‘I’m serious,’ I tell her, pouring us each another drink. I haven’t had a night out like this in months. I know that I’m going to regret it in the morning, but right now in the warm pub, I’m in a happy, Prosecco-filled bubble. ‘Anyone could have written those books.’
‘So do it.’ Cassie peers at me over the top of her glass. ‘You’re an English teacher now. You have all the words right here.’ She wiggles her fingers in the air. ‘All the words at your disposal, Hannah. You could totally write your own erotica!’
‘I do know a lot of the words,’ I agree, nodding slowly. ‘How hard can it be?’
‘I think it has to be pretty hard,’ snorts Cassie. ‘Flaccid or limp or drooping isn’t really going to cut it.’
I spit a mouthful of drink across the table. ‘Cassie! You’re shameless!’
My inebriated friend gives me a wicked grin. ‘And that’s what you’re going to have to be, if you’re going to write this stuff,’ she informs me. ‘One hundred per cent brazen and utterly raunch-tastic. You need to write the most erotic-est, sexiest book out there and then whack it online so that all the mummies can download it onto their Kindles and read it in private. That’s a thing, isn’t it? Mummy porn?’
She’s right. I could do this. I can write about hunky men and their craven ways. I can be sexy and erotic. This could be my reinvention. Hannah Thompson – Licence to Thrill.
‘But I haven’t tried to write anything since before Dylan was born.’ I think back to the last thing that I remember writing. ‘Although actually, it was pretty good, if I say so myself.’
Cassie looks interested. ‘What was it? I didn’t know you’d ever written anything, you dark horse.’
I smile to myself, lost in the beauty of the words. ‘It was a poem.’ I sit up, trying to get the words straight in my mind. ‘Something beautiful about daffodils and clouds and wandering along all by myself.’
There is a pause and then Cassie smirks at me.
‘I’m pretty sure you didn’t write that, Hannah. Even I’ve heard that poem and I teach Chemistry.’
Oh. Bugger. I think she might be right.
I sink back down and frown. ‘What if I can’t do it? What if I write it and it’s rubbish?’
Cassie shrugs. ‘What if it is? Are you not even going to try, just in case you can’t do it?’
Her words remind me of something I said to Dylan only last week when he was worrying about his A Levels. Thinking of Dylan brings up an even greater concern.
‘What if anyone found out that I was writing stuff like that, though?’ I glance around the room, imagining the stares and the judgement. ‘What if I write something rude and my kids get to hear about it? It would traumatise them for life!’
Cassie is unimpressed, I can tell. She puts down her glass and looks at me with disappointment in her eyes.
‘Number one: who cares what anyone thinks? Number two: erotic fiction isn’t rude, Hannah. It’s a long-established and well-respected genre of literature.’ She fixes me with a piercing gaze. ‘Do you think that sex is rude and something that shouldn’t be talked about?’
I shake my head. ‘No! Absolutely not.’
Although there’s a time and a place, obviously.
‘Number three: your kids will never need to know anything about it, will they? This is something that you’re doing, not them. And number four: you never know, you might even make a few quid off the back of it. Sex sells, Hannah. It’s the oldest trade in the world.’
She makes some very reasonable points. And it isn’t as if I’ve got a whole lot of other options right now. I can’t exactly choose to be fussy.
‘Are you up for it, Hannah?’ Cassie’s voice breaks through my thoughts.
I pause, possibility buzzing through my veins, although that might just be the fizz. I haven’t felt this excited in ages. The idea of spending my non-teaching days at home, being a writer, is intoxicating, exhilarating and glamorous. It is exactly what I need to get me out of my mid-life slump.
I raise my glass in the air, ignoring the sensation of cold liquid splashing down my arm. ‘I am absolutely up for it!’ I proclaim. ‘I will write some smutty, cheesy, glossy fake sex and you,’ I point at Cassie, my arm wobbling with the effort of holding itself up, ‘you will be the first person to read it!’
Cassie bangs her glass on the table. ‘Cheers to that!’ she shouts. ‘Cheers. To. That!’
*
It’s gone midnight when I finally stagger into the house. I am being as quiet as a very, incredibly quiet mouse who has lost her squeak, so I am surprised when Nick emerges from the living room, yawning and rubbing his eyes.
‘Did I wake you up?’ I whisper.
He winces and puts his finger to his lips. ‘Stop yelling, Hannah – you’ll wake the kids! And no – I was waiting up for you.’ He walks down the hallway and helps me take off my coat, which is super helpful of him as for some reason I have forgotten whether I should be pulling the zipper up or down. ‘You know that I can’t go to bed when you’re not home.’
‘You are a very lovely man,’ I slur, kicking off my heels. ‘I don’t think I appreciate you enough, you know?’
‘I do know,’ agrees Nick, putting his arm around me and leading me towards the stairs. ‘But don’t worry about it, babe.’
I stop and clutch the banister, turning to look at him.
‘I’ve got something to tell you. Something important.’
‘Can it wait until morning?’ he asks. ‘When you might actually be able to speak coherently?’
‘No!’ I grab his arm. ‘S’important, Nick! I need to tell you now!’
Nick sighs. ‘Just for the record, I am going to take anything that comes out of your mouth with a supreme dose of salt.’
I scowl at him. ‘S’got nothing to do with salt.’
I slump down onto the stairs and after a second, Nick joins me.
‘Come on then. What’s so important that we have to talk about it right now?’
I pause for dramatic effect, then emit a loud, Prosecco-fuelled burp that reverberates around the upstairs landing.
‘I am going to write a book!’ I announce, watching Nick’s face for his reaction. ‘A real, actual book!’
He is not as excited as I thought he’d be.
‘That’s great,’ he tells me, standing up and pulling me gently by the elbow. ‘Now let’s get you into bed and you can sleep it off. I’ll take Benji to his swimming lesson tomorrow – I don’t think you’re going to be in a fit state to drive.’
‘Did you hear me?’ I protest. ‘I’m going to be a writer, Nick! A lovely, lovely writer! I am going to waft around the house all day, getting inspired. And then I will pour out my musings onto the page and it will all be marvellous.’
‘So what are you going to write?’ he asks, propelling me into the bedroom. ‘And where are your pyjamas?’
I smile at him, trying to look alluring and mysterious. ‘Sex,’ I say and finally I have his attention.
‘Are you sure?’ Nick looks conflicted. ‘I really think you should just get some sleep, Hannah. I haven’t seen you this pissed in ages.’
I bat away his comments. ‘No – I’m going to write about sex. You know. Like the Fifty Shades books!’
‘Porn!’ Nick’s face breaks into a wide beam. ‘You’re going to write porn?’
‘It. Is. Not. Porn,’ I say, flopping face first onto the bed. ‘It’s erotica. And it’s not rude or dirty or embarrassing in any way, for your information.’
‘I didn’t say it was,’ says Nick. ‘And don’t go to sleep yet. You need to drink some water first.’
‘You are quite nice to me,’ I mutter. ‘I like you.’
‘I like you too, you old lush.’ Nick pulls me up to a sitting position and holds the glass in front of me. ‘What’s going to happen in this not-rude sex book, then?’
I take a big gulp of water and hand him back the glass before starting to take off my tights. ‘Not sure. I need to think
about a plot. I’ll start tomorrow. When my brain is working properly.’
‘You’d better let me read it.’ Nick pulls back the duvet cover. ‘And if you want a research partner then I’m your man.’
I try to answer him but the buttons on my shirt are being particularly challenging. I decide that pyjamas are overrated and that going to bed in tonight’s clothes is cost-effective and will save on laundry, or something to that effect. And then my head is on the pillow and the light is out and I sink into a very deep sleep that mostly consists of strange, vivid dreams about walking round the supermarket with Christian Grey and him acting like a toddler, insisting on filling the trolley with unsuitable sugary cereals and fizzy drinks and packets of Wotsits.
Chapter 14
By the time I get up on Sunday morning, Nick has taken Benji to his swimming lesson, done the shopping and put a roast dinner in the oven. I stagger into the kitchen, wondering if I can get away without anybody noticing how hungover I am.
My powers of delusion never cease to amaze me.
‘Daddy took me swimming and then bought me hot chocolate!’ Benji hurtles across the room and throws himself at me. ‘And I managed to swim nearly a whole length underwater!’
I glance towards the oven where Nick is basting the lamb.
‘Thank you,’ I mouth at him. He blows me a kiss in return.
‘You look like a celebrity, Mummy.’ Benji gazes up at me and I feel a warm glow of happiness. It’s true what they say. Mothers really are the centre of their little boys’ universes.
‘Which celebrity do I look like?’ I ask, bending down and dropping a kiss on top of his damp head. I’m hanging out for Angelina Jolie, but I’ll take Posh Spice at a push.
Benji’s forehead wrinkles up in thought. ‘I don’t know. But you look like those photographs in the paper when a famous person comes out of a hospital with a bandage wrapped round their head.’
Scarlet walks in, just in time to hear this proclamation. She takes one look at me and bursts out laughing. ‘He means plastic surgery!’ She gives me an appraising look. ‘Your face does look a bit puffy, Mum. And what’s with the sunglasses?’
I pat my hands against my skin, hoping that my cool palms might help reduce the apparent swelling. Clearly the alcohol has migrated to my cheeks. I am a Prosecco hamster, storing it in my pouches for emergency purposes.
‘I’m just feeling a little bit fragile this morning,’ I explain, ignoring the snort that comes from over by the oven. ‘And the sun is very low in the sky at this time of year, which can make it quite harsh on the eyes.’
‘I heard you trying to get your key in the front door last night.’ Scarlet’s voice is sly. ‘It took you long enough. Just how drunk were you?’
‘I was not drunk,’ I snap. ‘I was merry. Which, as a forty-three-year-old woman, is something that I am absolutely entitled to be, now and again.’
Scarlet sits down at the kitchen table and starts painting her nails in a lurid yellow colour that makes me feel sick.
‘We’ve been learning about the impact of alcohol in Biology,’ she informs me. ‘Sir showed us a video about a woman who drinks way less than you, Mum, and her body was a right mess. Would you consider having a liver function test, just to see if you’ve done any damage?’
I stare at her in horror.
‘Are you saying that you think I’m an alcoholic?’ I ask. ‘Because I can assure you, I most definitely am not.’
I’ve been on the DrinkAware app several times over the last few months. It has reassured me that as long as I do not regularly exceed the recommended number of alcoholic units every week, then I am just fine and dandy, thank you very much. It does not actually give a definition of exactly how much regularly means; for that, I am thankful.
Scarlet grins up at me and I know that she knows she’s hit a nerve. ‘I don’t think you’re an actual alcoholic,’ she says, slowly. ‘But I wouldn’t want to drink as much as you and Dad do.’
Nick makes a warning noise in the back of his throat. Remember the rules, Hannah. Do not engage. Do not negotiate. And above all, do not try to justify yourself to your offspring.
‘Well, I wouldn’t want you to drink as much as we do either,’ I tell her. ‘Because you are still a child.’
I turn, feeling like my response was sensible and calm and measured. I have nipped this attempt at insubordination in the bud. I am a parenting guru, even when my head is banging and my legs feel like they’ve been replaced with two strands of spaghetti.
‘And also,’ I whirl back to face her, ‘just for your information, we never used to drink. In fact, we barely touched alcohol until you and your brother became teenagers. Think about that the next time that you’re concerned about my liver.’
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ snaps Scarlet. ‘So if you die from cirrhosis then it’s all my fault, then?’
‘Not just your fault,’ points out Benji. ‘It’ll be Dylan’s fault too.’
‘Nobody is dying,’ soothes Nick, draining the carrots into a colander. ‘Benji, lay the table. Scarlet, fill the water jug.’ He turns to me. ‘Why don’t you just sit down, Hannah?’
‘You’re wrong, you know,’ mutters Scarlet, stomping across to the cupboard. ‘We’re all dying. It’s crazy really that we call it living. We’re just counting down the days until we’re dead.’
My daughter is a proper little ray of sunshine sometimes.
I am saved from having to comment by the sight of Dylan strolling through the door, making our happy family complete. As always, Dylan is not alone. A noisy aura surrounds him: he is incapable of going anywhere without his very own soundtrack. Normally I am open to all new music but today, in my current tender state, it’s just too much.
‘For goodness’ sake, Dylan.’ I cringe as he walks towards me, his phone blasting out what sounds like Bedlam and Hades rolled into one. ‘Turn that racket off. What even is it? It sounds terrible!’
Dylan plonks himself down into the seat opposite and looks at me, his mouth curving up at the sides as he registers my sunglasses.
‘Asshole.’
And that is absolutely it. My last nerve has been trampled on one time too many. I’ll show these ungrateful, disrespectful teenagers that I am not here to be abused and bad-mouthed and generally treated like something that they’ve trodden in.
‘I have had enough!’ I roar, making my head throb. Over by the sink, Scarlet fumbles with the water jug. We all freeze for a long second while it starts its descent towards our unforgiving floor tiles before she miraculously manages to catch it.
‘I will not be spoken to like this in my own home. Or in anyone else’s home, for that matter.’ I stand up and place my hands on the table, leaning forward to get right into Dylan’s face. ‘I don’t understand what I’ve done to deserve such treatment and I don’t know what makes you suddenly think that it’s okay to behave like a thuggish yob when you’ve always been so bloody lovely. I can only imagine that your hormones have gone psychotic and that this is some kind of weird transition for leaving home and that you think by calling me rude names it’ll make it easier for you to make the break, but it’s all so pointless and unfair and I didn’t sign up to be called “asshole” in my kitchen when I am quietly sitting minding my own business!’
I pause to catch my breath, the sound of my loud panting competing with the cacophony pouring out of the speaker that Dylan has put down on the table. Nick and Scarlet and Benji have all frozen in position, stilled by my outburst, while Dylan gawps at me with his mouth open.
And I am glad that they are shocked into silence. I have shown them that I am not to be messed with.
Call me names at your peril. I am woman. My bite is infinitely worse than my bark. Go ahead, punks. Disrespect me one more time. Make my freaking day.
‘Permission to speak?’ ventures Dylan after a few moments have passed.
I nod. ‘Granted.’
Never let it be said that I am not gracious in victory.
�
�The song is called “Asshole”, Mother.’ He jerks his chin towards the speaker. ‘The song. You asked me what it was and I told you. “Asshole”, by Eminem.’
Oh. Bugger.
I think I might have overreacted just a tiny bit.
Nick comes to the rescue. ‘Let’s all sit down and enjoy this delicious meal that I have spent all sodding morning preparing,’ he says. ‘Dylan – if we have to listen to music then perhaps you can find something more acceptable to your mother’s delicate disposition?’
Dylan grimaces and turns his phone off. ‘I’d rather listen to silence than any of the banal crap that you guys think is music.’
I close my eyes. ‘Silence will be just lovely.’
Everyone sits down and Nick passes out the food. For a few minutes, the only sounds are of cutlery clattering against the edges of plates, and contented groans. I start to relax, feeling the gravy-soaked meat hitting my stomach, providing a very welcome protective layer. This is exactly what I needed. Maybe after lunch I’ll go and curl up on the sofa and have a little snooze before attacking the illiterate ramblings of my Year Nine English class.
‘Watch it! If you break that then you’re paying for it!’ Dylan’s shouts interrupt my thoughts. I look up to see that Benji is dangling the gravy boat perilously close to Dylan’s speaker and phone. We got him the speaker for Christmas and, if I remember correctly, it was fairly expensive.
‘You shouldn’t have either of those on the table,’ Nick tells him. ‘They’re your property so they’re your responsibility.’
‘Yeah, well, you wanted me to play some chilled tunes a minute ago,’ Dylan reminds his dad. ‘Make your mind up.’
I see Nick’s jaw tighten and I steel myself to leap in and de-escalate the situation. Thankfully, Benji gets there first.
‘Why does your speaker have “Anker” written on the side?’ he asks, carefully putting the gravy boat back on the table. ‘It’s a weird name.’
Dylan reaches for the offending items and twists in his chair to place them out of harm’s way. ‘It’s just the name of the brand,’ he says. ‘And it’s no weirder than other names.’ He looks at his little brother. ‘If you think about it, Benji is a bit of a weird name. You would suit Anker far better.’
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