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

by Nick Spalding

  'Mum,' Poppy says hesitantly, seeing the state I'm in. 'I don't think I'm going to give you a morning kiss today.' I would feel hurt about this, but I'm fairly sure that licking a slug would be preferable to planting a smacker on my face right now, so can understand her feelings on the matter.

  Dad does give me a kiss on the forehead, which is nice. 'I think you'd better stay in bed today,' he says to me.

  'Your Dad's right,' Jamie agrees. This is officially the first time Jamie has agreed with him - or referred to him as my Dad, for that matter. We'll call that progress.

  'But we were going to take Poppy to the zoo today,' I whine, before a fit of sneezing hits me, forcing all three of them to stand back.

  'We can still take her,' Jamie says.

  I want to argue, I truly do. I want to fight my way through this thing and enjoy my day, but I am a woman self aware enough to know that I will actually do nothing of the sort. I picture myself soaking the chimpanzees in phlegm before keeling over in a dead feint, and mentally decide to take my husband's counsel on this matter.

  'Alright, I’ll stay here in bed. Hopefully the rest will do me good.'

  'I'm sure it will,' Dad says with a reassuring smile.

  Normally, Poppy would kick up a stink at this point. She likes it when Jamie and I are together when we go out on a day trip, but I think her desire to spend the day with both parents is superseded by her desire not to spend that day covered in one parent's germs.

  All three of them troop out of the hotel room an hour after breakfast, leaving me bundled up and full of hot lemon flavoured drink. I do feel quite, quite awful, but the duvet is warm, the pillow is soft, and there is peace and quiet in my world. I drift off to sleep, hoping that by the time they get back, I'll be feeling more myself again.

  The low fever I've had from the cold breaks mid-afternoon, leaving me feeling more human. I have a rather delicious shower, followed by a bagel with cream cheese from room service. I'm still sneezing every thirty seconds or so, and I'm bunged up to the nines, but I do have a bit more energy, and am pleased that I apparently just have a rather nasty cold, rather than a full blown case of the flu, which would have been disastrous. With a cold I can attend tomorrow's conference panel, even if I will do so carrying a packet of tissues. The flu would have laid me up completely for a good couple of weeks, and I just can't afford to take that much time out.

  'Well, you do look better,' Jamie says with a smile when he sees me sat up at the table, playing around with my iPad.

  'Yep. I think id's only a cold,' I tell him through the snot. 'I feel a lod better than I did dis mornind.'

  Jamie takes a few moments to process this, and mentally change all those d’s for the correct syllable. 'Good stuff. Take it nice and easy this evening then, and we'll see how you are tomorrow.'

  'How wad the zoo, Pops?' I ask my daughter.

  Poppy's mouth bows downwards. 'A bit disappointing. All the animals were hiding,' she says.

  That's the problem with zoos. The inhabitants never do what you want them to. Having said that, there's every chance my seven-year-old is actually disappointed because she didn't get to poke anything.

  We all end up eating in the Premier Inn restaurant downstairs that evening. I manage to finish all of my chicken and chips, signifying that I am starting to get over this virus. By 9pm though, I'm knackered again and in need of sleep. Dad and Jamie keep Poppy down in the bar with them as I make my way back to the room, and fall more or less instantly into a gratifying deep sleep.

  The next morning I am rested enough to tackle the second of our two speaking engagements at the CWC. This one is the main event for us. Entitled 'Writing As A Couple', it involves Jamie and I, along with another pairing of similar age to us, who write erotic fiction. Their writing names are Marie and Pierre Rougemont, but I'm led to believe their real names are Mary and Peter Redhill. I've never heard of their books, but Jamie professes to having scanned through an ebook version of 'Whipped Into A Frenzy', the couple's first bestseller.

  'It was a bit weird,' he tells me as we're getting dressed. 'I'm not a prude or anything, but even I draw the line when large rubber implements start getting inserted into every orifice. Their characters act like they’re sexually aroused every second of the day. It all sounds exhausting.'

  'Well, don't say thad to dem,' I warn. 'Dey might think our books aren't fuddy.'

  'Fuddy?'

  'Yes, fuddy. You know... ha ha ha?'

  Jamie looks thoughtful. 'Maybe I should do most of the talking today, eh?'

  I roll my eyes. 'You dormally do anyway, Misder. Why would dis be ady dibberent?'

  My husband does make a point though. I sound barely intelligible at the moment.

  A quick detour to Boots on the way to the tube station solves this issue - at least to a certain extent. I find the strongest nasal decongestant I can, and shove it up my nose as we board the train.

  'Thas better!' I say, as I feel the chemicals start to cut through the thick lining of mucus. 'I can talk again!'

  'Eww Mum! You're snotting!' Poppy points out. She's right. The problem with decongestants is that they really do decongest. Right onto your top lip, if you're not careful. Still, I'll take a bit of drippage over sounding like I have a ball of cotton wool stuffed in my nose any day of the week.

  We arrive back at Danesborough Halls a good half an hour early again, so have another chance to sample the delightful machine coffee and stale flapjacks on offer. We also get the chance to say hello to Marie and Pierre Rougemont's alter-egos, who have arrived before us.

  'Morning,' Jamie says cheerfully to the couple, as we enter the beige green room. I am somewhat surprised to see that neither one of them is dressed head to toe in black rubber, and am slightly disappointed by the fact.

  Mary is resplendent in the same blue M&S ladies suit I rejected a few months ago because the skirt was too short to hide my atrocious knees, and Peter looks equally as smart in what I can only assume is the male equivalent.

  I suddenly feel completely under-dressed, togged out as I am in Jane Norman jeans, Fat Face long sleeved top, and Asda George bodywarmer. Jamie looks even more scruffy. I really should have dissuaded him from wearing that Batman hoodie, but the cold has knocked me off my game a bit.

  'Good morning,' Peter and Mary echo in formal voices. For a couple that writes erotic fiction, they come across as people you'd think would be more at home filling in tax returns or insurance claims.

  About ten minutes later though, I get a good idea of what's going on under all that pressed polyester, when I go into the ladies toilet to get some more tissue, and see Mary Redhill coming out of the cubicle, holding her jacket. The shirt she has on underneath is short sleeved, and poking from out of both arms I can see tattoos that run almost to her wrists. The shirt itself is very tight, showing off a sleek, toned figure and perfect breasts that must take a huge amount of work (and probably money) to maintain. Mary notices my wide-eyed expression and smiles a rather wicked smile. 'The suits are all part of the act,' she says in a smoky voice, answering my unspoken question. 'After all, it's only sexy if it's not on show all the time, isn't it?' One of her eyebrows arches suggestively. 'The tease is what pulls them in.'

  There's a blatant sexuality to this woman I couldn't hope to replicate with several shots of vodka and a very long run up. I have to take a couple of deep breaths after she's left the toilet.

  When it comes time for us to sit down in front of the large crowd gathered in the hall, I make a point of placing myself between Jamie and Mary. I don't want to have to do all the talking today, and if Mary takes that jacket off again while she's sat next to him, Jamie's brain will no doubt freeze up, and I'll be a one woman show.

  The bloody cameraman is back of course, zooming in on us individually every time we answer a question. If I was disconcerted by its presence on Saturday, you can imagine my delight at having it here now I'm thick with cold. But there's nothing I can do about it, so I have to soldier on.


  The first few questions from the crowd are fairly easy. What's it like to write half a book each? How do you cope with being in each other's pockets all day? Do you edit each other's writing? The usual kind of stuff that we've answered many times before.

  The one thing I do take note of is that Mary and Peter are far better speakers than my husband and I. They are smooth, witty, and both speak in a clear, confident tone that the audience laps up with every question answered. I guess being a sadomasochist must make you a good public speaker. If you don't get embarrassed when someone's slapping your boobs with a wooden paddle, I wouldn't imagine talking about your day to day life with a couple of hundred strangers is any problem at all.

  I inevitably start to feel envious. The two eroticists are making Jamie and I look bad.

  I can tell Jamie feels the same way, as he keeps giving me a pained look every time Mary or Peter say something cool and eminently quotable to the rapt audience.

  Right, the next question that gets asked, I'm going to wow the crowd with my answer, I think to myself, with badly misplaced determination. I can't really hope to compete with tattooed Mary and her bold sexuality (especially carrying a bad head cold) but my ego has woken up, and needs feeding.

  I get the chance to make a fool of myself when a question comes from the audience that seems perfect.

  'Do you argue much over what goes into the book?' a pleasant faced young girl asks from the front row. I can see Mary leaning in to speak into her microphone, so I lunge forward to get there before she does.

  'Somedimes!' I spit down my mic. I can see Mary is a bit non-plussed by my eagerness, but she does sit back to let me continue. 'We udually made sure we're bode habby wid whad de odder perdon had wridden,' I tell the girl, sounding like I'm a half South African, half Caribbean, virus carrying lunatic.

  When Mary answers a question the audience laughs and nods appreciatively. When I do it, they look confused and a little bit revolted.

  Time for drastic action. 'Excude me, I hab a cold,' I say, and reach for the decongestant. I take a massive snort away from the microphone, put the bottle back in my pocket and lean in again. 'As I was saying,' I continue, this time with recognisable pronunciation, 'Jamie and I usually make sure we're both happy with what the other person has written. There are enough reasons to argue in a marriage, we don't need to add any others!' This time, my answer is greeted with laughter and a few appreciative nods. I smile indulgently. I am winning the crowd back.

  'Who gets the last word on the final draft?' the girl asks me. I am delighted to note that her attention is entirely on me now. She isn't looking at Mary or Peter at all. I flick a quick glance at Jamie, who looks as pleased as I am. Time to really turn on the charm.

  'What's your name?' I ask the girl.

  'Angela,' she replies.

  'Well Angela, let's just say that my husband has a way with words, but I have a way of making those words even better,' I tell her in a tone so smooth, it's a wonder I don't slide right off my chair and under the table. Jamie chuckles ruefully, and even Mary and Peter are forced to raise a smile. 'And let me just add,' I carry on, 'that writing together really is all about co-operation. You have to - '

  ATCHOO!

  The sneeze comes from nowhere, much like The Big Bang. And, just like The Big Bang, it is enormously explosive and travels at the speed of light.

  Mucus splatters the table in front of me. The microphone is instantly covered in phlegm.

  I look up at the crowd in horror, but only for a moment, because another gigantic sneeze is forcing its way out of my nose. This one is so apocalyptic that my head jerks forward and I head butt the microphone, sending a loud report echoing around the conference hall.

  That isn't the end of it though. Another three sneezes blast out in quick succession, and by the time the third one has left my nose, my hand is covered in nasal slime.

  The crowd looks horrified. And who can blame them? There's every chance they are trapped in a room with someone carrying the kind of disease they talk about in the news headlines. I may know I've only got a cold, but as far as they're concerned, any disease that can make your face explode the way mine just has, must be fatal.

  All the sneezing has made me feel quite light headed, so I slump back in my chair and go delving in my pocket for more tissue, an apology forming on my lips to everyone gathered.

  Now, as you know, the Law of Sod exists to haunt us at our every move. Well it haunts me, anyway. And what more perfect way can there be for the Law to raise its ugly head than right now, when I am in most need of something to wipe my nose with?

  I am out of tissues.

  I look at Jamie in pleading misery. He looks back at me with husbandly revulsion. 'What's der madder?' I say to him, my nasal walls inexplicably blocked again already.

  Jamie points at his top lip. 'You, er, you have a little something here,' he says. His eyes then flick up to the screen behind us and his face goes white. 'You, um, might want to take care of it?' His voice is thin and reedy.

  I quickly turn my head to look up at the screen, and thanks to the delay between camera and display, I get a brief, but oh so terrible, look at my face. There is a long gob of green mucus hanging from my nose like a fucking punch bag. As I whip my head back towards the crowd again, I feel it slap against my top lip. Of course, this brings my face back round so the camera - and by extension the crowd - can see my thick new nasal friend in all its shiny green glory.

  I swiftly turn my head again to look back at the screen and stop everyone from having to gaze at my revolting excretion. This allows me yet another brief view of it myself. All the head turning has lengthened my nose baby to the point that it might well drop off any second, but I have no tissue to catch it with, so I can't let that happen.

  There's only one thing I can do.

  Have you already guessed what it is?

  Are your toes curling as you imagine what I'm about to do?

  I squeeze my eyes closed, take a deep breath, and inhale as hard as I can.

  Oh, for the love of all things holy and right in the world, what have I become?

  The mucus shoots back up into my head like a wet, slimy missile. Unfortunately I've sniffed a little too hard, and the bogie continues up through my nasal canal and back down the other side into my mouth.

  I feel the clammy, sticky mass hit the back of my throat and unbridled disgust overwhelms me. As does the immediate coughing fit that directly follows.

  'Laura? Are you okay?' Jamie asks, patting me on the back.

  Nothing that a little light suicide won't cure, husband of mine.

  There's nothing for it, I'm going to have to leave the stage as fast as my knobbly knees will carry me. For the last time I turn back to the crowd to try and issue that apology that still hasn't made its way out of my mouth, but as I'm choking on my own phlegm, it's not going to happen.

  Giving the whole thing up as a bad deal, I get up from the table and scuttle off to one side to get out of the public glare. The cameraman, knowing full well that this will be the best thing he films today, pans to follow me off the stage, before panning back to show Jamie, Mary and Peter all looking off stage in stunned silence.

  'Um, excuse me?' Angela asks the three of them. They all turn back. 'So, who does get the last word on the final draft then?' she asks, proving that writers are tremendously single-minded when they want to be.

  Jamie points one finger in the direction I went off in. 'Er, she does?' he answers. I'm quite sure that neither Angela, nor the rest of the audience actually believe a word of this. I am quite clearly a woman with no control over her own bodily functions, so how the hell am I supposed to have the final say on what goes into a book? About the greatest contribution to the finished article I can provide must be an enormous gob of phlegm that I deposit between pages 93 and 94 before it goes off to the printers.

  Of course I'm not privy to any of this - Jamie has to fill me in later. While he and Mr and Mrs Erotica are attempting to carry on wit
h the show, I am back stage, coughing up my lungs.

  By the time they wind the talk down ten minutes later, I have myself under control and wiped down. My face is flaming red though, partly because of the cold, and partly due to embarrassment.

  'I wand do leave, and I wand do leave right now,' I tell my family as they join me back in the green room downstairs.

  'That's a nasty cold you've got there,' Mary says to me in a sympathetic voice, coming over and laying one arm over my shoulders. 'I always have a cup of hot water with cinnamon and cayenne pepper in it. Works wonders.'

  I refrain from asking whether she means I should drink it, or rub it over my genitals. It could be either. 'Thank you Mary. It wad nide to meet you and Peter.'

  'Likewise,' she replies with an amused expression. 'I like to think we make the best impression at these talks when we do them, but I don't think anyone's going to be talking about us tonight.'

  Oh do fuck off, you smutty bitch.

  'No, probably nod,' I reply, offering her a weak smile.

  'Time to go, I think,' Jamie says, replacing Mary's arm with his own. This feels much better.

  He escorts me from the green room and up into the crowded foyer above. As we make our way to the exit, I can see people doing one of two things. They are either taking a step back with their hands in front of their faces, or taking a step forward holding out a handkerchief.

  So, now I have a new resolution, Mum. At the slightest hint of a tickle in my nose, I will confine myself to the house until I am one thousand percent sure I am well again. That way I will be spared any more humiliation, and the world will be spared a light covering of my mucus.

  Lub you and mid you,

  Your bunged up daughter, Laura.

  XX

  Jamie's Blog

  Sunday 10 October

  Six days ago I get a phone call. A very excited phone call.

  'Jamie!' Craig bellows down the phone. 'I've got some great news!'