of the descriptors were self-evident, such as Lesbian, Gay or Group. Some were not so clear. For example, BDSM pretty obviously referred to Bondage and Sadomasochism, but Spanking was a category to itself. Hard-core existed as a distinct category, but for the life of him he couldn’t see any difference between it and BDSM. Most unexpected of all, there often appeared to be no classification for traditional sex involving one man and one woman.
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the lady from the house by the river and her spaniel. This time, Tom saw them coming and was able to shield himself from the dog’s effusive greeting.
‘Oh, hi.’ If only he could remember her name. ‘Surprise, surprise, it’s raining again.’
‘Hi, Tom. Sophie, leave Tom alone. She’s really taken a shine to you, hasn’t she? Down, Sophie.’
Noah returned, now dripping wet. His arrival had the advantage of interrupting the spaniel’s attempts to emasculate Tom. The two dogs embarked upon a steeplechase, while the rain began to fall in earnest. By now they were at the other end of the field, approaching the river. Seeing home at hand, the spaniel abandoned Noah.
‘Look, Tom, it’s absolutely pouring. Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea while it passes over?’ She already had the garden gate open. The rain was quite torrential. He did not hesitate.
‘That’s really very kind. I think shelter would be wise.’
The house was more of a cottage, with thatched roof, small windows and a low doorway. She ushered him into a scullery that smelt of wet dog. The spaniel allowed itself to be towelled dry. He hung his coat on the back of the door and stepped out of his boots, while Noah, true to his name, settled himself in a puddle on the floor.
‘Come in, come in. The dogs will be fine there.’ She led him through into the kitchen. The noise of the rain beating against the window and onto a tin roof somewhere outside was deafening. She filled the kettle, indicating to him to sit down at the table. It was a cosy room, the low ceiling punctuated by huge beams. A Welsh dresser filled most of one wall, while modern kitchen units ran the length of the other.
‘What a day. You’d be soaked through if you were still out there.’
He turned back towards her. She had removed the jacket and the hat. She was bending away from him, pulling off her woolly socks. Whether it was the result of his recent reading or just a conditioned male reaction, his attention was immediately taken by the perfect proportions of her bottom. She straightened up and turned towards him, a friendly smile on her face. Seeing her for the first time without her heavy outer clothing, he realised that she was truly gorgeous.
‘Good lord.’ He was unable to stop himself.
An expression of concern crossed her face. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘No, no, no. Nothing at all. I just got a surprise when I saw your face, that’s all.’
‘Not an unpleasant surprise, I hope.’ The smile was back.
‘Not at all. I just hadn’t realised you were–’ he tried to think of an adjective less emotive than gorgeous ‘– so attractive.’ He saw her register the compliment, and rushed to temper it. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say things like that. It’s just that in all these months of passing you in the fields, I wasn’t expecting you to be so –’ He was in trouble again.
She took pity on him. ‘You scrub up pretty well yourself. Anyway, thank you for the compliment. A girl likes to hear that she’s still got it.’ The kettle boiled and clicked off. She busied herself with making the tea. A bowl of sugar appeared on the table, but he declined with a shake of the head. A packet of chocolate Hobnobs appeared from the fridge. He gave her a smile.
‘That must be fate. We share the same taste in biscuits. Thank you.’ He took the mug of tea and warmed his hands gratefully around it. She sat down opposite him and proffered the packet of biscuits.
‘Want one?’
‘Very definitely.’ He took one, relieved to see that his hands were not shaking. He had not been in close proximity to a beautiful woman for quite a while now. He cleared his throat. ‘Can I make a confession?’
‘Forgive me father, for I have sinned.’ She was still smiling. ‘Go on, get it off your chest.’
‘I’m really sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘It’s Ros. And don’t let it bother you. I remember yours, because I’ve got a brother called Tom. Of course, I’ve known Noah’s name for ages. So what do you do, Tom, if I may ask?’
He allowed his eyes to rest on her as he formulated an answer. She could have come straight out of the pages of Vogue. She was tall and slim. Her hair was a sort of browny-reddish colour, her face speckled with occasional freckles. He made a mental note to check the proper names for women’s hair colouring. Was that auburn, maybe?
‘Is your hair auburn?’
She blinked, reflected, then answered. ‘Sounds good to me. It’s been all colours over the years, and it’s been called a few different names. This is natural me again. I like auburn. We’ll go with that. Now, weren’t you going to tell me what you do for a living?’
‘I write.’ He saw her glance up, and he hastened to clarify. ‘At least, that’s what I spend a lot of my time doing. My normal job is at Exeter University. I teach English, but I’ve taken a year off.’
‘Is that so? Well, we would seem to have more in common than chocolate Hobnobs. I do a bit of writing myself. What are you writing at present?’
He suddenly felt very embarrassed. He took refuge in a version of the truth.
‘Historical novels, mainly. I’ve just finished a trilogy set in the Middle Ages.’
‘Wow. Have you done lots of research? Are you doing research at the moment?’
The embarrassment returned.
‘I had to do lots for the medieval stuff. I came to history relatively late on. I’ve spent most of my spare time over the past ten years reading anything I could get hold of about the twelfth to fourteenth centuries.’
‘Twelfth to fourteenth. That would be before the Tudors and the Stuarts, wouldn’t it? That’s about all the history I did at school.’ She sounded interested.
‘A fair bit before. Henry VII was the first of the Tudor line. If I remember right, he came to power in the 1480s, after the Battle of Bosworth Field. No, my period covers the Crusades, the Cathars, Knights Templar. I suppose we’re talking about a couple of hundred years earlier. To be honest, most of my research has been on French history. I’m not that well up on England.’
‘Who were the Cathars, again?’ She screwed up her face and tilted her head to one side, as she struggled to remember. Even with her face screwed up, she still looked amazing.
‘Southern France in the 1200s. They were wiped out by the Catholic Church. Their beliefs were branded as heretical.’
‘“Branded as heretical?” Why do you say that? Weren’t they heretics?’
‘They called themselves “Good Christians”. Their views were unorthodox, but not deserving of genocide. They believed in the duality of God –’ He stopped himself in time. ‘I’m sorry, unless you are very careful you’ll still be here tomorrow morning, with me droning on. So what about you? What sort of writing do you do? Wait a minute, let me guess. You’re a fashion journalist. Am I right?’
To his surprise, she nodded. ‘That’s what pays the bills, and lets Sophie and me live down here in the country six days a week.’
He noted that she only mentioned herself and the dog.
‘For fun, I write whodunits. At least I’ve finished one, and I’m thinking about the next. But tell me, how do I get hold of these books of yours?’
‘Not on the shelves, I’m afraid. I’ve been beating my head against a wall for years, trying to get somebody in the trade to read one of them. Every time I send off a synopsis I get the same reply: “I’m afraid” – ’
‘“Your work is not suitable for our list.”‘ Clearly this was something else they had in common. ‘“But this does not mean to say that another publisher or agent or whatever won’t find your work appealing etc. etc.” Signed by a girl called Fenella or Lysistrata. Tell me about it. I’ve been there too.’
He changed the subject in case she asked him what research he was currently undertaking. ‘So you spend six days here each week. What about the seventh?’ He really wanted to know with whom she spent the seventh.
‘I’ve got a little place in London. Sophie and I take the train up most Sundays. If all goes well, we are back on the train again on Monday evening. Although I work from home most of the time, I like to keep up personal contact with my editor. I wouldn’t want her to forget me.’
‘I can’t imagine anybody forgetting you in a hurry.’
If she heard what he said, she gave no sign. ‘Of course, during spring and autumn collection time, I’m away a bit more. But I love Devon, and can’t wait to get back down here. And dear old Soph loves it to death.’
‘So when are you off to the bright lights again?’
‘Well, my editor is on holiday in the Caribbean, so I haven’t been up to London this week. I imagine I’ll be off on Sunday.’
‘So you will be here on Saturday?’
‘I certainly will.’
‘If you’ve nothing better to do, perhaps you might let me buy you dinner to say thank you for the tea and the shelter?’ Asking a woman out was something else he hadn’t done for quite some time. He suddenly found himself feeling quite unusually nervous.
‘Dinner in return for a cup of tea seems a rather unfair trade. But, if you are sure, I’d love to.’
He felt his spirits soar. But, no sooner had he registered his delight, than a sense of guilt had him questioning whether he was doing the right thing. It was too late now, he supposed. He cleared his throat.
‘Wonderful. Now I think the rain has passed for the moment, so I’d better make a break for freedom. Pick you up at seven thirty on Saturday?’
She nodded. Upon opening the door, they found Sophie the spaniel and a soggy Labrador squeezed together on the old armchair that served as a dog bed.
Somehow, neither of them chose to comment.
‘Come on Noah, let’s head for home before it gets too dark to see.’
Chapter Six
Nine thirty. All three kids were finally in bed. Tiffany could relax.
‘What’re you reading?’
She passed the letter over to him. ‘It came this morning. You remember that funny advert I replied to?’
He took it from her. It was addressed to Mrs Tiffany Rossi. Luca read it with interest.
‘So, are you going to send him a thousand words?’
‘I thought I’d give it a go. All I’ve got to do is to decide what period of history, what place and what sort of sex to write about. What do you think?’
He looked across at her. She was a fine looking woman. He reached across the back of the sofa and encircled her shoulders with his arm. She snuggled up against him.
‘Sex? Not sure if I can remember what that is.’ He was only half-joking.
‘Mmm. It has been a while, hasn’t it?’ She reached up and kissed his cheek.
‘I think you could have a lot of fun with this, Tiff. In fact, we could both have a lot of fun doing this.’ He kissed her ear and scratched his fingernail against the side of her breast. ‘You’ll need to do lots of research, you know.’
She laid her hand on his thigh and started a gentle stroking movement. ‘Do you think the kids are asleep?’
‘After swimming, a fifth birthday party and football practice, I should bloody well hope so.’ He pulled himself to his feet. ‘Of course, just to be on the safe side, I could stick a chair under the door handle.’
As he came back to her, he peeled off his jumper and shirt. She loved the way his black hair grew in a line down the middle of his chest, disappearing into the waistband of his trousers. He had put on a few pounds but he was still the very handsome man she had married. She reached out to him.
‘So what kind of sex have you got in mind, signora?’ His hands were undoing the buttons of her blouse.
‘For the book or for now?’ She undid his belt and reached for his zip.
‘Why not both?’ He stripped the blouse off her. Her nipples were pressing hard against the white lace of her bra.
‘It’s really supposed to be kinky sex for the book. We haven’t done a lot of that.’ She stretched an arm around his neck and pulled his face down so she could kiss him.
‘I’m not averse to a bit of kinky.’
She felt his hands on her body. ‘How kinky is kinky?’ She was purring now.
‘How about this?’ His free hand slapped her hard on the buttocks, twice.
‘Ouch.’ She felt the sharp impact. It snapped her out of her delicious sense of dreamy pleasure. Annoyed, she pulled herself away from him, but he tightened his grip, holding her to him. He swung his hand again and again, the pain increasing each time. After six blows he stopped, and released his hold on her. She stumbled and would have fallen. He took her hand and sat her down on the sofa. Pushing her backwards, he stood up, tore off his remaining clothes, then stepped towards her. She clenched her teeth to stop herself from screaming with pleasure. This was definitely not the time to wake the kids.
He thrust at her powerfully, pushing her back against the cushions until she could hold on no longer. Reaching up, she caught his chest hair in her fingers. She tugged him down towards her until her mouth reached his. Spearing him with her tongue, she climaxed more violently than she had for months, years, maybe ever.
Seconds later she felt him shudder. Her hands slid round to his buttocks, gripping him firmly, his muscles tensing against her fingers. She held him as he climaxed in his turn. They remained like that for some minutes. Then, slowly, he leant forward and pressed a soft kiss onto her lips. He slumped down onto the sofa beside her, one hand cupping her breast.
‘Wow.’ She could barely speak.
‘Wow, indeed.’ His voice was little more than a whisper.
They lay together for quite some time, before she roused herself, sat up and took stock. Her neck was aching from the pressure against the back of the sofa. Her nipples were stinging, and her buttocks hurt. But it didn’t matter one jot. What they had just experienced had been amazing.
‘Did I hurt you?’ He sounded subdued, apologetic even. She looked over at him, flopped on his back, still bathed in sweat. He looked unexpectedly vulnerable.
‘Of course you did. I feel as if I’ve just been run over.’ Seeing the concern on his face, she slid across towards him. ‘But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’
He hugged her to him.
‘Well, I think that maybe answers the “encounter” question. Now all you need is a historic period of time and a place.’
She returned her mind to the question in hand. She felt sure that if she could reproduce in words what had just happened between them, she would be chosen to write the book. But what about the where and when?
Any further discussion of the writing project was interrupted by a plaintive little voice from the hall.
‘Mummy, Ben’s taken Mr Ted and he won’t give him back.’ There was a muffled sniff. ‘And the lounge door won’t open. Mummy, are you there?’
Luca caught her eye as she dropped onto her knees and started to collect her clothes from the floor. He gave her a broad wink.
‘It’s all right, Milly. Mummy’s coming right out.’
Chapter Seven
‘Post! There’s a big envelope for a Ms Penelope Grainger. It doesn’t look like a bill.’
It was Scott. The clock on her desk said almost four o’clock. He must have ducked out of his three o’clock lecture. She folded the corner of page 342 of Germinal and clicked off the reading lamp. She had been at it for a good four hours. No wonder she was feeling a bit stiff. And hungry. She stepped over the laundry basket and made her way out onto the landing.
‘You making tea, Pen?’ Jamie’s hearing was phenomenal. He had heard the creaky top step even with headphones on.
‘I am now. I’ll bring one up.’
‘You’ll make somebody a wonderful wife one day.’
‘Bugger off, Jamie.’
She picked up her letters at the bottom of the staircase. Scott had got as far as shouting about them but he hadn’t avoided them with his wet feet. Nottingham, like the rest of the UK, was enjoying its longest spell of uninterrupted rain for a century. Everywhere was soaked. The weekly letter from her mother looked decidedly soggy. Under it was a big white envelope. She turned it over in her hands. Her name and address had been handwritten. She took it into the kitchen to open it. Scott was in there, drying out.
‘Hi, Pen. Kettle’s just boiled. Want tea?’
‘Thanks, Scotty, that’ll be great. And make one for the doctor, will you?’
She took the envelope over to the window. The wind had got up. The rain was being blown against the glass. Although it was only mid-afternoon it would be dark before long. She shivered and stamped her feet to restore some circulation. With all the increases in energy costs, they were trying to economise on heating. Even with tights under her jeans and two jumpers, she was still cold.
‘How was it today, Scott? I see you skived off your three o’clock. Who was that? Professor Tate?’
‘The very same. I couldn’t face another dose of Professor Twat murdering contract and tort. Some people can be boring some of the time. Some can be boring most of the time, but only Twatters can be boring all the bloody time.’ He shared one tea bag between the three cups. After squeezing the very life out of it he dropped it in the bin. He passed the darkest-looking infusion across to her. She gave him a smile.
‘Jamie’s is looking a bit weak.’
‘Next time he can come down and make it himself. I’ll take it up to him.’ As he squeezed past, she smelt his deodorant. Not an unpleasant smell and very familiar. After two years sharing the house with the boys, she would know them both with her eyes closed. She found a knife and slit the envelope open. She took out the letter and read it. She was just starting on the second sheet when Scott came back down.
‘Good news?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is. You remember I told you I had applied for a writing job? Well, I’ve been shortlisted.’
‘Well done, Pen. Mind you, with a dissertation to finish, you aren’t going to have too much free time, are you?’
The same thought had occurred to her. Still, the dissertation was pretty much written, apart from the last chapter and all the footnotes. If she got the job she would manage somehow. She read to the bottom of the page and sat back, deep in thought.
‘Something wrong?’ There was concern in his voice.
‘No, Scott, not really. It’s just this book thing.’ She paused, uncertain whether to let him in on the secret. Her supervisor had told her she was confident there would be a lecturing position in the French department after she got her PhD. The last thing she wanted was for the whole student body to know that she wrote dirty books. She made up her mind.
‘In for a penny, in for a pound. Here, read this. But promise me you won’t tell a soul.’ He sketched a cross-my-heart with his finger as he took it from her.
She watched the expression on his face as he read through the contents of the envelope. Every now and then he glanced up, his eyes wide. Finally he handed the sheets back to her and sat down in his turn.
‘Wow. Émile Zola not steamy enough for you, Pen. You’re going to write your own.’ There was awe in his voice.
‘Zola, steamy? I’ve already told you about that. There’s nothing in his books that you couldn’t find in Women’s Own. In fact, Women’s Own would probably have scandalised him. Anyway, what do you think of the project? Am I crazy?’
‘Excuse me one moment. Mind if I put this out to arbitration?’ She gave a resigned shrug. He stood up and went to the kitchen door. He raised his voice. ‘Jamie, Jamie. Get your arse down here now. Something mega is about to happen.’
There was a sound of moving furniture, running feet and a loud thud, as Jamie jumped the last half dozen steps of the stairs. Although the boys were only six or seven years younger than her, they were still little children at heart.
‘What’s up? Woman across the road forgotten to close the curtains again?’
‘I told you before. She doesn’t forget. She deliberately leaves them open. She likes to be watched.’
‘For all you know, she might be hoping it’s Penny doing the watching. So, if it’s not the desperate housewife, what’s the big deal?’
‘First you have to swear, on whatever you hold dear, not to reveal a word of this to a living soul.’ They watched as he clutched his genitals and promised.
Scott handed him the letter without further comment. Both of them waited until he had read it through. His breath whistled through his teeth.
‘So who says writing doesn’t pay? Apart from ransom notes, of course. 65 million quid? That would pay off a few student loans, wouldn’t it?’ He looked across at Penny, a broad smile on his face. ‘Well, you can count us both in. We’ll help you. What period appeals? Don’t forget you have a historian alongside you.’
‘I have?’ She looked across at Scott in surprise.
‘I originally got in to do history. I just did it for a year, then managed to change over to law. Funny I never told you that.’ She shook her head. She hadn’t known Scott in his first year. ‘Mind you, apart from the Romans, the Tudors and Stuarts and the two world wars, I hardly know a thing.’
‘So that’s it, Pen. Scotty’s your history guru and I’ll provide all the practical help you need.’ Jamie puffed up his chest and threw a Mr Universe pose, followed up by a few pelvic thrusts for good measure.
‘Thanks, Jamie. If I get stuck, I’ll know who to ask for help. But in the meantime what I want to know is, should I go ahead with this?’ There was a serious note in her voice now. They both heard it.
‘And why the hell not?’ Jamie had no doubts. ‘You might need to get yourself a nom de plume, just in case you start getting begging letters once you are a millionaire. But go for it, I say.’
She looked across at Scott. He was studying the remains of his tea.
‘I can see why you are a bit hesitant.’ He sounded really solemn. She had rarely heard him like this. ‘Who is this guy anyway? You realise, he could be some sort of perv. In fact he’s almost bound to be. Maybe he gets his rocks off thinking about you writing dirty stuff. Maybe he’s grooming you like a paedophile.’ His voice tailed off.
‘A paedophile?’ Jamie was scoffing. ‘Auntie Penny is too old for that sort of thing, Scotty. No, she’s more of a MILF.’
She was used to only understanding a proportion of their conversation but this acronym was a new one to her. He read the incomprehension in her eyes.
‘Mum-I’d-like-to-fuck. It’s all the rage. Older woman, younger man. Or men –’ He put just enough emphasis on the last word to redden her cheeks. She made an attempt to get a grip. Could she possibly go ahead with this project? Apart from anything else, there was clearly a lot of new vocabulary to be learned. And as for the grooming thing, could Scott be right? She took a deep breath.
‘Well, that solves the question of the “encounter”, as he puts it. I’ll go for an encounter between a MILF and the boy across the road. I’ll call it Gap in the Curtains. How does that sound?’
‘Pull yourself together.’ Jamie was firing on all cylinders. ‘That’s what you say to a pair of curtains, isn’t it? But I like the basic premise. But the when and the where have still to be addressed. He says a period of history with which you are familiar. Have you got one of those, Pen?’
‘Do you know, I think I have.’ She was warming to the task. She would give it a try. If the man were a pervert she would find out soon enough. And it wasn’t as if she was about to meet him in some secluded lane, after all. ‘For the last five years of my life, I have been immersed in Émile Zola’s Rougon-Macquart series. That’s twenty books set in nineteenth-century France, mainly in Paris and Provence. I’ll set it in, say, 1875, somewhere down in the South of France. Excellent.’
‘Sounds good to me.’ Scott was impressed.
‘So, Penelope, when it comes to the old rumpy-pumpy, just what experience do you have to draw upon?’ The future doctor employed his most formal tones while mocking her. She refused to be phased by him. Attack is the best form of defence. She looked him straight in the eye.
‘You’re right, Jamie. I haven’t seen a cock for ages. Would you pull yours out for me to take a look at? It might remind me what it’s all about.’
Both boys goggled. Scott blushed red. Even Jamie was reduced to silence. This was a side to Auntie Pen they hadn’t experienced before. She collected the contents of the envelope and left while the going was good.
Chapter Eight
Janet met Melissa in the corner café. They had met like this almost every Thursday lunchtime for over four years, ever since Janet had moved her business to London. She took her herbal tea over to the corner table they had adopted. Melissa looked up from her magazine.
‘What’s new, Jan? Did the leopard skin shoes recover from the soaking?’
‘Sort of. They’re about two shades darker now. Talking of shades, I got a reply from my dirty book man.’
Melissa looked up in surprise.
Janet had already decided to tell her everything. They had known each other since school and had few secrets. Melissa had been a guest at Janet’s wedding. Janet had been to both of Melissa’s. She sat down and went through the story. She started with the advert and finished with Tuesday’s letter. As she outlined the new project, she saw her friend’s eyes widen.
‘Well, that’s a bit different, I must say.’
‘I still can’t tell you why I went for it. I think it was just such a strange advert I needed to know what it was all about.’
‘By the sounds of it you’ll need to know lots of things to write this kind of stuff. Are you sure you know enough about it?
‘Enough about what?’ Of course she knew what Melissa meant, really.
‘Sex, Jan, kinky sex. Fifty Shades of Grey is all about bondage, submission and sadomasochism. I didn’t know you were into that sort of thing.’
‘Firstly, I’m not, and second, it’s not all about that sort of thing. Have you read it?’
‘Well, no, but the girls at work have been talking about it for weeks, months.’
‘Well, I have. I got it off the internet last week. It’s not the greatest book in the world, but there’s a story to it. It’s not just non-stop spanking. In fact there’s little or no sex for ages. And anyway the man said I could choose the time, place and “encounter” I liked. It doesn’t have to be chains and whips.’
‘Well, that’s a relief. Mind you, that’s just for your trial piece. What if he comes back with some outrageous plot involving really horrid stuff?’
‘Then I won’t be part of it.’ She had been debating this very point for the last two days. ‘Anyway, he said it would be a joint effort, involving give and take.’
Melissa wasn’t convinced but she could see that Janet had made up her mind. The one good thing in all this was that her friend was looking more animated than she had seen her for months.
‘At least you’re sounding full of beans. Maybe this will be the breakthrough you have been waiting for. So, what time, place and, erm, “encounter” are you going to choose? Time means historical time, presumably?’
‘That’s right. He says our book has to be historical. I quite like that. After all, my degree was history, you know.’
Melissa had forgotten. History? How a history degree had prepared Janet for her post at the head of a big recruitment agency was a mystery. It always astonished her that she found the time to do her writing at all. The company was still expanding.
‘So if it’s history, what period appeals?’
‘I’ve been wondering about that. The only periods I know reasonably well are the Romans, the Tudors and Stuarts, and the twentieth century. My Masters was on the rise of fascism in Europe.’
‘Hmm, I don’t like the sound of Nazis and death camps. Anything involving the SS or the Gestapo could be very, very nasty.’
‘I know. I’ve already ruled that out. The Romans, of course, were pretty promiscuous. Lots of weird stuff going on back then.’
‘You’re right. I was watching Carry on Cleo over Christmas. Lots of hanky-panky.’
‘I think we need to go a good bit further than “hanky-panky”.’
‘Slave girls violated, naked Christians thrown to the lions, drunken orgies – that the kind of stuff you mean?’ Melissa was beginning to get her creative juices running.
‘Yes, I suppose so, but it all depends on our target audience.’
‘And that is?’
‘I’ve been wondering about that. He didn’t mention it in the letter, at least not directly. Fifty Shades of Grey is a women’s book: by a woman, for women. And women read more books than men, don’t they. I must look up the statistics.’
‘Way ahead of you.’ Melissa was never without her smartphone. ‘Hang on,’ her fingers flashed over the keys. ‘And the answer is … wow, I am amazed. It says here that 65 percent of books are read by women. Presumably because men are too busy getting drunk and watching football.’
‘That reminds me, how is Graham? What’s he doing these days?’ Janet’s tone was sweet.
‘Apart from drinking beer and watching football, you mean?’ Melissa sounded less sweet. ‘Still making an absolute fortune playing with other people’s money. I tell people he owns a tattoo parlour. It’s less embarrassing than saying he’s a banker.’
Janet laughed. ‘So, you see, we have to aim the book at women. So what do women want?’
‘What do you want?’
‘You mean, what sort of book would I like to read? To be totally honest, I don’t really think I would go for an erotic book. At least not just sex, sex and more sex.’
‘While on that subject, Jan, dare I ask you a personal question?’
‘Well, we’re on a pretty personal subject as it is. Fire away.’
‘When’s the last time you had sex, anyway?’
That stopped her in her tracks. What with the business and her writing, she hadn’t had much time for socialising, let alone dating. And, if she were totally honest, she hadn’t really been bothered.
‘I’m going to need a fairly thick skin if I get involved in this project, aren’t I? Just imagine how it might be if the book is a success. Would journalists ask me that sort of question?’
‘Well, if they did there would be no obligation to answer. Come to think of it, there’s no need for you to tell me either. I was just curious to know if you had been doing any research recently.’
‘Well, the answer is not for a longish time. Not since I split up with Stephen. And that is nearly five years ago now. Come to think of it, we hadn’t had sex for ages before that.’
Melissa was staring at her. ‘What about our wedding? I set you up with one of Graham’s friends. I thought you said you and he hit it off. That’s only three years ago. We’ve just celebrated three years of married bliss.’ Her tone was dry.
‘That’s right, the Aussie. I called him Bruce all evening, and he seemed to answer to it. But seeing as he was going back to Oz the next day, there wasn’t much chance of the relationship developing.’
‘So no sex with Bruce?’
‘At my age, Mel? A one night stand with a man who spent all evening telling me about his various skin complaints?’
‘So you haven’t had sex for five, maybe ten, years. I am beginning to see why you might be interested in a book about historical sex. Can you at least remember anything about it?’ She gave Janet a searching look.
‘Yes, of course. You flail around in a darkened room and get very sticky, as I remember. Then you step out of bed next morning onto a used condom. Great start to the day.’ As she replied, her mind was reaching back across the years. ‘No, seriously, I can remember lots of things we did. And quite a few things he wanted to do that we didn’t do. Anyway, it’s like riding a bike, surely. You never forget it.’
‘Grit your teeth, pedal for all you’re worth, and try not to fall off. But, with all due respect, there’s a limit to how much you can write about two people having sex in a darkened room. Your readers, not to mention your co-author, will want a whole lot more detail, warts and all.’
‘Ah, now, Melissa, that’s where you come in.’ She saw her friend arch an eyebrow. ‘Not warts, of course. But you’re the relatively newlywed, after all. You will have to be my technical adviser. It’s quite acceptable for writers to seek expert help, you know.’
‘Expert help?’ Now it was Melissa’s turn to look embarrassed. ‘I’d better come clean. Graham is out so much and home so late these days that we haven’t exactly been at it like rabbits ourselves. In fact,’ she managed a smile, ‘I was even thinking of buying Fifty Shades of Grey to spice things up a bit in the bedroom.’
‘Oh dear, this isn’t going to be so easy, is it?’
Chapter Nine
Tom pulled up outside her cottage at 7.30. The rains had headed off to the east of the country, leaving Devon with clear skies. As a result, this February evening was absolutely freezing. As he headed for the front door, he saw her little Mini already covered in white frost. He was searching in vain for a doorbell when the door opened. He took a step backwards.
‘Evening, Tom. Sophie told me you were at the door. Fur coat and thermal undies tonight, I fear. Come in while I suit up.’ She ushered him in. He smelt her perfume. It took considerable self-control to avoid a heartfelt sigh of delight.
The spaniel rushed out and made a fuss of him. Again, she seemed especially interested in his crotch.
‘All set. Where are we going?’
He looked up from the dog. What he could see of her looked wonderful. She was enveloped in a fur hat and coat.
‘And you must be Mrs Zhivago. How is the good doctor?’ He bowed formally.
She giggled. ‘It’s faux fur. Made of old mineral water bottles, or whatever. No animals were hurt in the making of this outfit.’ She patted the dog on the head and they went out into the cold.
He had booked a table at a gastro pub a few miles away. ‘We’re going to the Red Lion at Woodford. The chef’s Italian. I know him pretty well. He’s has just won some TV cooking thing.’
‘That sounds good. I hardly know any of the places round here.’
‘What? I would have assumed a lovely girl like you would have been wined and dined all over the county. What am I saying? I mean all over the United Kingdom, the world.’
‘Not nowadays. Sophie and I don’t socialise a lot.’
He negotiated a humpbacked bridge that was white with frost. He made a mental note to watch out on the way back. It was well known for ice.
‘From choice?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ He had to wait a while for her to continue. ‘In my job I used to do an awful lot of travelling. One year I worked out I had been in two hundred and thirty different hotel rooms, spread over sixteen countries.’
‘Wow. I didn’t realise you journalists did so much travelling.’
‘That was in my previous incarnation. I have only been a journo for three years.’
‘And your previous job was?’ He saw the sign up ahead. They were still early enough to find a place in the pub car park.
‘Modelling.’
‘I did a bit of that when I was a boy. You know, Airfix Spitfires and the like.’ He backed into a space and turned off the engine. ‘So, here I am with a famous model. Should I have recognised you? I’m afraid I’m not very well up on the fashion world.’
She didn’t answer and he did not dare to ask her again.
Their table was close to the fire. The room was snug and warm. They weren’t the first. Three or four tables were already populated, their occupants choosing from the menu. He was pleased not to see anybody he knew. He very much wanted this evening to be about the two of them alone.
‘Can I take your coat? There are hooks over there by the door.’
‘Ah, a true gentleman. There aren’t many of you left these days.’ She let the coat slip off her shoulders. She was wearing a wonderfully soft polo neck jumper. It was a delicate shade of green, which, he noticed for the first time, exactly matched her eyes. It fitted her to perfection, following every curve of her body. He took the coat and hung it up on top of his old jacket. Returning to the table, he felt he was the luckiest man alive.
‘Good evening. Here’s the menu. Tonight’s specials are on the blackboard. Can I get you a drink?’ The waitress looked about fifteen. He glanced across the table and raised an eyebrow. She shook her head.
‘I’ll just have some wine with my meal, I think.’
‘Same for me. Can we see the wine list?’
After ordering food and drink they started to chat. At first, things were a little stilted, but as they settled down in each other’s company the atmosphere became more relaxed. He asked about her work.
‘I’m freelance. I do a regular two-page spread for one magazine, called From the Catwalk. The magazine provides the photos and I do a review of what’s new. Then I also do a few other articles here and there. Just about enough to keep me in chocolate Hobnobs and Sophie in dog biscuits.’
‘Buona sera, Tom.’ They both looked up. The chef had bought them out their starters himself. Tom leant back as a plate of whitebait was laid in front of him. Ros had opted for goat’s cheese salad. Both looked very appetising.
‘Buona sera, Nino? Come va?’ Tom gave him a broad smile.
‘Non c’e male. E tu?’ Ros watched and listened as the two men chatted in Italian together. She had always loved the sound of the language. After a few moments, the chef returned to more serious matters. ‘Su, su, mangiate. Qui verra freddo.’ He looked across at Ros. ‘Please do start. I mustn’t hold you up. The food needs to be eaten while it’s still hot.’ He bowed to Ros, patted Tom on the shoulder, and returned to the kitchen.
‘That didn’t sound like GCSE Italian.’ She gave him a smile.
‘Not really. I lived there for eight years. You can’t help picking it up if you’re there for that long.’
They started eating. His fish was excellent. He told her some of his experiences of life in Italy. ‘But you must have spent lots of your time in Italy as well, surely? Isn’t that the home of fashion?’
She looked up from a piece of toast. ‘There are a few French fashion houses that might debate that one. But, yes, I have spent quite a bit of time over there, but only working. I’ve always wanted a proper holiday in Italy. Maybe now that I’ve got a bit more time on my hands.’
The conversation became more animated. The food was delicious and he couldn’t have wanted for a better companion. He began to relax. Even when she asked about his current writing project he was able to sidestep it with ease.
‘So much of writing is research, as you well know. I am researching all sorts of things at the moment. I am trying to settle on the historical setting for my next book.’
‘Middle Ages once more?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I think I’ll go for something more recent. I was wondering about the 1920s.’
‘Ah, the flappers and the Beautiful Young Things. The clothes from those years keep coming back into fashion over and over again.’
‘So what sort of clothes did they wear then? Say, in the period between the wars?’
‘You realise,’ she fixed him with serious eyes, ‘you are courting disaster here.’
He grunted, unsure where this was leading.
She smiled broadly as she explained. ‘Asking me about fashion is like asking you about the Cathars or the Knights Templar. Promise me you’ll give me a smack if I go on for more than a couple of hours.’
‘The night is young.’ He sat back and listened.
‘Well, the 1920s were the time when things changed drastically in the battle of the sexes. I’m not talking about Votes for Women or the Wall Street Crash: I don’t mean politically. It was during the 1920s that women started dressing to show off again. In the century before it was the men who wore frilly shirts, velvet breeches, gaudy waistcoats and so on. Victorian women were imprisoned in corsets and pretty universally dressed in dark colours. During the World War I lots of women wore trousers and more utilitarian clothing. In the 1920s it all changed. Imagine a male bullfinch with his glorious red plumage swapping feathers with his drab little wife, or a cockerel swapping with a dowdy hen.’
Her use of the word ‘breeches’ reminded him for a moment of the ‘breachers’, ripped off in one of the erotic stories he had been reading but he managed to stay focused.
‘Men started wearing the sort of boring grey or black suits we still see today, while women blossomed.’
She gave up on her Dover sole and set down her knife and fork. He had already finished eating. He topped up her wineglass, filling his own with water from the jug.
‘And the real revolution,’ she was grinning mischievously, ‘was in underwear. All sorts of new slinky fabrics were coming out at that time. Nylon wasn’t invented till a bit later, but they had stuff called rayon: far cheaper than silk and mass produced. It allowed women to get rid of the bulky old corsets and slip into sexy little numbers. Does the word “camiknickers” mean anything to you?’
He saw the waitress lurking in the background, ready to pounce on the plates, but he avoided her eye.
‘A whole new world. A whole new language.’
‘A camisole joined to a pair of knickers.’ He didn’t know what a camisole was, but he could make an educated guess. She went on. ‘And of course the 1920s were when women all wanted to be slim, flat-chested and androgynous.’
‘And what about ladies with, what I believe you refer to as, a fuller figure?’
‘Ah, that was where the Symington Side Lacer came in. I bet you’ve never heard of that before. An apparatus laced with a vicious series of strings and straps designed to crush your boobs into your chest and make them disappear.’
‘What a terrible shame.’
She caught his eyes as they involuntarily flicked back up from her bust to her face. He looked so guilty, she laughed out loud. ‘Well, I wouldn’t have needed a Symingtom Side Lacer.’
‘Nobody could possibly accuse you of being androgynous.’
‘Well, that was all the rage back then.’ She ignored the compliment. ‘I could go on to tell you about the invention of bras that separated the breasts for the first time, directoire knickers and any number of other innovations, but I sense I am getting too technical. Is that enough?’
It certainly was. His head was reeling. The 1920s certainly sounded interesting. Maybe the book really should be set at that time.
The waitress pounced. ‘Would you like to see the dessert board?’
He looked across at Ros. ‘Dessert?’
‘I couldn’t eat a thing. But don’t let me stop you.’
‘Coffee, tea?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. I haven’t eaten so much, or so well, for months.’
‘Just the bill please.’ The waitress walked off. He sat back in his chair. ‘You know, it has been a really wonderful evening. Will you allow me a personal question?’
She smiled back across the table.
‘How is it that a gorgeous woman like you – beautiful, intelligent, funny – hasn’t been snapped up long ago?’
She didn’t reply immediately. He watched her formulate her answer. ‘I seem to have been asked that a lot over the years. I suppose people think that a reasonably attractive woman only has to click her fingers and men come running.’
‘Well, don’t they?’
‘Some do, of course. But they aren’t very often the right type. Don’t forget that I worked very hard all the way through my twenties. I’ve slowed up a bit now but I’m still engulfed by the fashion industry. You don’t need to be a genius to know that most of the men in that profession are not the right type.’
‘Batting for the other team?’
‘Batting, bowling and keeping wicket. I rarely meet straight men.’
‘I don’t play cricket.’ He thought he had better get that out there. ‘No objection to the game, just don’t play it.’
‘I have already worked that out, Tom. And what about you? How come you have taken a year off? Is that a regular sabbatical thing you professors get?’
He had been dreading this moment, but he had promised himself he would tell her the truth. He took a deep breath.
‘My wife died two years ago.’ He saw her look up. ‘I’m afraid I sort of went to pieces after that. Last summer we all agreed that it would be better if I had a bit of time off.’ His eyes were firmly locked on the table.
She reached across and laid her hand on his. He looked up into her eyes.
‘What was it?’
‘Cancer,’ he replied miserably. ‘Breast cancer that spread.’
‘Oh, Tom, I am so very sorry. It’s such a horrendous thing.’ She gave him a gentle squeeze, before removing her hand. She excused herself and, while she was away, he paid the bill and got the coats. When she reappeared, he helped her into hers in silence. They headed out to the car. The roof and windscreen were white, but it hadn’t hardened into ice yet. A few sweeps of the wipers and a blast of warm air, and he could see clearly enough to drive.
‘That was a lovely treat. Thank you, Tom.’
He managed little more than a grunt in reply. His head was spinning with thoughts of his wife, memories of times together and the misery of her final weeks. As they reached the humpbacked bridge he managed to put some of his thoughts into words.
‘I’m sorry about this, Ros. I don’t mean to be antisocial. I’ve just found myself thinking about Diane … my wife. Do you know, this is the first time I have been out to dinner since her death?’ He felt the wheels slip a fraction on the icy surface but he was going slowly enough to keep control of the vehicle. ‘Whoops, a bit slippery back there. Of course I’ve been out to dinner quite a few times over the last couple of years, but this is the first time I’ve been alone with someone–’ he hesitated, searching for the right words ‘– with someone who means something to me. Sorry if that sounds a bit lame.’
‘Nothing to be sorry about.’ He could hear the warmth in her voice. ‘It must have been awful for you. I can imagine some of what is going through your head. Anyway, I’ve enjoyed this evening a lot. If you feel like repeating the experience you know how to contact me.’ They pulled up outside her cottage. ‘Take as long as you need. I’ll still be here. And it’s my treat next time.’
While he was still trying to decide whether to turn the engine off, get out of the car, accompany her to the door, kiss her goodnight and any number of other imponderables, she opened her door and jumped out.
‘Can you wait here a moment? I have something for you.’ She left him in the car and made her way up the path to her door. He hesitated a bit longer before deciding. He switched off the engine and climbed out in his turn.
He had only reached her garden gate when the spaniel came rushing out in great excitement. He was shielding his genitals when Ros appeared at the door.
‘Here, Tom. This is for you. I would value your opinion.’ She handed him a bag. It was evident that there was a book inside. ‘And thank you again for a very pleasant evening. I’ve enjoyed myself . Very much.’ She reached out, caught him by the arm and gave it a friendly squeeze. ‘Like I said, take your time. Goodnight.’
She and the dog turned and made for the warmth of the house. He returned to the car, the feel of her still on his arm. His mind was miles away. She waved from the doorway. He put the book on the front seat and switched on the engine. He raised his hand in a vague salute and headed for home.
He parked outside his house and climbed out. Remembering her book, he reached back in for it. It had slid out of the plastic bag. It was a hardback book. The interior light showed the title clearly: The Case of the Velvet Ball Gown. His befuddled brain was suddenly catapulted back to reality. Surely it couldn’t be …
‘Oh, no. Oh, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger!’
Forgetting to lock the car, he walked up to his front door in a daze. He opened it. A cold wet nose was waiting for him. Absently, he reached down to scratch the dog’s ears.
‘Noah, old buddy, we are deep, deep, deep in the proverbial.’
The dog did not appear to realise the seriousness of the situation.
‘When she gets to London tomorrow and checks her mail, I’m screwed, Noah, totally screwed.’
Chapter Ten
Janet finished the last page of the report and stretched. Everybody had gone home. Even her faithful PA had finally excused herself and returned to her husband. The door was locked and the illuminated JP RECRUITMENT sign was turned off until Monday morning.
She made herself a cup of herbal tea and took it back to her desk. Behind her the lights of Regent Street blazed into the night sky. Opening the top drawer of her desk, she pulled out the remaining half of her lunchtime packet of sandwiches. As she chewed her way through ‘Low Calorie Roast Chicken and Salad’ she allowed herself to switch off that portion of her brain that dealt with the business. In its place she switched on her literary muse.
Since talking to Melissa the previous day, she had been thinking hard. Here she was, contemplating writing, or at least co-writing, a book about sex, and she hadn’t had sex for years. What she needed was a crash course in sex. Short of going out to a bar and trying to hook up with somebody, she didn’t know what to do. And at her age, she was sensible enough to know that she was not going to do that.
She finished the sandwich and took another sip of tea. Her computer was still on. For a moment she considered trying computer dating but she realised she didn’t have the luxury of time on her side. She really needed to get the thousand words written this weekend and in the post on Monday. That gave her only two days. And, apart from deciding upon the sex act itself, she still needed to make a decision on when and where.
A phone started ringing. It was her mobile and Melissa was on the line.
‘Don’t tell me you’re still in the office.’ They really did know each other so well. ‘Haven’t you got better things to do with your time on a Friday night?’
‘Hi, Melissa. I was just finishing off.’ She glanced at the time and was unsurprised to see it was half past seven.
‘Want to come round here?’
‘Haven’t you and Graham got things to do this evening?’
There was a slight pause. ‘He’s out again. Some business dinner. So, how about it? You can pick up a takeaway on your way over here.’
Janet reached forward and pressed the power switch on her monitor. ‘Great idea. I’ll be there in half an hour. What do you want? Chinese? Indian? Thai?’
‘You choose.’
In the end, she went into the very upmarket fish and chip shop just around the corner from Melissa’s house. They did grilled, as well as fried, fish. She ordered two portions of scallops grilled with bacon. While this was cooking, she slipped next door and bought a bottle of Chablis, cold from the fridge. Five minutes later she was ringing the doorbell.
‘That smells great.’ Melissa ushered her in. There was an open bottle of wine on the kitchen table. ‘Help yourself to some wine while I get plates.’
Janet poured the bottle into the two glasses. A few moments later they were sitting on the sofa, tucking in.
‘Mmm, good choice.’
‘They do really good fish there. I wish I had a place like that near me.’ Janet took her time, savouring the food and realising how hungry she had been. Finally she polished off her plate and drank some more wine. She settled back and relaxed. Her friend followed suit.
‘So, have you decided the what, when and where yet?’
‘No, not really. I suppose I have been so stuck on the what, I haven’t given much thought to the other stuff.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that. You did say you knew lots about the fascist period?’
‘Well, maybe not lots and lots, but yes, I suppose I do. Or at least, I did. But I thought we weren’t getting involved with the Nazis.’
‘We aren’t. What about setting it during the World War II, but over here in London? You know, men going off to war, soldiers on leave and out for a good time. The precarious nature of life in wartime. Living for the moment, that sort of thing. Then there were the GIs hitting the UK, handing out stockings and condoms. That could give you a lot of scope. Have a think.’ With that, she went out to the kitchen, returning with the second bottle of wine. She filled both glasses.
‘I think that might be a really good idea.’ Janet turned it over in her head. ‘Maybe I could make it the final night together for a couple, before he is posted overseas.’
‘Nice idea. Maybe not kinky enough.’
‘He didn’t actually say, make it kinky, you know. You saw the letter.’
‘Yes but with all that talk about Fifty Shades of Grey it’s pretty obvious he’s looking for something a bit out of the ordinary, a bit smutty. If not bondage and spanking, then maybe group sex would do it. Ever tried?’
Janet laughed. ‘No, never. Have you?’
‘I’m not really sure.’
‘What does that mean? Either you did or you didn’t.’
Melissa looked unusually embarrassed. ‘When I was at uni, I went to a party once and got terribly drunk.’ She glanced up. Janet saw that she was blushing. ‘I woke up in the middle of the night feeling ill. It took me a bit of time to register that I was in a bed with three other people.’
‘Three? You terrible girl. Have you any recollection of what did, or didn’t, happen?’
‘Well, sort of. I was stark naked and it took me five minutes to round up all my clothes. They were strewn all round the place: I found my bra down the back of an armchair in the lounge.’
Janet giggled. ‘Oh, Mel! And the men in bed with you, were they naked, too?’
Melissa nodded, then she took a big mouthful of wine. ‘Man.’ Seeing Janet’s raised eyebrows, she explained. ‘One man and two other girls.’
Janet’s eyes widened. ‘Two other girls? So did you and the girls … ?’
Melissa set her glass down and covered her face with her hands, chronically uncomfortable. ‘I really shouldn’t have started on this.’
There was no way Janet was letting her off the hook now. ‘Research. Mel, that’s what I need. Spill the beans.’ She sat back, enchanted by her friend’s discomfort.
‘I just don’t know, Jan. I suppose I might have done, must have done. I just don’t remember. And believe me, I have spent a lot of time trying.’
Janet stared at her in disbelief for a whole minute. Finally she spoke. ‘So, if you did, do you know which one it was?’ A sudden thought struck her. ‘Or might it have been both of them?’
Melissa drained her glass and reached for the bottle. ‘Well, you see, it’s not really that easy. I saw both girls around campus quite often from then on. But you can’t exactly walk up to someone and ask if you’ve had sex with them.’
‘But didn’t they say anything to you?’
‘Not a dickybird. Mind you, they were both drugged out of their heads most of the time.’
‘And the boy?’
‘Never saw him again. No idea who he was.’
‘But I bet he had a smile from ear to ear after that experience.’ She held out her glass for a refill but had to put it down hurriedly as she started to giggle uncontrollably. After a few seconds Melissa joined in. The two of them laughed until the tears were rolling down their faces.
‘Do you know, Melissa, I think that now we have the what, as well as the when and where.’ She wiped her cheeks and calmed herself with a sip of the Chablis. For her part, Melissa gradually recovered from the stress of her revelations. Then she put the cat among the pigeons again.
‘So if you are going to write about a hetero/lesbo four-in-a-bed romp, have you got the necessary skills and experience?’
This stopped Janet’s merriment dead.
Chapter Eleven
Penny had abandoned Émile Zola for the time being. She was sitting at the kitchen table doing her best to compose something suitably raunchy on the laptop. Scott was just finishing the crossword.
‘Scottie, what word should I use for vagina?’
‘What’s wrong with vagina?’
‘I just wonder if it isn’t naughty enough. Should I say … ?’ She paused, unsure how to continue. ‘Should I use a stronger word? Maybe the “c” word?’
‘Woah, there, Pen. This isn’t Lady Chatterley, you know.’
‘Well, to be quite honest, this erotic novel thing is supposed to be a whole lot sexier than Lawrence. We’re talking whips and canes and things.’
‘Yes, Pen, but that’s just kinky stuff. The icing on the cake, so to speak. You can’t use a word like that.’
‘Scottie, you’ve gone quite red. Have I crossed some kind of line here? Is that a taboo word?’
‘Well, how often do you use it? When’s the last time you said to yourself, “I really must scratch my you-know-what”?’
‘I suppose you’re right, not that I scratch my you-know-what half as often as you two boys fiddle with your bits.’
‘It’s complicated down there for us chaps. It all needs rearranging from time to time.’
‘Too much information, thanks, Scottie. But this is set in the 1800s. I can’t use a word like pussy. It’s too modern. Scott, you’ve gone red again.’
‘I’m sorry, Pen, it’s just that I’m not used to having this sort of conversation with you. With Jamie it’s all the time, but with a girl?’
‘So I’m still a girl, am I? I thought I was an old auntie.’
‘I never had an auntie who looked as good as you, Pen.’
‘That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me, Scott. Thank you. Now help me with my vagina.’
‘Oh lord. Well, your piece is set in the South of France, isn’t it? Isn’t there some French word you could use? You could say, he rammed his Aznavour up her Sarkozy, and nobody would be shocked and appalled.’
‘Now there’s a thought.’
‘So how do you say it in French?’
‘Say what, Scottie?’ She pretended innocence.
‘Sarkozy of course.’ He was fighting back.
‘Well, let me see. Do you know, I thought I spoke pretty good French, but I only know one or two very ordinary terms for that part of the body. More to the point, what word would they have used in the nineteenth century? I know. How about chatte? That’s a female cat, but it also works as you-know-what.’
‘Thank God you’ve sorted that out. So, what’s the plot, then? Do I get to read it?’
She had been thinking about that. ‘It’s probably best if you don’t, Scott. It’s bad enough knowing that this Marshall man is going to be reading it. The thought of somebody I know and like … Why, you might be so disgusted, you would never speak to me again.’
‘I won’t be disgusted. I promise. But it might be a good idea to let somebody else see it before you send it in. You know what they say. Two heads etc.’
‘All right then. I’ve just got to stick in a few chattes and I’m done. Upon your own head be it. Why don’t you make us a cup of tea while I’m finishing off?’
He did as bidden, while she inserted a few nineteenth-century French vaginas. As he appeared with the tea, she clicked Save.
‘Well, if you’re sure you want to read it, it’s done. Read it on the screen. That way if anything needs changing, I can do it, before printing it out.’ She passed him the computer and went upstairs.
When she came back down again, he was well into it. He looked up briefly as she came past him. She sat down on the sofa and raised an eyebrow.
‘Disgusted yet?’
‘It’s amazing, Pen. All this time, living alongside you, and I never realised you were such a–’
‘Pervert?’ Her tone was light, but she was worried.
‘No, no, not at all. I was going to say, such a good writer. Can I make a confession?’ He was red in the face. ‘I would never have thought that just reading the written word could give me a hard-on. But it has.’ This time she blushed redder than him.
‘Oh good lord above, your auntie has given you a hard-on?’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time, Pen. If only you knew’, he thought to himself, as he hastily returned his attention to the screen.
He read it through to the end. The last page was particularly striking. The story ended on a note of redemption.
The Marquise bent forward and cupped the girl’s pert little breasts in her hands. As she did so, the stable lad saw again the red stripes across the milky white of her ladyship’s buttocks. He remembered her cries for mercy as he brought the crop down on her naked flesh. It was clear that she had truly learned her lesson. Now, in place of the evil dominatrix, there was only this compliant, docile servant.
He ran a gentle hand across her battered flesh. She turned towards him, a smile upon her face.
‘‘Thank you, Master.’
Scott looked up. His cheeks were red and there were beads of sweat on his brow. She avoided looking at his crotch.
‘So, what do you think?’
‘Penny, have you ever done any of this stuff?’ He sounded hoarse.
‘Nope. Last time I touched a riding crop I was fourteen. And, before you say anything, it was a horse who received the odd whack.’
‘But you write about it so vividly.’ There was admiration in his voice. ‘How do you do that?’
‘Scottie, Émile Zola wrote about coal mining, child birth and prostitution. It’s a pretty safe bet he never tried any of them. It’s called imagination. Plus a fair bit of research in the nether regions of the internet.’
‘Well, you had me convinced. I have to admit, I could see you there.’
She was intrigued. ‘In which role? Hopefully not the stable boy. But did you see me as the maid, or as the Marquise?’ She waited for his answer with considerable interest. She was to be disappointed.
‘I couldn’t possibly say.’
‘You little tease, Scott. So, anyway, any comments, changes, suggestions?’
‘I thought it was very well written. Only one line struck me as a little bit corny. Right at the end, do you really have to describe her butt as milky white? It’s a bit of a cliché, isn’t it?’
‘You’re absolutely right. Thanks a lot. I’ll take milky out. I could use the word virginal, but there’s precious little that’s virginal about the Marquise.’
‘How about referring to the texture of the skin, say pure or flawless?’
‘Flawless, that’s perfect. Thanks Scottie. I’ll print it out. Just promise me one thing. Don’t tell Jamie you’ve read it. I couldn’t stand that.’
‘My lips are sealed. And that’s more than you can say about the Marquise.’
Just for a moment, Penny toyed with the idea of offering to help him with his state of arousal. Then she gave herself a good talking-to: He’s years younger than me. What am I? A cradle-snatcher?’
She stood up. ‘I’m calling it a day. Thanks, Scottie, for your help.’ As she stepped past him, she bent down and kissed him on the cheek.
Chapter Twelve
‘Luca, what do you mean, going away for the weekend?’ Tiffany couldn’t believe her ears.
‘What I said. My mum and dad will look after the kids. I’m taking you away to the country for a little break.’ He reached out and pulled her close. ‘I think we need a little bit of us time.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘Besides, you still haven’t decided when and where for your thousand words.’
‘And we’re leaving this morning?’ She looked at her watch. It was almost eight o’clock. The kids would need to be scrubbed spotless and changed into fresh clothes if they were to go to her Italian mother-in-law’s. Ben, the seven-year-old, hadn’t even had breakfast. He and the other two were in front of the TV in the lounge.
‘Any time today. Now, don’t panic. It won’t take long to get them ready for inspection. I’ll start with Milly. Why don’t you try to get some cereal into Ben?’
In the end it was almost lunchtime before they set off. The kids were delighted to spend some time with their grandparents, knowing full well they would be spoilt rotten.
It was mid afternoon by the time they got there, after stopping for soup and a sandwich en route. The hotel he had chosen was near Woodstock, just to the north of Oxford. It was a charming country house set in its own parkland. They were shown to a large, high-ceilinged room, overlooking the gardens. There was an enormous bed and a marble-clad bathroom. Outside, the temperature was already approaching zero. Inside it was as warm as toast. She stood at the window, staring out into the grounds. A pair of squirrels chased each other up a huge oak tree. Otherwise there was no sign of life anywhere.
Luca came up behind her and kissed her neck. She leant back against him.
‘You know, darling, this was a really, really good idea. It is so good to have a change of scene.’ As she spoke, she let her hands run round behind her back. She felt for him. She was not surprised to feel his erection.
‘Well, well, well, I didn’t see you pack that.’
‘I’m glad we weren’t flying anywhere. The way I feel this weekend, I’d have to pay excess baggage on it.’ His hands reached up from her waist, under her jumper to her breasts. ‘I wonder how many other couples are as lucky as us. It’s been almost ten years, you know.’
‘I love you to pieces, Luca Rossi.’ She turned her head to kiss him.
With gentle pressure on her shoulders, he kept her facing out of the window, as he stripped her naked. At first, she cast anxious glances out through the glass, afraid of being observed. Then, as his hands began their magic, she let her eyes close and went with the flow.
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T A Williams
Tom, a widower and aspiring author (with a penchant for Hobnobs) is in need of a new start. Inspired by his therapist, the ‘Fifty Shades Phenomenon’, and his lack of literary success, he sets out to write an erotic novel – after all, how hard can it be?But as writing erotica proves a challenge for a man more unsure than hardcore, Tom finds himself enlisting the help of an eclectic group of co-authors. Brought together by their authorial ambitions and fondness for innuendo, their project becomes a collaboration that will change lives, open minds … and prompt the purchase of an unfortunate PVC catsuit.Praise for TA Williams'…a very funny story… If you want to read a story with a real plot, and characters that have that real feel to them, and still have some nice fluffiness on the pages of your read, you should definitely pick up Dirty Minds. It was a truly enjoyable read, and I can only recommend it!' - (un)Conventional Bookviews
Tom, a widower and aspiring author (with a penchant for Hobnobs) is in need of a new start. Inspired by his therapist, the ‘Fifty Shades Phenomenon’, and his lack of literary success, he sets out to write an erotic novel – after all, how hard can it be?
But as writing erotica proves a challenge for a man more unsure than hardcore, Tom finds himself enlisting the help of an eclectic group of co-authors. Brought together by their authorial ambitions and fondness for innuendo, their project becomes a collaboration that will change lives, open minds … and prompt the purchase of an unfortunate PVC catsuit.
Effortlessly witty and insightful, Dirty Minds is the story of seven writers, determined to make their mark on the publishing industry. Just as soon as they’ve finished their tea.
Dirty Minds
T. A. Williams
Copyright (#ulink_3b7c21f1-46bc-584f-8c1c-c97e40803c01)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2013
Copyright © T. A. Williams 2013
T. A. Williams asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2013 ISBN: 9781472018182
Version date: 2018-07-23
T. A. WILLIAMS lives in Devon with his Italian wife. He lived and worked in Switzerland, France and Italy, before returning to run one of the best-known language schools in the UK. He has taught people from all over the world, among them Arab princes, Brazilian beauty queens and Italian billionaires. He speaks a number of languages and has travelled extensively. He has eaten snake, live fish, and alligator. A Spanish dog, a Russian bug and a Korean parasite have done their best to eat him in return. He has written historical novels, humorous books and thrillers. His hobby is long-distance cycling, but his passion is writing. You can follow him on Twitter, @TAWilliamsBooks or visit his website: www.tawilliamsbooks.com
I would like to thank Clio Cornish, for her belief in me as a writer and for her insightful suggestions. Thanks also to Alex Baker, who loves good grammar as much as Tom does.
To Mariangela and Christina
For their support
With love.
Contents
Cover (#ua44bf42a-91d3-5b08-a664-1fd6ab6b4440)
Blurb (#u98d7b578-18ee-5c9c-bae8-de1fa34c3020)
Title Page (#uc1622de6-0950-5910-87b7-84b1e5163cf0)
Copyright (#ulink_192646fb-9adb-5c37-9c79-77c3b828d022)
Author Bio (#u21c140dc-b26d-5200-bb0a-da9bf61ded93)
Acknowledgements (#ud8bc9eb7-590f-5dfd-bdc0-06d1ab9806b6)
Dedication (#u2c704981-22c2-5b0f-8cca-4800382050a4)
Chapter One (#u98031c6e-c18f-52c9-9538-1e7765c638bc)
Chapter Two (#u2fe1dc86-a1c4-5359-a1dd-33c2128d9fd8)
Chapter Three (#u5cb4195e-59de-58e0-824a-db06481c2f56)
Chapter Four (#u6f747207-607e-5e0c-b4eb-5d5fe12b1d69)
Chapter Five (#u8cd1fa4e-1e2e-5420-a0d4-6f6f8250af57)
Chapter Six (#u91dd2836-518e-54be-a329-30d41e6f5b37)
Chapter Seven (#u1e8defad-7ea4-55ee-a4c4-763b6ddd569f)
Chapter Eight (#u5c4f71f2-f198-59f1-b49e-894f87dbff7e)
Chapter Nine (#u24d57b29-4ed2-5f65-a5e1-4d6ade00e397)
Chapter Ten (#udc04a369-23a2-5a58-9a91-bdd78e345509)
Chapter Eleven (#ufd0849af-418b-5db4-bbf9-d39c25804e6e)
Chapter Twelve (#u14c6e7d6-cbc1-535a-bd0f-ac9287ddac14)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
FEMALE WRITER
WANTED
To collaborate in writing
Erotic Novel
Experience and imagination
Essential.
Apply:
Box 1546
‘So what’s new in the world of literature, Tom?’
She said the same thing every week. It was pretty obvious that she saw creative writing as a valuable tool in his rehabilitation. He took a surreptitious glance at his watch and sighed: Ten more minutes to go. Casting around for an answer, he hit upon e-publishing. Before long, he found himself trying to explain the phenomenon to her, while she took notes.
‘You’re sitting on the 8.15 to Waterloo, surrounded by commuters. Imagine if you pulled out a well-thumbed paperback, with a huge naked bum on the cover.’
‘A huge what?’ She looked up from her note-pad.
‘Bottom, Cynthia. Or anything naughty. What I mean is that the cover of the book looks smutty. Maybe boasting a tasteful title like Gladys is Taken Roughly from Behind, or whatever.’
‘Is there a book with that title, Tom?’ She was writing again.
‘What? No … or maybe. I don’t know. The title’s not important. Just imagine the scene. You’re sitting on the train, reading porn. It’s a fairly safe bet you would get some very disapproving looks from your fellow commuters.’
‘Well, I should think so, too.’
‘That’s the point I’m trying to make. E-books give you anonymity. I’m sure that’s why Fifty Shades of Grey has sold so well. She started out with it as an e-book, and it sold like hot cakes. You download it onto your tablet, and you can read it anywhere you like. I daresay you can even read it on your phone, if your eyesight’s up to it. And nobody has a clue as to what you are reading. Now do you see?’
‘I suppose so. So what are you saying? Do you want to write a … rude book?’
‘Erotic novel, Cynthia. That’s what they’re called. And, no, I don’t. We were talking about e-books, and I was just giving you an example.’ He sighed inwardly. What had he done? He watched her scribbling furiously. Now she had a whole new line of attack. She didn’t waste much time in launching into it.
‘Do you read a lot of … this sort of book?’ She was looking at him over the rims of her glasses. She often did that. Maybe she thought he would feel less under analysis that way.
‘No, I don’t. And, Cynthia, before we get onto the subject once more, I’m not sexually repressed or frustrated.’
‘Of course you’re not, Tom. Although it would be quite understandable, quite normal, given the circumstances.’
‘Well I’m not. Really.’
‘Of course you’re not.’ As she repeated her words, he could plainly hear that she wasn’t convinced. ‘But writing is very good therapy, you know.’
‘I know, Cynthia. I spend hours every day doing it.’
‘Yes, but your books are a bit bleak, a bit morbid.’ Ever since he had been persuaded to give her his latest manuscript, she had been like a dog with a bone.
‘I’ve told you, the Middle Ages were a cruel time. Some terrible things were happening back then.’
‘Of course, Tom. That’s why I think you should go for a change of subject. Try something lighter, something frivolous.’
‘To be perfectly honest, Cynthia, I really haven’t felt light or frivolous for a hell of a long time now.’
In spite of her best efforts, the session ended, as so often, on a depressing note.
The following Sunday morning was grey and cold, even for February. He was reading the books section of Saturday’s Western Morning News. As usual, he scanned the new releases with brooding resentment.
‘What have they got that my three haven’t?’ He prodded the dog with his foot. ‘Look, Noah, two of them are historical novels, too.’ All he got in response was a long-suffering sigh.
An article headed EROTIC HISTORIES AND MURDER MYSTERIES FOR THE YEAR AHEAD caught his attention. The writer was interviewing the new fiction previewer of The Bookseller magazine, Cathy Rentzenbrink. When asked if erotic fiction had had its day, she replied. ‘No. Erotica will continue to do well … I think there will be more historical erotica – think Fifty Shades of Lady Jane Grey … ’
He put the newspaper down. Pulling himself to his feet, he filled the kettle and stuck it on the stove. Sensing movement, the dog opened one eye. There was just a chance that the chocolate Hobnobs might be brought out of the fridge. Noticing this sign of interest, Tom addressed him.
‘Cynthia might be right after all, Noah. Maybe that really is what I should go for. Another historical novel, but an erotic one this time. If the publishers don’t want my serious stuff, I’ll give them a bit of smut. And they can pump it out as an e-book. An erotic e-book.’
He spooned coffee into his mug and added hot water. What was it Cynthia had said? ‘Something light, something frivolous’? Maybe something lightweight would do him good. It might even be fun. And, in this house, fun had been in short supply for two long years now.
He was unconcerned that he had no previous experience of either erotic or electronic literature. He remembered a battered copy of Emanuel does Somewhere or Other that lived in the staff lounge of his first place of work. Unfortunately he had only flicked through the photos and could recall none of the text. Over the years, he had occasionally seen bits of dirty movies, but the dialogue rarely got beyond ‘Oh my God, that’s huge’ or ‘Yes, yes, yes’. But surely, with a fertile imagination, in spite of his far from encyclopaedic experience in the subject, he could give it a go.
The secret of success in historical fiction is research. His previous books were all set in the Middle Ages. He had read a huge amount about the period between the First Crusade and the trial of the Knights Templar. As a result, he felt he knew a good deal about that period. So what about an erotic novel set way back then?
The problem that immediately faced him was one of degree. The modern reader is regularly blasted with images of near-naked men and women. It wasn’t like that back then. A loose lock of hair, hanging out of a lady’s wimple would have been enough to give all the Knights of the Round Table a hard-on. A bare ankle and they would have been bursting out of their codpieces.
‘And don’t let’s forget that personal hygiene was very different in those days. Are you listening, dog? That’s never been your strong suit.’
All his reading had told him that water was, quite rightly at the time, deemed dangerous. Washing only took place in the Middle Ages if one was unfortunate enough to fall into a river. So it was a fairly safe bet that, as the Marquise pulled down Sir Shagalot’s undergarments, a toxic cloud, possibly accompanied by blood-sucking parasites, would have assaulted her.
So, regretfully, he decided to set his novel in a different, more hygienic period. The question was which? This would mean research. The research, he realised, would have to encompass more than the historical setting. He would need experience of other erotic novels, particularly those with a historical setting. He turned to the internet.
A search for ‘historical sex’ brought 195,000,000 results in 0.25 seconds. Clearly he was not the first to think of this topic. The websites varied from encyclopaedia entries, through cases of historical sex abuse, to explicit sex sites. He tried again. This time he added the word ‘stories’. This came up with 4,906,000 results, including a wide selection of titles and collections. He started to read.
It didn’t take long before he was disgusted and appalled.
‘I don’t believe it: “He pined me down and riped off my bloomers.” Has the writer no shame? How could anybody call that literature, Noah?’ He found himself snorting again. ‘And what about this? “He managed to undone his breachers.” It isn’t even the right tense – undo, undid, undone, everybody knows that! The writer is semi-literate at best. Maybe a foreign student practising his English. A Labrador could do better. And yet this story has been viewed 46,600 times. It’s unbelievable.’
Apart from eccentric spelling, some of the punctuation left a lot to be desired. His eyes fell on the line ‘Why are you still up Anna?’ He checked the context. Yes, there was definitely a comma missing before the girl’s name; a comma that could make quite a difference to Anna. There was no doubt that the spelling and grammar were, to his eyes, far more obscene than the graphic description. But some people shock more easily than others.
Gradually, as he clicked his way through the websites, he managed to find better quality writing. As far as the period in history was concerned, there seemed to be a distinct preference for the nineteenth century. Regency romps outnumbered the others by far. The characters enjoyed names like Rafe, Marcus, Hermione or Jocasta. Maids seemed to have a particularly bad time of it. Masters were universally sadistic, mistresses of the house overwhelmingly Sapphic. As a critique of the British aristocracy, it was pretty uncompromising. The vast majority of lords, earls and duchesses of that era were kinky as hell. Orangeries, boathouses and pergolas were the venues of choice, if the dungeons were otherwise engaged. Bodices were indeed ripped, silk hose laddered and whalebone snapped. The men were, without exception, amazingly well-endowed. The women, whether willing partners or not, always capable of arousal: ‘I’m sorry, my lord, but I’ve got a headache,’ was not a common line in this genre.
An amazing amount of whipping, beating, slapping and spanking went on. Riding crops were particularly popular, although leather belts could be pressed into service if a crop was unavailable. Scented candles, mood music and gentle foreplay were spectacularly missing at that time, at least as portrayed by writers with names like Lacy Bows, Virginia Silk or Moon Love.
Those names set him thinking. He knew that a woman had written Fifty Shades of Grey. From the reviews he had read, she had aimed it at women. At first sight, it looked as though these internet stories were also the work of female writers. Was he getting out of his depth here?
‘Do we know enough about women, Noah?’
The Labrador’s interest in the opposite sex had been removed by the vet some years previously. He was going to be of little help.
‘If you can’t beat them, join them. No pun intended, old chum. What I need is some female input.’
And so it was that the idea came to him. He needed a female co-author, maybe with a name like Lacy Bows or Virginia Silk. He would place an advert.
As for himself, should he also adopt a nom de plume? If so, should it be masculine or feminine? As he intended collaborating with a woman, it seemed sensible to go with a man’s name. Indeed, the book itself should bear the names of both writers. But adopting an alias would be wise. If the book were to hit the headlines, then it might be better if the postman did not recognise him as the writer of a pile of filth.
‘Not filth, though, Noah. It’s erotica we’re purveying. This will not be a dirty book. The trick is to produce something erotic and arousing, but still tasteful. We have to ensure that we are graphic enough to titillate, but not vile enough to disgust.’
Easier said than done.
Chapter Two
He wasn’t sure what to expect. Maybe nothing, maybe a sack full of replies. As it turned out, he got nine.
Two were instant rejections.
‘“Seperate”? Now really!’ He was snorting out loud. He found himself doing that more and more these days. In the same paragraph he found another spelling mistake and several inappropriate semi-colons. The snorting grew louder. Seeing no point in progressing beyond the first paragraph, he discarded the letter. He tried the next one.
‘Oh dear lord!’ This time the Labrador opened an eye in mild surprise. Pleased at this sign of participation, he addressed his comments to the dog, something else he found himself doing more and more often of late. ‘Since when have plurals required apostrophes? Even you know that, Noah. Lynn Truss wouldn’t approve.’ This followed the same fate as the other letter.
The remaining letters looked more promising. He took them down to the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea. As he took the milk out of the fridge, his eye fell on the chocolate Hobnobs. He put the packet on the table. The dog, roused by the sound of the fridge door, materialised at his feet, Big mournful eyes focused on the biscuits. He picked up the next letter.
‘“Dear Sir/Madam”’ Only then did it occur to him he should have revealed his gender in the advert. To him it had seemed obvious. He was a man and, as such, he could only write from a male perspective. All right, he told himself, there’s such a thing as imagination. But if he were to write a work capable of catapulting him up the cresting wave of Fifty Shades of Grey, he was going to need both points of view. It was so obvious he had omitted to mention it.
The writer of this letter sounded bright, sane and interested in the project. Her literary credits were little better than his, but her CV did at least indicate a good education. She included no personal details about herself. He applauded that. Her address was in North London and she included an e-mail address. At the bottom of the page, above her signature, she had scribbled the words, ‘I think this could be fun’. She signed the letter Janet Parr. Insofar as an e-mail address confirms anything, hers confirmed her name.
He tucked the letter under the biscuits, mentally including it in the ‘Possibles’ pile. Before he could pick up the next letter, he heard a jingling noise. The dog had fetched his lead from the chair and was indicating that it was time for a walk.
‘All right, Noah. A bit of fresh air will do us both good.’
Although the rain had stopped for the moment, the grey clouds looked foreboding and the field was saturated. Mud built up under the soles of his Wellingtons as he splashed along the path. He had to keep stopping to scrape it off. Undeterred, the Labrador headed straight for the river and plunged in. Tom located a suitable stick and threw it for him. The game consisted of his attempting to pick up the stick, retrieved by the dog, without getting soaked as the dog shook himself. As usual, Noah won.
While he walked along the riverbank, gradually getting wetter and wetter, his mind was free to wander. This new project looked like being a breath of fresh air. And Cynthia was right. He knew he needed something to take him out of himself, away from his misery. Whether a smutty book was the answer to his problems remained to be seen.
He came to the fallen tree where they had both sat so often, watching Noah playing puppy games. He closed his eyes and saw her face again, still so clear in his memory. Not the pain-wracked gauntness of her final weeks, but her young, fresh face from the early days. His head dropped. The dark thoughts returned to fill his head once more. The dog, recognising the symptoms, realised the game was over. He came across and nuzzled Tom’s hand.
‘Thanks, Noah. You’re a pal.’
Pleased to be acknowledged, the dog shook himself again, this time at very short range. The freezing shower roused Tom and set him off again along the path.
He breathed deep and forced his mind back onto happier things. The choice of a historical period wasn’t going to be easy. As for a place, well, here in Devon was as good as any. And he knew it so very well. But the subject matter wasn’t going to be straightforward. His experience of smut was very limited.
His musings were interrupted by the arrival of a very bouncy Springer spaniel. It appeared from behind, almost taking his legs out from under him as it squeezed past on the narrow path. Wheeling round, it leapt up to greet him, catching him painfully in the lower abdomen. As he folded forwards, clutching himself, he heard a familiar voice.
‘I’m so sorry, Tom. She’s very excited today, for some reason.’ It was the lady from the house by the river. He knew the dog was called Sophie. He had been told her owner’s name but had forgotten it. She was wearing her usual shapeless waterproof jacket and a woolly hat obscured most of her head.
‘Oh, hello. Sophie took me by surprise, I’m afraid. I was miles away.’ He removed his hands from his groin and managed to stand almost upright again. ‘Here comes the rain.’ In true British tradition, it seemed sensible to turn the conversation from his bruised genitals to the weather.
‘Sophie, bad girl. Stay down. Just push her away, Tom, if she tries that again. Yes, it’s looking really grey up there now. Might be wise to head for home. You all right? You look a bit glum.’
‘All right? Yes, fine thanks. Just lost in my thoughts, I’m afraid.’
‘Cheer up. It may never happen.’ She turned away with a wave.
He kept his voice low, so she wouldn’t hear. ‘It already has.’
The other respondents to the advert all had their merits. One had clearly decided that he was a woman, the others hedged their bets. One already had a published book to her credit. Closer inspection of the title, and a quick check on the laptop, revealed it to be self-published. This was not necessarily a bad thing. At least it showed she had the will and the stamina to write 100,000 words. Over his years of fruitless attempts to find a publisher, he had also come perilously close to going it alone. Only a lingering sense of pride had stopped him. He now knew that pride is a luxury aspiring writers can ill-afford.
The Case of the Velvet Ball Gown did not immediately leap out and grab him. From the bookseller’s blurb it sounded like a fairly ordinary murder mystery. And at £13.99 in hardback he couldn’t imagine she had sold thousands. Her signature, CV and e-mail address matched. The name was Rosalind Waters, and her address was in Hammersmith, London.
Deciding on the other four did not take long. The one who assumed he was a woman sounded a bit vague. She had not bothered to enclose a CV, although she mentioned a degree in French. All she provided was her name, Penelope Grainger, and an address in Nottingham. She listed no writing credits. He decided not to allow this to colour his judgement. He had, after all, nothing but a short story and a couple of textbooks to his credit. On the other hand, she wrote clearly and correctly. No split infinitives, misplaced punctuation, or prepositions floating at the end of a sentence. He liked that. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.
The next was from a woman called Ariadne Anstruther.
‘Noah, have you ever met an Ariadne? I’m sure I haven’t. I suppose she abbreviates it, but how the hell do you abbreviate Ariadne? She can hardly call herself Arry? What were her parents thinking? Mind you, there was that child named after all the players in the winning world cup football team … ’
Her CV looked impressive, at least educationally. She had a first class degree in English, plus an MA in Creative Writing. She was working as a journalist in South London and wrote articles for various magazines. No book credits yet, but work in hand.
‘I like the sound of this one, Noah.’ She was given pride of place, on the top of the ‘Possibles’ pile.
The next was less impressive, at least visually. The paper was flimsy, the presentation of the letter poor, and the style rather staccato. There was little attempt at politeness. She claimed to have written a number of short stories but without any luck on the publishing front. This lack of success endeared her to him, so he added her to the pile. Her address was in Bristol, her name Maggie Perkins.
The last sounded very nice, maybe a bit too nice. She gave the names of her three ‘little ones’, along with details of a few articles she had had published. Her educational background was Oxford, no less. She wrote in a clear, open style. Her home was in Stevenage, and her name Tiffany Rossi. Whether the surname was her maiden name, or her husband’s, was not clarified. Certainly the name Tiffany didn’t sound very Italian.
In the end, he added all of the letters to the ‘Possibles’ pile. He now had to whittle his six possible co-authors down to one winner. He would need to devise a test of some kind. And he would need to decide upon a time and a place for the book. As he scratched the dog with his foot, it occurred to him that he could kill two birds with one stone: He would ask his Possibles pile as part of their test. Maybe one of them had a favourite period of history. He could then research it. A trip to the university library, a few days of study, and he would be ready to go.
His copy of Fifty Shades of Grey arrived on the Saturday. He settled down to read it that evening. It was hard going. It took him until the following Wednesday to get through it. He could only cope with short bursts, not because of the content, but the style. When he finally set it down, it left him puzzled.
He told Cynthia all about it at his next session.
‘Leaving aside the sentence construction and the punctuation, it’s nothing like as erotic as I thought it would be. It’s all relationship stuff, with a bit of sex thrown in. Well, all right, there’s more than a bit of sex, and it is a bit bizarre, but I was expecting more. I am quite disappointed.’
‘Would you have preferred more sex?’ He recognised her tactful tone. It was the same one she had used a few months earlier when enquiring, casually, if he masturbated regularly. This time he restrained himself.
‘It’s not a question of preference. This book has been hyped up as the smuttiest thing ever to hit the mainstream, and it isn’t. Have you read it?’
He had the satisfaction of seeing her cheeks flush. Did this mean she had read it? He took the opportunity to go on the attack.
‘They say it’s a book by a woman for women. Did you think that? Did it speak to you, Cynthia?’ He was delighted to see her discomfort grow.
She cleared her throat before replying. ‘Mmm, I don’t know. I only flicked through it.’ She looked up from her pad. He noticed that she had stopped writing. ‘My sister gave it to me to read.’
‘Do you and your sister often read that sort of thing?’
‘No, of course not.’ Her tone was unusually sharp. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. ‘But the fact remains, that one of you forked out good money to buy it. And millions of others have done the same.’
She collected herself. ‘So is that what you plan to do, then? Write something similar?’
He told her about the Western Morning News article. She scribbled dutifully. ‘So, you see, Cynthia, I think you were right. I maybe do need to try something frivolous.’
She looked up from her pad with a broad smile. She so rarely displayed emotion that it took him aback.
‘Tom, that’s really good news. I’m so glad you think like that. I’m sure you will benefit greatly from a change of direction in your writing. Less medieval warfare, mutilation and death, more fun and–’ she hesitated, searching for the word ‘–smut. Why not?’
‘There is, of course, the question of the subject matter. I just hope I know enough about it.’
After Tom had left the consulting rooms, Cynthia wandered through to reception. Debbie was in the process of closing up.
‘Hi, Cynthia. How’s it going with the gorgeous professor?’
‘Definite progress, Debs.’ She decided that client confidentiality would not be breached if she mentioned his new project. ‘He’s going to write a dirty book.’
Debbie’s eyes opened wide. ‘Well, be sure to tell him if he needs any help with his research, I’m always available.’
For a moment, Cynthia felt like saying ‘Join the queue’ but she retained a dignified silence.
Chapter Three
It was pouring outside. Janet’s new shoes were sodden. Just getting from Highgate station to the door had soaked her. Dumping her umbrella in the pot behind the door, she reached for the envelope lying on the mat. She turned it over in her hands. It was a white A4 envelope, thick enough to contain two or three sheets of paper. Her name and address were handwritten, indicating presumably that he did not have a secretary. He had opted to call her ‘Ms Janet Parr’. She remembered that she had not indicated her marital status in her letter to him.
She hung her raincoat by the mirror and sat down on the bottom stair. Kicking off her shoes, she pushed them under the radiator. The handwriting told her little about him. It did, however, tell her a little about who he was not. It was neat and clear, not the flowery hand of an elderly person, nor the scrawl of a medic. The letter size was large enough to make it unlikely to be the work of an accountant or scientist. It was not flamboyant enough to be that of an artist. The postmark showed it had been posted at 5.30 p.m. the previous evening, in Exeter, Devon.
He had sealed the letter and then added a strip of adhesive tape. She approved. This was the sign of a thorough and cautious mind. She reflected that it also reduced the chance of the postman finding himself with sheets of erotic prose spilling out into his hands. As she broke the seal she wasn’t sure what to expect. The size of the envelope gave her hope that she might be successful. After all, previous rejections had rarely exceeded a card, an e-mail or a single sheet of paper. Would this contain erotic prose, she wondered?
It did not. There was a letter, neatly set out, signed Thomas Marshall. In it, he informed her that she had been shortlisted for the position. The position was to co-author a piece of historical erotica; she providing the female input, he the male. In order to allow him to make a final decision, he was asking the shortlisted candidates to complete a specimen piece of work. Details were to be found on the enclosed sheet. She turned to the next page with interest. It was brief and to the point.
Please choose a period in history and a location with which you are familiar. Using these parameters, please write a minimum of one thousand words, describing a sexual encounter involving one, two, three or more people of either sex. Choice of characters and sexual act(s) totally your own.
So far so good, she thought to herself. Pretty much what she had been expecting, ever since her inexplicable decision to answer the advert. It seemed reasonable that he would want proof that she could write. And there was always the question of whether she knew enough about the subject. That had been worrying her quite a bit. She read on.
It may be useful if you remember the following:
Fifty Shades of Grey, at the last count, has sold 65 million copies. It is the fastest selling paperback of all time. It does not, however, just consist of sex scenes. We need to be capable of producing a story that compels the reader to turn the pages. The sex scenes should add spice rather than being the main substance.
When assessing how graphic to make your description, I would suggest that we are setting out to shock, ma non troppo. Try writing something you might not feel comfortable showing to your mother. At the same time, it should not unduly shock your sister or your best friend.
She reflected that her mother would, without question, have shocked less easily than her big sister. At the same time she was grateful to him for spelling it out. The sheet ended with notes about the contractual arrangements, reimbursement of expenses and division of royalties. It all looked fair. He ended with the words:
Collaborative writing will involve joint decision-making and, inevitably, compromise. Please bear this in mind if you are offered the position. For my part, I pledge that I will endeavour to keep an open mind at all times.
She folded the pages and slipped them back into the envelope. She knew she could write. She had been writing articles, stories and unfinished books for as long as she could remember. But she had never tried anything like this before.
‘I’d better talk to Melissa.’
Chapter Four
‘Ariadne, oh Ariadne darling.’
Jimmy was affecting a high-pitched, nasal whine. His voice echoed up the stairs.
Clinton stirred. Out of habit, he looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was almost lunchtime.
‘Thank God it’s Saturday.’
‘Who’s Ariadne?’ The girl’s voice was sleepy.
‘That would be me.’
He climbed out of bed and opened the curtains. A gusty wind whipped the rain diagonally across the glass. He could barely make out the shape of the houses across the road: A good day for going back to bed again. He turned away and surveyed the chaos in the room. Her clothes were strewn across the floor, as were his. Her red bra was draped across the reading light. The Chablis they had spilt on the desktop was congealing, the shape of her buttocks still discernible in the sticky mess. He licked his lips. Among all the other tastes, there was definitely Chablis.
He opened the door, and wandered out onto the landing.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, put some clothes on, Clint.’ Jimmy had brought the post upstairs.
‘That’s Ariadne, to you, James.’ He did his best to imitate Jimmy’s high-class accent. Jimmy did it better, but then he always had had a way with words. ‘Leave the letter there, my man. One is going for a piss.’
When he emerged from the bathroom, he picked up the large A4 envelope, addressed to Ms Ariadne Anstruther. He took it back into the room. Dolores had gone back to sleep, so he didn’t disturb her. He dug out a clean sweatshirt and jeans and sat on the edge of the bed, as he pulled on socks and shoes.
Inside the envelope was a letter addressed to Ms Anstruther. He checked the signature. He had been right in his assumption that it was a man. Feeling hungry, he wandered downstairs to the kitchen. Jimmy was sprawled in the lounge, watching football.
‘Coffee?’
Jimmy raised a thumb.
Clinton went into the kitchen. As the coffee machine wheezed into life, he read through the letter. When the green light came on, he made two big cappuccino coffees. He went back into the lounge.
‘Here.’ He pushed the cup into Jimmy’s hand. ‘And take a look at this. We have a result!’
‘One thanks one, Ariadne dearest. Pray tell me, is this coffee the finest arabica, or is one slumming it with Brazilian?’
‘Just read the fucking letter, Jimbo.’
Jimmy read it through. From time to time, he looked across at his friend. Finally he laid it down.
‘Historical, that’s awesome. What the hell do you know about historical sex?’
‘I know sex, Jimmy. The historical is just a matter of digging around a bit on the internet. All we’ve got to do is choose a century. You know anything about history?’
‘I know it’s light years since I got lucky.’
‘I’m serious. I need a time and a place.’
‘I’m serious too. What I need is a woman. And you also need what he calls an “encounter”.’
‘That’s the easy part. I won’t just write it, I’ll perform it.’ His thoughts flitted briefly back the girl upstairs. ‘If I haven’t already done it.’
Jimmy had a stroke of genius. ‘How about cavemen? If we go with cavemen, there’s no dates to get wrong, or other stuff. Imagine if we made it, say, only a couple of hundred years ago. Have you any idea what was going on then, who the king was, or stuff like clothes? Hell, the ladies’ underwear was probably whalebone corsets.’
‘And chastity belts.’ Clinton really didn’t know much about history. ‘Cavemen is good. I like cavemen. I always thought Barney Rubble’s wife was hot.’
‘Wilma?’
‘No, the other one, I’ve forgotten her name. Wilma was Fred Flintstone’s wife. But cavemen is good. Now what about where?’
‘Does it matter? If we are going back a few million years, anywhere will do.’
‘How many million years are we going back?’
‘Ten, maybe?’ Jimmy was a good accountant, but he didn’t know much about history either.
‘Fine, we’ll make it ten million years ago. As for the place, we’ll need caves. You any idea where there are caves?’
‘Underground.’
‘Yeah, right,’
‘I think this is where we turn to our faithful laptop. We’ll find some caves somewhere easy enough. Cheddar Gorge, maybe? That sounds like the kind of place we want.’
‘Now then, all I’ve got to do is to decide what sort of sex to give him.’ Clinton was going to enjoy this part of it.
‘Caveman sex. Hit them over the head with a club and drag them into the cave. But he’s probably looking for a bit more than that. All this talk about Fifty Shades of Grey, he probably wants it a bit weird.’
‘You don’t get much weirder than hitting a chick over the head and dragging her into a cave.’
‘Yes, nowadays. But way back then, they were all doing it. Ten million years ago, stockings and suspenders would have been really kinky.’
‘Jimmy, my boy, stockings and suspenders are dead kinky nowadays, too.’
Chapter Five
‘Fancy a walk?’
The dog’s response to the question was animated. He rushed over to the chair in the corner and fetched his lead. Tom pulled on his heavy jacket and a woolly hat. Outside it was blowing hard, although the rain had stopped. If anything, it was colder than before. It looked like February was going to be bad all the way through to the end. He clipped on the lead and let himself be tugged down the road. By the time they reached the footpath, the rain had started again. He pulled up his collar with grim resignation.
‘Well, we’re here now.’
He released Noah to run in the field, while he reviewed his plans for the new book. Clearly, if they were to convince a publisher to take them on they would need to come up with more than just sex. He needed a compelling storyline, and one that would appeal to women. But what did women want to read? He had hardly so much as spoken to one for two years now. And Cynthia didn’t count. What would Diane have said? He was feeling more and more out of his depth.
Apart from wading through that damn book, as he found himself calling it he had continued his investigation of erotic literature. There turned out to be hundreds of websites specialising in stories of a sexual nature. Many of the collections were so big that readers were offered the chance to select whatever specific genre they preferred. Underneath the title and brief synopsis of each story, there would be symbols or words, specifying the contents.
He soon worked out that MM, FFM, FFF referred to the gender of the participants. Some of the descriptors were self-evident, such as Lesbian, Gay or Group. Some were not so clear. For example, BDSM pretty obviously referred to Bondage and Sadomasochism, but Spanking was a category to itself. Hard-core existed as a distinct category, but for the life of him he couldn’t see any difference between it and BDSM. Most unexpected of all, there often appeared to be no classification for traditional sex involving one man and one woman.
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the lady from the house by the river and her spaniel. This time, Tom saw them coming and was able to shield himself from the dog’s effusive greeting.
‘Oh, hi.’ If only he could remember her name. ‘Surprise, surprise, it’s raining again.’
‘Hi, Tom. Sophie, leave Tom alone. She’s really taken a shine to you, hasn’t she? Down, Sophie.’
Noah returned, now dripping wet. His arrival had the advantage of interrupting the spaniel’s attempts to emasculate Tom. The two dogs embarked upon a steeplechase, while the rain began to fall in earnest. By now they were at the other end of the field, approaching the river. Seeing home at hand, the spaniel abandoned Noah.
‘Look, Tom, it’s absolutely pouring. Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea while it passes over?’ She already had the garden gate open. The rain was quite torrential. He did not hesitate.
‘That’s really very kind. I think shelter would be wise.’
The house was more of a cottage, with thatched roof, small windows and a low doorway. She ushered him into a scullery that smelt of wet dog. The spaniel allowed itself to be towelled dry. He hung his coat on the back of the door and stepped out of his boots, while Noah, true to his name, settled himself in a puddle on the floor.
‘Come in, come in. The dogs will be fine there.’ She led him through into the kitchen. The noise of the rain beating against the window and onto a tin roof somewhere outside was deafening. She filled the kettle, indicating to him to sit down at the table. It was a cosy room, the low ceiling punctuated by huge beams. A Welsh dresser filled most of one wall, while modern kitchen units ran the length of the other.
‘What a day. You’d be soaked through if you were still out there.’
He turned back towards her. She had removed the jacket and the hat. She was bending away from him, pulling off her woolly socks. Whether it was the result of his recent reading or just a conditioned male reaction, his attention was immediately taken by the perfect proportions of her bottom. She straightened up and turned towards him, a friendly smile on her face. Seeing her for the first time without her heavy outer clothing, he realised that she was truly gorgeous.
‘Good lord.’ He was unable to stop himself.
An expression of concern crossed her face. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘No, no, no. Nothing at all. I just got a surprise when I saw your face, that’s all.’
‘Not an unpleasant surprise, I hope.’ The smile was back.
‘Not at all. I just hadn’t realised you were–’ he tried to think of an adjective less emotive than gorgeous ‘– so attractive.’ He saw her register the compliment, and rushed to temper it. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say things like that. It’s just that in all these months of passing you in the fields, I wasn’t expecting you to be so –’ He was in trouble again.
She took pity on him. ‘You scrub up pretty well yourself. Anyway, thank you for the compliment. A girl likes to hear that she’s still got it.’ The kettle boiled and clicked off. She busied herself with making the tea. A bowl of sugar appeared on the table, but he declined with a shake of the head. A packet of chocolate Hobnobs appeared from the fridge. He gave her a smile.
‘That must be fate. We share the same taste in biscuits. Thank you.’ He took the mug of tea and warmed his hands gratefully around it. She sat down opposite him and proffered the packet of biscuits.
‘Want one?’
‘Very definitely.’ He took one, relieved to see that his hands were not shaking. He had not been in close proximity to a beautiful woman for quite a while now. He cleared his throat. ‘Can I make a confession?’
‘Forgive me father, for I have sinned.’ She was still smiling. ‘Go on, get it off your chest.’
‘I’m really sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘It’s Ros. And don’t let it bother you. I remember yours, because I’ve got a brother called Tom. Of course, I’ve known Noah’s name for ages. So what do you do, Tom, if I may ask?’
He allowed his eyes to rest on her as he formulated an answer. She could have come straight out of the pages of Vogue. She was tall and slim. Her hair was a sort of browny-reddish colour, her face speckled with occasional freckles. He made a mental note to check the proper names for women’s hair colouring. Was that auburn, maybe?
‘Is your hair auburn?’
She blinked, reflected, then answered. ‘Sounds good to me. It’s been all colours over the years, and it’s been called a few different names. This is natural me again. I like auburn. We’ll go with that. Now, weren’t you going to tell me what you do for a living?’
‘I write.’ He saw her glance up, and he hastened to clarify. ‘At least, that’s what I spend a lot of my time doing. My normal job is at Exeter University. I teach English, but I’ve taken a year off.’
‘Is that so? Well, we would seem to have more in common than chocolate Hobnobs. I do a bit of writing myself. What are you writing at present?’
He suddenly felt very embarrassed. He took refuge in a version of the truth.
‘Historical novels, mainly. I’ve just finished a trilogy set in the Middle Ages.’
‘Wow. Have you done lots of research? Are you doing research at the moment?’
The embarrassment returned.
‘I had to do lots for the medieval stuff. I came to history relatively late on. I’ve spent most of my spare time over the past ten years reading anything I could get hold of about the twelfth to fourteenth centuries.’
‘Twelfth to fourteenth. That would be before the Tudors and the Stuarts, wouldn’t it? That’s about all the history I did at school.’ She sounded interested.
‘A fair bit before. Henry VII was the first of the Tudor line. If I remember right, he came to power in the 1480s, after the Battle of Bosworth Field. No, my period covers the Crusades, the Cathars, Knights Templar. I suppose we’re talking about a couple of hundred years earlier. To be honest, most of my research has been on French history. I’m not that well up on England.’
‘Who were the Cathars, again?’ She screwed up her face and tilted her head to one side, as she struggled to remember. Even with her face screwed up, she still looked amazing.
‘Southern France in the 1200s. They were wiped out by the Catholic Church. Their beliefs were branded as heretical.’
‘“Branded as heretical?” Why do you say that? Weren’t they heretics?’
‘They called themselves “Good Christians”. Their views were unorthodox, but not deserving of genocide. They believed in the duality of God –’ He stopped himself in time. ‘I’m sorry, unless you are very careful you’ll still be here tomorrow morning, with me droning on. So what about you? What sort of writing do you do? Wait a minute, let me guess. You’re a fashion journalist. Am I right?’
To his surprise, she nodded. ‘That’s what pays the bills, and lets Sophie and me live down here in the country six days a week.’
He noted that she only mentioned herself and the dog.
‘For fun, I write whodunits. At least I’ve finished one, and I’m thinking about the next. But tell me, how do I get hold of these books of yours?’
‘Not on the shelves, I’m afraid. I’ve been beating my head against a wall for years, trying to get somebody in the trade to read one of them. Every time I send off a synopsis I get the same reply: “I’m afraid” – ’
‘“Your work is not suitable for our list.”‘ Clearly this was something else they had in common. ‘“But this does not mean to say that another publisher or agent or whatever won’t find your work appealing etc. etc.” Signed by a girl called Fenella or Lysistrata. Tell me about it. I’ve been there too.’
He changed the subject in case she asked him what research he was currently undertaking. ‘So you spend six days here each week. What about the seventh?’ He really wanted to know with whom she spent the seventh.
‘I’ve got a little place in London. Sophie and I take the train up most Sundays. If all goes well, we are back on the train again on Monday evening. Although I work from home most of the time, I like to keep up personal contact with my editor. I wouldn’t want her to forget me.’
‘I can’t imagine anybody forgetting you in a hurry.’
If she heard what he said, she gave no sign. ‘Of course, during spring and autumn collection time, I’m away a bit more. But I love Devon, and can’t wait to get back down here. And dear old Soph loves it to death.’
‘So when are you off to the bright lights again?’
‘Well, my editor is on holiday in the Caribbean, so I haven’t been up to London this week. I imagine I’ll be off on Sunday.’
‘So you will be here on Saturday?’
‘I certainly will.’
‘If you’ve nothing better to do, perhaps you might let me buy you dinner to say thank you for the tea and the shelter?’ Asking a woman out was something else he hadn’t done for quite some time. He suddenly found himself feeling quite unusually nervous.
‘Dinner in return for a cup of tea seems a rather unfair trade. But, if you are sure, I’d love to.’
He felt his spirits soar. But, no sooner had he registered his delight, than a sense of guilt had him questioning whether he was doing the right thing. It was too late now, he supposed. He cleared his throat.
‘Wonderful. Now I think the rain has passed for the moment, so I’d better make a break for freedom. Pick you up at seven thirty on Saturday?’
She nodded. Upon opening the door, they found Sophie the spaniel and a soggy Labrador squeezed together on the old armchair that served as a dog bed.
Somehow, neither of them chose to comment.
‘Come on Noah, let’s head for home before it gets too dark to see.’
Chapter Six
Nine thirty. All three kids were finally in bed. Tiffany could relax.
‘What’re you reading?’
She passed the letter over to him. ‘It came this morning. You remember that funny advert I replied to?’
He took it from her. It was addressed to Mrs Tiffany Rossi. Luca read it with interest.
‘So, are you going to send him a thousand words?’
‘I thought I’d give it a go. All I’ve got to do is to decide what period of history, what place and what sort of sex to write about. What do you think?’
He looked across at her. She was a fine looking woman. He reached across the back of the sofa and encircled her shoulders with his arm. She snuggled up against him.
‘Sex? Not sure if I can remember what that is.’ He was only half-joking.
‘Mmm. It has been a while, hasn’t it?’ She reached up and kissed his cheek.
‘I think you could have a lot of fun with this, Tiff. In fact, we could both have a lot of fun doing this.’ He kissed her ear and scratched his fingernail against the side of her breast. ‘You’ll need to do lots of research, you know.’
She laid her hand on his thigh and started a gentle stroking movement. ‘Do you think the kids are asleep?’
‘After swimming, a fifth birthday party and football practice, I should bloody well hope so.’ He pulled himself to his feet. ‘Of course, just to be on the safe side, I could stick a chair under the door handle.’
As he came back to her, he peeled off his jumper and shirt. She loved the way his black hair grew in a line down the middle of his chest, disappearing into the waistband of his trousers. He had put on a few pounds but he was still the very handsome man she had married. She reached out to him.
‘So what kind of sex have you got in mind, signora?’ His hands were undoing the buttons of her blouse.
‘For the book or for now?’ She undid his belt and reached for his zip.
‘Why not both?’ He stripped the blouse off her. Her nipples were pressing hard against the white lace of her bra.
‘It’s really supposed to be kinky sex for the book. We haven’t done a lot of that.’ She stretched an arm around his neck and pulled his face down so she could kiss him.
‘I’m not averse to a bit of kinky.’
She felt his hands on her body. ‘How kinky is kinky?’ She was purring now.
‘How about this?’ His free hand slapped her hard on the buttocks, twice.
‘Ouch.’ She felt the sharp impact. It snapped her out of her delicious sense of dreamy pleasure. Annoyed, she pulled herself away from him, but he tightened his grip, holding her to him. He swung his hand again and again, the pain increasing each time. After six blows he stopped, and released his hold on her. She stumbled and would have fallen. He took her hand and sat her down on the sofa. Pushing her backwards, he stood up, tore off his remaining clothes, then stepped towards her. She clenched her teeth to stop herself from screaming with pleasure. This was definitely not the time to wake the kids.
He thrust at her powerfully, pushing her back against the cushions until she could hold on no longer. Reaching up, she caught his chest hair in her fingers. She tugged him down towards her until her mouth reached his. Spearing him with her tongue, she climaxed more violently than she had for months, years, maybe ever.
Seconds later she felt him shudder. Her hands slid round to his buttocks, gripping him firmly, his muscles tensing against her fingers. She held him as he climaxed in his turn. They remained like that for some minutes. Then, slowly, he leant forward and pressed a soft kiss onto her lips. He slumped down onto the sofa beside her, one hand cupping her breast.
‘Wow.’ She could barely speak.
‘Wow, indeed.’ His voice was little more than a whisper.
They lay together for quite some time, before she roused herself, sat up and took stock. Her neck was aching from the pressure against the back of the sofa. Her nipples were stinging, and her buttocks hurt. But it didn’t matter one jot. What they had just experienced had been amazing.
‘Did I hurt you?’ He sounded subdued, apologetic even. She looked over at him, flopped on his back, still bathed in sweat. He looked unexpectedly vulnerable.
‘Of course you did. I feel as if I’ve just been run over.’ Seeing the concern on his face, she slid across towards him. ‘But I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’
He hugged her to him.
‘Well, I think that maybe answers the “encounter” question. Now all you need is a historic period of time and a place.’
She returned her mind to the question in hand. She felt sure that if she could reproduce in words what had just happened between them, she would be chosen to write the book. But what about the where and when?
Any further discussion of the writing project was interrupted by a plaintive little voice from the hall.
‘Mummy, Ben’s taken Mr Ted and he won’t give him back.’ There was a muffled sniff. ‘And the lounge door won’t open. Mummy, are you there?’
Luca caught her eye as she dropped onto her knees and started to collect her clothes from the floor. He gave her a broad wink.
‘It’s all right, Milly. Mummy’s coming right out.’
Chapter Seven
‘Post! There’s a big envelope for a Ms Penelope Grainger. It doesn’t look like a bill.’
It was Scott. The clock on her desk said almost four o’clock. He must have ducked out of his three o’clock lecture. She folded the corner of page 342 of Germinal and clicked off the reading lamp. She had been at it for a good four hours. No wonder she was feeling a bit stiff. And hungry. She stepped over the laundry basket and made her way out onto the landing.
‘You making tea, Pen?’ Jamie’s hearing was phenomenal. He had heard the creaky top step even with headphones on.
‘I am now. I’ll bring one up.’
‘You’ll make somebody a wonderful wife one day.’
‘Bugger off, Jamie.’
She picked up her letters at the bottom of the staircase. Scott had got as far as shouting about them but he hadn’t avoided them with his wet feet. Nottingham, like the rest of the UK, was enjoying its longest spell of uninterrupted rain for a century. Everywhere was soaked. The weekly letter from her mother looked decidedly soggy. Under it was a big white envelope. She turned it over in her hands. Her name and address had been handwritten. She took it into the kitchen to open it. Scott was in there, drying out.
‘Hi, Pen. Kettle’s just boiled. Want tea?’
‘Thanks, Scotty, that’ll be great. And make one for the doctor, will you?’
She took the envelope over to the window. The wind had got up. The rain was being blown against the glass. Although it was only mid-afternoon it would be dark before long. She shivered and stamped her feet to restore some circulation. With all the increases in energy costs, they were trying to economise on heating. Even with tights under her jeans and two jumpers, she was still cold.
‘How was it today, Scott? I see you skived off your three o’clock. Who was that? Professor Tate?’
‘The very same. I couldn’t face another dose of Professor Twat murdering contract and tort. Some people can be boring some of the time. Some can be boring most of the time, but only Twatters can be boring all the bloody time.’ He shared one tea bag between the three cups. After squeezing the very life out of it he dropped it in the bin. He passed the darkest-looking infusion across to her. She gave him a smile.
‘Jamie’s is looking a bit weak.’
‘Next time he can come down and make it himself. I’ll take it up to him.’ As he squeezed past, she smelt his deodorant. Not an unpleasant smell and very familiar. After two years sharing the house with the boys, she would know them both with her eyes closed. She found a knife and slit the envelope open. She took out the letter and read it. She was just starting on the second sheet when Scott came back down.
‘Good news?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is. You remember I told you I had applied for a writing job? Well, I’ve been shortlisted.’
‘Well done, Pen. Mind you, with a dissertation to finish, you aren’t going to have too much free time, are you?’
The same thought had occurred to her. Still, the dissertation was pretty much written, apart from the last chapter and all the footnotes. If she got the job she would manage somehow. She read to the bottom of the page and sat back, deep in thought.
‘Something wrong?’ There was concern in his voice.
‘No, Scott, not really. It’s just this book thing.’ She paused, uncertain whether to let him in on the secret. Her supervisor had told her she was confident there would be a lecturing position in the French department after she got her PhD. The last thing she wanted was for the whole student body to know that she wrote dirty books. She made up her mind.
‘In for a penny, in for a pound. Here, read this. But promise me you won’t tell a soul.’ He sketched a cross-my-heart with his finger as he took it from her.
She watched the expression on his face as he read through the contents of the envelope. Every now and then he glanced up, his eyes wide. Finally he handed the sheets back to her and sat down in his turn.
‘Wow. Émile Zola not steamy enough for you, Pen. You’re going to write your own.’ There was awe in his voice.
‘Zola, steamy? I’ve already told you about that. There’s nothing in his books that you couldn’t find in Women’s Own. In fact, Women’s Own would probably have scandalised him. Anyway, what do you think of the project? Am I crazy?’
‘Excuse me one moment. Mind if I put this out to arbitration?’ She gave a resigned shrug. He stood up and went to the kitchen door. He raised his voice. ‘Jamie, Jamie. Get your arse down here now. Something mega is about to happen.’
There was a sound of moving furniture, running feet and a loud thud, as Jamie jumped the last half dozen steps of the stairs. Although the boys were only six or seven years younger than her, they were still little children at heart.
‘What’s up? Woman across the road forgotten to close the curtains again?’
‘I told you before. She doesn’t forget. She deliberately leaves them open. She likes to be watched.’
‘For all you know, she might be hoping it’s Penny doing the watching. So, if it’s not the desperate housewife, what’s the big deal?’
‘First you have to swear, on whatever you hold dear, not to reveal a word of this to a living soul.’ They watched as he clutched his genitals and promised.
Scott handed him the letter without further comment. Both of them waited until he had read it through. His breath whistled through his teeth.
‘So who says writing doesn’t pay? Apart from ransom notes, of course. 65 million quid? That would pay off a few student loans, wouldn’t it?’ He looked across at Penny, a broad smile on his face. ‘Well, you can count us both in. We’ll help you. What period appeals? Don’t forget you have a historian alongside you.’
‘I have?’ She looked across at Scott in surprise.
‘I originally got in to do history. I just did it for a year, then managed to change over to law. Funny I never told you that.’ She shook her head. She hadn’t known Scott in his first year. ‘Mind you, apart from the Romans, the Tudors and Stuarts and the two world wars, I hardly know a thing.’
‘So that’s it, Pen. Scotty’s your history guru and I’ll provide all the practical help you need.’ Jamie puffed up his chest and threw a Mr Universe pose, followed up by a few pelvic thrusts for good measure.
‘Thanks, Jamie. If I get stuck, I’ll know who to ask for help. But in the meantime what I want to know is, should I go ahead with this?’ There was a serious note in her voice now. They both heard it.
‘And why the hell not?’ Jamie had no doubts. ‘You might need to get yourself a nom de plume, just in case you start getting begging letters once you are a millionaire. But go for it, I say.’
She looked across at Scott. He was studying the remains of his tea.
‘I can see why you are a bit hesitant.’ He sounded really solemn. She had rarely heard him like this. ‘Who is this guy anyway? You realise, he could be some sort of perv. In fact he’s almost bound to be. Maybe he gets his rocks off thinking about you writing dirty stuff. Maybe he’s grooming you like a paedophile.’ His voice tailed off.
‘A paedophile?’ Jamie was scoffing. ‘Auntie Penny is too old for that sort of thing, Scotty. No, she’s more of a MILF.’
She was used to only understanding a proportion of their conversation but this acronym was a new one to her. He read the incomprehension in her eyes.
‘Mum-I’d-like-to-fuck. It’s all the rage. Older woman, younger man. Or men –’ He put just enough emphasis on the last word to redden her cheeks. She made an attempt to get a grip. Could she possibly go ahead with this project? Apart from anything else, there was clearly a lot of new vocabulary to be learned. And as for the grooming thing, could Scott be right? She took a deep breath.
‘Well, that solves the question of the “encounter”, as he puts it. I’ll go for an encounter between a MILF and the boy across the road. I’ll call it Gap in the Curtains. How does that sound?’
‘Pull yourself together.’ Jamie was firing on all cylinders. ‘That’s what you say to a pair of curtains, isn’t it? But I like the basic premise. But the when and the where have still to be addressed. He says a period of history with which you are familiar. Have you got one of those, Pen?’
‘Do you know, I think I have.’ She was warming to the task. She would give it a try. If the man were a pervert she would find out soon enough. And it wasn’t as if she was about to meet him in some secluded lane, after all. ‘For the last five years of my life, I have been immersed in Émile Zola’s Rougon-Macquart series. That’s twenty books set in nineteenth-century France, mainly in Paris and Provence. I’ll set it in, say, 1875, somewhere down in the South of France. Excellent.’
‘Sounds good to me.’ Scott was impressed.
‘So, Penelope, when it comes to the old rumpy-pumpy, just what experience do you have to draw upon?’ The future doctor employed his most formal tones while mocking her. She refused to be phased by him. Attack is the best form of defence. She looked him straight in the eye.
‘You’re right, Jamie. I haven’t seen a cock for ages. Would you pull yours out for me to take a look at? It might remind me what it’s all about.’
Both boys goggled. Scott blushed red. Even Jamie was reduced to silence. This was a side to Auntie Pen they hadn’t experienced before. She collected the contents of the envelope and left while the going was good.
Chapter Eight
Janet met Melissa in the corner café. They had met like this almost every Thursday lunchtime for over four years, ever since Janet had moved her business to London. She took her herbal tea over to the corner table they had adopted. Melissa looked up from her magazine.
‘What’s new, Jan? Did the leopard skin shoes recover from the soaking?’
‘Sort of. They’re about two shades darker now. Talking of shades, I got a reply from my dirty book man.’
Melissa looked up in surprise.
Janet had already decided to tell her everything. They had known each other since school and had few secrets. Melissa had been a guest at Janet’s wedding. Janet had been to both of Melissa’s. She sat down and went through the story. She started with the advert and finished with Tuesday’s letter. As she outlined the new project, she saw her friend’s eyes widen.
‘Well, that’s a bit different, I must say.’
‘I still can’t tell you why I went for it. I think it was just such a strange advert I needed to know what it was all about.’
‘By the sounds of it you’ll need to know lots of things to write this kind of stuff. Are you sure you know enough about it?
‘Enough about what?’ Of course she knew what Melissa meant, really.
‘Sex, Jan, kinky sex. Fifty Shades of Grey is all about bondage, submission and sadomasochism. I didn’t know you were into that sort of thing.’
‘Firstly, I’m not, and second, it’s not all about that sort of thing. Have you read it?’
‘Well, no, but the girls at work have been talking about it for weeks, months.’
‘Well, I have. I got it off the internet last week. It’s not the greatest book in the world, but there’s a story to it. It’s not just non-stop spanking. In fact there’s little or no sex for ages. And anyway the man said I could choose the time, place and “encounter” I liked. It doesn’t have to be chains and whips.’
‘Well, that’s a relief. Mind you, that’s just for your trial piece. What if he comes back with some outrageous plot involving really horrid stuff?’
‘Then I won’t be part of it.’ She had been debating this very point for the last two days. ‘Anyway, he said it would be a joint effort, involving give and take.’
Melissa wasn’t convinced but she could see that Janet had made up her mind. The one good thing in all this was that her friend was looking more animated than she had seen her for months.
‘At least you’re sounding full of beans. Maybe this will be the breakthrough you have been waiting for. So, what time, place and, erm, “encounter” are you going to choose? Time means historical time, presumably?’
‘That’s right. He says our book has to be historical. I quite like that. After all, my degree was history, you know.’
Melissa had forgotten. History? How a history degree had prepared Janet for her post at the head of a big recruitment agency was a mystery. It always astonished her that she found the time to do her writing at all. The company was still expanding.
‘So if it’s history, what period appeals?’
‘I’ve been wondering about that. The only periods I know reasonably well are the Romans, the Tudors and Stuarts, and the twentieth century. My Masters was on the rise of fascism in Europe.’
‘Hmm, I don’t like the sound of Nazis and death camps. Anything involving the SS or the Gestapo could be very, very nasty.’
‘I know. I’ve already ruled that out. The Romans, of course, were pretty promiscuous. Lots of weird stuff going on back then.’
‘You’re right. I was watching Carry on Cleo over Christmas. Lots of hanky-panky.’
‘I think we need to go a good bit further than “hanky-panky”.’
‘Slave girls violated, naked Christians thrown to the lions, drunken orgies – that the kind of stuff you mean?’ Melissa was beginning to get her creative juices running.
‘Yes, I suppose so, but it all depends on our target audience.’
‘And that is?’
‘I’ve been wondering about that. He didn’t mention it in the letter, at least not directly. Fifty Shades of Grey is a women’s book: by a woman, for women. And women read more books than men, don’t they. I must look up the statistics.’
‘Way ahead of you.’ Melissa was never without her smartphone. ‘Hang on,’ her fingers flashed over the keys. ‘And the answer is … wow, I am amazed. It says here that 65 percent of books are read by women. Presumably because men are too busy getting drunk and watching football.’
‘That reminds me, how is Graham? What’s he doing these days?’ Janet’s tone was sweet.
‘Apart from drinking beer and watching football, you mean?’ Melissa sounded less sweet. ‘Still making an absolute fortune playing with other people’s money. I tell people he owns a tattoo parlour. It’s less embarrassing than saying he’s a banker.’
Janet laughed. ‘So, you see, we have to aim the book at women. So what do women want?’
‘What do you want?’
‘You mean, what sort of book would I like to read? To be totally honest, I don’t really think I would go for an erotic book. At least not just sex, sex and more sex.’
‘While on that subject, Jan, dare I ask you a personal question?’
‘Well, we’re on a pretty personal subject as it is. Fire away.’
‘When’s the last time you had sex, anyway?’
That stopped her in her tracks. What with the business and her writing, she hadn’t had much time for socialising, let alone dating. And, if she were totally honest, she hadn’t really been bothered.
‘I’m going to need a fairly thick skin if I get involved in this project, aren’t I? Just imagine how it might be if the book is a success. Would journalists ask me that sort of question?’
‘Well, if they did there would be no obligation to answer. Come to think of it, there’s no need for you to tell me either. I was just curious to know if you had been doing any research recently.’
‘Well, the answer is not for a longish time. Not since I split up with Stephen. And that is nearly five years ago now. Come to think of it, we hadn’t had sex for ages before that.’
Melissa was staring at her. ‘What about our wedding? I set you up with one of Graham’s friends. I thought you said you and he hit it off. That’s only three years ago. We’ve just celebrated three years of married bliss.’ Her tone was dry.
‘That’s right, the Aussie. I called him Bruce all evening, and he seemed to answer to it. But seeing as he was going back to Oz the next day, there wasn’t much chance of the relationship developing.’
‘So no sex with Bruce?’
‘At my age, Mel? A one night stand with a man who spent all evening telling me about his various skin complaints?’
‘So you haven’t had sex for five, maybe ten, years. I am beginning to see why you might be interested in a book about historical sex. Can you at least remember anything about it?’ She gave Janet a searching look.
‘Yes, of course. You flail around in a darkened room and get very sticky, as I remember. Then you step out of bed next morning onto a used condom. Great start to the day.’ As she replied, her mind was reaching back across the years. ‘No, seriously, I can remember lots of things we did. And quite a few things he wanted to do that we didn’t do. Anyway, it’s like riding a bike, surely. You never forget it.’
‘Grit your teeth, pedal for all you’re worth, and try not to fall off. But, with all due respect, there’s a limit to how much you can write about two people having sex in a darkened room. Your readers, not to mention your co-author, will want a whole lot more detail, warts and all.’
‘Ah, now, Melissa, that’s where you come in.’ She saw her friend arch an eyebrow. ‘Not warts, of course. But you’re the relatively newlywed, after all. You will have to be my technical adviser. It’s quite acceptable for writers to seek expert help, you know.’
‘Expert help?’ Now it was Melissa’s turn to look embarrassed. ‘I’d better come clean. Graham is out so much and home so late these days that we haven’t exactly been at it like rabbits ourselves. In fact,’ she managed a smile, ‘I was even thinking of buying Fifty Shades of Grey to spice things up a bit in the bedroom.’
‘Oh dear, this isn’t going to be so easy, is it?’
Chapter Nine
Tom pulled up outside her cottage at 7.30. The rains had headed off to the east of the country, leaving Devon with clear skies. As a result, this February evening was absolutely freezing. As he headed for the front door, he saw her little Mini already covered in white frost. He was searching in vain for a doorbell when the door opened. He took a step backwards.
‘Evening, Tom. Sophie told me you were at the door. Fur coat and thermal undies tonight, I fear. Come in while I suit up.’ She ushered him in. He smelt her perfume. It took considerable self-control to avoid a heartfelt sigh of delight.
The spaniel rushed out and made a fuss of him. Again, she seemed especially interested in his crotch.
‘All set. Where are we going?’
He looked up from the dog. What he could see of her looked wonderful. She was enveloped in a fur hat and coat.
‘And you must be Mrs Zhivago. How is the good doctor?’ He bowed formally.
She giggled. ‘It’s faux fur. Made of old mineral water bottles, or whatever. No animals were hurt in the making of this outfit.’ She patted the dog on the head and they went out into the cold.
He had booked a table at a gastro pub a few miles away. ‘We’re going to the Red Lion at Woodford. The chef’s Italian. I know him pretty well. He’s has just won some TV cooking thing.’
‘That sounds good. I hardly know any of the places round here.’
‘What? I would have assumed a lovely girl like you would have been wined and dined all over the county. What am I saying? I mean all over the United Kingdom, the world.’
‘Not nowadays. Sophie and I don’t socialise a lot.’
He negotiated a humpbacked bridge that was white with frost. He made a mental note to watch out on the way back. It was well known for ice.
‘From choice?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’ He had to wait a while for her to continue. ‘In my job I used to do an awful lot of travelling. One year I worked out I had been in two hundred and thirty different hotel rooms, spread over sixteen countries.’
‘Wow. I didn’t realise you journalists did so much travelling.’
‘That was in my previous incarnation. I have only been a journo for three years.’
‘And your previous job was?’ He saw the sign up ahead. They were still early enough to find a place in the pub car park.
‘Modelling.’
‘I did a bit of that when I was a boy. You know, Airfix Spitfires and the like.’ He backed into a space and turned off the engine. ‘So, here I am with a famous model. Should I have recognised you? I’m afraid I’m not very well up on the fashion world.’
She didn’t answer and he did not dare to ask her again.
Their table was close to the fire. The room was snug and warm. They weren’t the first. Three or four tables were already populated, their occupants choosing from the menu. He was pleased not to see anybody he knew. He very much wanted this evening to be about the two of them alone.
‘Can I take your coat? There are hooks over there by the door.’
‘Ah, a true gentleman. There aren’t many of you left these days.’ She let the coat slip off her shoulders. She was wearing a wonderfully soft polo neck jumper. It was a delicate shade of green, which, he noticed for the first time, exactly matched her eyes. It fitted her to perfection, following every curve of her body. He took the coat and hung it up on top of his old jacket. Returning to the table, he felt he was the luckiest man alive.
‘Good evening. Here’s the menu. Tonight’s specials are on the blackboard. Can I get you a drink?’ The waitress looked about fifteen. He glanced across the table and raised an eyebrow. She shook her head.
‘I’ll just have some wine with my meal, I think.’
‘Same for me. Can we see the wine list?’
After ordering food and drink they started to chat. At first, things were a little stilted, but as they settled down in each other’s company the atmosphere became more relaxed. He asked about her work.
‘I’m freelance. I do a regular two-page spread for one magazine, called From the Catwalk. The magazine provides the photos and I do a review of what’s new. Then I also do a few other articles here and there. Just about enough to keep me in chocolate Hobnobs and Sophie in dog biscuits.’
‘Buona sera, Tom.’ They both looked up. The chef had bought them out their starters himself. Tom leant back as a plate of whitebait was laid in front of him. Ros had opted for goat’s cheese salad. Both looked very appetising.
‘Buona sera, Nino? Come va?’ Tom gave him a broad smile.
‘Non c’e male. E tu?’ Ros watched and listened as the two men chatted in Italian together. She had always loved the sound of the language. After a few moments, the chef returned to more serious matters. ‘Su, su, mangiate. Qui verra freddo.’ He looked across at Ros. ‘Please do start. I mustn’t hold you up. The food needs to be eaten while it’s still hot.’ He bowed to Ros, patted Tom on the shoulder, and returned to the kitchen.
‘That didn’t sound like GCSE Italian.’ She gave him a smile.
‘Not really. I lived there for eight years. You can’t help picking it up if you’re there for that long.’
They started eating. His fish was excellent. He told her some of his experiences of life in Italy. ‘But you must have spent lots of your time in Italy as well, surely? Isn’t that the home of fashion?’
She looked up from a piece of toast. ‘There are a few French fashion houses that might debate that one. But, yes, I have spent quite a bit of time over there, but only working. I’ve always wanted a proper holiday in Italy. Maybe now that I’ve got a bit more time on my hands.’
The conversation became more animated. The food was delicious and he couldn’t have wanted for a better companion. He began to relax. Even when she asked about his current writing project he was able to sidestep it with ease.
‘So much of writing is research, as you well know. I am researching all sorts of things at the moment. I am trying to settle on the historical setting for my next book.’
‘Middle Ages once more?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I think I’ll go for something more recent. I was wondering about the 1920s.’
‘Ah, the flappers and the Beautiful Young Things. The clothes from those years keep coming back into fashion over and over again.’
‘So what sort of clothes did they wear then? Say, in the period between the wars?’
‘You realise,’ she fixed him with serious eyes, ‘you are courting disaster here.’
He grunted, unsure where this was leading.
She smiled broadly as she explained. ‘Asking me about fashion is like asking you about the Cathars or the Knights Templar. Promise me you’ll give me a smack if I go on for more than a couple of hours.’
‘The night is young.’ He sat back and listened.
‘Well, the 1920s were the time when things changed drastically in the battle of the sexes. I’m not talking about Votes for Women or the Wall Street Crash: I don’t mean politically. It was during the 1920s that women started dressing to show off again. In the century before it was the men who wore frilly shirts, velvet breeches, gaudy waistcoats and so on. Victorian women were imprisoned in corsets and pretty universally dressed in dark colours. During the World War I lots of women wore trousers and more utilitarian clothing. In the 1920s it all changed. Imagine a male bullfinch with his glorious red plumage swapping feathers with his drab little wife, or a cockerel swapping with a dowdy hen.’
Her use of the word ‘breeches’ reminded him for a moment of the ‘breachers’, ripped off in one of the erotic stories he had been reading but he managed to stay focused.
‘Men started wearing the sort of boring grey or black suits we still see today, while women blossomed.’
She gave up on her Dover sole and set down her knife and fork. He had already finished eating. He topped up her wineglass, filling his own with water from the jug.
‘And the real revolution,’ she was grinning mischievously, ‘was in underwear. All sorts of new slinky fabrics were coming out at that time. Nylon wasn’t invented till a bit later, but they had stuff called rayon: far cheaper than silk and mass produced. It allowed women to get rid of the bulky old corsets and slip into sexy little numbers. Does the word “camiknickers” mean anything to you?’
He saw the waitress lurking in the background, ready to pounce on the plates, but he avoided her eye.
‘A whole new world. A whole new language.’
‘A camisole joined to a pair of knickers.’ He didn’t know what a camisole was, but he could make an educated guess. She went on. ‘And of course the 1920s were when women all wanted to be slim, flat-chested and androgynous.’
‘And what about ladies with, what I believe you refer to as, a fuller figure?’
‘Ah, that was where the Symington Side Lacer came in. I bet you’ve never heard of that before. An apparatus laced with a vicious series of strings and straps designed to crush your boobs into your chest and make them disappear.’
‘What a terrible shame.’
She caught his eyes as they involuntarily flicked back up from her bust to her face. He looked so guilty, she laughed out loud. ‘Well, I wouldn’t have needed a Symingtom Side Lacer.’
‘Nobody could possibly accuse you of being androgynous.’
‘Well, that was all the rage back then.’ She ignored the compliment. ‘I could go on to tell you about the invention of bras that separated the breasts for the first time, directoire knickers and any number of other innovations, but I sense I am getting too technical. Is that enough?’
It certainly was. His head was reeling. The 1920s certainly sounded interesting. Maybe the book really should be set at that time.
The waitress pounced. ‘Would you like to see the dessert board?’
He looked across at Ros. ‘Dessert?’
‘I couldn’t eat a thing. But don’t let me stop you.’
‘Coffee, tea?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. I haven’t eaten so much, or so well, for months.’
‘Just the bill please.’ The waitress walked off. He sat back in his chair. ‘You know, it has been a really wonderful evening. Will you allow me a personal question?’
She smiled back across the table.
‘How is it that a gorgeous woman like you – beautiful, intelligent, funny – hasn’t been snapped up long ago?’
She didn’t reply immediately. He watched her formulate her answer. ‘I seem to have been asked that a lot over the years. I suppose people think that a reasonably attractive woman only has to click her fingers and men come running.’
‘Well, don’t they?’
‘Some do, of course. But they aren’t very often the right type. Don’t forget that I worked very hard all the way through my twenties. I’ve slowed up a bit now but I’m still engulfed by the fashion industry. You don’t need to be a genius to know that most of the men in that profession are not the right type.’
‘Batting for the other team?’
‘Batting, bowling and keeping wicket. I rarely meet straight men.’
‘I don’t play cricket.’ He thought he had better get that out there. ‘No objection to the game, just don’t play it.’
‘I have already worked that out, Tom. And what about you? How come you have taken a year off? Is that a regular sabbatical thing you professors get?’
He had been dreading this moment, but he had promised himself he would tell her the truth. He took a deep breath.
‘My wife died two years ago.’ He saw her look up. ‘I’m afraid I sort of went to pieces after that. Last summer we all agreed that it would be better if I had a bit of time off.’ His eyes were firmly locked on the table.
She reached across and laid her hand on his. He looked up into her eyes.
‘What was it?’
‘Cancer,’ he replied miserably. ‘Breast cancer that spread.’
‘Oh, Tom, I am so very sorry. It’s such a horrendous thing.’ She gave him a gentle squeeze, before removing her hand. She excused herself and, while she was away, he paid the bill and got the coats. When she reappeared, he helped her into hers in silence. They headed out to the car. The roof and windscreen were white, but it hadn’t hardened into ice yet. A few sweeps of the wipers and a blast of warm air, and he could see clearly enough to drive.
‘That was a lovely treat. Thank you, Tom.’
He managed little more than a grunt in reply. His head was spinning with thoughts of his wife, memories of times together and the misery of her final weeks. As they reached the humpbacked bridge he managed to put some of his thoughts into words.
‘I’m sorry about this, Ros. I don’t mean to be antisocial. I’ve just found myself thinking about Diane … my wife. Do you know, this is the first time I have been out to dinner since her death?’ He felt the wheels slip a fraction on the icy surface but he was going slowly enough to keep control of the vehicle. ‘Whoops, a bit slippery back there. Of course I’ve been out to dinner quite a few times over the last couple of years, but this is the first time I’ve been alone with someone–’ he hesitated, searching for the right words ‘– with someone who means something to me. Sorry if that sounds a bit lame.’
‘Nothing to be sorry about.’ He could hear the warmth in her voice. ‘It must have been awful for you. I can imagine some of what is going through your head. Anyway, I’ve enjoyed this evening a lot. If you feel like repeating the experience you know how to contact me.’ They pulled up outside her cottage. ‘Take as long as you need. I’ll still be here. And it’s my treat next time.’
While he was still trying to decide whether to turn the engine off, get out of the car, accompany her to the door, kiss her goodnight and any number of other imponderables, she opened her door and jumped out.
‘Can you wait here a moment? I have something for you.’ She left him in the car and made her way up the path to her door. He hesitated a bit longer before deciding. He switched off the engine and climbed out in his turn.
He had only reached her garden gate when the spaniel came rushing out in great excitement. He was shielding his genitals when Ros appeared at the door.
‘Here, Tom. This is for you. I would value your opinion.’ She handed him a bag. It was evident that there was a book inside. ‘And thank you again for a very pleasant evening. I’ve enjoyed myself . Very much.’ She reached out, caught him by the arm and gave it a friendly squeeze. ‘Like I said, take your time. Goodnight.’
She and the dog turned and made for the warmth of the house. He returned to the car, the feel of her still on his arm. His mind was miles away. She waved from the doorway. He put the book on the front seat and switched on the engine. He raised his hand in a vague salute and headed for home.
He parked outside his house and climbed out. Remembering her book, he reached back in for it. It had slid out of the plastic bag. It was a hardback book. The interior light showed the title clearly: The Case of the Velvet Ball Gown. His befuddled brain was suddenly catapulted back to reality. Surely it couldn’t be …
‘Oh, no. Oh, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger, bugger!’
Forgetting to lock the car, he walked up to his front door in a daze. He opened it. A cold wet nose was waiting for him. Absently, he reached down to scratch the dog’s ears.
‘Noah, old buddy, we are deep, deep, deep in the proverbial.’
The dog did not appear to realise the seriousness of the situation.
‘When she gets to London tomorrow and checks her mail, I’m screwed, Noah, totally screwed.’
Chapter Ten
Janet finished the last page of the report and stretched. Everybody had gone home. Even her faithful PA had finally excused herself and returned to her husband. The door was locked and the illuminated JP RECRUITMENT sign was turned off until Monday morning.
She made herself a cup of herbal tea and took it back to her desk. Behind her the lights of Regent Street blazed into the night sky. Opening the top drawer of her desk, she pulled out the remaining half of her lunchtime packet of sandwiches. As she chewed her way through ‘Low Calorie Roast Chicken and Salad’ she allowed herself to switch off that portion of her brain that dealt with the business. In its place she switched on her literary muse.
Since talking to Melissa the previous day, she had been thinking hard. Here she was, contemplating writing, or at least co-writing, a book about sex, and she hadn’t had sex for years. What she needed was a crash course in sex. Short of going out to a bar and trying to hook up with somebody, she didn’t know what to do. And at her age, she was sensible enough to know that she was not going to do that.
She finished the sandwich and took another sip of tea. Her computer was still on. For a moment she considered trying computer dating but she realised she didn’t have the luxury of time on her side. She really needed to get the thousand words written this weekend and in the post on Monday. That gave her only two days. And, apart from deciding upon the sex act itself, she still needed to make a decision on when and where.
A phone started ringing. It was her mobile and Melissa was on the line.
‘Don’t tell me you’re still in the office.’ They really did know each other so well. ‘Haven’t you got better things to do with your time on a Friday night?’
‘Hi, Melissa. I was just finishing off.’ She glanced at the time and was unsurprised to see it was half past seven.
‘Want to come round here?’
‘Haven’t you and Graham got things to do this evening?’
There was a slight pause. ‘He’s out again. Some business dinner. So, how about it? You can pick up a takeaway on your way over here.’
Janet reached forward and pressed the power switch on her monitor. ‘Great idea. I’ll be there in half an hour. What do you want? Chinese? Indian? Thai?’
‘You choose.’
In the end, she went into the very upmarket fish and chip shop just around the corner from Melissa’s house. They did grilled, as well as fried, fish. She ordered two portions of scallops grilled with bacon. While this was cooking, she slipped next door and bought a bottle of Chablis, cold from the fridge. Five minutes later she was ringing the doorbell.
‘That smells great.’ Melissa ushered her in. There was an open bottle of wine on the kitchen table. ‘Help yourself to some wine while I get plates.’
Janet poured the bottle into the two glasses. A few moments later they were sitting on the sofa, tucking in.
‘Mmm, good choice.’
‘They do really good fish there. I wish I had a place like that near me.’ Janet took her time, savouring the food and realising how hungry she had been. Finally she polished off her plate and drank some more wine. She settled back and relaxed. Her friend followed suit.
‘So, have you decided the what, when and where yet?’
‘No, not really. I suppose I have been so stuck on the what, I haven’t given much thought to the other stuff.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that. You did say you knew lots about the fascist period?’
‘Well, maybe not lots and lots, but yes, I suppose I do. Or at least, I did. But I thought we weren’t getting involved with the Nazis.’
‘We aren’t. What about setting it during the World War II, but over here in London? You know, men going off to war, soldiers on leave and out for a good time. The precarious nature of life in wartime. Living for the moment, that sort of thing. Then there were the GIs hitting the UK, handing out stockings and condoms. That could give you a lot of scope. Have a think.’ With that, she went out to the kitchen, returning with the second bottle of wine. She filled both glasses.
‘I think that might be a really good idea.’ Janet turned it over in her head. ‘Maybe I could make it the final night together for a couple, before he is posted overseas.’
‘Nice idea. Maybe not kinky enough.’
‘He didn’t actually say, make it kinky, you know. You saw the letter.’
‘Yes but with all that talk about Fifty Shades of Grey it’s pretty obvious he’s looking for something a bit out of the ordinary, a bit smutty. If not bondage and spanking, then maybe group sex would do it. Ever tried?’
Janet laughed. ‘No, never. Have you?’
‘I’m not really sure.’
‘What does that mean? Either you did or you didn’t.’
Melissa looked unusually embarrassed. ‘When I was at uni, I went to a party once and got terribly drunk.’ She glanced up. Janet saw that she was blushing. ‘I woke up in the middle of the night feeling ill. It took me a bit of time to register that I was in a bed with three other people.’
‘Three? You terrible girl. Have you any recollection of what did, or didn’t, happen?’
‘Well, sort of. I was stark naked and it took me five minutes to round up all my clothes. They were strewn all round the place: I found my bra down the back of an armchair in the lounge.’
Janet giggled. ‘Oh, Mel! And the men in bed with you, were they naked, too?’
Melissa nodded, then she took a big mouthful of wine. ‘Man.’ Seeing Janet’s raised eyebrows, she explained. ‘One man and two other girls.’
Janet’s eyes widened. ‘Two other girls? So did you and the girls … ?’
Melissa set her glass down and covered her face with her hands, chronically uncomfortable. ‘I really shouldn’t have started on this.’
There was no way Janet was letting her off the hook now. ‘Research. Mel, that’s what I need. Spill the beans.’ She sat back, enchanted by her friend’s discomfort.
‘I just don’t know, Jan. I suppose I might have done, must have done. I just don’t remember. And believe me, I have spent a lot of time trying.’
Janet stared at her in disbelief for a whole minute. Finally she spoke. ‘So, if you did, do you know which one it was?’ A sudden thought struck her. ‘Or might it have been both of them?’
Melissa drained her glass and reached for the bottle. ‘Well, you see, it’s not really that easy. I saw both girls around campus quite often from then on. But you can’t exactly walk up to someone and ask if you’ve had sex with them.’
‘But didn’t they say anything to you?’
‘Not a dickybird. Mind you, they were both drugged out of their heads most of the time.’
‘And the boy?’
‘Never saw him again. No idea who he was.’
‘But I bet he had a smile from ear to ear after that experience.’ She held out her glass for a refill but had to put it down hurriedly as she started to giggle uncontrollably. After a few seconds Melissa joined in. The two of them laughed until the tears were rolling down their faces.
‘Do you know, Melissa, I think that now we have the what, as well as the when and where.’ She wiped her cheeks and calmed herself with a sip of the Chablis. For her part, Melissa gradually recovered from the stress of her revelations. Then she put the cat among the pigeons again.
‘So if you are going to write about a hetero/lesbo four-in-a-bed romp, have you got the necessary skills and experience?’
This stopped Janet’s merriment dead.
Chapter Eleven
Penny had abandoned Émile Zola for the time being. She was sitting at the kitchen table doing her best to compose something suitably raunchy on the laptop. Scott was just finishing the crossword.
‘Scottie, what word should I use for vagina?’
‘What’s wrong with vagina?’
‘I just wonder if it isn’t naughty enough. Should I say … ?’ She paused, unsure how to continue. ‘Should I use a stronger word? Maybe the “c” word?’
‘Woah, there, Pen. This isn’t Lady Chatterley, you know.’
‘Well, to be quite honest, this erotic novel thing is supposed to be a whole lot sexier than Lawrence. We’re talking whips and canes and things.’
‘Yes, Pen, but that’s just kinky stuff. The icing on the cake, so to speak. You can’t use a word like that.’
‘Scottie, you’ve gone quite red. Have I crossed some kind of line here? Is that a taboo word?’
‘Well, how often do you use it? When’s the last time you said to yourself, “I really must scratch my you-know-what”?’
‘I suppose you’re right, not that I scratch my you-know-what half as often as you two boys fiddle with your bits.’
‘It’s complicated down there for us chaps. It all needs rearranging from time to time.’
‘Too much information, thanks, Scottie. But this is set in the 1800s. I can’t use a word like pussy. It’s too modern. Scott, you’ve gone red again.’
‘I’m sorry, Pen, it’s just that I’m not used to having this sort of conversation with you. With Jamie it’s all the time, but with a girl?’
‘So I’m still a girl, am I? I thought I was an old auntie.’
‘I never had an auntie who looked as good as you, Pen.’
‘That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me, Scott. Thank you. Now help me with my vagina.’
‘Oh lord. Well, your piece is set in the South of France, isn’t it? Isn’t there some French word you could use? You could say, he rammed his Aznavour up her Sarkozy, and nobody would be shocked and appalled.’
‘Now there’s a thought.’
‘So how do you say it in French?’
‘Say what, Scottie?’ She pretended innocence.
‘Sarkozy of course.’ He was fighting back.
‘Well, let me see. Do you know, I thought I spoke pretty good French, but I only know one or two very ordinary terms for that part of the body. More to the point, what word would they have used in the nineteenth century? I know. How about chatte? That’s a female cat, but it also works as you-know-what.’
‘Thank God you’ve sorted that out. So, what’s the plot, then? Do I get to read it?’
She had been thinking about that. ‘It’s probably best if you don’t, Scott. It’s bad enough knowing that this Marshall man is going to be reading it. The thought of somebody I know and like … Why, you might be so disgusted, you would never speak to me again.’
‘I won’t be disgusted. I promise. But it might be a good idea to let somebody else see it before you send it in. You know what they say. Two heads etc.’
‘All right then. I’ve just got to stick in a few chattes and I’m done. Upon your own head be it. Why don’t you make us a cup of tea while I’m finishing off?’
He did as bidden, while she inserted a few nineteenth-century French vaginas. As he appeared with the tea, she clicked Save.
‘Well, if you’re sure you want to read it, it’s done. Read it on the screen. That way if anything needs changing, I can do it, before printing it out.’ She passed him the computer and went upstairs.
When she came back down again, he was well into it. He looked up briefly as she came past him. She sat down on the sofa and raised an eyebrow.
‘Disgusted yet?’
‘It’s amazing, Pen. All this time, living alongside you, and I never realised you were such a–’
‘Pervert?’ Her tone was light, but she was worried.
‘No, no, not at all. I was going to say, such a good writer. Can I make a confession?’ He was red in the face. ‘I would never have thought that just reading the written word could give me a hard-on. But it has.’ This time she blushed redder than him.
‘Oh good lord above, your auntie has given you a hard-on?’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time, Pen. If only you knew’, he thought to himself, as he hastily returned his attention to the screen.
He read it through to the end. The last page was particularly striking. The story ended on a note of redemption.
The Marquise bent forward and cupped the girl’s pert little breasts in her hands. As she did so, the stable lad saw again the red stripes across the milky white of her ladyship’s buttocks. He remembered her cries for mercy as he brought the crop down on her naked flesh. It was clear that she had truly learned her lesson. Now, in place of the evil dominatrix, there was only this compliant, docile servant.
He ran a gentle hand across her battered flesh. She turned towards him, a smile upon her face.
‘‘Thank you, Master.’
Scott looked up. His cheeks were red and there were beads of sweat on his brow. She avoided looking at his crotch.
‘So, what do you think?’
‘Penny, have you ever done any of this stuff?’ He sounded hoarse.
‘Nope. Last time I touched a riding crop I was fourteen. And, before you say anything, it was a horse who received the odd whack.’
‘But you write about it so vividly.’ There was admiration in his voice. ‘How do you do that?’
‘Scottie, Émile Zola wrote about coal mining, child birth and prostitution. It’s a pretty safe bet he never tried any of them. It’s called imagination. Plus a fair bit of research in the nether regions of the internet.’
‘Well, you had me convinced. I have to admit, I could see you there.’
She was intrigued. ‘In which role? Hopefully not the stable boy. But did you see me as the maid, or as the Marquise?’ She waited for his answer with considerable interest. She was to be disappointed.
‘I couldn’t possibly say.’
‘You little tease, Scott. So, anyway, any comments, changes, suggestions?’
‘I thought it was very well written. Only one line struck me as a little bit corny. Right at the end, do you really have to describe her butt as milky white? It’s a bit of a cliché, isn’t it?’
‘You’re absolutely right. Thanks a lot. I’ll take milky out. I could use the word virginal, but there’s precious little that’s virginal about the Marquise.’
‘How about referring to the texture of the skin, say pure or flawless?’
‘Flawless, that’s perfect. Thanks Scottie. I’ll print it out. Just promise me one thing. Don’t tell Jamie you’ve read it. I couldn’t stand that.’
‘My lips are sealed. And that’s more than you can say about the Marquise.’
Just for a moment, Penny toyed with the idea of offering to help him with his state of arousal. Then she gave herself a good talking-to: He’s years younger than me. What am I? A cradle-snatcher?’
She stood up. ‘I’m calling it a day. Thanks, Scottie, for your help.’ As she stepped past him, she bent down and kissed him on the cheek.
Chapter Twelve
‘Luca, what do you mean, going away for the weekend?’ Tiffany couldn’t believe her ears.
‘What I said. My mum and dad will look after the kids. I’m taking you away to the country for a little break.’ He reached out and pulled her close. ‘I think we need a little bit of us time.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘Besides, you still haven’t decided when and where for your thousand words.’
‘And we’re leaving this morning?’ She looked at her watch. It was almost eight o’clock. The kids would need to be scrubbed spotless and changed into fresh clothes if they were to go to her Italian mother-in-law’s. Ben, the seven-year-old, hadn’t even had breakfast. He and the other two were in front of the TV in the lounge.
‘Any time today. Now, don’t panic. It won’t take long to get them ready for inspection. I’ll start with Milly. Why don’t you try to get some cereal into Ben?’
In the end it was almost lunchtime before they set off. The kids were delighted to spend some time with their grandparents, knowing full well they would be spoilt rotten.
It was mid afternoon by the time they got there, after stopping for soup and a sandwich en route. The hotel he had chosen was near Woodstock, just to the north of Oxford. It was a charming country house set in its own parkland. They were shown to a large, high-ceilinged room, overlooking the gardens. There was an enormous bed and a marble-clad bathroom. Outside, the temperature was already approaching zero. Inside it was as warm as toast. She stood at the window, staring out into the grounds. A pair of squirrels chased each other up a huge oak tree. Otherwise there was no sign of life anywhere.
Luca came up behind her and kissed her neck. She leant back against him.
‘You know, darling, this was a really, really good idea. It is so good to have a change of scene.’ As she spoke, she let her hands run round behind her back. She felt for him. She was not surprised to feel his erection.
‘Well, well, well, I didn’t see you pack that.’
‘I’m glad we weren’t flying anywhere. The way I feel this weekend, I’d have to pay excess baggage on it.’ His hands reached up from her waist, under her jumper to her breasts. ‘I wonder how many other couples are as lucky as us. It’s been almost ten years, you know.’
‘I love you to pieces, Luca Rossi.’ She turned her head to kiss him.
With gentle pressure on her shoulders, he kept her facing out of the window, as he stripped her naked. At first, she cast anxious glances out through the glass, afraid of being observed. Then, as his hands began their magic, she let her eyes close and went with the flow.
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Т. А. Уильямс
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Эротические романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 28.04.2024
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О книге: Tom, a widower and aspiring author (with a penchant for Hobnobs) is in need of a new start. Inspired by his therapist, the ‘Fifty Shades Phenomenon’, and his lack of literary success, he sets out to write an erotic novel – after all, how hard can it be?But as writing erotica proves a challenge for a man more unsure than hardcore, Tom finds himself enlisting the help of an eclectic group of co-authors. Brought together by their authorial ambitions and fondness for innuendo, their project becomes a collaboration that will change lives, open minds … and prompt the purchase of an unfortunate PVC catsuit.Praise for TA Williams′…a very funny story… If you want to read a story with a real plot, and characters that have that real feel to them, and still have some nice fluffiness on the pages of your read, you should definitely pick up Dirty Minds. It was a truly enjoyable read, and I can only recommend it!′ – (un)Conventional Bookviews