He liked that. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.
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
