Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) (26 page)

We're introduced on stage, and all four of us walk out to some rather half hearted applause. Those gathered are other writers, after all, not fans of our work. They're here to get tips and advice, not bask in the reflected glory of their favourite authors.

The most disconcerting thing about the set-up for this talk is that there is a man with a camcorder directly in front of us, getting close ups of our faces as we speak that are beamed onto a large screen behind our heads. This is to give those at the back a better view I'm sure, but I really could do without my head being projected twenty feet high every time I open my mouth. I'm just thankful the screen is right behind us so I can safely ignore it as much as possible. It can't be all that beneficial to the crowd anyway, because there appears to be a delay between what's being filmed, and what's shown on the screen. If I move my head quick enough I can see my own face briefly, before my twenty foot high head turns to look up. It's a very odd experience.

The next forty five minutes are actually quite pleasant. We all take turns answering a variety of questions from the audience. Jamie naturally does most of the talking for us, but I am able to make what I think is a rather good comment about how self publishing has democratised the publishing industry, and made it easier than ever for someone to have their work published, no matter how niche or strange it may be.

I would probably have said more, but about half way through the panel, I am aware of a tickle in my nose, and a soreness in my throat that forces me to drink a lot of the sparkling water on the table in front of me.

I put it down to having to speak in public and try to ignore it, thinking it'll go away once we're done.

Completely wrong, of course, but I've never had a cold take hold this fast before, so I think I can be forgiven for my error.

By late afternoon that day, I am feeling decidedly rough. My head is swimming and I've developed a throbbing headache. My face feels like a radiator, but my fingers are frozen. My throat is now a scratchy mess and I'm starting to sound hoarse.

'Are you okay baby?' Jamie asks me as we ride the tube back from the centre of the city, towards our Premier Inn on the outskirts.

'Oh yes, I'm fine,' I say, not really believing a word of it. As human beings, we do tend to enter into a stage of denial when we're coming down with an illness. 'Probably just tired.'

Jamie looks at me uncertainly, but doesn't press the issue.

There's a five star rated Chinese restaurant just down the road from the hotel, so we elect to go there for our evening meal. By the time the main course comes out, I'm starting to feel properly rough, and only manage to eat about a third of my chicken in black bean sauce, before putting the knife and fork down.

I am grateful when Dad takes Poppy off to watch Frozen in their room, but not for the reasons I originally thought. It's less about wanting some space for sex, and more about just wanting to lie down somewhere quiet.

I still give it a go though - the sex, I mean. As has been stated many times, we don't get much Poppy free time for these kinds of shenanigans. Pounding headache or not, an orgasm sounds like a mighty fine way to end what has been a very tiring day.

Unfortunately, the cold virus is not one for allowing such things, especially when in its early stages.

'Baby, you're not really enjoying this are you?' Jamie says to me, looking down at my pale face and bloodshot eyes.

'Yes I am!' I try to reassure him, knowing the frailties of the male ego.

He sees right through this. 'Sweetheart, we've been married for years, I'm not going to collapse into a heap of neuroses if you want to stop.'

I take a deep breath. 'Oh, thank God for that, I feel terrible,' I say, letting out the breath explosively.

Jamie winces and leans back. 'Well, don't give it to me woman.'

'I'm not sick,' I insist. 'Just a little tired.'

'Yes, I always look like the ghost of Christmas Past when I'm feeling a bit tired too,' he says in a derisory voice. 'You've never let being tired put you off sex, Laura. You're sick. Now get into bed while I run down to the Tesco Express to pick you up some Lemsip.'

He does have his moments, my husband. He really does.

The cold takes proper hold overnight, and by morning I am a walking mucus factory. If you think back many years to my one and only experience in a
microlight
aircraft, you will recall that I am an absolute horror when my nasal secretions go into overdrive. As Jamie lets Dad and Poppy into our room, I am sat at the table by the window, trying my level best not to cover everything in sight with a thin, shiny film of mucus.

'Mum,' Poppy says hesitantly, seeing the state I'm in. 'I don't think I'm going to give you a morning kiss today.' I would feel hurt about this, but I'm fairly sure that licking a slug would be preferable to planting a smacker on my face right now, so can understand her feelings on the matter.

Dad does give me a kiss on the forehead, which is nice. 'I think you'd better stay in bed today,' he says to me.

'Your Dad's right,' Jamie agrees. This is officially the first time Jamie has agreed with him - or referred to him as my Dad, for that matter. We'll call that progress.

'But we were going to take Poppy to the zoo today,' I whine, before a fit of sneezing hits me, forcing all three of them to stand back.

'We can still take her,' Jamie says.

I want to argue, I truly do. I want to fight my way through this thing and enjoy my day, but I am a woman self aware enough to know that I will actually do nothing of the sort. I picture myself soaking the chimpanzees in phlegm before keeling over in a dead feint, and mentally decide to take my husband's counsel on this matter.

'Alright, I’ll stay here in bed. Hopefully the rest will do me good.'

'I'm sure it will,' Dad says with a reassuring smile.

Normally, Poppy would kick up a stink at this point. She likes it when Jamie and I are together when we go out on a day trip, but I think her desire to spend the day with both parents is superseded by her desire not to spend that day covered in one parent's germs.

All three of them troop out of the hotel room an hour after breakfast, leaving me bundled up and full of hot lemon flavoured drink. I do feel quite, quite awful, but the duvet is warm, the pillow is soft, and there is peace and quiet in my world. I drift off to sleep, hoping that by the time they get back, I'll be feeling more myself again.

The low fever I've had from the cold breaks mid-afternoon, leaving me feeling more human. I have a rather delicious shower, followed by a bagel with cream cheese from room service. I'm still sneezing every thirty seconds or so, and I'm bunged up to the nines, but I do have a bit more energy, and am pleased that I apparently just have a rather nasty cold, rather than a full blown case of the flu, which would have been disastrous. With a cold I can attend tomorrow's conference panel, even if I will do so carrying a packet of tissues. The flu would have laid me up completely for a good couple of weeks, and I just can't afford to take that much time out.

'Well, you do look better,' Jamie says with a smile when he sees me sat up at the table, playing around with my iPad.

'Yep. I think id's only a cold,' I tell him through the snot. 'I feel a
lod
better than I did
dis
mornind
.'

Jamie takes a few moments to process this, and mentally change all those
d’s
for the correct syllable. 'Good stuff. Take it nice and easy this evening then, and we'll see how you are tomorrow.'

'How wad the zoo, Pops?' I ask my daughter.

Poppy's mouth bows downwards.
'A bit disappointing.
All the animals were hiding,' she says.

That's the problem with zoos. The inhabitants never do what you want them to. Having said that, there's every chance my seven-year-old is actually disappointed because she didn't get to poke anything.

We all end up eating in the Premier Inn restaurant downstairs that evening. I manage to finish all of my chicken and chips, signifying that I am starting to get over this virus. By 9pm though, I'm knackered again and in need of sleep. Dad and Jamie keep Poppy down in the bar with them as I make my way back to the room, and fall more or less instantly into a gratifying deep sleep.

The next morning I am rested enough to tackle the second of our two speaking engagements at the CWC. This one is the main event for us. Entitled 'Writing As A Couple', it involves Jamie and I, along with another pairing of similar age to us, who write erotic fiction. Their writing names are Marie and Pierre
Rougemont
, but I'm led to believe their real names are Mary and Peter
Redhill
. I've never heard of their books, but Jamie professes to having scanned through an ebook version of 'Whipped Into A Frenzy', the couple's first bestseller.

'It was a bit weird,' he tells me as we're getting dressed. 'I'm not a prude or anything, but even I draw the line when large rubber implements start getting inserted into every orifice. Their characters act like they’re sexually aroused every second of the day. It all sounds exhausting.'

'Well, don't say
thad
to
dem
,' I warn. '
Dey
might think our books aren't
fuddy
.'

'
Fuddy
?'

'Yes,
fuddy
.
You know...
ha
ha
ha
?'

Jamie looks thoughtful. 'Maybe I should do most of the talking today, eh?'

I roll my eyes. 'You
dormally
do anyway,
Misder
. Why would
dis
be
ady
dibberent
?'

My husband does make a point though. I sound barely intelligible at the moment.

A quick detour to Boots on the way to the tube station solves this issue - at least to a certain extent. I find the strongest nasal decongestant I can, and shove it up my nose as we board the train.

'
Thas
better!' I say, as I feel the chemicals start to cut through the thick lining of mucus. 'I can talk again!'

'
Eww
Mum! You're
snotting
!' Poppy points out. She's right. The problem with decongestants is that they really do decongest. Right onto your top lip, if you're not careful. Still, I'll take a bit of
drippage
over sounding like I have a ball of cotton wool stuffed in my nose any day of the week.

We arrive back at Danesborough Halls a good half an hour early again, so have another chance to sample the delightful machine coffee and stale flapjacks on offer. We also get the chance to say hello to Marie and Pierre
Rougemont's
alter-egos, who have arrived before us.

'Morning,' Jamie says cheerfully to the couple, as we enter the beige green room. I am somewhat surprised to see that neither one of them is dressed head to toe in black rubber, and am slightly disappointed by the fact.

Mary is resplendent in the same blue M&S ladies suit I rejected a few months ago because the skirt was too short to hide my atrocious knees, and Peter looks equally as smart in what I can only assume is the male equivalent.

I suddenly feel completely under-dressed, togged out as I am in Jane Norman jeans, Fat Face long sleeved top, and
Asda
George
bodywarmer
. Jamie looks even
more scruffy
. I really should have dissuaded him from wearing that Batman hoodie, but the cold has knocked me off my game a bit.

'Good morning,' Peter and Mary echo in formal voices. For a couple that writes erotic fiction, they come across as people you'd think would be more at home filling in tax returns or insurance claims.

About ten minutes later though, I get a good idea of what's going on under all that pressed polyester, when I go into the ladies toilet to get some more tissue, and see Mary
Redhill
coming out of the cubicle, holding her jacket. The shirt she has on underneath is short sleeved, and poking from out of both arms I can see tattoos that run almost to her wrists. The shirt itself is very tight, showing off a sleek, toned figure and perfect breasts that must take a huge amount of work (and probably money) to maintain. Mary notices my wide-eyed expression and smiles a rather wicked smile. 'The suits are all part of the act,' she says in a smoky voice, answering my unspoken question. 'After all, it's only sexy if it's not on show all the time, isn't it?' One of her eyebrows arches suggestively. 'The tease is what pulls them in.'