Chapter One
FEMALE WRITER
WANTED
To collaborate in writing
Erotic Novel
Experience and imagination
Essential.
Apply:
Box 1546
‘So what’s new in the world of literature, Tom?’
She said the same thing every week. It was pretty obvious that she saw creative writing as a valuable tool in his rehabilitation. He took a surreptitious glance at his watch and sighed: Ten more minutes to go. Casting around for an answer, he hit upon e-publishing. Before long, he found himself trying to explain the phenomenon to her, while she took notes.
‘You’re sitting on the 8.15 to Waterloo, surrounded by commuters. Imagine if you pulled out a well-thumbed paperback, with a huge naked bum on the cover.’
‘A huge what?’ She looked up from her note-pad.
‘Bottom, Cynthia. Or anything naughty. What I mean is that the cover of the book looks smutty. Maybe boasting a tasteful title like Gladys is Taken Roughly from Behind, or whatever.’
‘Is there a book with that title, Tom?’ She was writing again.
‘What? No … or maybe. I don’t know. The title’s not important. Just imagine the scene. You’re sitting on the train, reading porn. It’s a fairly safe bet you would get some very disapproving looks from your fellow commuters.’
‘Well, I should think so, too.’
‘That’s the point I’m trying to make. E-books give you anonymity. I’m sure that’s why Fifty Shades of Grey has sold so well. She started out with it as an e-book, and it sold like hot cakes. You download it onto your tablet, and you can read it anywhere you like. I daresay you can even read it on your phone, if your eyesight’s up to it. And nobody has a clue as to what you are reading. Now do you see?’
‘I suppose so. So what are you saying? Do you want to write a … rude book?’
‘Erotic novel, Cynthia. That’s what they’re called. And, no, I don’t. We were talking about e-books, and I was just giving you an example.’ He sighed inwardly. What had he done? He watched her scribbling furiously. Now she had a whole new line of attack. She didn’t waste much time in launching into it.
‘Do you read a lot of … this sort of book?’ She was looking at him over the rims of her glasses. She often did that. Maybe she thought he would feel less under analysis that way.
‘No, I don’t. And, Cynthia, before we get onto the subject once more, I’m not sexually repressed or frustrated.’
‘Of course you’re not, Tom. Although it would be quite understandable, quite normal, given the circumstances.’
‘Well I’m not. Really.’
‘Of course you’re not.’ As she repeated her words, he could plainly hear that she wasn’t convinced. ‘But writing is very good therapy, you know.’
‘I know, Cynthia. I spend hours every day doing it.’
‘Yes, but your books are a bit bleak, a bit morbid.’ Ever since he had been persuaded to give her his latest manuscript, she had been like a dog with a bone.
‘I’ve told you, the Middle Ages were a cruel time. Some terrible things were happening back then.’
‘Of course, Tom. That’s why I think you should go for a change of subject. Try something lighter, something frivolous.’
‘To be perfectly honest, Cynthia, I really haven’t felt light or frivolous for a hell of a long time now.’
In spite of her best efforts, the session ended, as so often, on a depressing note.
The following Sunday morning was grey and cold, even for February. He was reading the books section of Saturday’s Western Morning News. As usual, he scanned the new releases with brooding resentment.
‘What have they got that my three haven’t?’ He prodded the dog with his foot. ‘Look, Noah, two of them are historical novels, too.’ All he got in response was a long-suffering sigh.
An article headed EROTIC HISTORIES AND MURDER MYSTERIES FOR THE YEAR AHEAD caught his attention. The writer was interviewing the new fiction previewer of The Bookseller magazine, Cathy Rentzenbrink. When asked if erotic fiction had had its day, she replied. ‘No. Erotica will continue to do well … I think there will be more historical erotica – think Fifty Shades of Lady Jane Grey … ’
He put the newspaper down. Pulling himself to his feet, he filled the kettle and stuck it on the stove. Sensing movement, the dog opened one eye. There was just a chance that the chocolate Hobnobs might be brought out of the fridge. Noticing this sign of interest, Tom addressed him.
‘Cynthia might be right after all, Noah. Maybe that really is what I should go for. Another historical novel, but an erotic one this time. If the publishers don’t want my serious stuff, I’ll give them a bit of smut. And they can pump it out as an e-book. An erotic e-book.’