‘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.