‘What happened to Dry September? I thought you were determined to see it through this time – you’ve made a proper song and dance about how virtuous you’re being and you’ve only got two days to go.’
I drain the last few drops and wave the glass at him.
‘Twinky Malone would never do anything so ridiculous as to attempt not to drink in September. And as I’m going to have to be her, then the least I can do is respect her wishes. Hannah can deal with the consequences another time.’
Nick eyes me suspiciously. ‘What’re you on about? And why are you referring to yourself in the third person. Are you having some kind of crisis?’
‘If you want answers then you’re going to need your own glass of wine,’ I tell him. ‘And bring that packet of kettle chips from the back of the cupboard.’
I lean back in my chair and look up at the sky while he goes indoors. It’s still light but dusk is creeping in around the edges of the garden and everything has a soft, sepia-like tint as if it’s an old photograph that’s aged over time. That or the wine has gone straight to my head.
‘Here you go.’ Nick is back and I’m pleased to see that he’s brought another bottle. ‘Now tell me what’s going on.’
The world snaps back into view and I sit up, reaching for my glass.
‘It’s been a bit of a day,’ I start. ‘There’s some not-so-good news.’
Nick reaches across the table and puts his hand on mine.
‘Is it to do with your book?’
I shake my head. ‘The septic tank is dead,’ I inform him. ‘As in deceased, no more, cannot be revived. We’re going to have to pay up and go on mains drainage.’
I quote him the number that Rob told me and his face falls.
‘Bloody hell, Hannah. We can’t afford that.’ He lets go of my hand and rubs his face.
‘Let’s cross all our fingers and toes that your forestry contract comes through soon because I’m not quite sure what we’re going to be living on otherwise.’ I take a slurp of wine. ‘In the meantime, I’ve had an email from my editor.’
Nick reaches for his own wine, nodding at me to continue.
‘Apparently, the sales of the book for the first few weeks have been okay. Not top of the book charts but not awful either. And now one of the big supermarkets wants to sell it. They’ve put in a massive order and it’s going to be sold as a paperback in most of their stores. Binky said that it’s the kind of book that women will pick up along with their weekly grocery shopping.’
‘Seriously?’ His shoulders relax a little and finally I see something that almost resembles a smile on his face. ‘That’s incredible! We should drink a toast to all the mummies who want to buy some porn along with their Parmesan!’
‘It’s not bloody porn,’ I mumble. ‘I’ve told you about a gazillion times already.’
Nick raises his glass and toasts me mid-air.
‘Po-tay-to, po-ta-to,’ he says. ‘I don’t know why you get in such a strop about it. Erotica, porn – same difference.’
‘As it currently stands, the sales of the books are not going to be enough to pay for the septic tank,’ I plough on, choosing to ignore his stupid comment. I’ve got enough to worry about without adding the education of my husband on the classification of sexual fiction. ‘The supermarket buys them at a huge discount and they’d need to sell loads of them for me to make any decent money. But Binky did mention something else that might help with that.’
Something about the serious tone of my voice finally gets his attention and he lowers his glass to look at me properly.
‘What is it, babe?’ he asks. ‘You actually look quite pale. Are you alright?’
I shake my head violently. ‘No. I am not alright. Or maybe I am alright and it’ll all be fine. Perhaps I’m making a big deal out of nothing, you know?’
Nick swallows loudly. ‘Whatever it is, we’ll get through it together,’ he says. ‘Like we’ve always done. Just spit it out, Hannah. Tell me what’s going on – and then I need to tell you something too.’
‘The supermarket taking on the book is great,’ I tell him, trying to get a grip on my rising hysteria. ‘But we still need readers to actually buy a copy when they go to the shop.’ I pause and take another sip of wine. ‘Binky says that this is my chance to actually make some real money but the only way to do that is to help promote the book and commit to some publicity. And by some publicity, she means this.’
I wake up my screen and spin my laptop to face him. Nick peers closer and starts to read the email that Binky sent me earlier.
Dear Hannah,
I hope all is well with you and yours. It is with great pleasure that I am writing to inform you that More Than Sex is going to be stocked in—
* * *
‘Not that bit,’ I tell him. ‘Read the bit at the end. The thing that she forwarded to me.’
Nick’s eyes scan down the screen and then widen.
‘Calling all Sex Goddesses,’ he reads aloud. ‘We are delighted that you will be joining us as part of the panel at this year’s Sex Con. Our aim is to bring you all together for a frank and open discussion as part of our “Real Sex Talk” event and we know that our delegates will all benefit hugely from the expertise that you will bring. Further details to follow in due course.’
I stare across the table at my husband. ‘I’m going to have to be seen, Nick. People are going to know that I write erotica and our kids are going to find out and the other teachers at school, and that’s before I even start thinking about what will happen if Year Ten, Class C ever discover it. And what if Allegra hears something? My life is going to be over.’
Nick grins at me, which is not exactly the reaction that I am expecting.
‘They’re calling you a Sex Goddess, Hannah. I think I quite like being married to someone with that title!’
I stare at him in disbelief. ‘Did you not hear me? Binky is demanding that I reveal myself in public. There is nothing okay about this situation, not least the fact that I am clearly not a Sex Goddess and if I turn up at Sex Con then I’m going to make an almighty fool of myself.’
My loving husband shrugs and helps himself to some more wine.
‘Well, I think you’re super sexy. What is Sex Con anyway? Is it like Comic Con without the superheroes?’
I shake my head. ‘I have no idea. Probably because I am totally out of my depth here and this invitation has clearly been sent by mistake.’
‘No, it hasn’t.’ He points at the screen. ‘Binky says that they nominated you for a place on the Real Sex Talk panel and that it’s a huge honour that you’ve been accepted.’ He looks over at me. ‘You have to do it, Hannah.’
‘I. Am. Not. A. Sex. Goddess,’ I hiss, through gritted teeth. ‘And I can’t risk anyone recognising me – you know that. It’s one thing writing this stuff in secret but it’s something else entirely going out there and talking about it, for god’s sake!’
Nick rolls his eyes at me. ‘But you’ve already got the solution. You told me yourself that you’re just going to have to be Twinky Malone. She writes porn for a living – I’m pretty sure that qualifies her for the position of Sex Goddess. Go as her.’
‘But I’m still going to be me, aren’t I?’ My wail carries through the garden and I see Scarlet peering suspiciously out of the kitchen window. ‘People will still know who I am.’
Nick takes another sip of wine. ‘You’re making this all way harder than it needs to be, babe. Just put something on your head and they’ll be none the wiser.’
I am married to a blithering buffoon.
‘I hardly think that a hat is going to provide me with a foolproof disguise,’ I hiss, conscious that our teenagers have bat-like levels of hearing. ‘I’m going to have to do a bit more than that, Nick.’
There’s a crash from inside the house and then the unmistakable sound of Benji howling. Nick stands up and puts his hands on the table, leaning down until he can see right into my eyes.
‘So do m
ore,’ he tells me. ‘Do whatever it takes and then get out there and enjoy yourself. You’ve been saying that you want to be more than just Mum for years now – so do it. Find your Sex Goddess and let her out.’
‘Like it’s that easy,’ I scoff. ‘Anyway – what did you want to talk about?’
He shakes his head. ‘It can wait, babe.’ Then he drops a quick kiss on top of my head and goes inside to deal with whatever chaos our youngest child has managed to create, leaving me alone in the garden with the wine bottles and my thoughts.
Nick might be a bit insensitive to my needs at times but he’s completely right on this. I do want to be more than just Mum. And maybe I can kill three birds with one stone. I’ll embrace the idea of myself as a confident, sassy writer of comedy-erotica while transforming myself into a Sex Goddess for the Sex Con event and breathe some new life into my marriage at the same time.
But if I’m going to do it properly then I’m going to have to consider the whole package. It won’t be enough to just look different. I’m going to need to find my inner diva and embrace every inch of her. Her personality. Her charisma. Her hopes and dreams.
I’m going to need to go full Twinky Malone.
I spend my next day off outlining the plot of my second book in detail. This was another suggestion in the How to Write a Bestselling Novel book and I’ve been meaning to do it for a while. I’m actually quite pleased with myself – it turns out that teaching English for the last year has actually given me a few skills in this department and when I step back and look at the large piece of paper that I’ve covered in sticky notes, I feel a huge sense of pride. I have a beginning, middle and an end, all presented as a huge mind map. All I’ve got to do now is actually write it.
I’m just about to start tidying up when the front door crashes open and seconds later, Scarlet flies into the kitchen.
‘It stinks in this house,’ she snarls. ‘When’s that gross septic tank getting sorted?’
‘Soon,’ I snap back, hurriedly rolling up my mind map.
I am aware of the aroma. It’s not even that strong but it seems to permeate everything and leave a tinge of decay and horror in the air. It’s not the ideal environment for a person who may be attempting to get their sexy on, that’s for sure.
Scarlet doesn’t even glance in my direction. Instead she stomps across to the fridge and pulls out a carton of orange juice before emptying the majority of the contents into a pint glass and rather impressively downing it in one. I blink, trying to chase away the image of my baby girl out-drinking everyone at the bar and remember that I have some parenting to do.
‘Why are you home?’ I ask.
It’s a reasonable question.
‘God!’ she groans. ‘Why does everyone have to know everything about me and what I’m doing, all of the time?’
I raise an eyebrow and gesture to the seat opposite me. She hesitates for a second and I think that the situation might be about to escalate but then her shoulders slump and she throws herself onto the chair.
‘School doesn’t finish for another hour,’ I say, in as non-confrontational a tone as I can muster. I’ve been here before and I know that I need to act as if I’m calming a savage beast if I want to get anything out of her. If I give her the slightest chance to feel persecuted or ‘got at’ then she’ll flounce off feeling aggrieved and I’ll have to bide my time until she’s ready to share what’s upsetting her.
And today I just don’t have the time to wait.
‘I walked out,’ she says, resting her head on the table. ‘And I’m not going back.’
‘No way,’ I say, losing the calm voice. ‘You are not quitting school, young lady. You’ve only just started Sixth Form and there’s bound to be a few teething problems but you have to stick it out it for the good of your education.’
She raises her head and looks at me wearily.
‘I’m not going back this afternoon,’ she tells me. ‘So chill out, okay?’
I heave a sigh of relief and lean back in my chair.
‘So what’s the problem?’
Her head flops back down onto the table and I have to strain to hear her muffled voice. It’s impossible to catch every word but I think I hear the words ‘Ashley Dunsford’ and ‘Twat-bucket’ and I definitely hear the phrase ‘never going to even look at a boy again’, so I get the gist of the issue.
‘Shall I make us a nice cup of tea and we can have a good chat?’ I say, once she’s stopped muttering. ‘I think I’ve got some emergency chocolate hidden in the cupboard that the boys haven’t found yet.’
Scarlet sighs and then stands up.
‘I phoned Granny on the way home and she said that I can go over to her house and have a chat. I think she’ll probably be really helpful, you know?’
No. I don’t know. I am your mother and it’s my job to be there for you in your hour of need. We should be cuddling up on the sofa and talking about boys and maybe painting our nails, before watching a sad yet ultimately uplifting film. And you will snuggle up next to me and I will feel your pain but also be warmed by our bond because I am your mum and you should need me.
‘I’m sure she’ll be great,’ I say, forcing myself to smile at my daughter. ‘She was always very understanding whenever I needed someone to talk to.’
My lucky, lucky mother to be blessed with a daughter like me, who actually shared my worries with her. And now Scarlet is doing the same thing and choosing her as a confidant and I know that a good mother would rejoice that their child has someone she can trust with matters of the heart.
I am clearly not a good mother.
I wait until the front door has slammed shut and then pick up my laptop and ram it into my bag. I may be a bad parent and a terrible teacher and quite honestly, a bit of a wreck right now but that doesn’t mean that I have to fail at everything. I am one hundred percent determined that Book Two (untitled) will be the raunchiest, sexiest, most orgiastic work of our time and there is only one place to go for the divine inspiration that writing of this calibre requires and that is The Daily Grind.
For the hot and steamy coffee, obviously.
Chapter Ten
My alarm beeps at 6 a.m. but it doesn’t need to bother. I’ve barely slept. The night lasted forever as I lay awake, trying not to think about the day ahead but unable to think about anything else. Occasionally I would doze for a few minutes, but my dreams were filled with nightmares about me leaving a very small child on a plane and having to watch helplessly as it toddled off to the cockpit and started taxiing down the runway.
There’s a slim possibility that I am not really handling Dylan heading off to university very well.
‘Wake up,’ I whisper at my sleeping husband, resisting the urge to hit him on the head with my pillow. ‘You promised that you’d cook a proper breakfast before we have to leave.’
Nick grunts and rolls over. I wait for three seconds and then prod him in the ribs. ‘Nick! Wake up and cook the sausages.’
Blearily, he opens his eyes and squints at the clock on his bedside table.
‘Hannah. It’s six o’clock in the morning. We don’t have to leave until ten o’clock. Sausages do not take four hours to cook. Go back to sleep.’
I attempt a chuckle but it comes out more like a strangulated yelp.
‘Go back to sleep? Go back to sleep? I’d need to have slept in order to do that, Nick – and I can assure you that I have not been doing much sleeping. Because one of us needs to be sure that Dylan has got everything he needs and actually, it’s a very good job that I wasn’t asleep because I remembered at two-fifteen this morning that he didn’t have any drawing pins for his noticeboard and what on earth is the point of a noticeboard without any pins, hey? Tell me that! So I went and had a rummage around in the kitchen drawers and found a whole packet of pins and I’ve put them in his rucksack but you need to remind me to tell him where they are because he won’t know otherwise and then he’ll be in real trouble if he needs to put something up on the boar
d.’
I pause to breathe and Nick pulls me into his arms.
‘He’s going to be fine, babe,’ he tells me. ‘You don’t need to worry, okay? Now will you please try to get some rest?’
I relax my shoulders and close my eyes but then another thought makes me sit bolt upright.
‘Should we have had him vaccinated before he went?’ I ask, frowning as I try to remember all the advice that I have trawled through online.
Nick sighs and sits up. ‘He’s going two and a half hours down the road, Hannah – not to another continent. I don’t think vaccinations are required. Last I heard, rabies and yellow fever weren’t prevalent in the south of England.’
I do not appreciate his tone.
‘But it’s a known fact that people get ill when they move somewhere new,’ I snap back. ‘It’s to do with new germs and viruses and stuff. And Fresher’s Flu – that’s definitely a thing.’ I leap up and stare down at Nick. ‘Oh god. What if he gets sick and I’m not there?’
‘You won’t be there, will you?’ points out my loving and understanding husband. ‘And if he does get sick then he’ll deal with it, just like every other eighteen-year-old who leaves home.’
I shake my head. ‘We need to do everything that we can to keep him healthy and safe. I can’t handle the thought of him being unwell when he’s away from us, I just can’t. And I read an article about students all getting scurvy because they don’t have enough Vitamin C but I haven’t bought him any!’
Nick throws back the duvet and walks round the bed to stand in front of me. He puts his hands on my arms and looks me right in the eye.
‘My darling wife,’ he says quietly. ‘You are being ever so slightly insane right now, okay?’
I open my mouth to protest but he keeps talking.
‘I’m going to go downstairs and make you some coffee. In the meantime, I want you to take a nice, long shower. Then we’ll cook some sausages and wake the kids up and have a leisurely and relaxed last breakfast before we go.’
Faking It: The most hilarious and laugh out loud page turner you’ll read this year! Page 9
