Dirty Minds (2 page)

He wasn’t sure what to expect. Maybe nothing, maybe a sack full of replies. As it turned out, he got nine.

Two were instant rejections.

‘“
Seperate
”? Now really!’ He was snorting out loud. He found himself doing that more and more these days. In the same paragraph he found another spelling mistake and several inappropriate semi-colons. The snorting grew louder. Seeing no point in progressing beyond the first paragraph, he discarded the letter. He tried the next one.

‘Oh dear lord!’ This time the Labrador opened an eye in mild surprise. Pleased at this sign of participation, he addressed his comments to the dog, something else he found himself doing more and more often of late. ‘Since when have plurals required apostrophes? Even you know that, Noah. Lynn Truss wouldn’t approve.’ This followed the same fate as the other letter.

The remaining letters looked more promising. He took them down to the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea. As he took the milk out of the fridge, his eye fell on the chocolate Hobnobs. He put the packet on the table. The dog, roused by the sound of the fridge door, materialised at his feet, Big mournful eyes focused on the biscuits. He picked up the next letter.

‘“Dear Sir/Madam”’ Only then did it occur to him he should have revealed his gender in the advert. To him it had seemed obvious. He was a man and, as such, he could only write from a male perspective. All right, he told himself, there’s such a thing as imagination. But if he were to write a work capable of catapulting him up the cresting wave of
Fifty Shades of Grey
, he was going to need both points of view. It was so obvious he had omitted to mention it.

The writer of this letter sounded bright, sane and interested in the project. Her literary credits were little better than his, but her CV did at least indicate a good education. She included no personal details about herself. He applauded that. Her address was in North London and she included an e-mail address. At the bottom of the page, above her signature, she had scribbled the words, ‘I think this could be fun’. She signed the letter Janet Parr. Insofar as an e-mail address confirms anything, hers confirmed her name.

He tucked the letter under the biscuits, mentally including it in the ‘Possibles’ pile. Before he could pick up the next letter, he heard a jingling noise. The dog had fetched his lead from the chair and was indicating that it was time for a walk.

‘All right, Noah. A bit of fresh air will do us both good.’

Although the rain had stopped for the moment, the grey clouds looked foreboding and the field was saturated. Mud built up under the soles of his Wellingtons as he splashed along the path. He had to keep stopping to scrape it off. Undeterred, the Labrador headed straight for the river and plunged in. Tom located a suitable stick and threw it for him. The game consisted of his attempting to pick up the stick, retrieved by the dog, without getting soaked as the dog shook himself. As usual, Noah won.

While he walked along the riverbank, gradually getting wetter and wetter, his mind was free to wander. This new project looked like being a breath of fresh air. And Cynthia was right. He knew he needed something to take him out of himself, away from his misery. Whether a smutty book was the answer to his problems remained to be seen.

He came to the fallen tree where they had both sat so often, watching Noah playing puppy games. He closed his eyes and saw her face again, still so clear in his memory. Not the pain-wracked gauntness of her final weeks, but her young, fresh face from the early days. His head dropped. The dark thoughts returned to fill his head once more. The dog, recognising the symptoms, realised the game was over. He came across and nuzzled Tom’s hand.

‘Thanks, Noah. You’re a pal.’

Pleased to be acknowledged, the dog shook himself again, this time at very short range. The freezing shower roused Tom and set him off again along the path.

He breathed deep and forced his mind back onto happier things. The choice of a historical period wasn’t going to be easy. As for a place, well, here in Devon was as good as any. And he knew it so very well. But the subject matter wasn’t going to be straightforward. His experience of smut was very limited.

His musings were interrupted by the arrival of a very bouncy Springer spaniel. It appeared from behind, almost taking his legs out from under him as it squeezed past on the narrow path. Wheeling round, it leapt up to greet him, catching him painfully in the lower abdomen. As he folded forwards, clutching himself, he heard a familiar voice.

‘I’m so sorry, Tom. She’s very excited today, for some reason.’ It was the lady from the house by the river. He knew the dog was called Sophie. He had been told her owner’s name but had forgotten it. She was wearing her usual shapeless waterproof jacket and a woolly hat obscured most of her head.

‘Oh, hello. Sophie took me by surprise, I’m afraid. I was miles away.’ He removed his hands from his groin and managed to stand almost upright again. ‘Here comes the rain.’ In true British tradition, it seemed sensible to turn the conversation from his bruised genitals to the weather.

‘Sophie, bad girl. Stay down. Just push her away, Tom, if she tries that again. Yes, it’s looking really grey up there now. Might be wise to head for home. You all right? You look a bit glum.’

‘All right? Yes, fine thanks. Just lost in my thoughts, I’m afraid.’

‘Cheer up. It may never happen.’ She turned away with a wave.

He kept his voice low, so she wouldn’t hear. ‘It already has.’

The other respondents to the advert all had their merits. One had clearly decided that he was a woman, the others hedged their bets. One already had a published book to her credit. Closer inspection of the title, and a quick check on the laptop, revealed it to be self-published. This was not necessarily a bad thing. At least it showed she had the will and the stamina to write 100,000 words. Over his years of fruitless attempts to find a publisher, he had also come perilously close to going it alone. Only a lingering sense of pride had stopped him. He now knew that pride is a luxury aspiring writers can ill-afford.

The Case of the Velvet Ball Gown
did not immediately leap out and grab him. From the bookseller’s blurb it sounded like a fairly ordinary murder mystery. And at £13.99 in hardback he couldn’t imagine she had sold thousands. Her signature, CV and e-mail address matched. The name was Rosalind Waters, and her address was in Hammersmith, London.

Deciding on the other four did not take long. The one who assumed he was a woman sounded a bit vague. She had not bothered to enclose a CV, although she mentioned a degree in French. All she provided was her name, Penelope Grainger, and an address in Nottingham. She listed no writing credits. He decided not to allow this to colour his judgement. He had, after all, nothing but a short story and a couple of textbooks to his credit. On the other hand, she wrote clearly and correctly. No split infinitives, misplaced punctuation, or prepositions floating at the end of a sentence. He liked that. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

The next was from a woman called Ariadne Anstruther.

‘Noah, have you ever met an Ariadne? I’m sure I haven’t. I suppose she abbreviates it, but how the hell do you abbreviate Ariadne? She can hardly call herself Arry? What were her parents thinking? Mind you, there was that child named after all the players in the winning world cup football team … ’

Her CV looked impressive, at least educationally. She had a first class degree in English, plus an MA in Creative Writing. She was working as a journalist in South London and wrote articles for various magazines. No book credits yet, but work in hand.

‘I like the sound of this one, Noah.’ She was given pride of place, on the top of the ‘Possibles’ pile.

The next was less impressive, at least visually. The paper was flimsy, the presentation of the letter poor, and the style rather staccato. There was little attempt at politeness. She claimed to have written a number of short stories but without any luck on the publishing front. This lack of success endeared her to him, so he added her to the pile. Her address was in Bristol, her name Maggie Perkins.

The last sounded very nice, maybe a bit too nice. She gave the names of her three ‘little ones’, along with details of a few articles she had had published. Her educational background was Oxford, no less. She wrote in a clear, open style. Her home was in Stevenage, and her name Tiffany Rossi. Whether the surname was her maiden name, or her husband’s, was not clarified. Certainly the name Tiffany didn’t sound very Italian.

In the end, he added all of the letters to the ‘Possibles’ pile. He now had to whittle his six possible co-authors down to one winner. He would need to devise a test of some kind. And he would need to decide upon a time and a place for the book. As he scratched the dog with his foot, it occurred to him that he could kill two birds with one stone: He would ask his Possibles pile as part of their test. Maybe one of them had a favourite period of history. He could then research it. A trip to the university library, a few days of study, and he would be ready to go.

His copy of
Fifty Shades of Grey
arrived on the Saturday. He settled down to read it that evening. It was hard going. It took him until the following Wednesday to get through it. He could only cope with short bursts, not because of the content, but the style. When he finally set it down, it left him puzzled.

He told Cynthia all about it at his next session.

‘Leaving aside the sentence construction and the punctuation, it’s nothing like as erotic as I thought it would be. It’s all relationship stuff, with a bit of sex thrown in. Well, all right, there’s more than a bit of sex, and it is a bit bizarre, but I was expecting more. I am quite disappointed.’

‘Would you have preferred more sex?’ He recognised her tactful tone. It was the same one she had used a few months earlier when enquiring, casually, if he masturbated regularly. This time he restrained himself.

‘It’s not a question of preference. This book has been hyped up as the smuttiest thing ever to hit the mainstream, and it isn’t. Have you read it?’

He had the satisfaction of seeing her cheeks flush. Did this mean she had read it? He took the opportunity to go on the attack.

‘They say it’s a book by a woman for women. Did you think that? Did it speak to you, Cynthia?’ He was delighted to see her discomfort grow.

She cleared her throat before replying. ‘Mmm, I don’t know. I only flicked through it.’ She looked up from her pad. He noticed that she had stopped writing. ‘My sister gave it to me to read.’

‘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.

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.’