Benji sits up straight, his face reddening. ‘My name isn’t weird!’ he squawks. ‘It’s not, is it, Mum?’
‘It’s a brilliant name,’ I tell him. ‘Dad and I chose it for you because we knew that you were going to be a brilliant boy.’
‘And Anker isn’t a good name, is it?’ Benji has decided to take this conversation to heart and I glare at my oldest son, trying to let him know that I am not happy about having to placate his brother.
‘It’d make a fab name for Dylan, though,’ mumbles Scarlet through a mouthful of potato. ‘Especially if it had a w in front of it. Maybe you could change his name by deed poll at the same time that you actually get round to spelling my name correctly with two ts.’
At the far end of the table, Nick makes a choking noise and I have to work hard to keep the corners of my mouth from tugging into a grin. Dylan, thinking that I haven’t noticed, flicks two fingers up at his sister.
‘Can we all please eat this meal?’ Nick begs, recovering from his coughing fit. ‘Just twenty minutes pretending that we are all capable of spending quality family time together and then you can all go and plug yourselves into whatever devices are currently floating your boat.’
I load my fork with some carrots and peas and take a big mouthful.
‘Wanker!’
I spit my peas across the table where they join the food that has been unceremoniously ejected from the mouths of Nick, Dylan and Scarlet.
‘I worked it out!’ Benji is exuberant. ‘If you have Anker and you put a w in front then you make—’
‘No!’ For the first time all mealtime, four voices are united in utter harmony. ‘Do not say it again, for the love of god!’
*
Later, when the clearing up has been done and the children have all migrated to different parts of the house, Nick and I snuggle up on the sofa.
‘So, how much do you remember about the conversation we had last night?’ Nick starts, giving me a grin. ‘You were pretty out of it, Hannah.’
I grimace. ‘I know. I’m blaming Cassie – she’s a bad influence.’
‘You said some fairly interesting stuff.’ Nick stretches out his legs. ‘You know, about writing some steamy fiction?’
I lean my head back and close my eyes. I haven’t forgotten; of course I haven’t. It was the first thing that I thought about this morning and it’s been a presence in the back of my mind all day. I know that I drank far too much last night and that Cassie and I were talking complete and utter crap by the end of the evening, but this idea just won’t leave me alone.
‘Do you think I could do it, then?’ I relax into the cushions, drowsy and full of roast dinner. ‘Do you think I could write a book?’
Nick’s leg pushes against mine. ‘I have absolutely no doubt,’ he tells me. His voice is sincere and when I crank open my eyes, he is looking at me with a serious expression on his face. ‘The Hannah that I met was convinced that she could rule the world, if she chose to. You haven’t changed that much. If you want to do this then you should give it a go. What have you got to lose?’
‘My dignity? My reputation?’
Nick snorts. ‘You’d better start writing then.’
I sit up, suddenly wide awake. ‘But I haven’t got a clue where to start. I don’t know the first thing about erotic fiction. I don’t think reading Fifty Shades necessarily qualifies me for writing my own book.’
‘So do what you’re good at,’ Nick tells me. For a moment my brain whirs as I wonder where he’s going with this. ‘You never do anything without finding out every single last thing about it. You won’t let us plan a holiday without weeks of exhausting conversation about locations and travel distances and fuel prices and accommodation details. And you’re the only person in the known universe who actually understands electricity tariffs.’
I am not sure how my obsession with not getting ripped off by utility companies will equip me to write about sex, but Nick hasn’t finished.
‘Research, Hannah!’ he says. ‘Do your research! Find out everything that there is to know about writing in this genre and then do it yourself.’
Just occasionally, every now and again and usually in the vicinity of a blue moon, my husband has some very intelligent ideas.
Chapter 15
I wait until Benji is tucked up in bed and Dylan is out with Zoe, who appears to have become his new girlfriend without me really noticing it happening. Scarlet is in her room, supposedly revising for her exams while simultaneously tapping out Snapchat messages to her friends and watching a programme on Netflix about teenagers who live in a small town that just happens to be plagued with a serial killer. I tried asking her if it was suitable because it didn’t sound very nice, but she laughed at me and said that it was preparing her for real life. And then she said that I might not have noticed, but she is actually sixteen years old now and the days of her reading Milly Molly Mandy before bedtime are long gone.
I left her in peace when she started talking about how Milly Molly Mandy Turns Psycho could be a winning film title.
I check that Nick is still in the shower and then grab my laptop and head into the kitchen. I don’t want him to know what I’m doing, even though he’s been nothing but supportive. If he knows about it then we’ll have to talk about it and I don’t want to scare the idea away.
Plus, this is embarrassing. Not that it should be, because sex isn’t embarrassing, obviously. It’s normal and natural and the survival of the human species depends upon it, so actually it would be weirder if I weren’t learning about erotica, when you think about it. It’s all just biology in the end. I’m good at biology.
Closing the door, I sit down at the table and open up the laptop lid. Then I navigate to the appropriate website and click through to the e-book section. I scroll down the list and decide that ‘Literature and Fiction’ will be a good start. Then, for the first time in my entire life, I take a deep breath and click on ‘Erotica’ before quickly scrunching my eyes shut.
I’m briefly reminded of the time that I watched Silence of the Lambs when I was around Scarlet’s age. My best friend somehow got a copy on video and we waited until her mum was out to huddle together on her sofa and watch it in full VCR glory. The illicit thrill had been completely ruined by the terror that I would instantly turn into a psychopath, as threatened by the morality brigade. I spent weeks afterwards interrogating myself and probing the innermost parts of my mind to check for murderous musings, but the most sinister thoughts that I could muster were for my GCSE Maths teacher, and I just wanted her to get a job somewhere else, not actually die.
I am not entirely sure what I’m anticipating. Part of my brain is almost expecting a siren to go off, alerting one and all to the fact that I have just entered a forbidden part of the Internet. But there are no alarms, and when I steel myself and glance tentatively at the screen in front of me, it is definitely less terrifying than I had imagined it would be.
The page is filled with images of book covers, the majority of which are in black and white and feature scantily clad men and women. These are not the kind of men and women that I would expect see in the aisles of my local supermarket. These fine specimens of humankind presumably bring traffic to a standstill every time they step out of their front door. I peer closer at one man who is wearing a pair of tightly fitting jeans and nothing else, which is slightly impractical as he is sitting astride a rather large motorbike. His tattoos are prominent, but what grabs my attention is the pair of absolutely massive man-breasts that he is sporting. They’re bigger than mine, although he doesn’t seem to be fighting the same battle with gravity that I am facing. I suspect Photoshop has been involved in the production of this particular image.
I scan through the titles, cringing at the tackiness of it all. But I’m not here to judge, I’m here to learn, and I don’t have much time. I click onto one book with the word ‘Playboy’ in the title, which sounds fairly promising, and then double-check that I have selected ‘Hannah’s e-reader’ f
or delivery. Nick and I share an account with the kids and I do not want this book ending up on any of their devices. I then choose another book, which, confusingly, seems to be about a vampire, and then a third, with a title that makes me cringe so much that I am struggling to believe that anyone would actually purchase it. But Nick was right – I like to be thorough in my research. I need to read around the whole area if I’m going to get a good understanding of the task ahead.
Once I’ve downloaded all three books, I select the first book about the playboy. It seems like it might be the least intimidating. I start skimming through the pages as fast as possible, scanning the words and logging the pertinent details in my head as I read.
1. First, we are introduced to an incredibly wealthy and improbably gorgeous young man who has everything that a person could ever want, including sex whenever he feels like it, which is basically all the time. Literally. All. The. Time.
2. Enter a feisty, intelligent young woman who has been living a successful and fulfilled life until she meets aforementioned wealthy and gorgeous young man. He manages to suck her brain out through her ears within two minutes of catching her eye across a crowded room. This is presumably why vampires are popular in this genre – the brain-sucking must be more literal and less figurative in those books.
3. The wealthy and gorgeous young man suddenly realises that he has been living a lie and that there is more to life than he previously understood. Even though he has everything that money can buy, the only thing that he really wants is to have All Of The Sex, All Of The Time with the now-brainless young woman.
4. The gorgeous man proceeds to act in a distinctly creepy and stalkerish manner. We discover that the brainless woman has not been given advice from her mother on how to deal with unwanted attention.
5. The brainless woman rides a rollercoaster of feelings over the course of the next twenty-four hours, ranging from mild perturbation that the gorgeous man would even want to talk to her, to concern that her new beau appears to be a bit of a freak with a fetish that makes her squirm with discomfort. She then swings wildly towards a desire to please him and make up for the deficiencies in his emotional life, before protesting that she is a strong, independent woman who will never submit. This is followed by her complete and utter submission. She ends up sweet and slightly confused, with no understanding of the fact that she has just been royally screwed.
I sit back in my chair and slurp my now-cold cup of tea. This stuff is unbelievable, and I mean that literally. I know I’m not an expert but it feels completely formulaic, like there’s a rulebook on how to create erotic fiction.
Because it is fiction, isn’t it? Of course it is. I sip my drink and wonder about the person who wrote this particular epic. Does he or she really think that this is what regular people do when they’re alone? How very sad for them.
Suddenly, the quiz that I took in Elise’s magazine pops into my mind. Maybe there are real people out there who could answer A for each question. People who happily strut their stuff with confidence and don’t spend the entire time debating whether to lie on their back and make their stomach look flatter but risk losing each breast under an armpit, or whether to get more adventurous and let it all hang out; and I do mean that quite literally.
Is it possible that this is what all the regular people are doing? What if everyone else in the world is getting it on with the help of props and food items and Nick and I failed to get the memo? How are we supposed to know? The last thing I expected to feel when I read this stuff was threatened and inadequate, for god’s sake.
I didn’t pay any attention to the names of the authors when I chose the books. I flip open my laptop lid and wake up the screen. Then I navigate back to the first page and run my eyes down the list.
Candy Love.
Kitty Strange.
These are clearly not real people. Candy Love sounds like the name of a girl band. Kitty Strange is a serial killer. These authors are as fictitious as their plotlines.
I breathe out loudly and remind myself that I am reading this for research. And so what if the rest of the adult population is more exciting in the bedroom than we are? So what, Candy Love? I am a strong, independent and empowered woman and I am absolutely not going to allow one stupid and, frankly, badly written book to challenge my self-esteem. No way.
But while I’m sitting here, I might skim quickly through one of the other titles, just to get a good understanding of the market. It can’t hurt to be thorough. If I happen to pick up a few top tips in the process then I’m sure they’ll come in very handy when I start writing. Or next time I find myself needing to spice things up a bit.
Chapter 16
I decide to start my next lesson with Year Nine, Class C with a quick dictation exercise to focus on spellings and speed writing. Once everyone has settled down and found a pen (I long for the day that the whole class will arrive with a well-stocked pencil case, but I fear that I might as well long for the moon), I grab a textbook filled with short writing extracts and start to read.
‘In the summer of 1015, a Viking fleet set sail for England. The invasion force was led by a man who came from a long line of Scandinavian rulers and his name was King Cnut.’
‘You’re reading too fast, miss,’ complains Wayne. ‘I can’t write that quickly.’
‘You can’t write at all!’ quips Brody, gaining a snigger from the rest of the class.
‘That’s enough.’ I glare at anyone who dares to make eye contact with me. ‘I will repeat the second sentence one more time. “The invasion force was led by a man who came from a long line of Scandinavian rulers and his name was King Cnut.”’
‘How do you spell that, miss?’ asks Elise. At the same time, I see Vincent trying to reach across the gap between the desks and jab Wayne with a pair of compasses.
‘Vincent!’ I stride across the floor. ‘Hand that to me immediately. And the King’s name is spelt C – U – N—’
My brain finally catches up with my mouth, leaving the final letter hanging on my lips.
‘I mean, it’s spelt C – N—’
But it is far, far too late. Of course it is. This class of thirteen and fourteen year-olds who never listen to a damn word that I say are all listening the one single time that I spectacularly mess up.
‘Oh my god!’ screeches Elise. ‘Miss! You did not just say that!’
‘Miss made me write a rude word in my book!’ yells Brody.
‘The worst word,’ adds Wayne, with relish. ‘I’ve written it too!’
‘And me!’ shouts Vincent and then the room is filled with the sound of kids proclaiming that they have written the foulest of foul words in their English books.
And that I made them do it.
There is only one way to handle this situation.
‘Okay, calm down.’ I cross my arms and let my gaze roam across the class. ‘Everyone settle down. There’s no need for all this fuss. I’m sure that nobody was daft enough to write the wrong word, just because I mixed up my letters.’
‘I was daft enough!’ screeches Vincent. ‘Look!’
He holds up his book and even from here I can see the word, firmly printed on his page. It appears to be the only word that Vincent has actually spelt correctly.
‘So was I,’ Brody tells me. I frown as another book is held up and then another and another until almost the entire class is brandishing their English books in the air and I am confronted with a sea of expletives.
I remember the story of King Cnut proving that he couldn’t turn back the tide and feel his pain.
Slowly, I walk alongside the desks, staring at each book. The writing is mostly illegible, a scrawled mess of ink and blotches and crossings out. The Danish king’s misspelt name stands out in stark contrast. In Wayne’s book, it appears to be the only word that he has actually written today, which is an improvement on yesterday’s effort. Not that I can reward him for writing the word in capital letters across his entire page.
Miriam will annih
ilate me if she catches wind of this incident. In fact, she’ll probably get my teaching certificate revoked and I’ll never work again.
I say nothing, but my brain is working overtime as I head back down the other side of the classroom. By the time I reach my desk I am ready to conduct some damage limitation.
‘Who wants to watch a film for the rest of the lesson?’ I ask. ‘I’ve got The Lion King on DVD.’
Twenty-five hands shoot into the air. The twenty-sixth remains firmly planted on the desk in front of her.
‘We’re supposed to be studying Shakespeare,’ she states. ‘Some of us do actually want to get an education, you know.’
There’s always bloody one. I resist the urge to ask Elise exactly who she thinks she is, coming in here with her fancy-pants talk of aspiration and self-improvement, and smile sweetly at her.
‘And an education you will absolutely be getting,’ I tell her, swiping the disc from my drawer and ramming it into the computer. ‘It’s a well-known fact that The Lion King has a similar plot to Hamlet. A king murdered by his own brother. A young prince who is exiled and who receives a visit from his father from beyond the grave.’
I press play and start walking around the room, gathering up all the books.
‘Did you bring popcorn, miss?’ enquires Brody, putting his feet up on the desk. ‘Because popcorn might help me to forget that terrible word you made us write.’
‘There will be no popcorn,’ I snarl. ‘And if you carry on like that then I might well be asking you to write a summary of all the similarities between the relationship of Hamlet with his brother, Claudius and of Mufasa with his brother, Scar.’
Brody shudders. ‘I think we’ll cope without the popcorn.’
I nod approvingly and then spend the next fifty minutes going through each of the books, liberally applying corrector fluid to the word and writing it correctly over the top. When I get to Wayne’s book I realise that I’m running low on supply so I rip out the offending page, glancing up to make sure that I’m not being watched. Fortunately for me, Year Nine, Class C are entranced by the film, most of them singing along to ‘I Just Can’t Wait to Be King’ with a surprising lack of self-consciousness. I do feel a slight pang of guilt when I spot Elise with her head down, feverishly making notes on a scrap of paper, but then I remember the disparaging look she has in her eyes whenever I speak to her and I get over it.
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