Dirty Minds

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.

Chapter Three

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.’

Chapter Four

‘Ariadne, oh Ariadne darling.’

Jimmy was affecting a high-pitched, nasal whine. His voice echoed up the stairs.

Clinton stirred. Out of habit, he looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was almost lunchtime.

‘Thank God it’s Saturday.’

‘Who’s Ariadne?’ The girl’s voice was sleepy.

‘That would be me.’

He climbed out of bed and opened the curtains. A gusty wind whipped the rain diagonally across the glass. He could barely make out the shape of the houses across the road: A good day for going back to bed again. He turned away and surveyed the chaos in the room. Her clothes were strewn across the floor, as were his. Her red bra was draped across the reading light. The Chablis they had spilt on the desktop was congealing, the shape of her buttocks still discernible in the sticky mess. He licked his lips. Among all the other tastes, there was definitely Chablis.

He opened the door, and wandered out onto the landing.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, put some clothes on, Clint.’ Jimmy had brought the post upstairs.

‘That’s Ariadne, to you, James.’ He did his best to imitate Jimmy’s high-class accent. Jimmy did it better, but then he always had had a way with words. ‘Leave the letter there, my man. One is going for a piss.’

When he emerged from the bathroom, he picked up the large A4 envelope, addressed to Ms Ariadne Anstruther. He took it back into the room. Dolores had gone back to sleep, so he didn’t disturb her. He dug out a clean sweatshirt and jeans and sat on the edge of the bed, as he pulled on socks and shoes.

Inside the envelope was a letter addressed to Ms Anstruther. He checked the signature. He had been right in his assumption that it was a man. Feeling hungry, he wandered downstairs to the kitchen. Jimmy was sprawled in the lounge, watching football.

‘Coffee?’

Jimmy raised a thumb.

Clinton went into the kitchen. As the coffee machine wheezed into life, he read through the letter. When the green light came on, he made two big cappuccino coffees. He went back into the lounge.

‘Here.’ He pushed the cup into Jimmy’s hand. ‘And take a look at this. We have a result!’

‘One thanks one, Ariadne dearest. Pray tell me, is this coffee the finest arabica, or is one slumming it with Brazilian?’

‘Just read the fucking letter, Jimbo.’

Jimmy read it through. From time to time, he looked across at his friend. Finally he laid it down.

‘Historical, that’s awesome. What the hell do you know about historical sex?’

‘I know sex, Jimmy. The historical is just a matter of digging around a bit on the internet. All we’ve got to do is choose a century. You know anything about history?’

‘I know it’s light years since I got lucky.’

‘I’m serious. I need a time and a place.’

‘I’m serious too. What I need is a woman. And you also need what he calls an “encounter”.’

‘That’s the easy part. I won’t just write it, I’ll perform it.’ His thoughts flitted briefly back the girl upstairs. ‘If I haven’t already done it.’

Jimmy had a stroke of genius. ‘How about cavemen? If we go with cavemen, there’s no dates to get wrong, or other stuff. Imagine if we made it, say, only a couple of hundred years ago. Have you any idea what was going on then, who the king was, or stuff like clothes? Hell, the ladies’ underwear was probably whalebone corsets.’

‘And chastity belts.’ Clinton really didn’t know much about history. ‘Cavemen is good. I like cavemen. I always thought Barney Rubble’s wife was hot.’

‘Wilma?’

‘No, the other one, I’ve forgotten her name. Wilma was Fred Flintstone’s wife. But cavemen is good. Now what about where?’

‘Does it matter? If we are going back a few million years, anywhere will do.’

‘How many million years are we going back?’

‘Ten, maybe?’ Jimmy was a good accountant, but he didn’t know much about history either.

‘Fine, we’ll make it ten million years ago. As for the place, we’ll need caves. You any idea where there are caves?’

‘Underground.’

‘Yeah, right,’

‘I think this is where we turn to our faithful laptop. We’ll find some caves somewhere easy enough. Cheddar Gorge, maybe? That sounds like the kind of place we want.’

‘Now then, all I’ve got to do is to decide what sort of sex to give him.’ Clinton was going to enjoy this part of it.

‘Caveman sex. Hit them over the head with a club and drag them into the cave. But he’s probably looking for a bit more than that. All this talk about Fifty Shades of Grey, he probably wants it a bit weird.’

‘You don’t get much weirder than hitting a chick over the head and dragging her into a cave.’

‘Yes, nowadays. But way back then, they were all doing it. Ten million years ago, stockings and suspenders would have been really kinky.’

‘Jimmy, my boy, stockings and suspenders are dead kinky nowadays, too.’

Chapter Five

‘Fancy a walk?’

The dog’s response to the question was animated. He rushed over to the chair in the corner and fetched his lead. Tom pulled on his heavy jacket and a woolly hat. Outside it was blowing hard, although the rain had stopped. If anything, it was colder than before. It looked like February was going to be bad all the way through to the end. He clipped on the lead and let himself be tugged down the road. By the time they reached the footpath, the rain had started again. He pulled up his collar with grim resignation.

‘Well, we’re here now.’

He released Noah to run in the field, while he reviewed his plans for the new book. Clearly, if they were to convince a publisher to take them on they would need to come up with more than just sex. He needed a compelling storyline, and one that would appeal to women. But what did women want to read? He had hardly so much as spoken to one for two years now. And Cynthia didn’t count. What would Diane have said? He was feeling more and more out of his depth.

Apart from wading through that damn book, as he found himself calling it he had continued his investigation of erotic literature. There turned out to be hundreds of websites specialising in stories of a sexual nature. Many of the collections were so big that readers were offered the chance to select whatever specific genre they preferred. Underneath the title and brief synopsis of each story, there would be symbols or words, specifying the contents.

He soon worked out that MM, FFM, FFF referred to the gender of the participants. Some of the descriptors were self-evident, such as Lesbian, Gay or Group. Some were not so clear. For example, BDSM pretty obviously referred to Bondage and Sadomasochism, but Spanking was a category to itself. Hard-core existed as a distinct category, but for the life of him he couldn’t see any difference between it and BDSM. Most unexpected of all, there often appeared to be no classification for traditional sex involving one man and one woman.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the lady from the house by the river and her spaniel. This time, Tom saw them coming and was able to shield himself from the dog’s effusive greeting.

‘Oh, hi.’ If only he could remember her name. ‘Surprise, surprise, it’s raining again.’

‘Hi, Tom. Sophie, leave Tom alone. She’s really taken a shine to you, hasn’t she? Down, Sophie.’

Noah returned, now dripping wet. His arrival had the advantage of interrupting the spaniel’s attempts to emasculate Tom. The two dogs embarked upon a steeplechase, while the rain began to fall in earnest. By now they were at the other end of the field, approaching the river. Seeing home at hand, the spaniel abandoned Noah.

‘Look, Tom, it’s absolutely pouring. Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea while it passes over?’ She already had the garden gate open. The rain was quite torrential. He did not hesitate.

‘That’s really very kind. I think shelter would be wise.’

The house was more of a cottage, with thatched roof, small windows and a low doorway. She ushered him into a scullery that smelt of wet dog. The spaniel allowed itself to be towelled dry. He hung his coat on the back of the door and stepped out of his boots, while Noah, true to his name, settled himself in a puddle on the floor.

‘Come in, come in. The dogs will be fine there.’ She led him through into the kitchen. The noise of the rain beating against the window and onto a tin roof somewhere outside was deafening. She filled the kettle, indicating to him to sit down at the table. It was a cosy room, the low ceiling punctuated by huge beams. A Welsh dresser filled most of one wall, while modern kitchen units ran the length of the other.

‘What a day. You’d be soaked through if you were still out there.’

He turned back towards her. She had removed the jacket and the hat. She was bending away from him, pulling off her woolly socks. Whether it was the result of his recent reading or just a conditioned male reaction, his attention was immediately taken by the perfect proportions of her bottom. She straightened up and turned towards him, a friendly smile on her face. Seeing her for the first time without her heavy outer clothing, he realised that she was truly gorgeous.

‘Good lord.’ He was unable to stop himself.

An expression of concern crossed her face. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No, no, no. Nothing at all. I just got a surprise when I saw your face, that’s all.’

‘Not an unpleasant surprise, I hope.’ The smile was back.

‘Not at all. I just hadn’t realised you were–’ he tried to think of an adjective less emotive than gorgeous ‘– so attractive.’ He saw her register the compliment, and rushed to temper it. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say things like that. It’s just that in all these months of passing you in the fields, I wasn’t expecting you to be so –’ He was in trouble again.

She took pity on him. ‘You scrub up pretty well yourself. Anyway, thank you for the compliment. A girl likes to hear that she’s still got it.’ The kettle boiled and clicked off. She busied herself with making the tea. A bowl of sugar appeared on the table, but he declined with a shake of the head. A packet of chocolate Hobnobs appeared from the fridge. He gave her a smile.

‘That must be fate. We share the same taste in biscuits. Thank you.’ He took the mug of tea and warmed his hands gratefully around it. She sat down opposite him and proffered the packet of biscuits.

‘Want one?’

‘Very definitely.’ He took one, relieved to see that his hands were not shaking. He had not been in close proximity to a beautiful woman for quite a while now. He cleared his throat. ‘Can I make a confession?’

‘Forgive me father, for I have sinned.’ She was still smiling. ‘Go on, get it off your chest.’

‘I’m really sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.’

‘It’s Ros. And don’t let it bother you. I remember yours, because I’ve got a brother called Tom. Of course, I’ve known Noah’s name for ages. So what do you do, Tom, if I may ask?’

He allowed his eyes to rest on her as he formulated an answer. She could have come straight out of the pages of Vogue. She was tall and slim. Her hair was a sort of browny-reddish colour, her face speckled with occasional freckles. He made a mental note to check the proper names for women’s hair colouring. Was that auburn, maybe?

‘Is your hair auburn?’

She blinked, reflected, then answered. ‘Sounds good to me. It’s been all colours over the years, and it’s been called a few different names. This is natural me again. I like auburn. We’ll go with that. Now, weren’t you going to tell me what you do for a living?’

‘I write.’ He saw her glance up, and he hastened to clarify. ‘At least, that’s what I spend a lot of my time doing. My normal job is at Exeter University. I teach English, but I’ve taken a year off.’

‘Is that so? Well, we would seem to have more in common than chocolate Hobnobs. I do a bit of writing myself. What are you writing at present?’

He suddenly felt very embarrassed. He took refuge in a version of the truth.

‘Historical novels, mainly. I’ve just finished a trilogy set in the Middle Ages.’

‘Wow. Have you done lots of research? Are you doing research at the moment?’

The embarrassment returned.

‘I had to do lots for the medieval stuff. I came to history relatively late on. I’ve spent most of my spare time over the past ten years reading anything I could get hold of about the twelfth to fourteenth centuries.’

‘Twelfth to fourteenth. That would be before the Tudors and the Stuarts, wouldn’t it? That’s about all the history I did at school.’ She sounded interested.

‘A fair bit before. Henry VII was the first of the Tudor line. If I remember right, he came to power in the 1480s, after the Battle of Bosworth Field. No, my period covers the Crusades, the Cathars, Knights Templar. I suppose we’re talking about a couple of hundred years earlier. To be honest, most of my research has been on French history. I’m not that well up on England.’

‘Who were the Cathars, again?’ She screwed up her face and tilted her head to one side, as she struggled to remember. Even with her face screwed up, she still looked amazing.

‘Southern France in the 1200s. They were wiped out by the Catholic Church. Their beliefs were branded as heretical.’

‘“Branded as heretical?” Why do you say that? Weren’t they heretics?’

‘They called themselves “Good Christians”. Their views were unorthodox, but not deserving of genocide. They believed in the duality of God –’ He stopped himself in time. ‘I’m sorry, unless you are very careful you’ll still be here tomorrow morning, with me droning on. So what about you? What sort of writing do you do? Wait a minute, let me guess. You’re a fashion journalist. Am I right?’

To his surprise, she nodded. ‘That’s what pays the bills, and lets Sophie and me live down here in the country six days a week.’

He noted that she only mentioned herself and the dog.

‘For fun, I write whodunits. At least I’ve finished one, and I’m thinking about the next. But tell me, how do I get hold of these books of yours?’

‘Not on the shelves, I’m afraid. I’ve been beating my head against a wall for years, trying to get somebody in the trade to read one of them. Every time I send off a synopsis I get the same reply: “I’m afraid” – ’

‘“Your work is not suitable for our list.”‘ Clearly this was something else they had in common. ‘“But this does not mean to say that another publisher or agent or whatever won’t find your work appealing etc. etc.” Signed by a girl called Fenella or Lysistrata. Tell me about it. I’ve been there too.’