‘Apparently nothing.’ I’m not prepared to move on from her insult yet. ‘Unless you want to hear a detailed account of the two-for-one offers at the supermarket?’
Mum smiles at me and perches on the edge of a chair to show me that she’s not intending on staying. ‘I’ve brought your favourite – lemon cake!’
I’m not prepared to hold a grudge if there’s lemon cake up for grabs so I swallow my injured pride and walk across the room to put the kettle on. My phone beeps with an incoming email but before I can reach for it, Mum starts talking about why she’s really here.
‘Scarlet’s worried about you,’ she says, launching right in. ‘She thinks you’re not coping. Apparently you aren’t keeping the fridge stocked with the food they need – the poor girl had to text me to request that I buy her some cucumber. Is everything okay, Hannah?’
I sigh and glare at my mother.
‘For god’s sake, Mum! You should know better by now. Scarlet is behaving like a complete diva at the moment and you pandering to her is only making her worse.’
‘So you’re absolutely fine, then?’ Mum gives me a piercing stare. ‘Because you do seem a little pent-up, darling.’
I take a deep breath. ‘I am only as pent-up as any mother of teenagers. I’ve got a sixteen-year-old daughter who appears to be on the verge of actual juvenile delinquency and an eighteen-year-old son who can’t wash his own socks so how he’s supposed to fend for himself when he leaves home is a mystery to me. And Benji asked me yesterday to buy him some hair gel and it’s only just dawning on me that before I know it, I’m only going to have teenagers and young adults as children and I don’t know how I feel about that because teenagers are really, really hard work and exhausting.’
I pause, gasping for air. ‘And I’m going to lose my job which sucks because I actually almost liked it for approximately three seconds yesterday, although I’m highly aware that my change of heart is probably just because it’s going to be taken away from me, like the time that I was going out with Jimmy Gordon and I dumped him and then Tracey Evans said that she liked him and I suddenly realised that he wasn’t that bad after all.’
Mum laughs. ‘You were fourteen when you went out with Jimmy Gordon,’ she reminds me. ‘I feel like you’ve possibly matured somewhat since then, Hannah.’
‘But I haven’t!’ I moan. ‘I’m going to have no job and I don’t even care because I hate teaching stupid English but I need to make money and I don’t know what to do. And I finished writing my book but apparently it’s rubbish and everything is just too hard.’
‘So what do you actually want to do?’
I stop ranting for just a second. What did she just say?
What do I want to do?
Nobody ever asks me that.
I don’t ask me that.
Mum leans forward and scrutinises my face. ‘You might need to be a bit brave, Hannah,’ she tells me. ‘If you want something different then maybe it’s time to embrace the change and work out exactly what it is that you’re looking for.’
She stands up abruptly. ‘I’ll leave you the lemon cake,’ she tells me. ‘But you’re only allowed to eat it when you start being honest with yourself.’
I see her to the door and then walk slowly back into the kitchen. She doesn’t know what she’s on about. I am always excruciatingly honest with myself.
I am terrified about what is inside that envelope. That’s why I haven’t opened it. I am truly scared that my job is about to disappear.
Fine. So I’ll open the letter and deal with the consequences. I can do that. I can be brave.
And I am gutted about my book being rejected. Ever since I found out that Nick had sent it off, I haven’t been able to shake the thought that I could be more than me. That just maybe I could actually be Twinky Malone.
I have absolutely no idea where that came from. I sink into a chair and put my head in my hands.
I am not Twinky Malone.
I can never be Twinky Malone, that’s been made abundantly clear to me by the six rejections that I have received over the last few weeks. I keep begging Nick to tell me how many agents he contacted with More Than Sex but he claims to have forgotten.
And I’m over it. Or at least, I thought I was.
Daxx and Bella Rose. They can fade into the background as if they never existed, along with Twinky Malone, because there is absolutely no future for me in being an author. I gave it a go and I was rubbish and that’s okay because we all have an inventory of things that we’re really crap at and now I know that I can add writing to that list. It’s good to know your areas of weakness, apparently. This whole experience has probably been really useful and self-improving. Even if it feels more like character assassination than character building.
Twinky Malone is dead and gone and Mum is right. I have to figure out what I want to do next.
I lean across the table and pull Miriam’s white envelope towards me. I will read the words and accept my fate. No, not accept my fate. Embrace the change, that’s what Mum told me. In the name of empowered females everywhere, I am going to woman-up and move on.
And also, I really, really want to eat that lemon cake and my mother will know if I’ve cheated.
Before I can hesitate, I rip open the envelope and pull out the single sheet of paper that is inside, my eyes skimming the words. But it doesn’t say what I’m expecting it to say and I have to stop and start again, this time reading slowly from the very beginning.
When I reach the end, I fold the letter up neatly and pull the plate of cake towards me. Then I take a huge bite, allowing the lemon tang to explode onto my tongue. I haven’t planned for this outcome and I don’t have a pre-prepared response to hand.
I have looked at your English books and there is evidence of progress and deeper thinking. I have spoken to the pupils and they are enthusiastic about your lessons. I am pleased to offer you a permanent contract as an English teacher – hours to be confirmed.
I take another bite, tentatively allowing myself to explore how I’m feeling. A few weeks ago, this letter would have been a slap in the face. I would have said that a permanent contract teaching English was worse than a death sentence. And I know that I was starting to enjoy it, but now? Now that I know it’s mine, I have to decide if I still want it.
This calls for more cake.
Chapter 35
When Nick arrives home, I have made up my mind.
‘Fuck it,’ I tell him, showing him the letter. ‘I’m going to accept. A part-time job is better than no job, and it means we don’t have to completely freak out about helping Dylan out financially next year. And you never know, I might learn to tolerate teaching English.’
Nick grabs me round the waist and gives me a hug. ‘I am so proud of you,’ he says. ‘We should celebrate! Do you fancy Chinese?’
I nod, grinning back at him. ‘The kids are all out for the evening. We can actually have a date night.’
‘For real?’ Nick looks at me hopefully.
‘For real,’ I agree. ‘But you need to order the takeaway soon before they get inundated.’
There’s only one Chinese restaurant in our town and on Friday nights it’s the busiest place in a twenty-mile radius.
‘Have you got the number?’ Nick starts scanning the noticeboard. ‘I can’t see it up here.’
‘Phone ordering is totally last year,’ I tell him, nudging him out of the way so that I can open the fridge. ‘It’s all about online ordering now.’ I gesture behind me. ‘You can use my laptop.’
I pull out a chilled bottle of white wine and start unscrewing the lid. I’m feeling weirdly calm now that I’ve made a decision. These last few months may have been fun, playing about with pretending to be a writer and developing my story but I know that I’ve got to leave all of that daftness behind and throw myself one hundred per cent into being a teacher. And actually, it’s a little bit embarrassing that I ever believed I could write something that anyone else would want to read.
Maybe Scarlet was right. Perhaps it was a kind of mid-life crisis.
But now I know where I’m going. I can start afresh in September, ready to inspire a whole new class of pupils. Maybe I could be like Michelle Pfeiffer in Dangerous Minds, delivering edgy and alternative lessons that cut through the crap. And maybe, one day, I’ll discover that one of my pupils has written a book and dedicated it to my wonderful, inspiring teaching.
‘Hannah. Have you read your emails today?’ Nick’s voice has a strange ring to it that jolts me out of my daydream.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ I tell him, pouring the wine. ‘Why? Is there something important?’
I wonder if I could get away with wearing a black leather jacket to school? I might buy a whole new wardrobe entirely in black. Nothing screams edgy like a teacher who refuses to wear floral skirts.
‘You might want to come and look.’ Nick takes a step back and stares at me. ‘And it’s probably a good idea if you bring your wine with you.’
I groan. ‘It’s not another complaint about Scarlet’s school uniform, is it? I swear when she gets out of the car in the morning that her skirt is regulation length. What am I supposed to do if she insists on rolling it over at the top the instant that she’s out of my sight?’
‘It’s not from school,’ Nick tells me. ‘Just read it.’
I walk across the room and bend down to peer at the screen. My emails are open and I can see five blue dots showing the unread messages. I scan down. An email forwarded from Cassie with a very rude subject heading. Another from a shop where I once made the rookie error of signing up for a store card and am now inundated with stupid messages inviting me to members-only shopping events, which sound hideous. I don’t think either of these would be reason for Nick to get so insistent.
And then I see it. The third email down the list with the now-familiar subject heading Submissions/More Than Sex. My heart falls. Not another one. Not when I’m making a real effort to embrace my inner Michelle Pfeiffer.
I’m about to step back and close the lid when something makes me look again. This email is different to the others; I can only see the first two sentences, but they aren’t what I expected to read. My hands are shaking as I click on the screen and the whole message opens up in front of me.
Dear Twinky Malone,
Thanks for letting me see your manuscript, MORE THAN SEX. It is not often that I read a submission this quickly but your opening lines had me hooked and I read the whole book in one sitting. Since then, it has been passed around the office and has been thoroughly enjoyed by the rest of the team. You have a very engaging voice and we feel that MORE THAN SEX could have a strong future as a breakout book in the genre of Erotic Fiction/Humour. We are very keen to represent both you and your debut novel.
I am out of the office for the rest of the day with clients, but will phone you later this evening if that is okay? Then perhaps we can chat about the direction you are hoping to take the book and any ideas you have for a sequel. I can talk to you about our vision and the publishers who, we feel confident, will be interested in BIG IN WYOMING.
Very much looking forward to speaking with you,
Persephone Andrews
Bluebird Film and Literary Agency
London
I stop reading and look up at Nick in disbelief.
‘Is this a joke?’ I ask. ‘It has to be a joke?’
‘It must be.’ Nick looks just as shocked as I feel. Part of my brain registers this as being slightly insulting, seeing as it’s him who keeps going on about how much potential my book supposedly has.
‘If this is Cassie, I’m going to kill her,’ I mutter, throwing back a mouthful of wine. ‘I know I said I didn’t care about writing anymore but still. It’s not funny.’
And then the phone rings.
I freeze.
‘Did you put our phone number in the submissions emails?’ I whisper at Nick, as if the person calling might be able to hear me.
He nods. ‘Cassie read an online article about what submissions are supposed to include,’ he whispers back. ‘And then she told me what I needed to send.’
Fuckety, fucking fuck. My heart is beating so fast that I think there’s a very real possibility of it pounding right out through my mouth.
‘Answer it.’ I hiss at Nick.
‘It isn’t for me,’ he hisses back. ‘You need to answer it.’
‘Well it isn’t for me either,’ I snap. ‘According to this email, they’re expecting to speak to Twinky Malone.’
We stare at each other for a few, long seconds. And the phone keeps ringing.
‘What have you got to lose?’ Nick asks. ‘Just pick it up and say hello.’
‘Fine! But it’s probably Scarlet demanding a lift home.’ I tiptoe the three steps needed to reach the phone and put my hand on the receiver, not taking my eyes off my husband.
We both know that it isn’t Scarlet.
And then I take a deep breath, like I’m about to go underwater for the longest time, and yank the handle off the phone base.
‘Hello.’
I listen to the voice on the other end as she introduces herself. Nick stands very still, as if movement of any kind will break the spell that we appear to be under.
‘Yes.’ I gulp and then I stand up straight, pushing my shoulders back and my chest out. ‘Yes, it is. My name is Twinky Malone.’
Across the room, Nick exhales and raises his glass of wine high in the air, and I can see in his eyes what he is telling me. He is saluting Hannah Thompson, part-time English teacher. He is saluting Hannah Thompson, wife, mother, daughter, and friend.
And he is saluting Twinky Malone, unwitting writer of erotic humour.
Twinky Malone is not dead and gone.
Twinky Malone is only just beginning.
Acknowledgements
Writing this book has been a whole new adventure for me and it would not have been possible without the help of a few (very fabulous) people. So a huge thank you to Kerry, Lizzy & Polly who have been there every step of the way, always ready for a raucous conversation and a cackling session, either over a cup of coffee or several glasses of wine. Thank you to Edie E for taking the time to read an early version and offer advice. I also need to thank my long-suffering kids (whose names have been changed to protect the guilty) and my highly understanding husband. Adam, your enthusiasm and support is never-ending and I hugely appreciate your help with the research element of this book …
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