erotica we’re purveying. This will not be a dirty book. The trick is to produce something erotic and arousing, but still tasteful. We have to ensure that we are graphic enough to titillate, but not vile enough to disgust.’
Easier said than done.
Chapter Two
He wasn’t sure what to expect. Maybe nothing, maybe a sack full of replies. As it turned out, he got nine.
Two were instant rejections.
‘“Seperate”? Now really!’ He was snorting out loud. He found himself doing that more and more these days. In the same paragraph he found another spelling mistake and several inappropriate semi-colons. The snorting grew louder. Seeing no point in progressing beyond the first paragraph, he discarded the letter. He tried the next one.
‘Oh dear lord!’ This time the Labrador opened an eye in mild surprise. Pleased at this sign of participation, he addressed his comments to the dog, something else he found himself doing more and more often of late. ‘Since when have plurals required apostrophes? Even you know that, Noah. Lynn Truss wouldn’t approve.’ This followed the same fate as the other letter.
The remaining letters looked more promising. He took them down to the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea. As he took the milk out of the fridge, his eye fell on the chocolate Hobnobs. He put the packet on the table. The dog, roused by the sound of the fridge door, materialised at his feet, Big mournful eyes focused on the biscuits. He picked up the next letter.
‘“Dear Sir/Madam”’ Only then did it occur to him he should have revealed his gender in the advert. To him it had seemed obvious. He was a man and, as such, he could only write from a male perspective. All right, he told himself, there’s such a thing as imagination. But if he were to write a work capable of catapulting him up the cresting wave of Fifty Shades of Grey, he was going to need both points of view. It was so obvious he had omitted to mention it.
The writer of this letter sounded bright, sane and interested in the project. Her literary credits were little better than his, but her CV did at least indicate a good education. She included no personal details about herself. He applauded that. Her address was in North London and she included an e-mail address. At the bottom of the page, above her signature, she had scribbled the words, ‘I think this could be fun’. She signed the letter Janet Parr. Insofar as an e-mail address confirms anything, hers confirmed her name.
He tucked the letter under the biscuits, mentally including it in the ‘Possibles’ pile. Before he could pick up the next letter, he heard a jingling noise. The dog had fetched his lead from the chair and was indicating that it was time for a walk.
‘All right, Noah. A bit of fresh air will do us both good.’
Although the rain had stopped for the moment, the grey clouds looked foreboding and the field was saturated. Mud built up under the soles of his Wellingtons as he splashed along the path. He had to keep stopping to scrape it off. Undeterred, the Labrador headed straight for the river and plunged in. Tom located a suitable stick and threw it for him. The game consisted of his attempting to pick up the stick, retrieved by the dog, without getting soaked as the dog shook himself. As usual, Noah won.
While he walked along the riverbank, gradually getting wetter and wetter, his mind was free to wander. This new project looked like being a breath of fresh air. And Cynthia was right. He knew he needed something to take him out of himself, away from his misery. Whether a smutty book was the answer to his problems remained to be seen.
He came to the fallen tree where they had both sat so often, watching Noah playing puppy games. He closed his eyes and saw her face again, still so clear in his memory. Not the pain-wracked gauntness of her final weeks, but her young, fresh face from the early days. His head dropped. The dark thoughts returned to fill his head once more. The dog, recognising the symptoms, realised the game was over. He came across and nuzzled Tom’s hand.
‘Thanks, Noah. You’re a pal.’
Pleased to be acknowledged, the dog shook himself again, this time at very short range. The freezing shower roused Tom and set him off again along the path.
He breathed deep and forced his mind back onto happier things. The choice of a historical period wasn’t going to be easy. As for a place, well, here in Devon was as good as any. And he knew it so very well. But the subject matter wasn’t going to be straightforward. His experience of smut was very limited.
His musings were interrupted by the arrival of a very bouncy Springer spaniel. It appeared from behind, almost taking his legs out from under him as it squeezed past on the narrow path. Wheeling round, it leapt up to greet him, catching him painfully in the lower abdomen. As he folded forwards, clutching himself, he heard a familiar voice.
‘I’m so sorry, Tom. She’s very excited today, for some reason.’ It was the lady from the house by the river. He knew the dog was called Sophie. He had been told her owner’s name but had forgotten it. She was wearing her usual shapeless waterproof jacket and a woolly hat obscured most of her head.
‘Oh, hello. Sophie took me by surprise, I’m afraid. I was miles away.’ He removed his hands from his groin and managed to stand almost upright again. ‘Here comes the rain.’ In true British tradition, it seemed sensible to turn the conversation from his bruised genitals to the weather.
‘Sophie, bad girl. Stay down. Just push her away, Tom, if she tries that again. Yes, it’s looking really grey up there now. Might be wise to head for home. You all right? You look a bit glum.’
‘All right? Yes, fine thanks. Just lost in my thoughts, I’m afraid.’
‘Cheer up. It may never happen.’ She turned away with a wave.
He kept his voice low, so she wouldn’t hear. ‘It already has.’
The other respondents to the advert all had their merits. One had clearly decided that he was a woman, the others hedged their bets. One already had a published book to her credit. Closer inspection of the title, and a quick check on the laptop, revealed it to be self-published. This was not necessarily a bad thing. At least it showed she had the will and the stamina to write 100,000 words. Over his years of fruitless attempts to find a publisher, he had also come perilously close to going it alone. Only a lingering sense of pride had stopped him. He now knew that pride is a luxury aspiring writers can ill-afford.
The Case of the Velvet Ball Gown did not immediately leap out and grab him. From the bookseller’s blurb it sounded like a fairly ordinary murder mystery. And at £13.99 in hardback he couldn’t imagine she had sold thousands. Her signature, CV and e-mail address matched. The name was Rosalind Waters, and her address was in Hammersmith, London.
Deciding on the other four did not take long. The one who assumed he was a woman sounded a bit vague. She had not bothered to enclose a CV, although she mentioned a degree in French. All she provided was her name, Penelope Grainger, and an address in Nottingham. She listed no writing credits. He decided not to allow this to colour his judgement. He had, after all, nothing but a short story and a couple of textbooks to his credit. On the other hand, she wrote clearly and correctly. No split infinitives, misplaced punctuation, or prepositions floating at the end of a sentence. 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
