Spank: The Improbable Adventures of George Aloysius Brown

by Daniels, Alan

  "You didn't!"

  "I did. And I have got the advance in my pocket." George reached into his jacket and produced it with a flourish. Catherine collapsed back in her chair and put her hands to the side of her face.

  "How much, George?" she said.

  "Ten thousand pounds, plus seven percent of gross sales."

  "Ten thousand?" She said it so loudly, half the restaurant turned in their direction. "That's fantastic. I'm so pleased for you."

  She got out of her chair and gave him a hug. "Who's the lucky publisher?"

  George gave her his lopsided grin. "That's the weird part," he said. "It's a Japanese mobile phone company."

  Over coffee, Catherine listened with increasing amusement to his account of the meeting with Mr. Yamomoto.

  It was her turn to give his leg a tug.

  "Ah so, Doctor Fry reads loyal frycatcher on melly dance," she parodied, her fingers zigging and zagging over the condiments.

  George laughed. "Actually it wasn't that way at all. His English is better than mine."

  "And they actually publish novels direct to people's mobiles?"

  "Apparently, they do. Japanese teens use their phones so much that they are called oyayubizoku, 'the thumb tribe.' According to what I read on the internet, "an entire generation has grown up using cell phones to communicate, shop, watch television and movies, read books and create content in ways that we in the West are only just beginning to explore. Apparently, fans of cell-phone fiction follow their favorite authors as if they were friends."

  "Better watch out, George. You might find yourself mobbed by Japanese office ladies all wanting their panchira spanked." She giggled.

  "Yes, the price of literary fame, I suppose," said George, stoically. "One must endure."

  "Seriously, though, we have done rather well, haven't we?" Catherine said. "I wonder what Wanda would say. I bet your mates in the pub aren't laughing at you now. By the way, this is for you."

  She pushed an envelope across the table. In it was a cheque for £10,000, payable to George Aloysius Brown, half the prize money awarded to a first-time novelist from their creative writing class.

  "Catherine, no, please. I won't take it. This is your money. You won it fair and square."

  "But we had a deal, remember? It's too late to back out now." George knew that nothing he could say would make her take the money back.

  "Tell you what" he said, "I've been giving this some thought. Let's form a writers' support group – you and me – call it JB Enterprizes – whatever. We will offer financial assistance to first-time authors, sponsor new talent, give something back to the literary community. If any of our writers makes it big we'll take a share of the profit. What do you think?"

  "I think it's a great idea. We'll be patrons of the arts like your friend Catherine de Medici, but I don't exactly have the money right now to throw at other writers."

  George put his hand on the envelope she had given him.

  "Here's your share, right here," he said. "I'll match it with twenty-five grand of Mr Yamomoto's money. We can work out the details later. No arguments. I'll get my accountant to draw up the papers."

  Catherine laughed. "You have an accountant?"

  "No, but I'll have to find one if I'm going to be a household name in Japan."

  "And in the meantime?"

  "I don't know, let's have some fun. For starters, we'll throw one hell of a party."

  Chapter Sixteen

  I see again a shining beach

  Memories like polished pebbles

  Hear again the brittle laugher of children

  Dancing to the puppeteer's strings On Brighton Beach by CM Jones When word got around in Pimlico and environs that there was going to be a book launch party for not one but two publications and that the invitation list included three dominatrix, the vice-president casting of an East End adult movie studio, a Brixton librarian who entertains assertive older gentlemen, the lady treasurer of the Cambridge Constituency Conservative Party, the head of western Europe for TrashTalk Mobile, the entire board of Pandora Books, the mayor and councilors of Putney& District, senior partners of Maddox, Matrix, Addison Camberwell, the celebrated English poet Wanda Gravely, and a maker of high-end rattan canes together with her franchise partner from Los Angeles, it suddenly became the hottest ticket in town.

  Catherine and George found they had a host of new friends and others they hadn't heard from for a while. Several Chelsea Pensioners wrote to say they didn't get out much and would love to meet the new neighbors, the Lambeth Girls Choir offered to entertain, Victoria Barnes, proprietor of Everything Spanking New, offered as a door prize two tickets to an upcoming over-50s fetish event in Reading, and Dr. Steed Blondin phoned Catherine to see if he and his mates from Guy's Hospital could drop by.

  "You bastard, you didn't tell me you were coming to London," she admonished him.

  "Didn't know myself until a week ago. I'm here on a research exchange program for six months." He paused. "It would be great to see you."

  Catherine flushed, memories of a hot afternoon in Surry Hills.

  "I didn't think I would see you again."

  "I don't think you saw me the first time."

  Catherine laughed. She loved the easy Aussie banter.

  "You still got those flip flops with cleats on?"

  "Better than that. I bought crampons."

  "Sorry, they're not legal in Pimlico?"

  "Then you'll have to come out to my place?"

  "And where's that?"

  "Earls Court."

  Catherine laughed. "I might have known. Do you want to meet for a drink? There's a pub called the Arab Boy…."

  "I know it, it's just down the road from where I live."

  "I'll meet you there at six."

  "Don't be late".

  George had of course, as a matter of courtesy, invited fellow members of the Pimlico Literary Appreciation Society and they agreed to put his invitation on the agenda for discussion at the next meeting. The events coordinator Mrs. Prenderghast, who is slightly hard of hearing, phoned him to discuss it, but didn't seem quite clear on the concept.

  "Fly On The Wall, is that what you're calling it? Weird sort of title, what? Sounds entomological. What's it about?"

  "Spanking," George replied, emphatically. He didn't have a lot of patience with Mrs. Prenderghast.

  "What was that, dear? Spelunking? That's climbing about in caves and things, isn't it? Good show. I love a good adventure story."

  Dolly Bloom, who offered to provide floral arrangements for the party, had read the first draft of his manuscript and had made several useful suggestions. He had asked her to join his editorial advisory committee, but she had politely declined.

  "Sounds like you're in good hands with those young ladies, naughty boy." She paused. George pictured her blushing prettily, fanning herself with a floral hankie.

  "By the way, George," she added. "Just in case you were wondering, my new furniture has arrived. Solid as a rock, if you would care to pop round for tea."

  Pandora Books and TrashTalk Mobile, who were jointly funding the launch party, chose an upmarket wine bar in Sloane Square and did not stint on the cost. There was an open bar between seven and midnight and a lavish buffet table decorated with a magnificent life-sized ice sculpture of Botticelli's Venus emerging from the sea. The shell beneath her feet was piled high with shucked oysters, mussels on the half shell, cherrystone clams imported from New England and chunks of Nova Scotia lobster.

  Catherine and George were the first to arrive, nursing their drinks, standing together at the buffet, admiring the opulence of it all and wondering how they came to deserve it.

  "Wow, that's some serious ice," said a voice in Catherine's ear. She spun around and screamed in disbelief.

  "Jen! My God! I don't believe it. You told me you couldn't make it."

  She hugged her friend, lifting her off her feet and spinning her around. Then she hugged Jen's mum.

  "Ruth, lo
vely to see you, too. Did you do this, convince your errant daughter I couldn't get through this evening without her?"

  Ruth laughed.

  "Actually, she convinced me. I wanted to tell you she was coming. She wanted it to be a surprise."

  The room was filling up, the noise level rising.

  Catherine grabbed George's arm.

  "Ruth, Jen, this is George, celebrated author of Fly On The Wall, co-host of this literary extravaganza."

  "How do you do?" He smiled. "Although I think 'celebrated' might be a slight exaggeration, unless you happen to be a TrashTalk Mobile subscriber."

  "No talking trash in Hampshire I'm afraid," said Ruth. "But I've heard a lot about your book from Jen. I'd love to read it. I'm told it puts an entirely new perspective on history."

  Catherine and Jen exchanged a glance.

  Jen put her mouth to Catherine's ear. "I told her Cleopatra gets spanked within an inch of her life by her drop-dead gorgeous masseur. That got her attention."

  Catherine smiled.

  "From what I remember, Ruth does alright in that department – I'm still jealous. Where is Doug, anyway?"

  "Poor Daddy. Stuck in Dubai. He sends his congratulations."

  "Excuse me, ladies, I'm going to the bar," George said. "Can I bring anyone a drink?"

  "So how's business, Scarlett, it's been a while?" Divina Miseria bent to give her friend and colleague a hug. She loved going to parties where she didn't have to work the room.

  "Hello, Divina, nice to see you. Actually, business is good, thank you. Did you hear I've got a franchise partner in Los Angeles, she's here somewhere if you'd like to meet her. How about that, eh? RattanAmour goes to Hollywood."

  "I heard. Congratulations. I think it's marvelous. But you're still manufacturing here, right?"

  "Absolutely. Is there something I can make for you?"

  "Actually there is. I need a special carving."

  "Of what?"

  "Of me. A handle carved in my likeness."

  "You mean like a bust?"

  "Exactly, a miniature Divina Dolor. Only give me a stern, imperious expression."

  Scarlett smiled. "The look that raised a thousand welts."

  "Shhh… I don't need the advertising."

  "I must say it's an interesting concept," said Scarlett, taking a sip from a flute of champagne. "Might start a trend. Is this your idea?"

  "Actually, it came from a client. He's paying for it. He absolutely adores me. He wants to buy it for me. He wants to be able to hold it, caress it, worship it. Then when I'm ready for him, he will present it to me."

  "Sure, I can do that for you," said Scarlett. "I'll make a life-size model in clay. Once it's to your liking I'll carve it in silver, about the size of a golf ball."

  Divina clapped her hands together.

  "Perfect. I'll be a shrunken head."

  "I'll drink to that."

  They laughed and clinked glasses.

  "And how's Sol?" Scarlett asked.

  "She's fine, although she's no longer the Sorcerer's Apprentice. She doesn't quite have her mother's aptitude."

  "So what is she doing?"

  "She's in ballet school. Sadler's Wells, no less."

  "Scarlett grabbed her friend's arm. "Divina, that's brilliant. I'm so happy for her."

  Nan arrived with Catherine's dad Charles, and there were more hugs all round.

  "I'm so proud of you darling, we all are," said Nan.

  Her dad went to get the drinks, leaving her mum to conduct the formal part of the proceedings.

  "Sweeetie, this job with Pandora, what exactly will you be doing?"

  "I thought you'd never ask," Catherine said. "What I will be doing is evaluating submissions for possible publication. Pandora is branching out into a new specialty division."

  "What sort of manuscripts, darling? Nothing inappropriate, I hope. What are you evaluating now, for example?"

  Catherine almost choked on her Sauvignon Blanc.

  "You'd love it, Cynthia," said Nan, hurriedly. "Catherine and I have already had this conversation It's a whodunit, actually more of a who's doing it, really, set in 18th century France. It's quite charming it its own way, written by a retired Methodist minister. You'd love it."

  Cynthia made a disapproving noise.

  "I doubt it. I hope you turn it down."

  "Mum, how can you say that when you haven't even read it."

  "Darling, you know Methodists and I do not get along. That rabble rouser John Wesley should never have split with the Church of England."

  Catherine smiled, thinking, 'Dear old mum.' She took her arm.

  "Don't worry. I already binned it, a bit too Episcopalian for Pandora's taste."

  "May I offer you some caviar?" A waiter came to Catherine's rescue before the inquisition could continue, followed by Jen, rushing up, arms outstretched. Catherine breathed a sigh of relief. The cavalry had arrived in the nick of time.

  "Lovely to see you, Nan," said Jen. "You too, Cynthia, Charles." She kissed them in turn on both cheeks.

  "Looks like Nan has some competition in the artistic department," she said. "Who knew Cat would become a paperback writer? She must have inherited her literary talent from her mother?"

  Cynthia beamed.

  "Well, yes, quite likely. I did a little writing, you know, before Catherine came along. After that, there didn't seem to be time. How are things in Australia, Jen? You must come to visit and tell us all about it."

  Mrs. Prenderghast was the first of the book club to arrive. She wore the dress she'd worn three years previously when she was invited to tea at Buckingham Palace. As an afterthought she wore the hat she had bought for Derby Day at Epsom, a two-tiered extravaganza of peacock feathers and satin bows, tilted at a slightly rakish angle. On entering the bar she saw a big man in a yellow checkered suit rattling the ice cubes in a gin and tonic and assumed he was someone in authority.

  "Molly Prenderghast," she said. "I'm on the guest list. I expect you want to see my invitation."

  Somewhat taken aback, the big man stuck out his hand.

  "Nah, keep it in yer 'andbag, luvy. Pleased to meet yer. Gimble's my name."

  Mrs. Prenderghast twiddled with her hearing aid.

  "What was that? Rumpole, did you say? Of course, Rumpole of the Bailey, barrister chappie, I've seen you on the telly. You look bigger in real life."

  Gimble looked around for a graceful way out. Not seeing one, he dug in his wallet and handed over his business card.

  She perched her reading glasses on her nose and scrutinized it carefully.

  "EldercareVideo Production. Gosh. How exciting. 'Lights! Camera! Action!' That sort of thing. Anything I might know? I organize movie night for the Pimlico Women's Institute, you know."

  Gimble saw an opportunity to add her name to the mailing list.

  "Our films are very popular with seniors," he told her. "Take our current production, The Bird and The Bush, it's…."

  "How wonderful," Mrs. Prenderghast gushed, holding his arm. "George tells me his book is about caving and you make films about birding. How simply marvelous. All good clean back to nature stuff. How very refreshing. Most things these days seem to be sex and smut."

  She saw George in the distance and hurried off in pursuit.

  "Nice talking to you, Rumpole," she said. "Keep up the good work."

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Gimble emptied his gin and tonic and set off in the opposite direction on a mission of replenishment.

  Shortly after the speeches and a champagne toast to the authors, Steed arrived on a borrowed bicycle, which he valet-parked at the door. To say he made an entrance would be something of an understatement. He wore a dark brown Australian bushman's coat, leather boots and a wide-brimmed stockman's hat. Two days of designer stubble completed the Outback look.

  Lady Warmington, who knows movie star appeal when she sees it, was about to pounce, but Catherine beat her to it.

  What time do you call this?" she asked him,
throwing her arms around his neck.

  "Sorry, I'm late, babe," he said. "I had to go to a retirement bash. Head honcho at the hospital. It was a deportation offence not to be there."

  "Yeah? Where was the party?" she teased him. "Alice Springs?"

  Steed grinned.

  "You don't like the Ned Kelly look?" He put his lips to her ear. "Where I come from we like our beer cold, our steaks rare, and our women over easy."

  Catherine laughed. "I know where you come from: Earls Court."

  She grabbed a beer from a passing tray, handing it to him.

  "One out of three's not bad .You can help yourself to some grub, there's tons left."

  Steed put his arm round her waist. "Will I see you later?"

  Catherine shook her head. "I'm wiped. It may not be doctor's orders, but it's straight home for me tonight."

  Steed looked disappointed.

  "That's too bad," he said. "But I guess it can wait."

  "What can wait?"

  "There's something I want to ask you."

  The launch party was deemed to be an outstanding social success. Catherine signed books for an hour and George felt a bit left out until a young Japanese woman in a kimono approached him and requested his signature on a TrashTalk Mobile phone bill. She giggled and blushed, putting her hand to her mouth when George said he hoped she would enjoy his book.

  "She's already read it," said Tommy Yamomoto, who joined the conversation. "Ikoko heads TrashTalk's animation department. She's brilliant. Wait till you see her work. Remember, I told you we would animate the banquet scene at Catherine de Medici's castle. When Doctor Fly seeks refuge in the nether regions she has drawn him, as you envisaged it in tangle of hair, but it is done with such subtlety that even the censors will be charmed. I'll send you the clip."

  At the end of the evening, George and Catherine shared a taxi home.

  "I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted," she said, moving closer, laying her head on his shoulder. George let her, hoping she was comfortable, hoping that the ride would last forever.

  It should have been the best of times, but the day after the party George had a heavy heart. He thought a lot about Pem these days. What would she make of all this? He was afraid of stuff he had written going viral on the internet. What would happen when TrashTalk Mobile began serializing his novel? He had discussed elements of their love life with a lot of people during the course of his research. For him, it had been almost cathartic, a way of getting over his grief, but he was not sure she would have approved. It's too late now, he told himself, but he could minimize any possible damage. He had one computer printout of the novel and this he kept in a locked strongbox in his flat. The only electronic copy now belonged to TrashTalk Mobile and certainly it was in its best interests to keep a lid on the contents. When the rejection slips started to pile up, Catherine, on his behalf, had posted a synopsis and brief chapter summary on a writers' cooperative website where publishers sometimes go in the hopes of finding an undiscovered gem. This was where TrashTalk found Fly On The Wall. He took down the synopsis from the site.