‘Do you and your sister often read that sort of thing?’
‘No, of course not.’ Her tone was unusually sharp. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. ‘But the fact remains, that one of you forked out good money to buy it. And millions of others have done the same.’
She collected herself. ‘So is that what you plan to do, then? Write something similar?’
He told her about the Western Morning News article. She scribbled dutifully. ‘So, you see, Cynthia, I think you were right. I maybe do need to try something frivolous.’
She looked up from her pad with a broad smile. She so rarely displayed emotion that it took him aback.
‘Tom, that’s really good news. I’m so glad you think like that. I’m sure you will benefit greatly from a change of direction in your writing. Less medieval warfare, mutilation and death, more fun and–’ she hesitated, searching for the word ‘–smut. Why not?’
‘There is, of course, the question of the subject matter. I just hope I know enough about it.’
After Tom had left the consulting rooms, Cynthia wandered through to reception. Debbie was in the process of closing up.
‘Hi, Cynthia. How’s it going with the gorgeous professor?’
‘Definite progress, Debs.’ She decided that client confidentiality would not be breached if she mentioned his new project. ‘He’s going to write a dirty book.’
Debbie’s eyes opened wide. ‘Well, be sure to tell him if he needs any help with his research, I’m always available.’
For a moment, Cynthia felt like saying ‘Join the queue’ but she retained a dignified silence.
Chapter Three
It was pouring outside. Janet’s new shoes were sodden. Just getting from Highgate station to the door had soaked her. Dumping her umbrella in the pot behind the door, she reached for the envelope lying on the mat. She turned it over in her hands. It was a white A4 envelope, thick enough to contain two or three sheets of paper. Her name and address were handwritten, indicating presumably that he did not have a secretary. He had opted to call her ‘Ms Janet Parr’. She remembered that she had not indicated her marital status in her letter to him.
She hung her raincoat by the mirror and sat down on the bottom stair. Kicking off her shoes, she pushed them under the radiator. The handwriting told her little about him. It did, however, tell her a little about who he was not. It was neat and clear, not the flowery hand of an elderly person, nor the scrawl of a medic. The letter size was large enough to make it unlikely to be the work of an accountant or scientist. It was not flamboyant enough to be that of an artist. The postmark showed it had been posted at 5.30 p.m. the previous evening, in Exeter, Devon.
He had sealed the letter and then added a strip of adhesive tape. She approved. This was the sign of a thorough and cautious mind. She reflected that it also reduced the chance of the postman finding himself with sheets of erotic prose spilling out into his hands. As she broke the seal she wasn’t sure what to expect. The size of the envelope gave her hope that she might be successful. After all, previous rejections had rarely exceeded a card, an e-mail or a single sheet of paper. Would this contain erotic prose, she wondered?
It did not. There was a letter, neatly set out, signed Thomas Marshall. In it, he informed her that she had been shortlisted for the position. The position was to co-author a piece of historical erotica; she providing the female input, he the male. In order to allow him to make a final decision, he was asking the shortlisted candidates to complete a specimen piece of work. Details were to be found on the enclosed sheet. She turned to the next page with interest. It was brief and to the point.
Please choose a period in history and a location with which you are familiar. Using these parameters, please write a minimum of one thousand words, describing a sexual encounter involving one, two, three or more people of either sex. Choice of characters and sexual act(s) totally your own.
So far so good, she thought to herself. Pretty much what she had been expecting, ever since her inexplicable decision to answer the advert. It seemed reasonable that he would want proof that she could write. And there was always the question of whether she knew enough about the subject. That had been worrying her quite a bit. She read on.
It may be useful if you remember the following:
Fifty Shades of Grey, at the last count, has sold 65 million copies. It is the fastest selling paperback of all time. It does not, however, just consist of sex scenes. We need to be capable of producing a story that compels the reader to turn the pages. The sex scenes should add spice rather than being the main substance.
When assessing how graphic to make your description, I would suggest that we are setting out to shock, ma non troppo. Try writing something you might not feel comfortable showing to your mother. At the same time, it should not unduly shock your sister or your best friend.
She reflected that her mother would, without question, have shocked less easily than her big sister. At the same time she was grateful to him for spelling it out. The sheet ended with notes about the contractual arrangements, reimbursement of expenses and division of royalties. It all looked fair. He ended with the words:
Collaborative writing will involve joint decision-making and, inevitably, compromise. Please bear this in mind if you are offered the position. For my part, I pledge that I will endeavour to keep an open mind at all times.
She folded the pages and slipped them back into the envelope. She knew she could write. She had been writing articles, stories and unfinished books for as long as she could remember. But she had never tried anything like this before.
‘I’d better talk to Melissa.’
Chapter Four
‘Ariadne, oh Ariadne darling.’
Jimmy was affecting a high-pitched, nasal whine. His voice echoed up the stairs.
Clinton stirred. Out of habit, he looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was almost lunchtime.
‘Thank God it’s Saturday.’
‘Who’s Ariadne?’ The girl’s voice was sleepy.
‘That would be me.’
He climbed out of bed and opened the curtains. A gusty wind whipped the rain diagonally across the glass. He could barely make out the shape of the houses across the road: A good day for going back to bed again. He turned away and surveyed the chaos in the room. Her clothes were strewn across the floor, as were his. Her red bra was draped across the reading light. The Chablis they had spilt on the desktop was congealing, the shape of her buttocks still discernible in the sticky mess. He licked his lips. Among all the other tastes, there was definitely Chablis.
He opened the door, and wandered out onto the landing.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, put some clothes on, Clint.’ Jimmy had brought the post upstairs.
‘That’s Ariadne, to you, James.’ He did his best to imitate Jimmy’s high-class accent. Jimmy did it better, but then he always had had a way with words. ‘Leave the letter there, my man. One is going for a piss.’
When he emerged from the bathroom, he picked up the large A4 envelope, addressed to Ms Ariadne Anstruther. He took it back into the room. Dolores had gone back to sleep, so he didn’t disturb her. He dug out a clean sweatshirt and jeans and sat on the edge of the bed, as he pulled on socks and shoes.
Inside the envelope was a letter addressed to Ms Anstruther. He checked the signature. He had been right in his assumption that it was a man. Feeling hungry, he wandered downstairs to the kitchen. Jimmy was sprawled in the lounge,