‘I haven’t betrayed you,’ Cassie tells me. I can hear what sounds distinctly like a smile in her voice. ‘And for what it’s worth, I agree with what Nick did. He said that you were just going to throw it away, Hannah. All that work and you were just going to waste it.’
‘That was my choice to make,’ I mumble, closing my eyes. He sent it to a genuine, legitimate literary agency. Someone read it. This cannot be happening.
‘He asked me to read it and give him my opinion,’ continues Cassie. ‘And I know that we should have asked you first but we both knew that you’d only say no.’
‘That is not a reasonable excuse for not seeking my permission,’ I snap, looking over at her. ‘What are you, eight years old? You can’t just not ask the question because you know that you won’t get the answer you want.’
‘I know and I’m sorry.’ She is doing a tolerable impression of someone who is feeling a teeny bit contrite. ‘But I still stand by what we did. And just because this stupid agency doesn’t like it, it doesn’t mean that all the others won’t.’
Her words hit me like a slap in the face.
‘All the others?’ I stand up and start pacing the floor. ‘Exactly how many agencies did you send it to?’
Cassie shrugs. ‘I’m not sure, you’ll have to ask Nick.’
I spin round and give her my most evil teacher-stare. ‘Oh, don’t you worry. I will be corroborating your story with my husband as soon as he has the courage to drag his sorry ass through my front door.’
Chapter 32
I send Nick a text as I’m walking to the car.
Leaving school. Are you home soon?
It is the very first time that I have ever messaged him without adding a kiss at the end. Let that be a warning to him about what exactly is going to go down in our house this evening.
Benji chatters about an argument that happened in the playground at lunchtime as we drive home, but my mind is elsewhere. I manage to make the occasional affirmative grunt but all I can think about is the fact that my book is out there, possibly being read by real people right at this very moment.
The thought makes me want to run and hide under the duvet for at least the next six months.
As soon as we’re inside the house, I throw my bag into the cupboard under the stairs and storm into the kitchen.
‘Hey, Mum.’ Dylan is perched on a stool, spooning porridge into his mouth. ‘How was your day?’
I pause. This is happening more and more. I will walk into a room and catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye and just for a split second, I will see a glimmer of the man that he is going to be. A man full of honesty and love and consideration and kindness. A man who would never, not in one million years, go behind his partner’s back and humiliate them by sharing their most private and personal work.
‘It was atrocious,’ I tell him, giving him a quick hug before putting the kettle on. ‘Promise me that you’ll never become a back-stabbing, double-crossing, fink rat narc.’
‘What’s Dad done this time?’ Dylan grins at me. ‘Last time you used those words, he’d eaten the last piece of lemon meringue pie.’
‘It was my piece,’ I grab a teabag and slam it into a mug. ‘He’d already eaten his and I was saving mine for later. He knew that and he still chose to eat it. What else should I have called him?’
‘No, you’re right. If anything, your reaction was understated.’ Dylan shovels up another load of porridge and I stick my tongue out at him, which makes him splutter most of the oats onto his T-shirt.
We hear the front door opening and a moment later, Nick walks in. He places his bag on the floor and steps towards me, a tired smile on his face.
‘I can’t believe it’s only Wednesday,’ he says, reaching out his arms to pull me in for a hug. ‘The last few days have been endless.’
‘Yes, well, you’ve been a busy boy,’ I say, side-stepping his touch. ‘I’m not surprised you’re exhausted. It’s tiring work, being a double agent.’
Nick frowns. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ His gaze darts around the room, as if looking for clues. ‘Has someone left a window open? It’s freezing in here!’
I fold my arms.
‘That’ll be Mum’s frosty demeanour that you’re picking up on,’ Dylan tells him. ‘Good instincts, Dad. It bodes well for your survival.’
He leaps off the stool and picks up his bowl. ‘I think I’ll finish this in the living room,’ he tells me. ‘Then you and Dad can have your sensible, adult conversation in peace. Seeing as you’re obviously in a super-mature mood.’
I watch him go and then turn back to Nick, who has taken the opportunity to grab a beer from the fridge and is now leaning against the kitchen counter, eying me warily.
‘What’s the matter, Hannah? Are you okay?’
I look back at him in disbelief but I don’t speak until I’ve closed the kitchen door. It’s bad enough that other people know about this – I don’t need the kids to find out too.
‘I am not okay,’ I tell him. ‘I am not even a little bit okay.’
‘Are you ill?’ Nick’s face looks worried. ‘Do you need to go to bed? Maybe you’ll feel better after some sleep?’
I cackle bitterly. ‘Sleep? As if! I can’t imagine that I’m going to be getting any sleep for quite a while, thanks to you.’
Nick shakes his head. ‘You need to stop talking in riddles and tell me what’s going on, babe.’ He takes a slug of beer. ‘I can’t read your mind.’
That does it. I stalk forward until I’m standing toe to toe with my husband.
‘Newsflash, Nick. You clearly can’t read my mind,’ I spit. ‘Because if you could read my mind, you would have asked yourself, Would Hannah be okay with me doing this? And the answer would have been, No! She would not be okay with me doing this. And then you wouldn’t have done it. And I wouldn’t be here with my life in tatters and nothing but humiliation ahead of me.’
He reaches out and holds onto my hand. ‘Has Cassie said something to you?’ he asks as I wrench away from his grip and fling myself down at the table.
‘She didn’t have to!’ I tell him. ‘Because I got a delightful email informing me that More Than Sex is a pile of crap and I could jog on if I thought it might be worth trying to get it published.’ I look up at him. ‘All of which I already knew, which is why I didn’t want to send it off in the first place.’
‘Oh, babe.’ Nick sits down next to me. ‘I’m sorry that happened. But everyone gets rejections, don’t they? I’m sure J.K. Rowling had loads of them before an agent agreed to take her on.’
‘I am not J.K. bloody Rowling,’ I hiss. ‘And I have not written a heartwarming story of wizardry and magic and goblins and people getting on broomsticks, Nick. I have written a story about sex and kink and people getting naked. There’s a bit of a difference.’
Nick nods sympathetically. ‘Which is why we only sent your book to agencies that specialise in adult fiction. Someone will see it for what it is, Hannah, don’t give up hope yet. Your book is hilarious – it just needs the right person to read it.’
I am finding it hard to believe that he can be so stupid.
‘I am not upset about the rejection. I’m upset because I don’t want to be associated with something like that. Why can’t you understand what I’m saying?’
‘But you wrote it.’ Nick looks confused. ‘You worked really hard and you’ve written something brilliant and different. Where’s the harm in putting it out there and seeing what other people think?’
Where’s the harm? Where’s the fucking harm? I am married to a blithering idiot.
‘I’m going to have to go into hiding,’ I moan, tipping back my head and trying to think straight. ‘I’ll have to hand in my notice too – there’s no way that I can continue teaching.’
Nick stands up and walks across to the fridge. Thoughts flash through my head – I’ll probably have to do all my shopping online in case word gets out. I’ll become a total recluse, trapped in my
own home for fear of the disdainful and disgusted attention that will surely be coming my way.
‘Drink that.’ Nick puts a large glass of wine down in front of me. ‘And try to stay calm. You’re completely overreacting.’
I am too caught up in my own world to respond to this gross allegation. A world where the delights of the supermarket and the pub and the staffroom are all distant memories. I shall probably get a few cats and sit alone all day, gazing out of the window and reminiscing about the life I once had.
‘Everybody is going to know what I’ve written,’ I whisper, taking a gulp of wine. ‘They’re all going to judge me.’
I think I might be in shock. As in the actual medical definition of shock. My palms feel sweaty and my forehead is clammy and my heart is racing crazily like Dogger does whenever we take her for a run around in the park.
‘Nobody is going to know,’ says Nick, sitting back down. ‘And nobody is going to judge you.’
‘But people talk,’ I tell him. ‘Right now, some agent could be reading my book and then later, they might be sitting in their local wine bar, sipping cocktails and nibbling nuts and get onto the topic of what they’ve read today and they could tell someone else, let’s say the barmaid, about this book set in Wyoming with loads of sex and stuff and the barmaid will ask who wrote it and the agent will cast their mind back and say, “Oh, some nobody called Hannah Thompson,” and then the barmaid might tell someone else and they’ll tell someone else and before we know it, the name Hannah Thompson will be synonymous with raunchy sex and I can’t have that, Nick – I really can’t!’
‘It’s not going to happen,’ says Nick, in an infuriatingly calm way.
‘You don’t know that!’ I half-sob. ‘It could be happening right now!’
Nick shakes his head. ‘Did you read the email properly, Hannah? Because if you did, you’ll have seen that the name Hannah Thompson is not mentioned.’
I put down my glass and stare at him. ‘What are you talking about? The agent sent me an email.’
‘But not to Hannah Thompson.’ He grins at me. ‘I’m not completely stupid. I know that you wanted to write under a pseudonym. So when I sent off the manuscript, I sent it under a fake name.’
The only noise now is the clock ticking away on the wall and the muffled sound of a film filtering through the wall between the kitchen and the living room.
‘What name did you choose?’ I whisper. ‘What name, Nick?’
He raises his eyebrows and leans back in his seat. ‘I think you’re going to be pleasantly surprised,’ he tells me. ‘I know that you wanted something that sounded a bit more exotic than Hannah Thompson and I remember that you said it should be a name with personal relevance if it was going to be on the cover of your very first book.’
He pauses, obviously hoping to ramp up the tension. There’s really no need – if my blood pressure increases any further there is a distinct possibility that I might actually burst a few veins.
‘Tell me that you didn’t listen to my mother. Tell me that my writer name is not Edna Tickle.’
Nick snorts. ‘No way! That’s a terrible name. Your pen name is so much better!’
‘Tell me.’ I force the words out through gritted teeth. ‘Who do these agents think that I am?’
‘Okay, are you ready for it?’ Nick smiles. ‘Your name is Twinky Malone!’ He throws out his hands, as if he has just offered me a wonderful gift. ‘What do you think?’
I ignore his question and push back my chair, half-standing so that I reach the phone in my back pocket. Once I have retrieved it I sit down and turn it on, going straight to the last email.
Dear Twinky Malone,
Thank you for sending us your book, More Than Sex. After careful consideration and review we have decided that it is not quite right for our list. However, we wish you all the very best in placing it elsewhere.
All best wishes,
Jasmine
On behalf of King and White Literary Agency.
He’s telling the truth. Other than my rather generic email address, there is nothing to connect me to this manuscript.
‘What do you think, Hannah?’ repeats Nick.
Twinky Malone is not my name.
That is what I think.
Nick takes my silence as approval, which has always been one of his most irritating traits.
‘I remembered that conversation we had about what our porn star names would be,’ he says. ‘And I know we agreed that Fishy Bush was not particularly glamorous. But then I thought about that cat we found when we moved into our first flat. Do you remember?’
My frazzled brain lurches back twenty-one years to the poky, damp-ridden flat that Nick and I rented when we were fresh out of university. It was advertised as a ‘garden flat’ although the garden amounted to nothing more than a strip of concrete path running down the side of the poorly built kitchen extension. We attempted to grow some plants in pots, but the sun never reached the ground and after a couple of weeks we got bored with the cold, slimy space and stopped going out there. Occasionally though, I would open up the back door to get rid of the smell of burning toast and it was on one of these mornings that we discovered Twinky. A sad, bedraggled mess of a wild cat who spat and hissed if we tried to go anywhere near her.
Nick made a valiant effort to get her to come inside, but when he got too close she struck out and left claw marks all down his arm. So we told ourselves that she was obviously feral, closed the door and forgot all about her. Until the following day when there was a scratching sound and a faint meowing. When we peered out through the window, she was back.
And that was the start of our non-relationship with Twinky. We would leave bowls of food on the back doorstep and she would hiss and snarl at us if we even thought about taking a step in her direction. Nick named her Twinky because he said it suited her shiny, twinkling disposition.
‘So in a way, she was our first pet,’ Nick tells me now. ‘And we lived on Malone Street, so I thought that would be kind of cool as the surname.’
He looks at me anxiously across the table and I feel my fury start to abate. And by abate, I mean dial down by about one eightieth of a notch. He was trying to help and despite my outrage at the ludicrousness of the entire situation, at least the name Twinky Malone means something to me. To us.
And the honest truth is that now I’ve calmed down a bit, I can feel a slight thrill at the prospect of someone reading what I’ve written. I’m not stupid enough to think that anything will come of it, of course not; but I did put a lot of time into Daxx and Bella Rose’s story and I guess it being sent off to a couple of agencies isn’t the very worst thing in the world.
‘Nobody will know that you wrote this book,’ he assures me. ‘I just couldn’t bear to let you waste all that effort. Not when what you’ve written is so great.’
‘I suppose it was a bit daft to just let it sit there,’ I say grudgingly. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with what you did, Nick.’
‘I know and I’m sorry.’ He breathes out loudly and I realise that he’s been holding his breath. ‘But for what it’s worth, I think that Twinky Malone is a brilliant name.’
I take another sip of wine and mull over his words in my head.
‘It could be worse,’ I agree. ‘And that’s the best I’m prepared to offer right now.’
Nick stands up and stretches out his arms. ‘I’ll take it,’ he says. ‘But if one of these agents actually offers to represent you then I’m expecting a full apology.’
I grunt. ‘I’m not sure that there’s much of a market for comedy erotica or whatever you called it. But in the unlikely event of me getting an agent, then I will happily apologise to you.’
‘I’m already looking forward to it.’ Nick opens a cupboard door and looks inside. ‘Maybe you can repay me with a date night.’ He glances back over his shoulder. ‘You know, a proper one, not a fake one that’s purely for the purposes of research. It’d be a shame to let that Kama Sutra book you
bought go to waste.’
‘Maybe.’ I give him a faint smile, not prepared to let him off the hook just yet. ‘But I wouldn’t hold your breath.’
Chapter 33
So.
It’s a new day and I am feeling good. The birds are singing, the sun is shining and everywhere I look, people are laughing and smiling and generally making merry.
If my life were a film, at this point the soundtrack would screech to a halt to signify that something is not right. Because actually, despite my best efforts at positivity, I am not feeling good. I am feeling low and flat and possibly just a little bit depressed.
My book is a flop. My career is in tatters. Dylan is leaving for university in a matter of months and I can’t rid myself of the mental image of Nick and me abandoning a helpless baby in a rowdy hall of residence.
Downstairs, it is the usual mid-week scene. Benji and Dogger are playing an enthusiastic game that appears to involve Benji balancing on a chair while trying to convince Dogger to jump through a hula hoop. Scarlet is storming around the kitchen, angrily slamming toast onto her plate and sticking her knife into the jam as if she’s about to kill something or someone. Dylan has his headphones rammed over his head and is oblivious to everything.
‘Mum!’ Benji gives me a chocolatey smile. I consider telling him off for eating chocolate spread on a Wednesday when everybody knows that it’s only for weekends, but I decide that I really can’t be bothered. If chocolate spread is what’s getting him through the day then he can have it. Maybe I’ll try some and see if it can work its magic on my mood.
‘There isn’t any cucumber in the fridge.’ Scarlet looks at me accusingly. ‘I specifically asked you to buy more cucumber.’
There has been an uneasy truce between us since the Ashley Dunsford incident. I invited him here for tea, but Scarlet told me that the idea of him being subjected to our family was horrific and abusive and that it would be a cold day in hell before he darkened our doorstep. Something along those lines, anyway. I could tell that she was pleased that I’d asked, though.
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