Faking It

‘There’s only seven more weeks to go until half-term’ I call, as Peter wearily picks up his bag. ‘I’ve started a countdown on the calendar at home.’

It’s true. I know I shouldn’t be wishing the days away (as Scarlet keeps reminding me, I’m not getting any younger) but ever since Miriam took over as Headteacher, school has been even more unbearable. She’s appointed herself a personal assistant – a little old lady called Miss Pritchard – and has taken to prowling the corridors during lesson times, peering in through classroom doors and barking notes for Miss Pritchard to scrawl down in the notebook that never seems to leave her hands. It’s like being on the set of an incredibly dull horror film where nothing ever happens but there’s still a constant feeling that terror might be just around the corner.

Peter gives me a tired smile and plods out into the corridor, followed by our other reluctant colleagues and a still-enthusiastic Danny, whose newly qualified perkiness has been in no way dampened by Peter’s not-very-veiled threats. Cassie waits until the room is empty and then turns to look at me, her eyes sparkling.

‘Right then,’ she says, rubbing her hands together. ‘There’s nobody here now so we can stop talking about boring crap and have the conversation that I’ve been dying to have all week. How’s it all going with the book? We haven’t even spoken properly since it came out. Tell me everything, Hannah!’

I glance around to check that we really are alone. More Than Sex has been out for a few weeks now and I’m desperate to talk to someone other than Nick about it.

It’s fair to say that being a published author has both pros and cons. The first con is that, contrary to what people may believe, the publishing industry doesn’t exactly throw money about. Not that I thought writing a book would make me loaded.

Definitely not.

Not for one. Single. Second.

Sure, it’s possible that on the night I received the call from my new agent, telling me that she wanted to represent me, Nick and I may have got slightly ahead of ourselves. And by ‘getting ahead’, I absolutely do not mean sending an email to Miriam Wallace, telling her where she could stick her stupid job offer of teaching English.

She was quite gracious about that, actually. Once my agent had explained to me that the kind of money we were talking about would be just enough to pay for driving lessons and the occasional bottle of Prosecco, I was forced to write a painfully cringe-worthy email to Miriam, begging for my old part-time job back. She said that as she’d already advertised the position, I’d have to interview along with all the other applicants but it turns out, quite unsurprisingly, that people are not queuing up to deal with fourteen-year-olds murdering Shakespeare so I was the only one in the running. My interview consisted of Miriam piling yet more work onto my already exploding timetable and me pathetically agreeing to all of her demands. I did tentatively enquire about whether there may be enough money in the school budget to reinstate me in a full-time teaching position, but once she’d stopped her mirthless laughter she told me that three days was all that was on offer and I could take it or leave it.

The next slightly challenging aspect is that I had to agree to write another book and, while I don’t want to seem ungrateful, this wasn’t really what I was aiming for when I wrote More Than Sex. Sure, I was hoping to earn a bit of extra money but it wasn’t only about that. I wanted to be someone different to the Hannah Thompson that I saw every time I looked in the mirror. I’m just not entirely convinced that the someone different I wanted to become was a writer of erotic fiction and certainly not comedy-erotica. I’m not sure that’s who I really am.

The school staffroom isn’t the ideal location for this discussion but, other than Nick and my mother, I’ve had nobody to share this with and I can’t wait any longer. Because honestly, despite the slight negatives, having a book published is genuinely the best feeling ever.

‘It’s been incredible,’ I tell her, keeping my voice low. ‘Honestly, Cassie – I can’t begin to tell you.’

Cassie squeals. ‘I knew that Nick and I sending your manuscript off was the right thing, even if you were in a mood with us for weeks! This is brilliant!’

I grin at her. ‘Well, I’d definitely never have had the confidence to share it, so yeah – it was the right thing! My agent is lovely and my publisher is some kind of genius and has worked wonders with the edits – and now it’s out there and people are reading it and some of them actually seem to like it!’

‘So they should.’ Cassie reaches into her bag and pulls something out, brandishing it in front of my face. ‘Will you sign my copy? Write something meaningful about how you’d never have done it without me and that you owe all your success to my amazing friendship. Or words to that effect.’

I swear that my heart actually stops beating for a couple of seconds. Grabbing the book out of her hand, I clutch it to my chest while my eyes dart feverishly around the room.

‘Cassie! What are you doing? You can’t bring that in here – what if someone saw it?’

Cassie rolls her eyes dramatically and gestures at the empty chairs. ‘There’s nobody else here, Mrs Paranoia. And even if anyone did see it, they wouldn’t know that you wrote it, would they? You need to relax.’

I do relax slightly and look down at the book in my hands. I’ve spent a lot of time staring at the cover over the last month but I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of seeing it. The sugared-almond-pink background, which contrasts with the sensible and sturdy pair of black knickers on the front and the title: More Than Sex. I approved of the cover the instant that I saw it – the knickers in particular are completely perfect, because the image conveys practicality and comfort which is obviously important considering that the main character, Bella Rose, spends the majority of her time engaged in manual labour on a ranch. It’s not exactly logical to imagine anyone mucking out horses while wearing scanty, lace underwear and, more than anything else, I want my book to be honest and real.

Cassie is right. I do need to relax. There’s nothing to link me with being the author of this novel. Nobody will find out that I have penned a deliciously raunchy story of sensual desire that apparently is one of a kind. It turns out that Nick was wrong – it is possible to be both erotic and sexy while remaining informational and factually correct. According to my publisher, it’s a highly amusing mash-up of genres.

I think I might be what is popularly known as zeitgeist. I’m not sure if this knowledge makes me want to whoop with joy or hide under my duvet.

But none of this means that I want anybody to know about it.

‘So how are you keeping the whole thing a secret from your kids?’ asks Cassie, interrupting my thoughts. ‘What do they think you’re up to when you’re off being a famous author?’

‘I’m hardly famous,’ I say, shaking my head.

Not that I haven’t thought about what it would be like to be a celebrity. As well as my private bathroom interviews, every time I go shopping I imagine being mobbed by hordes of excited fans. Not that it will ever happen, because one of the things I have insisted on is absolutely no photograph of me in any publicity. Scarlet’s ability to access information on the Internet rivals that of Wikileaks and I know she’d sniff me out in a matter of seconds if I allowed my publisher to include a picture on my author page. It’s been a bit of a source of conflict between us, actually. Binky, my lovely but slightly scary editor, has sent me several emails explaining the importance of readers being able to put a face to the name and making a connection with the author, but for now I’m standing firm. I’m scared of Binky but I’m terrified of Scarlet.

‘Anyway,’ I continue. ‘I haven’t had to go anywhere or do anything yet so there hasn’t been anything to explain.’

‘But surely you’re going to have to start promoting the book soon?’ Cassie looks confused. ‘They’re going to want you to help publicise it, to increase sales.’

‘I don’t think it works like that when you’re at my level,’ I tell her, glancing at the clock. ‘I don’t think they’re expecting me to hit the bestseller lists anytime soon! Which is a bit of a problem because I only got a tiny advance and most of it went on the car breaking down on our way home from our holiday. I’m more broke than I’ve ever been and I’m pretty sure that my writing isn’t going to help pay for Dylan’s university costs. Nick’s applying for a new forestry contract at the moment and if he gets it then that’ll help boost his existing income quite a lot – but there’s no guarantee. The tree surgeon world is fierce.’

‘That’s the whole point of you doing some publicity though,’ Cassie says tells me. ‘I think you need to dream big, Hannah. See where this new journey might take you.’

I stand and look at the cover of the book again.

My book.

It would be wonderful to be able to focus on developing my craft (I read that phrase in a book that Nick bought me over the summer called How to Write a Bestselling Novel) but that kind of thing doesn’t happen to just anyone. Cassie really doesn’t understand how it works.

‘Why do you think I’m back here, facing yet another term of teaching English to the delightful Year Nine, Class C?’ I ask her. ‘I wouldn’t be doing that if I was about to hit the big time.’

‘They’re Year Ten, Class C, now,’ Cassie helpfully reminds me. ‘Not that they’re going to be any more mature just because they’ve gone up a year group.’

‘Well, I’ve got three days a week of dealing with them, which right now feels like an eternity.’ I hand her back her copy of More Than Sex. ‘Put this away and for god’s sake don’t bring it into school again. Can you imagine if Brandon Hopkins got his sweaty little hands on it?’

‘I’m still going to get a signature from you,’ Cassie promises, shoving it into her bag. ‘Then I’m going to keep it in a completely pristine condition so that I can flog it on eBay as a first edition when you’re rich and famous.’

She pulls herself to her feet and we walk together towards the staffroom door.

‘So, did you meet any eligible bachelors over the summer?’ I ask as I reach for the handle.

There’s a pause and when I turn back to look at my best friend, her face is uncharacteristically flushed.

‘Maybe,’ she murmurs.

‘Cassie!’ I push the door closed again with my foot. ‘I can’t believe that you haven’t told me this already! I knew there must be a good reason for why you couldn’t meet up with me last week. Who is he? Do I know him? Is it serious?’

I know I’m being nosy but the glow on her cheeks is reliably informing me that my best friend has been finding more than just herself this summer and if I have to live vicariously through her sexual exploits, then so be it.

‘It’s too early to talk about it,’ she says, looking everywhere but at me. ‘We’re still figuring things out.’

‘Oh my god.’ I take a step forward and peer at her face. ‘You like him. As in, you actually like him like him. It’s a goddamned Christmas miracle!’

‘It’s September, Hannah.’ Cassie pushes past me and pulls open the door. ‘Not even you can start talking about Christmas yet.’

‘Don’t change the subject,’ I follow her out into the corridor, ignoring the sight of three Year Eleven girls giggling loudly and disappearing into the toilets. ‘I can’t wait to meet him!’

‘Well, I wouldn’t hold your breath,’ Cassie says, heading off towards the Science department. ‘You might pass out.’

I watch her go, trying to decide if she’s walking with an extra jaunty spring in her step, and then I turn and make my way to the stairs and up to my classroom, where in twenty minutes I will have the deepest joy of explaining to Year Ten, Class C that GCSEs are about to dominate their every waking moment for the next two years and that they are going to be required to do a tiny bit of work.

Chapter Four

The building is absolutely massive. And shiny. It is not what I was expecting in the slightest and my legs start to tremble slightly as I look up at the fifty-gazillion windows that stare out across the River Thames. I’m not ready for this and I don’t know what I was thinking. People like me don’t belong in places like this. This is for the sparkly, beautiful people who have the world at their feet – not the middle-aged mothers who had to get up at an ungodly hour so that they could attempt to put some make-up on and sort out their uncooperative hair and organise the packed lunches and do last night’s washing up and then change their outfit four times, the first three because of a crisis of confidence and the last time because of fear-sweat.

But if I want even the slightest chance of continuing with my writing career then I need to pull myself together and get a grip because my editor wants to see me to discuss my second book and I can’t just run away. Tottering slightly on my fabulous but impractical author shoes, I push open the huge door and walk inside. I am woman and I will not allow my fears about ‘belonging’ to stop me from pursuing my own dreams and desires.

Besides, I’m here now so I might as well go in, fraudster or not.

The reception area is even more intimidating than the exterior. Security guards lurk menacingly, eyeing everyone with suspicion, and I immediately feel guilty and want to avoid eye contact with them. But that makes a person look even more suspicious, so I do what I always do when I feel guilty by suggestion and overcompensate.

‘Good morning!’ I trill, making firm eye contact with one of the guards. ‘Isn’t it a beautiful day? A little chilly, perhaps – but then it is autumn, after all! And winter will be upon us before we know it!’

He narrows his eyes until I can barely see his pupils. ‘Move along to the desk, please, Madam.’

This is the problem with London. Nobody wants to have a conversation. It was the same on the train. The man sitting opposite me actually moved seats after I tried to engage him in some casual chitchat.

It’s me.

I know it is.

I talk when I’m nervous. I’ve always been that way.

An incredibly well-groomed woman is typing efficiently on her keyboard as I approach the desk. She doesn’t look up and so I stand quietly for a full one point three seconds and then launch into my friendliest banter.

‘Gosh! You’re fast at typing, aren’t you? I wish I were that quick. It takes me forever to write one page which isn’t very good when you consider that I’m trying to make a living out of it!’

She mutters something into her headset and I stop talking. Eventually, after what feels like forever but my watch assures me is less than thirty seconds, she looks up and gives me a tight smile.

‘Name?’

‘Hannah Thompson,’ I say, beaming widely. ‘My name is Hannah Thompson.’

‘Here to see?’

‘Binky,’ I tell her. ‘She’s expecting me.’

The receptionist peers over her glasses. ‘And does Binky have a surname?’

I laugh nervously. ‘I’m sure she does but I can’t remember it right now.’

She looks me dead in the eye and I swear, for a brief moment, my heart stops beating.

‘That’s going to be a problem, Madam. We have over three thousand people working in this building and I’m going to need a little more to go on.’

I laugh. ‘But surely you must know whom I mean? You can’t possibly have more than one person called Binky working here?’

She tuts. ‘I know of at least three Binkys on the fourth floor alone.’

This is ridiculous. I have not come all this way and psyched myself up for nothing. I lean casually onto the desk and give my brightest teacher-smile.

‘Well, can you just look for my name then? Maybe that will shed some light on which of the Binkys I’m supposed to be meeting.’

‘Your name isn’t in the system,’ she intones. ‘I’ve got a Twinky Malone meeting Binky Sanderson at eleven-thirty but nothing for a Hannah Thompson.’

‘That’s me!’ I shout. ‘I’m Twinky Malone. And I’ve remembered now – it is Binky Sanderson who I’m meeting!’

‘How convenient,’ mutters the receptionist.

‘Not really,’ I tell her. ‘It would have been much more convenient if I’d remembered her full name when you first asked me, then we could have avoided all this hassle.’

She stretches her hand out across the desk and my tension fades. Maybe I was wrong about London. Maybe people do want to communicate and engage with others. Perhaps they’re all just waiting for someone like me to jolt them out of their hard shells, through the power of friendliness and chitter-chatter. Maybe I should start a business, travelling around the capital city dispensing joi de vivre wherever I go.

I reach out and grasp her hand.

‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ I gush.

‘Identification,’ she barks, yanking her hand out of mine. ‘I was asking for your ID. To prove that you’re Twinky Malone.’

Oh. My bad.

‘I don’t have any,’ I confess, my heart sinking. ‘It’s my pseudonym and so I don’t have any official paperwork with it on. Is that a problem? What do other authors do? Should I find someone to issue me with some fake ID? Do you know anyone who can help?’

The receptionist sighs deeply and taps something onto the screen.

‘I’ve sent an alert to Binky Sanderson and she’s on her way down. I can’t give you a visitor pass until she vouches for you and you can’t get through the security gate without a pass.’ She points behind me to a row of occupied chairs. ‘Take a seat and she’ll be here shortly.’

I nod gratefully and head across the polished floor to a free seat where I sink down gratefully, glad to have a moment to prepare myself. This place is insane, from the over-the-top flower displays to the works of art on the walls. I can’t quite believe that I’m here. I gaze around, soaking it all in, desperate not to miss a single thing.

There’s a sudden surge of activity, with people entering the building and rushing up the stairs on the other side of the security gate. I crane past them to admire the view of the autumn sun sparkling off the river.

‘Did you see her!’ hisses the young woman sitting next to me and I whip my head round to look at her. ‘Oh. My. God.’

‘Who?’ I ask. ‘Who was it?’

‘I can’t believe you didn’t see her!’ she howl-whispers, her eyes staring wildly at the people who are just moving out of sight at the top of the stairs. ‘She was standing right in front of you. You couldn’t miss her!’

‘Who was it?’ I repeat, feeling cross with myself. Scarlet is very interested in anything celebrity-related and I could have won myself some real brownie points if I’d gone home with some kind of a story to tell. Although the reality is that it doesn’t matter who I might see today because I’m not actually here. The kids think I’m out on a course for school and while I don’t enjoy lying to them, it’s far better than the alternative option of telling them the truth.

‘Your one off the telly!’ the young woman huffs, rolling her eyes at me. ‘You know? The blonde one? Does a load of stuff with the brunette one. She’s funny.’

I shake my head sadly. ‘Sorry. I don’t know who you mean.’

‘Well, you should pay more attention in a place like this,’ she says. ‘Who are you, anyway? What are you doing here?’

She tilts her head to one side and appraises me, trying to decide if I’m a person of interest.

‘Oh, I’m not anybody,’ I rush to assure her. ‘My name is Ha—’

And then I stop.

Because I am sitting here in a swanky publishing house and I am here for a reason. And there is a very tiny part of me screaming incredibly loudly that it might be quite nice to own my success instead of constantly being focused on hiding it away like it’s something shameful.

There is also a very large part of me whispering quietly that I shouldn’t do something I might later regret.

I tell that part of me that it can do one and turn to face the celebrity-spotting woman.

‘I’m an author,’ I announce, sitting up straighter. ‘You might have heard of me. My name is Twinky Malone.’

‘What do you write?’ she asks, sounding bored. My proclamation has clearly not excited her. ‘Is it like, cookery books or something?’

‘There you are!’

I turn and see Binky coming towards me. I know her from her online profile picture and she must recognise me from the photo that I sent with the strictest instructions that it was not to be used for any publicity. I stand and fix a professional yet pleasant look to my face. First impressions count and I want my editor to think that I’m utterly in control of everything.

‘It’s so great to finally meet you,’ she says, shaking my hand with a warmth that was definitely lacking in the receptionist. ‘We’re all so excited that you’re coming into the office today! Let’s get your pass sorted and then we can head upstairs and introduce you to everyone.’

She turns towards the desk and I start to follow her before pausing and spinning back to the young woman.

‘It’s not cookery books that I write,’ I call. ‘It’s erotic fiction. The very incredibly sexy kind.’

Her jaw drops open and I give her a grin before heading to the desk where the receptionist reluctantly hands me a visitor pass and grants me access to the halls beyond the security gate.

In the lift, Binky talks enthusiastically about More Than Sex and by the time we arrive at the sixth floor I feel as if I’ve known her forever.

‘Readers are loving the mash-up of erotica and comedy,’ she tells me as we leave the lift and walk into the office space. ‘I really think you can build on that with Book Two.’

‘Absolutely,’ I agree, trying not to gasp at the sight of London spread out beneath me. ‘I can absolutely do that. Funny fornication is my bread and butter.’

I’ve been struggling just the tiniest bit with the fact that everyone seems to think my first book is amusing as well as sexy. That wasn’t my intention in the slightest when I wrote it – as far as I was concerned I had written something that was highly risqué and also packed with informative facts. I’m trying to come to terms with my new role as comedic sex-woman but it isn’t easy. It’s as if now that I know I’m supposed to be funny, I can’t think of a single joke. I have no idea how stand-up comics perform to order, night after night.

Binky laughs. ‘You’re hilarious,’ she tells me. ‘Now, can I get you a drink?’

I accept a cup of tea and follow her into a small meeting room. I wasn’t trying to be humorous (obviously) but as I’m rapidly discovering, sometimes it’s better just to go with the flow.

Once I’m settled on a sofa, another woman enters the room and gives me a welcoming smile.

‘This is Alice!’ enthuses Binky. ‘She’s our publicity manager and she’s another big fan of your book!’

‘Twinky! It’s great to meet you at last,’ says Alice, walking over and shaking my hand. ‘I’ve been telling Binky for ages that we need to get you in and start working on a publicity campaign but I gather that you’ve had some reservations?’

I nod and take a sip of my tea.

‘It’s just that, being a mum as well as a writer, I have to consider the wellbeing of my children, you know?’

They both nod understandingly.

‘I’m sure you’re run off your feet,’ says Alice, sitting down next to me. ‘Three kids and writing, not to mention your day job! But you’re here now and we’ve got some great plans.’

‘Oh, it’s not so much the time issue,’ I tell her. ‘Although obviously, a few extra hours in the day would be wonderful!’

They laugh dutifully. I join in, even though I’m lying. A few extra hours in the day sounds like a terrible idea. You can guarantee that if the government suddenly decided that the day had to last twenty-seven hours (and I wouldn’t put it past this lot) then I would not be spending that extra time relaxing or sleeping or doing anything remotely enjoyable. I, along with a large percentage of the population, would just end up with even more jobs to do. A few extra hours in the day would just extend the misery before I actually get to sink into a wine-fuelled bliss.