Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series)

by Nick Spalding

  'I don't want to talk about it,' I tell her, and drop the dog lead. 'I don't ever want to talk about it,' I add, moving past her and up the stairs. 'I'm going to have a shower,' I say, yanking my shirt off.

  'What about the dog?' Laura calls up to me.

  I swivel in an instant and look down at her, brow furrowed in impotent fury. 'I do not care about the dog, Laura. Unless your next request of me is 'Jamie, could you find the nearest mincer and put Winklehoven through it head first?' I do not wish to hear another thing about the dog for the rest of the day... if not the week, month, year, or millennium.'

  'Dad! That's horrible!' I hear Poppy shout from behind me.

  I hold my bloody, painful finger up. 'So is this Poppy! So is this!'

  Giving my daughter a look that suggests it would be best for her continued well-being that she gets out of my way, I stride across the landing and into the bathroom, locking the door behind me so I can't hear the inevitable sounds of dog mollycoddling going on downstairs. With a shiver of revulsion, I remove the rest of my clothing, turn on the shower, and step into the cubicle.

  My foot comes down on a squishy lump of Winklehoven shit.

  'Oh, for fuck's sake!' I scream in horror.

  Still, at least I won't have to wash it off with a bloody hose this time.

  Today, I sat and ordered two things on Amazon. One is a small book entitled 'Buying The Right Cat'. I intend to leave it strategically around the house so Winklebastard sees it as much as possible. The other is a life sized cardboard cut out of a Border Terrier. This I intend to park outside Winklehoven's cage every night, until the little sod starts treating me with a bit more respect. If this doesn't work, my next purchase will be a book entitled 'Buying The Right Border Terrier' - and a fucking mincer.

  Oh, and one more thing - you may have noted that throughout this rambling anecdote I haven't referred to Winklehoven's gender. This has been entirely deliberate. The second I start calling it 'he' or 'she' is the moment you might start identifying with it more, and that's the last thing I want. Everyone around me has fallen for the little bastard’s dubious charms, and I need to keep you onside as much as possible. So, no taking a sneaky peak between its legs when I'm not looking, alright? I'm trusting you on this.

  Laura's Diary

  Tuesday, September 28th

  Dear Mum,

  Atchoo!

  I have a cold.

  A nasty, stinking early Autumn cold.

  I caught it at the book conference we've just been at for the past three days. I can even hazard a guess as to who gave it to me. It was the bloke on the tube first thing Saturday morning, as we were making our way to Danesborough Halls, where the three day event took place.

  The bugger sneezed on my cheek.

  I'm sure he didn't mean to, but it was one of those explosive sneezes that erupt from your face without warning when you are stricken with a cold.

  'I'm so dreadfully sorry!' he stammers, as I wipe away his nasal excretions with the collar of my jacket.

  I should scream and shout at the poor man for not having better manners, but it's 8am, and I haven't even had a decent cup of tea yet, so can't manage more ire in my response than a slight growl. 'Don't worry. Perhaps you should buy yourself a handkerchief?' I say to him.

  His face blanches. He would probably keep apologising, were it not for the fact that the tube train has started to slow, indicating that it's coming into the next station. 'This is my stop,' the red nosed man tells me.

  'Oh good. At least I won't have to worry about you peppering me with any more sputum,' I reply in a haughty tone I don't really like the sound of.

  As the tube doors open, he gives me one last look of embarrassed regret, before piling out of the train with the rest of the exodus.

  'I hope that doesn't set the tone for the day,' Jamie says, from where he is stood with Poppy to one side of me.

  'I've got a tissue in my pocket,' Dad says, rummaging around in his coat for a moment, before producing a small packet of Kleenex and handing it to me.

  'Thanks,' I reply, taking one of the tissues and wiping my neck with it.

  Now, don't be mad, Mum. I know you might not like the idea of Dad coming along on a family trip like this, but we've been getting on very well in the past few months, and I felt it was about time to start including him more in Newman family activities.

  This trip to London has been in the calendar for months now.

  Jamie and I are speaking in two sessions at the Contemporary Writers Conference - one this morning, and the other on Monday. Coincidentally, Poppy's school has an inset day on Monday as well, and we took this as a sign to turn the whole thing into a proper weekend away. The conference organisers are footing our expenses, so it seemed like a no-brainer.

  Dad coming along was a spur of the moment thing last week, after he came around for a coffee. It was while he was playing on the floor with Poppy and Winky that the idea occurred to me.

  'You should come with us this weekend, Dad,' I suggest.

  'What?' Jamie splutters from around his coffee cup.

  Dad grins. 'That would be lovely, Laura.' His eyes dart to Jamie. 'But are you sure?'

  'Yes. Definitely.' I can feel Jamie's eyes trying their best to burn a hole through the side of my skull. I turn to look at him. 'Dad could probably look after Poppy for us one night, Jamie. What do you think of that?'

  Jamie's expression instantly softens as he realises the import of this statement. If Dad babysits Pops, we can have an evening alone together, with all the fun and games that might entail. 'Oh. Er. Yeah.' He looks at Dad. 'Would you mind having Pops for the night, Terry?' He pauses for a second. 'Maybe two?'

  Dad might be an aging hippy, but he's not an idiot. 'That would be fine, Jamie,' he replies with a smile, before looking at Poppy, who is busily poking a finger into Winklehoven's ear. 'Would you like that, Poppy? Would you like to spend the evening with Grandad?'

  Poppy's eyes widen. 'Can we watch Frozen again?' she says.

  Dad's eyes twitch momentarily. 'Of course we can sweetheart.'

  Jamie picks up his mobile. 'I'll call the Premier Inn and ask them for another room,' he says, finding the number in the phone's memory as he does so.

  You'll note that we're staying in a Premier Inn, rather than The Dorchester this time. The Contemporary Writer's Conference may be one of the largest events in the publishing industry calendar, but that doesn't mean it isn't tighter than a gnat's naughty parts when it comes to how much it pays in expenses.

  Poppy gasps. 'But what about Winky?' she says, with a healthy dollop of melodramatic distress.

  'Oh lovely, that's just excellent,' Jamie says as he looks up from the ringing phone, a smile of such malevolence crossing his face that I start sketching the sign of the cross. 'Mum and Dad. Mum and Dad can have Winklehoven for the weekend. I'm sure they wouldn't mind.'

  I'm not sure whether it's his parents or the dog that my husband is aiming his malevolence at.

  To be frank, I'm not just using Dad as a babysitting service, I also want him to come along and see what it is that Jamie and I actually do for a living. I'm very proud of what we've managed to accomplish, and I see nothing wrong with wanting to flaunt that success to a father who absented himself from my life at such an early age. He had nothing to do with making me the woman I am today, and I want him to know that I didn't need him to become the person I am. We may have mended some bridges, but they're still under construction, and I'm not entirely comfortable with the old man just yet. It'll do me the world of good to show off to him a bit, I think.

  It'll also give Dad an insight into the writing world - something he's never had any part of before. I must get my writing ability from your side of the family Mum, because my father has no tendencies towards it at all. It transpires that the longest thing he's ever written is a shopping list. Sometimes I do wonder how I'm his child, given how different we are as people. When talking to him, I am left in no doubt that I am my mother's daughter. I just
don't see much of myself in him at all. Your genes must have been the stronger of the two, Mum!

  Having said that, he is prone to moments of kindness that have surprised me greatly. Jamie might hate Winklehoven, and even I sometimes feel a little overwhelmed by the tiny dog, but Poppy adores the Chihuahua with a love so unconditional that it brings tears to my eyes. If I am ever in a low mood, all I have to do is watch her cuddling Winky, and it makes me feel so much better.

  And so, it felt right to ask Dad along this weekend. If nothing else he can sit in the audience with Poppy to stop her squirming all over the shop when she gets bored.

  The tube train arrives at our station, and I'm very grateful to get off it before somebody else evacuates a bodily fluid over my person. I won't realise I've caught a cold for a while yet, so I put the sneezing episode behind me, and stride purposefully towards Danesborough Halls - and whatever fun and games will greet us there.

  Today, Jamie and I are taking part in a discussion panel with another two authors about the way the publishing industry is changing for writers in the 21st Century. This will largely consist of a lot of people in the audience trying to pretend that Amazon isn't as powerful as it is - and that it was the right decision to sign that contract with a small traditional publisher for a £200 advance and 12% of the ebook royalties.

  On the panel with us are two writers who couldn't be more different from Jamie and I if you bussed them in from a parallel universe. One is Joy Mannings, a middle aged author of cosy mysteries, usually involving a four legged animal of some kind. If this woman doesn't have The Littlest Hobo on blu-ray box set at home somewhere, I'd be amazed. Still, her dog related mystery stories sell by the truckload, so there must be someone reading them. I could never suspend disbelief enough to accept that a kangaroo, horse, dolphin or dog could provide assistance during a missing persons investigation, so the whole thing is rather lost on me.

  The other writer is Jack Hannigan, a tall, strapping American man in his mid sixties, who writes robust and exciting military action fare. Again, not a genre I'm familiar with, but I know it has many followers. Most of them sporting a small penis and an inferiority complex possibly, but you can never underestimate a man's desire to read all about the defusing of nuclear bombs with just one second left on the countdown timer.

  Before we get to the panel though, we have to sign in.

  'Laura Newman, with her husband Jamie, daughter Poppy, and father Terry,' I tell the harassed and bespectacled woman sat behind the reception desk in the large, echoing foyer of Danesborough Halls.

  'Are you the comedy people?' she asks us, in a manner as brisk as you'd expect from a grey haired woman in slightly too much tweed. I assume she's referring to the books we write, and is not passing comment on our dress sense, or general demeanour.

  'Yes, that's us,' I tell her.

  'Ah, well then. Here are your I.D cards.' She gives me a stern look as she hands them over. 'Do not lose them!' she orders, as if we were taking possession of expertly forged passports for transport through the Iron Curtain, and not bits of paper stuffed into rather flimsy lanyards.

  'Thanks,' I reply, and hand the lanyards out.

  'There is a green room available to our speakers,' she tells us. 'Go left down those stairs and follow the signs.'

  I try to thank her for her help, but she's already turned to the next person in the long queue snaking across the foyer. 'Well, let's go get a cup of coffee then,' I say to the others, and make my way towards the stairs as instructed.

  The green room is not green of course, it's more of a dull beige. A few tables and chairs have been haphazardly strewn across the small room, and a table has been erected at the far end, on which sits a coffee machine and some bite sized snacks, sweating under the warm strip lighting above. Luxurious, it is not. Still, it's somewhere to sit and have a rest until we're due on stage in half an hour.

  Our two fellow speakers join us in the next ten minutes. First Joy Mannings makes her appearance - with a small shitzu in tow. The dog looks about four hundred years old and moves like it just wants to lie down and die. A few minutes later, silver haired Jack Hannigan walks in, and gives us all a broad American smile, before making his way to the coffee machine, where he looks quite distressed at the prospect of having to drink more British coffee.

  We pass the intervening few minutes in idle writer's conversation with them both. Jamie always enjoys the chance to swap stories with those in the same line as us, so he's quite animated in the discussion, Poppy sat on his lap and busily munching a flapjack. Dad seems less enthused. All this authorial talk goes over his head a bit, and I also think the natural hippy in him baulks at Jack Hannigan and his military bearing. You couldn't get two men more different.

  Eventually it's time for us to go do our thing, so Dad takes Poppy to sit in the audience, and the four of us make our way to the back stage area.

  'There's a lot of people out there,' Joy Mannings says with some surprise.

  'Smashing!' Jamie responds, ever the show off.

  'Hmmm,' I mutter.

  Jack Hannigan gives me a smile. 'I know what you mean,' he says, picking up on my reticence. 'It doesn't matter how many of these things I do, I still get nervous every time.'

  Well, if a big, strapping man like that can be nervous, then there's no shame in skinny, ex-chocolateer Laura Newman feeling the same way.

  We're introduced on stage, and all four of us walk out to some rather half hearted applause. Those gathered are other writers, after all, not fans of our work. They're here to get tips and advice, not bask in the reflected glory of their favourite authors.

  The most disconcerting thing about the set-up for this talk is that there is a man with a camcorder directly in front of us, getting close ups of our faces as we speak that are beamed onto a large screen behind our heads. This is to give those at the back a better view I'm sure, but I really could do without my head being projected twenty feet high every time I open my mouth. I'm just thankful the screen is right behind us so I can safely ignore it as much as possible. It can't be all that beneficial to the crowd anyway, because there appears to be a delay between what's being filmed, and what's shown on the screen. If I move my head quick enough I can see my own face briefly, before my twenty foot high head turns to look up. It's a very odd experience.

  The next forty five minutes are actually quite pleasant. We all take turns answering a variety of questions from the audience. Jamie naturally does most of the talking for us, but I am able to make what I think is a rather good comment about how self publishing has democratised the publishing industry, and made it easier than ever for someone to have their work published, no matter how niche or strange it may be.

  I would probably have said more, but about half way through the panel, I am aware of a tickle in my nose, and a soreness in my throat that forces me to drink a lot of the sparkling water on the table in front of me.

  I put it down to having to speak in public and try to ignore it, thinking it'll go away once we're done.

  Completely wrong, of course, but I've never had a cold take hold this fast before, so I think I can be forgiven for my error.

  By late afternoon that day, I am feeling decidedly rough. My head is swimming and I've developed a throbbing headache. My face feels like a radiator, but my fingers are frozen. My throat is now a scratchy mess and I'm starting to sound hoarse.

  'Are you okay baby?' Jamie asks me as we ride the tube back from the centre of the city, towards our Premier Inn on the outskirts.

  'Oh yes, I'm fine,' I say, not really believing a word of it. As human beings, we do tend to enter into a stage of denial when we're coming down with an illness. 'Probably just tired.'

  Jamie looks at me uncertainly, but doesn't press the issue.

  There's a five star rated Chinese restaurant just down the road from the hotel, so we elect to go there for our evening meal. By the time the main course comes out, I'm starting to feel properly rough, and only manage to eat about a thir
d of my chicken in black bean sauce, before putting the knife and fork down.

  I am grateful when Dad takes Poppy off to watch Frozen in their room, but not for the reasons I originally thought. It's less about wanting some space for sex, and more about just wanting to lie down somewhere quiet.

  I still give it a go though - the sex, I mean. As has been stated many times, we don't get much Poppy free time for these kinds of shenanigans. Pounding headache or not, an orgasm sounds like a mighty fine way to end what has been a very tiring day.

  Unfortunately, the cold virus is not one for allowing such things, especially when in its early stages.

  'Baby, you're not really enjoying this are you?' Jamie says to me, looking down at my pale face and bloodshot eyes.

  'Yes I am!' I try to reassure him, knowing the frailties of the male ego.

  He sees right through this. 'Sweetheart, we've been married for years, I'm not going to collapse into a heap of neuroses if you want to stop.'

  I take a deep breath. 'Oh, thank God for that, I feel terrible,' I say, letting out the breath explosively.

  Jamie winces and leans back. 'Well, don't give it to me woman.'

  'I'm not sick,' I insist. 'Just a little tired.'

  'Yes, I always look like the ghost of Christmas Past when I'm feeling a bit tired too,' he says in a derisory voice. 'You've never let being tired put you off sex, Laura. You're sick. Now get into bed while I run down to the Tesco Express to pick you up some Lemsip.'

  He does have his moments, my husband. He really does.

  The cold takes proper hold overnight, and by morning I am a walking mucus factory. If you think back many years to my one and only experience in a microlight aircraft, you will recall that I am an absolute horror when my nasal secretions go into overdrive. As Jamie lets Dad and Poppy into our room, I am sat at the table by the window, trying my level best not to cover everything in sight with a thin, shiny film of mucus.