For fuck’s sake. It’s like I am the only adult in the room with a pair of functioning ears.
‘Can we just back this conversation up a bit?’ I sit up straight and stare at Scarlet. ‘Number one, is it “friends” plural or “friend” singular that we’re talking about here?’
‘Friends plural,’ she mutters.
‘Good. And where exactly are you meeting them?’
Scarlet pauses but my mother leans forwards and gives her a smile.
‘You may as well tell her, darling,’ she advises. ‘She can locate your exact whereabouts on her phone in five seconds flat if she wants to. I’ve seen her do it. It’s very impressive – I think she might have had a good career in the Secret Service in another life.’
Yes, another life where I’m not constantly needed to solve my family’s problems and keep them out of trouble. Another life where I roam the streets of Paris wearing nothing but high heels and a trench coat instead of roaming the supermarket aisles wearing an old waterproof jacket and scuffed-up shoes.
‘We’re getting together at Petra’s house,’ she says, the words pushing themselves reluctantly out of her mouth. ‘A couple of us from school and some of her new friends from college.’
I sit back in my chair. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’ I tell her. ‘And if you’d only said that in the first place, then we could have avoided this whole conversation. Of course you can go to Petra’s house – I’m sure you’ve got lots to catch up on.’
‘And are you going to keep on stalking me?’ she asks. ‘Even though you know that it’s an invasion of my human rights? You really do need to get a life, you know, Mum.’
‘Have you been tracking her phone again?’ asks Nick, frowning. ‘I thought we agreed that we’d only use that function if there was an emergency.’
Sometime it feels like the entire universe is out to get me, it really does.
I sigh. ‘If you feel that strongly about it, then no – I won’t track your location. But don’t come crying to me if you get kidnapped and nobody notices.’
‘Hannah!’ exclaims my mother. ‘What a thing to say! Nobody is going to kidnap Scarlet!’
‘Nobody in their right mind, anyway,’ huffs Benji, finally getting his own back. ‘And even if they did, they’d soon give her back when they realised how annoying she is.’
In the ensuing carnage all attention is diverted from me and the fingers that I am frantically crossing under the kitchen table, which is good, because I have absolutely no intention of stopping utilising new technological advances to keep a maternal and watchful eye on my children. It’s the only reason I pay for their bloody phone contracts in the first place.
The meal finally ends and the kids do some token cleaning up before disappearing to their rooms. Nick mutters something about fixing a Land Rover part and heads out of the back door in the direction of the shed and I know that I won’t see him again for hours.
My mother looks at the clock.
‘I’d better be off,’ she says. ‘I’m meeting an old friend for drinks tonight and I can’t be late for Barbara. I think she’s heard about my new calling in life and is hoping for a bit of free advice.’
While it was somewhat unexpected when my sixty-four-year-old mother announced that she was taking up a new career, it wasn’t a complete shock. She was a mother who my school-friends described as cool and their parents probably called unconventional. Or maybe bohemian, if they were being kind. Whatever word they used, I knew what it meant. My mother was the exciting, interesting member of our family, constantly throwing herself into new experiences and learning new things and I was the steady, sensible one. It bothered me less when I was growing up than it does now, which I think could possibly tell me something about my insecurities, if I was inclined to think about it.
Which I absolutely am not.
There are very few topics of conversation that my mother thinks are out of bounds and she prides herself on being able to talk about anything to anybody, regardless of how keen they may or may not be to discuss their most private thoughts with her. Over the years she has subjected me to her earnest and heartfelt opinions on every aspect of my life, from my career to my parenting to the provenance of my groceries. And I know that she does all this because she’s constantly absorbing new information and she wants to share it and I’m probably the only person in the universe who will actually listen to her – but good god, it’s completely infuriating and she drives me utterly insane.
Anyway, her new direction is entirely my own fault. When I had the idea of buying her credits for an online course, I was imagining her dabbling in genealogy or perhaps art history. Not ‘Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby! Foundation One, Access to Counselling.’
‘But you’re not even qualified yet,’ I point out, resisting the urge to sigh. ‘Don’t you think you should be careful about offering advice when you don’t really know what you’re talking about?’
My mother laughs and stands up. ‘When you get to my age, you know what you’re talking about. Speaking of which – how are the sales of your book doing?’
I glance at the kitchen door but the kids are long gone.
‘Okay, I think. It’s kind of hard to know for sure just yet.’
Mum fixes me with a familiar look and I brace myself.
‘Well, you know my thoughts on the matter, Hannah.’
I do, because you insist on telling me every single time I speak to you.
‘Uh-huh,’ I mutter, non-committally.
‘I’d be very happy to spread the word about your literary debut,’ she continues, shrugging her shoulders into her coat. ‘All this silly secrecy is costing you in book sales, you know.’
I do, because you also inform me of this on a regular basis.
‘I’ve been trying to figure out the second book but it’s a bit trickier than I thought it’d be,’ I find myself saying. ‘I’m not entirely sure that I can do it.’
Mum turns to look at me. ‘Of course you can do it,’ she says. ‘You’ve already written one book, Hannah. Just do it again.’
‘It’s not that simple though.’ I lean back in my chair and shake my head. ‘There wasn’t any pressure last time. I was just writing for me and I didn’t even know what I was doing half the time.’
‘Well, I rather think that was the beauty of it,’ Mum tells me. ‘It came from the heart. You just need to chill out and relax. I mean, you’re writing porn. How hard can it be?’
I stare at her suspiciously.
‘This isn’t a laughing matter, Mother. And I’m not writing porn, as you very well know. It’s erotica and it’s absolutely mainstream and there’s nothing remotely pornographic about it.’
Mum’s forehead creases into wrinkles. ‘I’m not entirely sure that I understand the difference between erotica and porn,’ she says.
So, that online course isn’t exactly making you an expert, then? Funny, that.
‘But if you ever want my informed critique on the sex scenes then you only have to ask, darling.’ She beams at me. ‘I’m learning so much on my course and I’d be very happy to share my knowledge with you. In fact, I’m doing a fascinating module at the moment called Marital Sex: Use it or Lose it, which may be of particular interest to you.’
Which seems as good a place as any to shut this conversation down and show her the door.
I give her a hug and watch as she gets into her car, waving until I’m sure that she’s actually gone. And then I go back into the kitchen, put the kettle on and slump onto the battered old sofa that Dogger has claimed as her own. My mother might be right about my desire for anonymity impacting on my sales but it’s a price I’m willing to pay.
Writing about sex is terrifying and difficult and my guiltiest pleasure and I just don’t think it’ll feel the same if everyone knows that I’m doing it. And as for any discussion about the state of my marriage, well – that’s just ridiculous. Nick and I are fine. Everything is lovely. And nice. We’re lucky that we’ve been t
ogether for all these years and we’re still attracted to each other. Lots of people aren’t as fortunate. And there’s nothing wrong with lovely and nice. Who wouldn’t want that?
I sink into the cushions and groan. Damn my mother and her stupid online course. Use it or Lose it? What’s that supposed to mean? How often are we supposed to be using it before we’re at risk of it vanishing forever? And we probably aren’t as adventurous as we once were but just because I’m always a bit knackered and Nick seems more in love with his Land Rover than me, it doesn’t mean we have issues. We’ve been married forever and it’s a marathon, not a sprint.
Although the one hundred metre dash is probably a better description of our sexual liaisons, rather than a twenty-six-mile endurance event. And part of me has been wondering whether an author of erotic fiction should be being a little more daring in her own exploits. Just to stay on-brand, you know?
Fuck it. I mentally add rejuvenating my marriage to my to-do list and turn on the television. I may not have any chill and but I do have Netflix.
Chapter Three
‘I can’t believe we’ve only been back at school for one week. It feels like the summer never happened.’ Cassie slumps down next to me and closes her eyes. ‘I just had to explain to my new Year Seven class that Chemistry is not, in fact, going to be, and I quote, “all about making potions” and that Westhill Academy is not even a tiny bit “like Hogwarts”. I swear these kids are getting younger every year.’
I wince, imagining Benji walking through our hallowed halls this time next year and renew my vow to enroll him in some self-defence classes over the next twelve months.
‘At least you managed to get a break this summer,’ I remind her. ‘I feel like I need a holiday from my holiday.’
I have tried not to envy my best friend and her three weeks in Crete at an all-inclusive resort without any kids to worry about. I have also failed in that task.
Cassie opens her eyes and gives me a frown. ‘But you had two weeks in France,’ she says. ‘What happened? Did you overdo it on the vin rouge?’
I sigh. ‘There isn’t enough cheap plonk in the whole of France to ease the pain of attempting a nice, family holiday. You have no idea how stressful it is going away with my lot.’
Cassie looks unmoved. ‘You should have done what I did then,’ she says. ‘Taken some time to find yourself.’
I open my mouth to reply and then close it again. There’s no point in even trying to explain. She doesn’t understand that I would sell my soul for some time. Time to do anything. In fact, finding myself would probably be quite low down on my list of priorities after curling up and reading more than one page of a book or having a bath without interruption. Or maybe even having an intimate date night with my husband, if I could entice him out of the shed.
The bell rings and a collective groan goes up from those teachers scattered around the room who are teaching next period, which appears to be everyone except for Cassie and me.
‘I don’t want to go back to lessons,’ whines Peter, who has been having a quick nap in the chair opposite us. ‘I’m getting too old for this crap. Teaching English to teenagers is a young man’s game. All I want is a nice little nest-egg so that I can retire somewhere where there aren’t any people – is that so much to ask?’
‘You need to set yourself free from that kind of limiting attitude,’ Adele, the drama teacher, tells him as she breezes past with Danny hot on her heels. ‘I’d have hoped that last week’s Inset Day would have given you some strategies for dealing with self-negativity and extraneous brain noise.’
‘I’m not being negative about me,’ Peter mutters as she wafts out of the room, heading to the drama department where some hapless class will be forced to listen to her waffling. ‘And you’re extraneous brain noise.’
‘I thought it was an excellent activity,’ gushes Danny, only he times his comment too late and Adele has left the room. ‘It’s like Adele said last week – it’s in the darkest times that we can really find our strengths.’
Peter scowls so hard that his glasses start to slip down his nose. ‘Well, the darkest time I’ve had recently was at that bloody awful drama session and it in no way equipped me with the necessary strength required to teach my Year Eight class, none of whom have the slightest desire to string more than two words together in a coherent manner.’
I shudder. I’m still trying to recover from the horrors of last week’s Inset Day but some things can’t ever be forgotten: Adele making us all participate in expressive mime as we learnt to connect with our inner child being only one of them.
‘That’s my point,’ says Danny. ‘You need to be more positive, mate.’
Peter drags himself out of his chair and towers over Danny.
‘It was bloody weird, mate,’ he snarls. ‘And if I don’t win on the lottery next weekend then it might be wise for everyone to stay out of my way.’
‘There’s only seven more weeks to go until half-term’ I call, as Peter wearily picks up his bag. ‘I’ve started a countdown on the calendar at home.’
It’s true. I know I shouldn’t be wishing the days away (as Scarlet keeps reminding me, I’m not getting any younger) but ever since Miriam took over as Headteacher, school has been even more unbearable. She’s appointed herself a personal assistant – a little old lady called Miss Pritchard – and has taken to prowling the corridors during lesson times, peering in through classroom doors and barking notes for Miss Pritchard to scrawl down in the notebook that never seems to leave her hands. It’s like being on the set of an incredibly dull horror film where nothing ever happens but there’s still a constant feeling that terror might be just around the corner.
Peter gives me a tired smile and plods out into the corridor, followed by our other reluctant colleagues and a still-enthusiastic Danny, whose newly qualified perkiness has been in no way dampened by Peter’s not-very-veiled threats. Cassie waits until the room is empty and then turns to look at me, her eyes sparkling.
‘Right then,’ she says, rubbing her hands together. ‘There’s nobody here now so we can stop talking about boring crap and have the conversation that I’ve been dying to have all week. How’s it all going with the book? We haven’t even spoken properly since it came out. Tell me everything, Hannah!’
I glance around to check that we really are alone. More Than Sex has been out for a few weeks now and I’m desperate to talk to someone other than Nick about it.
It’s fair to say that being a published author has both pros and cons. The first con is that, contrary to what people may believe, the publishing industry doesn’t exactly throw money about. Not that I thought writing a book would make me loaded.
Definitely not.
Not for one. Single. Second.
Sure, it’s possible that on the night I received the call from my new agent, telling me that she wanted to represent me, Nick and I may have got slightly ahead of ourselves. And by ‘getting ahead’, I absolutely do not mean sending an email to Miriam Wallace, telling her where she could stick her stupid job offer of teaching English.
She was quite gracious about that, actually. Once my agent had explained to me that the kind of money we were talking about would be just enough to pay for driving lessons and the occasional bottle of Prosecco, I was forced to write a painfully cringe-worthy email to Miriam, begging for my old part-time job back. She said that as she’d already advertised the position, I’d have to interview along with all the other applicants but it turns out, quite unsurprisingly, that people are not queuing up to deal with fourteen-year-olds murdering Shakespeare so I was the only one in the running. My interview consisted of Miriam piling yet more work onto my already exploding timetable and me pathetically agreeing to all of her demands. I did tentatively enquire about whether there may be enough money in the school budget to reinstate me in a full-time teaching position, but once she’d stopped her mirthless laughter she told me that three days was all that was on offer and I could take it or leave it.
<
br /> The next slightly challenging aspect is that I had to agree to write another book and, while I don’t want to seem ungrateful, this wasn’t really what I was aiming for when I wrote More Than Sex. Sure, I was hoping to earn a bit of extra money but it wasn’t only about that. I wanted to be someone different to the Hannah Thompson that I saw every time I looked in the mirror. I’m just not entirely convinced that the someone different I wanted to become was a writer of erotic fiction and certainly not comedy-erotica. I’m not sure that’s who I really am.
The school staffroom isn’t the ideal location for this discussion but, other than Nick and my mother, I’ve had nobody to share this with and I can’t wait any longer. Because honestly, despite the slight negatives, having a book published is genuinely the best feeling ever.
‘It’s been incredible,’ I tell her, keeping my voice low. ‘Honestly, Cassie – I can’t begin to tell you.’
Cassie squeals. ‘I knew that Nick and I sending your manuscript off was the right thing, even if you were in a mood with us for weeks! This is brilliant!’
I grin at her. ‘Well, I’d definitely never have had the confidence to share it, so yeah – it was the right thing! My agent is lovely and my publisher is some kind of genius and has worked wonders with the edits – and now it’s out there and people are reading it and some of them actually seem to like it!’
‘So they should.’ Cassie reaches into her bag and pulls something out, brandishing it in front of my face. ‘Will you sign my copy? Write something meaningful about how you’d never have done it without me and that you owe all your success to my amazing friendship. Or words to that effect.’
I swear that my heart actually stops beating for a couple of seconds. Grabbing the book out of her hand, I clutch it to my chest while my eyes dart feverishly around the room.
‘Cassie! What are you doing? You can’t bring that in here – what if someone saw it?’
Cassie rolls her eyes dramatically and gestures at the empty chairs. ‘There’s nobody else here, Mrs Paranoia. And even if anyone did see it, they wouldn’t know that you wrote it, would they? You need to relax.’
Faking It: The most hilarious and laugh out loud page turner you’ll read this year! Page 3
