Faking It

I wanted a job that I loved and I wanted my teenagers to see me as more than just ‘Mum’. I also needed to make some money so I had a good, long think about what sells and the answer was right there because, as everybody knows, there is one thing in the world that has always sold.

Sex. Sex sells. So I decided to have a go at writing erotica because I thought it would be easy, but I can tell you right now. It’s hard. Very, very hard.

And that is usually where my fantasy ends because by then, one of my delightful children is usually hammering on the bathroom door and demanding that I vacate my bubble bath because they need a wee and they need it now…

Chapter Two

It’s Friday night and I’ve invited my mother to join us for a nice, relaxing family meal. One day I’m sure that I’ll figure out that those four words don’t belong in the same sentence, but that day is clearly not today.

I serve up plates of my specialty dish and sink into my seat, reaching gratefully for my glass before remembering that I am absolutely determined to complete Dry September and, as I have somehow managed to make it to the fifth day of the month without a single drop of alcohol, a glass of wine is out of the question. Which is a shame because, in retrospect, September was not the wisest of months to choose for this particular challenge. I’d probably be finding it a bit easier if I’d chosen a nice relaxing month like July, rather than the horror that is Back-To-School, especially when we’ve got Off-To-University to contend with too, not to mention the fact that I’m supposed to be writing the sequel to my first book.

I spent a large part of today at The Daily Grind, our local coffee shop, trying to get started and I’m actually pretty tired. Unless you’ve ever tried to write a book it’s impossible to understand how challenging and exhausting it is just to even think of an appropriate title. I tried for several hours before deciding that it was probably acceptable to refer to it as Book Two (untitled) and that maybe my time would be better spent trying to think of a plot.

‘Cheers!’ I say, to the table at large, raising my glass of water. ‘Bon appetit.’

‘This looks lovely, darling,’ says my mum. ‘What do you call it?’

‘Pesto pasta,’ I tell her. ‘With sausages.’

‘I was thinking about going out tomorrow.’ Scarlet’s voice is suspiciously nonchalant. ‘Is that okay with you guys? And can I borrow your scarf?’

I mentally review the calendar. We don’t have any plans for this weekend and quite honestly, with the way that Scarlet and Dylan are always winding each other up these days, it might be a bit of a relief to have her out of the house for a few hours.

‘That’s fine,’ I say, scooping up a forkful of pasta. ‘And if you mean the scarf that Dad gave me for my birthday then yes, you can borrow it as long as you don’t lose it. So where are you going?’

Scarlet makes a mumbling sound and when I glance up at her she is smiling at me so sweetly that it instantly makes my blood run cold. I know this look and it only heralds the start of bad things.

‘I didn’t quite catch that, sweetheart,’ I tell her, returning my laden fork to the plate. ‘Where are you going? And who are you going with?’

Scarlet takes a long swig from her glass. I know this tactic. She’s stalling for time while she tries to decide how much of the truth to tell me. I need to be alert and on top of my game. This is not a time for taking my eye off the ball and I may well require backup. Surreptitiously, I reach out my foot and try to kick Nick on the ankle.

‘Ow,’ howls my mother. ‘That was my leg!’

‘Oh god, Mum – I’m so sorry!’ I wince sympathetically and reach across to put my hand on her arm. ‘I was aiming for Nick, not you.’

We both glance at my husband who is deep in conversation with Dylan and Benji about an article he read in his latest Land Rover magazine.

‘I think you’re going to need more than a kick to get his attention,’ murmurs Mum. ‘He hasn’t stopped banging on about that ridiculous vehicle since I got here.’

I turn back to Scarlet and wait patiently until she has drained every last drop of water in her glass. She blinks twice (which I happen to know is another one of her tells and suggests that she’s keen to introduce some kind of conflict to our relaxing evening meal) and then sits back in her chair, attempting a look of extreme relaxation.

‘I’m just going to hang out at a friend’s house,’ she informs me, her voice impressively casual. ‘Nothing exciting.’

I lean back in my own chair. We are like two cowboys facing off in a Spaghetti Western, the kitchen our OK Corral.

‘I don’t think so,’ I say, my voice dripping with insouciance. ‘Not unless this friend has a name.’

Scarlet scowls. ‘What difference does it make whether they have a name or not? Why do you need to know?’

I scowl back. ‘I need to know their name so that I know where they live. If you think I’m letting you go off without us knowing where you are, then you’re daft.’

‘She is incredibly daft,’ Dylan informs me, joining in the entertainment. ‘So she probably did think that.’

‘I’ll have my mobile though, won’t I?’ Scarlet rolls her eyes and I grit my teeth. I’m determined to enjoy a pleasant family mealtime even if it kills me and I’m not going to let her goad me into shouting at her. ‘You can ring me whenever you want to.’

I smile at her, hoping that I’m hiding my insincerity. ‘No name and address – no hanging out. It’s that simple. Now can you pass the water jug please, Dylan?’

‘There’s no need to be snarky about it,’ she sniffs. ‘God – it’s like living in a prison. I’m applying to be the Head Girl at school, you know? You’d think my own mother would treat me with a bit of respect.’

I do know that she’s applying to be the Head Girl. Possibly because she has mentioned it approximately seventy-five times a day since nominating herself.

‘You’re very lucky, Hannah,’ my mother tells me. I raise one eyebrow, wondering what it is about this particular exchange that labels me as blessed. ‘When you were a teenager I had no way of knowing what you were up to. If you went out for the evening I just had to hope you eventually came back – I couldn’t stalk you, the way you do with your kids. There was none of this Track My Phone business back then, oh no.’

She. Did. Not. Just. Say. That.

This calls for some instant damage limitation.

‘Oooooh, snap!’ crows Dylan, tipping back in his chair. ‘This should be interesting.’

‘Yes, well – what we’re actually talking about here is—’

‘Track my what, now?’ Scarlet’s voice is so chilly that my arms erupt with goose bumps. ‘What is Granny talking about, Mum?’

I laugh merrily. ‘Oh, nothing darling! She’s just a bit confused. Technology can be rather baffling to the older generation, you know? So, as I was saying—’

‘I am neither confused nor baffled,’ barks my mother, slamming her fork onto the table. ‘And quite honestly, Hannah, I resent the implication that just because I’m no longer in my youth then I don’t have a clue. I’m surprised at you, I really am. You need to be a bit less judgemental about others.’

‘Burn!’ snorts my oldest and most disloyal child, while Scarlet holds her hands in the air.

‘Preach it, Granny.’

I shoot them both a quick glare and then turn back to my mum.

‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ I tell her, soothingly. ‘It’s just that all this silly talk about stalking makes it sound more devious than it really is and I don’t want Scarlet getting the wrong idea.’

I don’t want Scarlet getting any idea about it at all, full stop. So thank you very much, Mother. You’ve just completely destroyed my cover.

‘Have you been tracking me?’ asks Scarlet and my goose bumps disappear under the heat of her fierce gaze. ‘Tell me the truth.’

‘It’s called maternal protection,’ I snap back. ‘And you should be thanking me for keeping you safe.’

‘It’s called stalking!’ howls my daughter. ‘And it’s a complete invasion of my privacy! I can’t believe you sometimes, Mum.’

‘I told you it’d end in tears, Hannah,’ my mother helpfully adds. ‘No good can ever come from meddling in your child’s business.’

The irony of this sentence is clearly completely lost on her.

‘For the record, I’ve known about this for ages,’ says Dylan, smirking smugly at his sister. ‘It’s not really a problem unless you’re going somewhere that you shouldn’t be.’

‘Don’t lie,’ snaps Scarlet. ‘You’ve just disabled the app on your phone.’

‘Is that what you’ve—’ I start, turning to Dylan but Scarlet interrupts me.

‘Well, you don’t need me to give you my friend’s name then, do you?’ she says, narrowing her eyes at me. ‘Not when you can follow my every move from the comfort of the sofa. God. It’s so pathetic.’

‘I don’t track you from the comfort of the sofa,’ I hiss. ‘I’d be so lucky. No – I’m too busy running around picking up all the half-empty cups of tea that you leave strewn around the place as if it’s a hotel.’

‘What are you on about?’ Scarlet’s face is screwed up in fury. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

My weak attempt at regaining the moral high ground is obviously failing.

Nick finally stops his fascinating monologue about Betty the Land Rover’s rust problem and looks across at us. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Our daughter wants to hang out with a friend,’ I inform him, retreating to a safer foothold. ‘A friend who has no name.’

‘That’s sad,’ says Benji, through a mouthful of pasta. ‘Imagine having no name.’

Scarlet groans under her breath.

‘Why are you so stupid?’ she asks him. ‘Like, actually? It’s a genuine question. How have you even survived this long with so few brain cells?’

Benji wrinkles up his face, the way he always does when he gets upset and I leap in before Scarlet’s attempt to distract us from the real conversation is a success.

‘I’m assuming that your reluctance to share information means that it’s a boy?’ I enquire. ‘Does he go to school with you? Have I taught him?’

My daughter shakes her head. ‘I didn’t say that it was a boy, did I?’

‘Yeah, Mum,’ adds Dylan. ‘Did you just assume her sexuality?’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me,’ Scarlet retorts. ‘She makes out like she knows everything but she doesn’t actually have a clue about what it’s like to be Gen Z.’

‘Who are we talking about?’ asks Nick, looking confused. ‘And why?’

‘I just want to hang out with some friends, Dad,’ Scarlet tells him, throwing him a huge smile. ‘Tomorrow evening. I was just checking that you guys didn’t have any plans.’

Nick smiles back at her. ‘It’s fine with me,’ he says. ‘I’m intending on spending most of the weekend underneath Betty, sorting out her under-carriage.’

For fuck’s sake. It’s like I am the only adult in the room with a pair of functioning ears.

‘Can we just back this conversation up a bit?’ I sit up straight and stare at Scarlet. ‘Number one, is it “friends” plural or “friend” singular that we’re talking about here?’

‘Friends plural,’ she mutters.

‘Good. And where exactly are you meeting them?’

Scarlet pauses but my mother leans forwards and gives her a smile.

‘You may as well tell her, darling,’ she advises. ‘She can locate your exact whereabouts on her phone in five seconds flat if she wants to. I’ve seen her do it. It’s very impressive – I think she might have had a good career in the Secret Service in another life.’

Yes, another life where I’m not constantly needed to solve my family’s problems and keep them out of trouble. Another life where I roam the streets of Paris wearing nothing but high heels and a trench coat instead of roaming the supermarket aisles wearing an old waterproof jacket and scuffed-up shoes.

‘We’re getting together at Petra’s house,’ she says, the words pushing themselves reluctantly out of her mouth. ‘A couple of us from school and some of her new friends from college.’

I sit back in my chair. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’ I tell her. ‘And if you’d only said that in the first place, then we could have avoided this whole conversation. Of course you can go to Petra’s house – I’m sure you’ve got lots to catch up on.’

‘And are you going to keep on stalking me?’ she asks. ‘Even though you know that it’s an invasion of my human rights? You really do need to get a life, you know, Mum.’

‘Have you been tracking her phone again?’ asks Nick, frowning. ‘I thought we agreed that we’d only use that function if there was an emergency.’

Sometime it feels like the entire universe is out to get me, it really does.

I sigh. ‘If you feel that strongly about it, then no – I won’t track your location. But don’t come crying to me if you get kidnapped and nobody notices.’

‘Hannah!’ exclaims my mother. ‘What a thing to say! Nobody is going to kidnap Scarlet!’

‘Nobody in their right mind, anyway,’ huffs Benji, finally getting his own back. ‘And even if they did, they’d soon give her back when they realised how annoying she is.’

In the ensuing carnage all attention is diverted from me and the fingers that I am frantically crossing under the kitchen table, which is good, because I have absolutely no intention of stopping utilising new technological advances to keep a maternal and watchful eye on my children. It’s the only reason I pay for their bloody phone contracts in the first place.

The meal finally ends and the kids do some token cleaning up before disappearing to their rooms. Nick mutters something about fixing a Land Rover part and heads out of the back door in the direction of the shed and I know that I won’t see him again for hours.

My mother looks at the clock.

‘I’d better be off,’ she says. ‘I’m meeting an old friend for drinks tonight and I can’t be late for Barbara. I think she’s heard about my new calling in life and is hoping for a bit of free advice.’

While it was somewhat unexpected when my sixty-four-year-old mother announced that she was taking up a new career, it wasn’t a complete shock. She was a mother who my school-friends described as cool and their parents probably called unconventional. Or maybe bohemian, if they were being kind. Whatever word they used, I knew what it meant. My mother was the exciting, interesting member of our family, constantly throwing herself into new experiences and learning new things and I was the steady, sensible one. It bothered me less when I was growing up than it does now, which I think could possibly tell me something about my insecurities, if I was inclined to think about it.

Which I absolutely am not.

There are very few topics of conversation that my mother thinks are out of bounds and she prides herself on being able to talk about anything to anybody, regardless of how keen they may or may not be to discuss their most private thoughts with her. Over the years she has subjected me to her earnest and heartfelt opinions on every aspect of my life, from my career to my parenting to the provenance of my groceries. And I know that she does all this because she’s constantly absorbing new information and she wants to share it and I’m probably the only person in the universe who will actually listen to her – but good god, it’s completely infuriating and she drives me utterly insane.

Anyway, her new direction is entirely my own fault. When I had the idea of buying her credits for an online course, I was imagining her dabbling in genealogy or perhaps art history. Not ‘Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby! Foundation One, Access to Counselling.’

‘But you’re not even qualified yet,’ I point out, resisting the urge to sigh. ‘Don’t you think you should be careful about offering advice when you don’t really know what you’re talking about?’

My mother laughs and stands up. ‘When you get to my age, you know what you’re talking about. Speaking of which – how are the sales of your book doing?’

I glance at the kitchen door but the kids are long gone.

‘Okay, I think. It’s kind of hard to know for sure just yet.’

Mum fixes me with a familiar look and I brace myself.

‘Well, you know my thoughts on the matter, Hannah.’

I do, because you insist on telling me every single time I speak to you.

‘Uh-huh,’ I mutter, non-committally.

‘I’d be very happy to spread the word about your literary debut,’ she continues, shrugging her shoulders into her coat. ‘All this silly secrecy is costing you in book sales, you know.’

I do, because you also inform me of this on a regular basis.

‘I’ve been trying to figure out the second book but it’s a bit trickier than I thought it’d be,’ I find myself saying. ‘I’m not entirely sure that I can do it.’

Mum turns to look at me. ‘Of course you can do it,’ she says. ‘You’ve already written one book, Hannah. Just do it again.’

‘It’s not that simple though.’ I lean back in my chair and shake my head. ‘There wasn’t any pressure last time. I was just writing for me and I didn’t even know what I was doing half the time.’

‘Well, I rather think that was the beauty of it,’ Mum tells me. ‘It came from the heart. You just need to chill out and relax. I mean, you’re writing porn. How hard can it be?’

I stare at her suspiciously.

‘This isn’t a laughing matter, Mother. And I’m not writing porn, as you very well know. It’s erotica and it’s absolutely mainstream and there’s nothing remotely pornographic about it.’

Mum’s forehead creases into wrinkles. ‘I’m not entirely sure that I understand the difference between erotica and porn,’ she says.

So, that online course isn’t exactly making you an expert, then? Funny, that.

‘But if you ever want my informed critique on the sex scenes then you only have to ask, darling.’ She beams at me. ‘I’m learning so much on my course and I’d be very happy to share my knowledge with you. In fact, I’m doing a fascinating module at the moment called Marital Sex: Use it or Lose it, which may be of particular interest to you.’

Which seems as good a place as any to shut this conversation down and show her the door.

I give her a hug and watch as she gets into her car, waving until I’m sure that she’s actually gone. And then I go back into the kitchen, put the kettle on and slump onto the battered old sofa that Dogger has claimed as her own. My mother might be right about my desire for anonymity impacting on my sales but it’s a price I’m willing to pay.

Writing about sex is terrifying and difficult and my guiltiest pleasure and I just don’t think it’ll feel the same if everyone knows that I’m doing it. And as for any discussion about the state of my marriage, well – that’s just ridiculous. Nick and I are fine. Everything is lovely. And nice. We’re lucky that we’ve been together for all these years and we’re still attracted to each other. Lots of people aren’t as fortunate. And there’s nothing wrong with lovely and nice. Who wouldn’t want that?

I sink into the cushions and groan. Damn my mother and her stupid online course. Use it or Lose it? What’s that supposed to mean? How often are we supposed to be using it before we’re at risk of it vanishing forever? And we probably aren’t as adventurous as we once were but just because I’m always a bit knackered and Nick seems more in love with his Land Rover than me, it doesn’t mean we have issues. We’ve been married forever and it’s a marathon, not a sprint.

Although the one hundred metre dash is probably a better description of our sexual liaisons, rather than a twenty-six-mile endurance event. And part of me has been wondering whether an author of erotic fiction should be being a little more daring in her own exploits. Just to stay on-brand, you know?

Fuck it. I mentally add rejuvenating my marriage to my to-do list and turn on the television. I may not have any chill and but I do have Netflix.

Chapter Three

‘I can’t believe we’ve only been back at school for one week. It feels like the summer never happened.’ Cassie slumps down next to me and closes her eyes. ‘I just had to explain to my new Year Seven class that Chemistry is not, in fact, going to be, and I quote, “all about making potions” and that Westhill Academy is not even a tiny bit “like Hogwarts”. I swear these kids are getting younger every year.’

I wince, imagining Benji walking through our hallowed halls this time next year and renew my vow to enroll him in some self-defence classes over the next twelve months.

‘At least you managed to get a break this summer,’ I remind her. ‘I feel like I need a holiday from my holiday.’

I have tried not to envy my best friend and her three weeks in Crete at an all-inclusive resort without any kids to worry about. I have also failed in that task.

Cassie opens her eyes and gives me a frown. ‘But you had two weeks in France,’ she says. ‘What happened? Did you overdo it on the vin rouge?’

I sigh. ‘There isn’t enough cheap plonk in the whole of France to ease the pain of attempting a nice, family holiday. You have no idea how stressful it is going away with my lot.’

Cassie looks unmoved. ‘You should have done what I did then,’ she says. ‘Taken some time to find yourself.’

I open my mouth to reply and then close it again. There’s no point in even trying to explain. She doesn’t understand that I would sell my soul for some time. Time to do anything. In fact, finding myself would probably be quite low down on my list of priorities after curling up and reading more than one page of a book or having a bath without interruption. Or maybe even having an intimate date night with my husband, if I could entice him out of the shed.

The bell rings and a collective groan goes up from those teachers scattered around the room who are teaching next period, which appears to be everyone except for Cassie and me.

‘I don’t want to go back to lessons,’ whines Peter, who has been having a quick nap in the chair opposite us. ‘I’m getting too old for this crap. Teaching English to teenagers is a young man’s game. All I want is a nice little nest-egg so that I can retire somewhere where there aren’t any people – is that so much to ask?’

‘You need to set yourself free from that kind of limiting attitude,’ Adele, the drama teacher, tells him as she breezes past with Danny hot on her heels. ‘I’d have hoped that last week’s Inset Day would have given you some strategies for dealing with self-negativity and extraneous brain noise.’

‘I’m not being negative about me,’ Peter mutters as she wafts out of the room, heading to the drama department where some hapless class will be forced to listen to her waffling. ‘And you’re extraneous brain noise.’

‘I thought it was an excellent activity,’ gushes Danny, only he times his comment too late and Adele has left the room. ‘It’s like Adele said last week – it’s in the darkest times that we can really find our strengths.’

Peter scowls so hard that his glasses start to slip down his nose. ‘Well, the darkest time I’ve had recently was at that bloody awful drama session and it in no way equipped me with the necessary strength required to teach my Year Eight class, none of whom have the slightest desire to string more than two words together in a coherent manner.’

I shudder. I’m still trying to recover from the horrors of last week’s Inset Day but some things can’t ever be forgotten: Adele making us all participate in expressive mime as we learnt to connect with our inner child being only one of them.

‘That’s my point,’ says Danny. ‘You need to be more positive, mate.’

Peter drags himself out of his chair and towers over Danny.

‘It was bloody weird, mate,’ he snarls. ‘And if I don’t win on the lottery next weekend then it might be wise for everyone to stay out of my way.’