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.