Faking It
Rebecca Smith

One More Chapter

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Rebecca Smith 2020

Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Rebecca Smith asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008370190

Ebook Edition © August 2020 ISBN: 9780008370183

Version: 2020-07-17

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Acknowledgments

Thank you for reading…

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About the Author

Also by Rebecca Smith

One more chapter...

About the Publisher

This book is dedicated to everyone who is brave enough to confess that they don’t have a clue about what they are doing – and carries on regardless…

Prologue

‘Would it be possible for you to move a little to the left?’ I enquire politely.

I don’t wish to be rude but I’ve been stuck in this position for a good five minutes now and my right leg is going to sleep. I didn’t say anything initially because I wasn’t sure how long we’d be here but the evidence would suggest that I could be in for the long-haul and I’m starting to lose sensation in my toes. All hopes of this being a quickie are totally out of the window.

Nick shifts slightly to the side and continues banging away. I try to stay focused because I am very aware that this is a two-person task and I don’t want to be accused of lying flat on my back and expecting Nick to put in all the effort. It’s happened before. But, as often happens when I’m in this position, my mind can’t help wandering and before I know it, I’m compiling a mental shopping list for tomorrow’s trip to the supermarket and wondering whether I locked the back door because there’s been a spate of burglaries in this area and you can’t be too careful.

Nick grunts loudly and I wince.

‘Be quiet,’ I hiss. ‘You’ll wake up the bloody kids.’

I don’t know why I’m bothering. His relentless hammering can probably be heard halfway down the street.

Nick looks down at me. ‘Well, if you were more involved then it might be a bit less effort and I might be a little quieter and I’d almost definitely be finished a whole lot quicker.’

‘I am involved,’ I snap back. ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

I’m not really. I’m bored and I’m chilly and I just want to go to sleep but apparently this has to happen now, despite the fact that we already did it a few hours ago.

I can remember a time before all of this. A time when evenings were our sanctuary: a place where we could play and explore and voice our wildest thoughts with abandon, not stifle every sound for fear of disturbing our offspring. That was before we had kids though, when the world was big and exciting and filled with potential. Not exhausting and predictable and filled with necessary marital duties.

‘Yes!’ Nick punches the air in triumph and I roll my eyes. It’s like he thinks he’s the first man to ever do this and, as I have often assured him, he really isn’t. Nor will he be the last. But it doesn’t seem to matter what I say – his pleasure and self-satisfaction knows no bounds, and if I’m honest, his enthusiasm is quite sweet.

‘Well done,’ I tell him, scooting out from underneath him. ‘It’s still dripping though. Is that normal?’

Nick bends down and takes a closer look. ‘I think it’ll stop in a minute,’ he says. ‘It should be fine.’

I grit my teeth and try not to sigh. ‘You said that last time,’ I remind him. ‘And yet we had a full-blown flood two hours later. I’m tired, Nick. I’m too old to spend my nights doing stuff like this.’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t love it either, Hannah, but it has to be done.’

I pull myself to my feet and put down the torch. We both stare at the newly fixed bathroom pipe and the tap that is attached to it. Its random leaking makes me think that it could somehow be a metaphor for our lives but I’m too exhausted to figure out exactly how.

‘How tired are you?’ asks Nick, reaching out for my hand. ‘Only, the kids don’t seem to have woken up and the night is still young!’

I glance at my watch. The night is as young as I am, which is not very. Then again, this is the first evening in ages that our teenagers have been asleep before we are which does afford us a rare opportunity. And I’ve already spent some time on my back tonight.

I’m not completely averse to doing it again.

Chapter One

The shoes are utterly ridiculous. Seriously. I can’t think of a single occasion when I might actually wear them and I definitely don’t own any items of clothing that will go with them. They are impractical and unnecessary and I could pay for two driving lessons for Scarlet for the same cost.

I really, really want them.

‘Are you sure that they fit?’ enquires Nick as I attempt to stuff my foot inside the first shoe. ‘You look like you’re struggling a bit there, Hannah.’

‘I always wear size six,’ I complain, scowling at my unhelpful feet. ‘I just don’t understand it.’

‘Well, why don’t you ask for the next size up?’ Nick glances at his phone. ‘Surely that’s the logical solution?’

‘I already did,’ I mutter. ‘They don’t have them. But it’s not a problem because these are fine.’

I take a deep breath and push my feet inside.

‘There! They fit perfectly!’ I stand and smile triumphantly at Nick. ‘Let’s buy them and then we can pop to the pub on the way home and have a cheeky drink to celebrate being out on a school day.’

This shopping trip is the first proper time we’ve had together in ages and I want to milk every last moment before we have to return to normality.

Nick frowns at me. ‘I don’t think—’

‘I love them!’ I interrupt, thrusting one foot out in front of me. ‘Look how long they make my legs look. They’re everything a person could possibly ask for in a shoe and I’ll be happy for the rest of eternity when I own them.’

‘Everything a person could ask for other than them actually fitting you,’ retorts Nick. ‘Which I would have thought was a pre-requisite in any item of footwear.’

‘They fit me just fine,’ I snap back. ‘I am a grown-ass woman and I am clever enough to know whether a pair of shoes fit me or not.’

Nick raises his eyebrows. ‘Come on, Hannah, why can’t you just admit it? The shoes don’t fit but that’s not a problem – there are plenty of others to choose from.’

But the others are not like these beautiful creatures, I wail in my head. I don’t want other, less exotic, more comfortable shoes. I want these shoes. I deserve these shoes. I have waited an eternity for shoes covered in sequins with a glitter heel and I am not leaving this shop without them. They are going to make my life better, I just know it.

I gaze at my husband, bestowing him with my most gracious and beatific smile, which feels surprisingly natural now that I’ve got these shoes on. I actually feel a bit like a princess. I really think that purchasing them will revolutionise my life; there’s nothing that I won’t be able to do when I’m wearing footwear as striking as this.

‘They’re perfect,’ I tell him. ‘They’re exactly what I need.’

I sit back down and slip them off (ignoring the slight sense of relief that they are no longer viciously pinching at my toes) before handing them to the sales assistant.

Nick shakes his head at me as she starts boxing them up, but I can see a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

‘You’re sure they fit?’ he asks. ‘We’re supposed to be buying you a pair of celebratory book-publishing shoes, not a piece of medieval torture equipment.’

I finish lacing up my trainers and reach out to take his hand.

‘I love them,’ I tell him, keeping my voice quiet so that nobody will overhear us, while also cleverly evading his question. ‘And every time I look at them I’m going to remember what they represent, which is me being an authentic, genuine author.’

‘They are very nice,’ Nick agrees kindly. ‘And you’re going to look stunning in them.’

The sales assistant hands me a boutiquey-looking paper bag and Nick hands over his credit card. And then we leave the shop, the bag swinging back and forth in my hand. This is who I am now. I am a woman who wears impracticable high heels and who shops in dinky little bespoke stores and goes into town with her husband after work just because she feels like it. I am confident and secure and, for the first time in ages, at peace with who I am. I am a wife, a mother, a teacher and a (secretly) published author of an erotic novel.

Life is sweet.

‘Oh my bloody god!’ Scarlet’s shriek slaps me in the face the second that we walk through the front door. ‘I honestly can’t believe you, Mother!’

It turns out that my sweet life and newfound peace lasted for exactly eighty-three minutes. I don’t know why I’m surprised. I’m lucky I even had that long.

I drop my lovely paper bag and its even lovelier contents on the floor and freeze. This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for. The charade is up and my identity has been revealed. Life as I know it is over. In some ways it’s a relief – I’ve been living in such fear of being found out in the weeks since More Than Sex was published and at least now, with the cat well and truly out of the bag, I can relax. No more hiding in the shadows. No more denying who I really am. Maybe this will be a good thing?

I am a complete and utter fantasist.

‘You’ve done some whack stuff in the past,’ my daughter yells, her face scrunched up in anger. ‘But this? Congratulations, Mum – you’ve totally outdone yourself this time.’

‘What are you screeching about now?’ asks Dylan, opening the living room door.

‘Yeah,’ joins in Benji, peering under his older brother’s arm. ‘Why are you being so rude to Mum? Again.’

Dogger nudges her way in between his legs and joins in the staring, her big, brown eyes darting between us as she too tries to make sense of this terrible situation.

Nick pushes past me and gives Scarlet a stern look. ‘I don’t know what has upset you but whatever it is, I am not prepared to listen to another word while you’re shouting.’

‘I think she knows.’ I put a slightly shaky hand on his arm. ‘She’s obviously going to be feeling a bit upset, Nick. We’ve always understood that.’

Nick turns to look at me, his face draining of blood.

‘We agreed to keep it a secret, Hannah,’ he mutters. ‘How have they found out?’

‘Not they,’ I hiss back. ‘Scarlet. And I have no idea. But they’re all going to know now, aren’t they?’

I gaze over his shoulder at my children. Scarlet and Dylan are seventeen and eighteen now, almost adults themselves. I have no idea what this discovery is going to do to them at such a crucial and formative stage of life or how I’m ever going to look them in the eye again, now that they know what I’ve been getting up to. Particularly Scarlet. There’s no way that she’s ever going to accept my new career. Not without an almighty teen-fuelled meltdown, anyway. And I can live without that.

And then there’s Benji. My sweet, loving, innocent ten-year-old boy who has no comprehension of a world where a mother’s actions can bring lasting shame and humiliation upon her unwitting offspring. He’ll be shunned from every party and the days of sleepovers and playdates are long gone. I’m pretty sure that none of the other mothers will let the child of an erotic writer associate with their offspring. Nobody is going to care that I only did it because my hours had been cut at work and I needed to find a way to fund the ever-increasing needs of our children. Well, that and to prove that I could be more than just a mum.

This is not a relief. I am not relaxed. I will happily live a farce, a pantomime, a fake life that is a total sham if it means my children, and everyone else on the planet, never find out about what I have done.

What I am doing.

I close my eyes for a second and pull on every last bit of strength that I can find. And then I open them and address my teenage daughter.

‘How did you find out?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘Who else knows?’

Maybe there’s a way of carrying out some degree of damage limitation. The kids discovering the truth is bad enough but what if this information came via school? I won’t be able to walk into work on Monday morning if everyone in the staffroom knows. But perhaps she found out online on some dodgy website.

Maybe there’s still some hope.

‘The whole school is talking about it,’ she snarls at me. ‘I doubt there’s a single person who doesn’t know.’

Oh fucking fuck. This is bad.

‘We can explain,’ starts Nick but Scarlet rounds on him, her cheeks flaming red.

‘This hasn’t got anything to do with you,’ she says. ‘It’s not you who wrote it.’

Nick nods his head. ‘That’s true. But I fully support your mother in everything that she does and this is no exception. In fact…’

He pauses for a second and I see him gulp slightly as he prepares to incriminate himself alongside me. God, I love this man. He won’t let me walk to the gallows on my own.

‘In fact, it was me who encouraged her to send it once it was written. And I stand by that decision.’

Scarlet’s mouth drops open in horror and I step forward to stand beside my husband. We are united in solidarity. If we fall, we fall together.

‘I don’t actually believe this,’ she murmurs. The shock has clearly got to her and I peer closely at her lips, trying to see if they’re turning blue and wondering if I should make her a cup of sweet tea.

‘What has Mum written?’ Dylan leans against the doorframe and looks at us all with interest. ‘What’ve I missed?’

‘It’s important that you understand the context that this was written in,’ I begin. I might as well own the announcement now. ‘First and foremost, what I want you all to remember is that there are many different types of writing and erot—’

‘A detention slip!’ bellows Scarlet, drowning out my words. She’s obviously recovered from the shock, which I am thankful for on a number of levels. ‘For Ashley.’

‘What?’ asks Nick, confusion etched across his face. ‘You’ve written what now, Hannah?’

I start to laugh as I let go of his hand and slump down against the wall, relief making my legs weak.

‘And now you’re going to laugh about it?’ Scarlet’s voice is raised in pitch by several octaves. ‘Well, that’s bloody marvelous, Mother.’

‘I’m not laughing about that,’ I gasp, struggling to take a breath. ‘I’m laughing because, well—’

‘Yes?’ asks Dylan. ‘What’s so funny?’

I look up and see all four members of my family gazing down at me. Benji is smiling encouragingly, as if I’m about to tell them a joke. Dylan has the look on his face that he gets when he suspects that we’re up to something and I know he won’t rest until he finds out what – he’s learnt from the best – Scarlet is glowering with what looks like serious murderous intent while tapping her foot on the ground impatiently, waiting to hear my excuse, and Nick is staring at me with what can only be described as fear, his eyes pleading with me not to cock this up.

I nod my head and gather my thoughts and then I throw myself onto the sacrificial altar.

‘You’re right,’ I lie. ‘I’m laughing because I wrote Ashley Dunsford a detention note.’

Dogger pads across the hallway and stares at me balefully.

‘You are a terrible parent,’ my daughter lovingly hisses. ‘There are literally hundreds of people at our school and yet you decided to single him out. Why couldn’t you have chosen another kid to punish?’

I push myself off the ground and look her in the eye, my relieved laughing fit over. I don’t need her to tell me that I’m not going to be winning Mother of the Year anytime soon. I’m pretty sure that the award criterion doesn’t include spending your days trying to figure out the sexiest way to describe a penis.

Although for what it’s worth, in my esteemed opinion there is no sexy way to describe a penis.

‘Because it wasn’t “another kid” who was vandalising school property with a can of spray paint, was it?’ I give her a firm look. ‘It was Ashley Dunsford and quite frankly, he should consider himself extremely fortunate that I only gave him a detention and not community service or a prison sentence.’

‘I don’t think that’s your jurisdiction, is it?’ enquires Nick, relief plastered across his face. ‘I’ll make us some tea.’

‘Can we get back to the game?’ Benji asks Dylan. ‘I think Scarlet’s stopped yelling at Mum now.’

Dylan nods but I see him giving me another curious glance before he disappears back into the living room and I know that he’s suspicious. I’m going to have to cover my tracks even more carefully if he’s going to start sniffing around my business.

‘Have you stopped yelling?’ I ask Scarlet, once the door is closed.

She nods, her face flushing pink.

‘And do you have anything else that you’d like to say to me?’ I enquire. The terror that my secret was out is abating and I’m ready to address the appalling manners of my daughter.

‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbles and I resist the urge to ask her to enunciate her apology more clearly. ‘I shouldn’t have shouted at you. I was just really embarrassed that you’d given Ashley a detention. It makes me look bad.’

‘It doesn’t have anything to do with you,’ I tell her. ‘He did something stupid and now he has to deal with the consequences. That’s the end of it.’

‘I just thought that he might, you know…’ Scarlet shuffles from one foot to the other. ‘He might blame me for you giving him a detention and then he might go off me.’

‘Oh darling, that’s not going to happen!’ I say.

More’s the pity.

‘Not that I really like him anymore,’ she rushes on. ‘So don’t go thinking that I care or anything, because I don’t. I’ve got bigger stuff going on like running for Head Girl, which is way more important than boys.’

She pauses and flicks her hair over one shoulder. ‘And he doesn’t even think about me like that now we’re in the Sixth Form. Obviously.’

‘Obviously,’ I agree, as she starts to head up the stairs. ‘But perhaps you could inform him that if I catch him graffitiing the words “Scarlett Thompson Is Blazing” on the wall of the gym ever again, I will not be held accountable for my actions.’

Her head whips round.

‘Is that what he wrote?’ she asks. ‘Oh my god! He’s such a dick. I’m never going to live this down at school. I’m mortified!’

The huge grin plastered across her face suggests otherwise.

‘You can also tell him that Scarlet is spelled with just one “t”. If he likes you enough to get a detention for you he should take the time to learn how to correctly spell your name.’

But my words are lost in a draught of floral body spray as Scarlet dashes upstairs, her phone out and her thumbs darting across the screen as she rushes to update her friends on this new and scintillating detail.

‘Here you go, Hannah.’ Nick hands me a mug as I step inside the kitchen. ‘That was a bit of a close call, wasn’t it?’

I shudder and wrap my hands around the warm tea.

‘I really thought they’d found out about the book,’ I tell him. ‘I think I’ve aged about ten years in the last ten minutes.’

Nick nods and sinks down onto a chair. ‘I know what you mean. But I suppose we should think about what we’re going to say when they do find out. Because they will find out, Hannah – you know they will.’

I sit down next to him, resisting the urge to ditch the tea and pour a glass of wine instead.

‘We can’t let that happen,’ I tell him. ‘They are in no way mature enough to understand what I’m doing – they’d totally get the wrong end of the stick and it’d all get completely out of hand.’

He nods again thoughtfully and stares out of the window. ‘We’re just going to have to be more careful. You can’t panic like that again – you almost told them everything.’

I make a huffing sound. ‘It’s a shame you didn’t think about that when you sent off my manuscript to an agent then, isn’t it? None of this would even be a thing if you and Cassie hadn’t stuck your big noses into my business.’

He turns to look at me, the corner of his mouth twitching. ‘Right. So you wish we hadn’t helped to launch your porn writing career, then? You hate everything about it and you’re never going to write another word?’

For the love of all that is holy. If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him fifty gazillion times; I do not write porn. I write tasteful, informative and highly accurate erotica.

And I don’t hate it.

I actually love it.

It’s the first time in forever that I’ve had something that is purely just for me and, on the days when I’m stressed about my teaching job or the kids are driving me insane or everything just seems like hard work, my writing is a warm little secret. It makes me feel special and daring and unique.

I take a sip of tea and think about what just happened. Nick does have a point. The kids don’t know about the book but I almost blew the whole thing. I’m going to have to be much cooler if I want to maintain my anonymity, which I absolutely must do at all costs. There’s no way that I can allow anyone to find out about my side-hustle. Other than Nick, my best friend Cassie, and my mother, nobody knows that Twinky Malone, the author of More Than Sex, is really me – and they never can.

I’ve shared every aspect of myself since becoming a wife and a mother but I’m not sharing this. Even if sometimes I want to shout about my triumphs from the rooftops, I know that I have to keep quiet. Not that I don’t imagine myself being interviewed on daytime television sometimes (mostly when I’m in the bath after having drunk a couple of glasses on Wine Wednesday). The presenter will ask me how I came to write erotic fiction and I will smile at her coyly before telling her what I told myself on the day that I stumbled onto this particular side-hustle.

I wanted a job that I loved and I wanted my teenagers to see me as more than just ‘Mum’. I also needed to make some money so I had a good, long think about what sells and the answer was right there because, as everybody knows, there is one thing in the world that has always sold.

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.

‘Preach it, Granny.’

I shoot them both a quick glare and then turn back to my mum.

‘I didn’t mean to offend you,’ I tell her, soothingly. ‘It’s just that all this silly talk about stalking makes it sound more devious than it really is and I don’t want Scarlet getting the wrong idea.’

I don’t want Scarlet getting any idea about it at all, full stop. So thank you very much, Mother. You’ve just completely destroyed my cover.

‘Have you been tracking me?’ asks Scarlet and my goose bumps disappear under the heat of her fierce gaze. ‘Tell me the truth.’

‘It’s called maternal protection,’ I snap back. ‘And you should be thanking me for keeping you safe.’

‘It’s called stalking!’ howls my daughter. ‘And it’s a complete invasion of my privacy! I can’t believe you sometimes, Mum.’

‘I told you it’d end in tears, Hannah,’ my mother helpfully adds. ‘No good can ever come from meddling in your child’s business.’

The irony of this sentence is clearly completely lost on her.

‘For the record, I’ve known about this for ages,’ says Dylan, smirking smugly at his sister. ‘It’s not really a problem unless you’re going somewhere that you shouldn’t be.’

‘Don’t lie,’ snaps Scarlet. ‘You’ve just disabled the app on your phone.’

‘Is that what you’ve—’ I start, turning to Dylan but Scarlet interrupts me.

‘Well, you don’t need me to give you my friend’s name then, do you?’ she says, narrowing her eyes at me. ‘Not when you can follow my every move from the comfort of the sofa. God. It’s so pathetic.’

‘I don’t track you from the comfort of the sofa,’ I hiss. ‘I’d be so lucky. No – I’m too busy running around picking up all the half-empty cups of tea that you leave strewn around the place as if it’s a hotel.’

‘What are you on about?’ Scarlet’s face is screwed up in fury. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

My weak attempt at regaining the moral high ground is obviously failing.

Nick finally stops his fascinating monologue about Betty the Land Rover’s rust problem and looks across at us. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Our daughter wants to hang out with a friend,’ I inform him, retreating to a safer foothold. ‘A friend who has no name.’

‘That’s sad,’ says Benji, through a mouthful of pasta. ‘Imagine having no name.’

Scarlet groans under her breath.

‘Why are you so stupid?’ she asks him. ‘Like, actually? It’s a genuine question. How have you even survived this long with so few brain cells?’

Benji wrinkles up his face, the way he always does when he gets upset and I leap in before Scarlet’s attempt to distract us from the real conversation is a success.

‘I’m assuming that your reluctance to share information means that it’s a boy?’ I enquire. ‘Does he go to school with you? Have I taught him?’

My daughter shakes her head. ‘I didn’t say that it was a boy, did I?’

‘Yeah, Mum,’ adds Dylan. ‘Did you just assume her sexuality?’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me,’ Scarlet retorts. ‘She makes out like she knows everything but she doesn’t actually have a clue about what it’s like to be Gen Z.’

‘Who are we talking about?’ asks Nick, looking confused. ‘And why?’

‘I just want to hang out with some friends, Dad,’ Scarlet tells him, throwing him a huge smile. ‘Tomorrow evening. I was just checking that you guys didn’t have any plans.’

Nick smiles back at her. ‘It’s fine with me,’ he says. ‘I’m intending on spending most of the weekend underneath Betty, sorting out her under-carriage.’

For fuck’s sake. It’s like I am the only adult in the room with a pair of functioning ears.

‘Can we just back this conversation up a bit?’ I sit up straight and stare at Scarlet. ‘Number one, is it “friends” plural or “friend” singular that we’re talking about here?’

‘Friends plural,’ she mutters.

‘Good. And where exactly are you meeting them?’

Scarlet pauses but my mother leans forwards and gives her a smile.

‘You may as well tell her, darling,’ she advises. ‘She can locate your exact whereabouts on her phone in five seconds flat if she wants to. I’ve seen her do it. It’s very impressive – I think she might have had a good career in the Secret Service in another life.’

Yes, another life where I’m not constantly needed to solve my family’s problems and keep them out of trouble. Another life where I roam the streets of Paris wearing nothing but high heels and a trench coat instead of roaming the supermarket aisles wearing an old waterproof jacket and scuffed-up shoes.

‘We’re getting together at Petra’s house,’ she says, the words pushing themselves reluctantly out of her mouth. ‘A couple of us from school and some of her new friends from college.’

I sit back in my chair. ‘That wasn’t so hard, was it?’ I tell her. ‘And if you’d only said that in the first place, then we could have avoided this whole conversation. Of course you can go to Petra’s house – I’m sure you’ve got lots to catch up on.’

‘And are you going to keep on stalking me?’ she asks. ‘Even though you know that it’s an invasion of my human rights? You really do need to get a life, you know, Mum.’

‘Have you been tracking her phone again?’ asks Nick, frowning. ‘I thought we agreed that we’d only use that function if there was an emergency.’

Sometime it feels like the entire universe is out to get me, it really does.

I sigh. ‘If you feel that strongly about it, then no – I won’t track your location. But don’t come crying to me if you get kidnapped and nobody notices.’

‘Hannah!’ exclaims my mother. ‘What a thing to say! Nobody is going to kidnap Scarlet!’

‘Nobody in their right mind, anyway,’ huffs Benji, finally getting his own back. ‘And even if they did, they’d soon give her back when they realised how annoying she is.’

In the ensuing carnage all attention is diverted from me and the fingers that I am frantically crossing under the kitchen table, which is good, because I have absolutely no intention of stopping utilising new technological advances to keep a maternal and watchful eye on my children. It’s the only reason I pay for their bloody phone contracts in the first place.

The meal finally ends and the kids do some token cleaning up before disappearing to their rooms. Nick mutters something about fixing a Land Rover part and heads out of the back door in the direction of the shed and I know that I won’t see him again for hours.

My mother looks at the clock.

‘I’d better be off,’ she says. ‘I’m meeting an old friend for drinks tonight and I can’t be late for Barbara. I think she’s heard about my new calling in life and is hoping for a bit of free advice.’

While it was somewhat unexpected when my sixty-four-year-old mother announced that she was taking up a new career, it wasn’t a complete shock. She was a mother who my school-friends described as cool and their parents probably called unconventional. Or maybe bohemian, if they were being kind. Whatever word they used, I knew what it meant. My mother was the exciting, interesting member of our family, constantly throwing herself into new experiences and learning new things and I was the steady, sensible one. It bothered me less when I was growing up than it does now, which I think could possibly tell me something about my insecurities, if I was inclined to think about it.

Which I absolutely am not.

There are very few topics of conversation that my mother thinks are out of bounds and she prides herself on being able to talk about anything to anybody, regardless of how keen they may or may not be to discuss their most private thoughts with her. Over the years she has subjected me to her earnest and heartfelt opinions on every aspect of my life, from my career to my parenting to the provenance of my groceries. And I know that she does all this because she’s constantly absorbing new information and she wants to share it and I’m probably the only person in the universe who will actually listen to her – but good god, it’s completely infuriating and she drives me utterly insane.

Anyway, her new direction is entirely my own fault. When I had the idea of buying her credits for an online course, I was imagining her dabbling in genealogy or perhaps art history. Not ‘Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby! Foundation One, Access to Counselling.’

‘But you’re not even qualified yet,’ I point out, resisting the urge to sigh. ‘Don’t you think you should be careful about offering advice when you don’t really know what you’re talking about?’

My mother laughs and stands up. ‘When you get to my age, you know what you’re talking about. Speaking of which – how are the sales of your book doing?’

I glance at the kitchen door but the kids are long gone.

‘Okay, I think. It’s kind of hard to know for sure just yet.’

Mum fixes me with a familiar look and I brace myself.

‘Well, you know my thoughts on the matter, Hannah.’

I do, because you insist on telling me every single time I speak to you.

‘Uh-huh,’ I mutter, non-committally.

‘I’d be very happy to spread the word about your literary debut,’ she continues, shrugging her shoulders into her coat. ‘All this silly secrecy is costing you in book sales, you know.’

I do, because you also inform me of this on a regular basis.

‘I’ve been trying to figure out the second book but it’s a bit trickier than I thought it’d be,’ I find myself saying. ‘I’m not entirely sure that I can do it.’

Mum turns to look at me. ‘Of course you can do it,’ she says. ‘You’ve already written one book, Hannah. Just do it again.’

‘It’s not that simple though.’ I lean back in my chair and shake my head. ‘There wasn’t any pressure last time. I was just writing for me and I didn’t even know what I was doing half the time.’

‘Well, I rather think that was the beauty of it,’ Mum tells me. ‘It came from the heart. You just need to chill out and relax. I mean, you’re writing porn. How hard can it be?’

I stare at her suspiciously.

‘This isn’t a laughing matter, Mother. And I’m not writing porn, as you very well know. It’s erotica and it’s absolutely mainstream and there’s nothing remotely pornographic about it.’

Mum’s forehead creases into wrinkles. ‘I’m not entirely sure that I understand the difference between erotica and porn,’ she says.

So, that online course isn’t exactly making you an expert, then? Funny, that.

‘But if you ever want my informed critique on the sex scenes then you only have to ask, darling.’ She beams at me. ‘I’m learning so much on my course and I’d be very happy to share my knowledge with you. In fact, I’m doing a fascinating module at the moment called Marital Sex: Use it or Lose it, which may be of particular interest to you.’

Which seems as good a place as any to shut this conversation down and show her the door.

I give her a hug and watch as she gets into her car, waving until I’m sure that she’s actually gone. And then I go back into the kitchen, put the kettle on and slump onto the battered old sofa that Dogger has claimed as her own. My mother might be right about my desire for anonymity impacting on my sales but it’s a price I’m willing to pay.

Writing about sex is terrifying and difficult and my guiltiest pleasure and I just don’t think it’ll feel the same if everyone knows that I’m doing it. And as for any discussion about the state of my marriage, well – that’s just ridiculous. Nick and I are fine. Everything is lovely. And nice. We’re lucky that we’ve been together for all these years and we’re still attracted to each other. Lots of people aren’t as fortunate. And there’s nothing wrong with lovely and nice. Who wouldn’t want that?

I sink into the cushions and groan. Damn my mother and her stupid online course. Use it or Lose it? What’s that supposed to mean? How often are we supposed to be using it before we’re at risk of it vanishing forever? And we probably aren’t as adventurous as we once were but just because I’m always a bit knackered and Nick seems more in love with his Land Rover than me, it doesn’t mean we have issues. We’ve been married forever and it’s a marathon, not a sprint.

Although the one hundred metre dash is probably a better description of our sexual liaisons, rather than a twenty-six-mile endurance event. And part of me has been wondering whether an author of erotic fiction should be being a little more daring in her own exploits. Just to stay on-brand, you know?

Fuck it. I mentally add rejuvenating my marriage to my to-do list and turn on the television. I may not have any chill and but I do have Netflix.

Chapter Three

‘I can’t believe we’ve only been back at school for one week. It feels like the summer never happened.’ Cassie slumps down next to me and closes her eyes. ‘I just had to explain to my new Year Seven class that Chemistry is not, in fact, going to be, and I quote, “all about making potions” and that Westhill Academy is not even a tiny bit “like Hogwarts”. I swear these kids are getting younger every year.’

I wince, imagining Benji walking through our hallowed halls this time next year and renew my vow to enroll him in some self-defence classes over the next twelve months.

‘At least you managed to get a break this summer,’ I remind her. ‘I feel like I need a holiday from my holiday.’

I have tried not to envy my best friend and her three weeks in Crete at an all-inclusive resort without any kids to worry about. I have also failed in that task.

Cassie opens her eyes and gives me a frown. ‘But you had two weeks in France,’ she says. ‘What happened? Did you overdo it on the vin rouge?’

I sigh. ‘There isn’t enough cheap plonk in the whole of France to ease the pain of attempting a nice, family holiday. You have no idea how stressful it is going away with my lot.’

Cassie looks unmoved. ‘You should have done what I did then,’ she says. ‘Taken some time to find yourself.’

I open my mouth to reply and then close it again. There’s no point in even trying to explain. She doesn’t understand that I would sell my soul for some time. Time to do anything. In fact, finding myself would probably be quite low down on my list of priorities after curling up and reading more than one page of a book or having a bath without interruption. Or maybe even having an intimate date night with my husband, if I could entice him out of the shed.

The bell rings and a collective groan goes up from those teachers scattered around the room who are teaching next period, which appears to be everyone except for Cassie and me.

‘I don’t want to go back to lessons,’ whines Peter, who has been having a quick nap in the chair opposite us. ‘I’m getting too old for this crap. Teaching English to teenagers is a young man’s game. All I want is a nice little nest-egg so that I can retire somewhere where there aren’t any people – is that so much to ask?’

‘You need to set yourself free from that kind of limiting attitude,’ Adele, the drama teacher, tells him as she breezes past with Danny hot on her heels. ‘I’d have hoped that last week’s Inset Day would have given you some strategies for dealing with self-negativity and extraneous brain noise.’

‘I’m not being negative about me,’ Peter mutters as she wafts out of the room, heading to the drama department where some hapless class will be forced to listen to her waffling. ‘And you’re extraneous brain noise.’

‘I thought it was an excellent activity,’ gushes Danny, only he times his comment too late and Adele has left the room. ‘It’s like Adele said last week – it’s in the darkest times that we can really find our strengths.’

Peter scowls so hard that his glasses start to slip down his nose. ‘Well, the darkest time I’ve had recently was at that bloody awful drama session and it in no way equipped me with the necessary strength required to teach my Year Eight class, none of whom have the slightest desire to string more than two words together in a coherent manner.’

I shudder. I’m still trying to recover from the horrors of last week’s Inset Day but some things can’t ever be forgotten: Adele making us all participate in expressive mime as we learnt to connect with our inner child being only one of them.

‘That’s my point,’ says Danny. ‘You need to be more positive, mate.’

Peter drags himself out of his chair and towers over Danny.

‘It was bloody weird, mate,’ he snarls. ‘And if I don’t win on the lottery next weekend then it might be wise for everyone to stay out of my way.’

‘There’s only seven more weeks to go until half-term’ I call, as Peter wearily picks up his bag. ‘I’ve started a countdown on the calendar at home.’

It’s true. I know I shouldn’t be wishing the days away (as Scarlet keeps reminding me, I’m not getting any younger) but ever since Miriam took over as Headteacher, school has been even more unbearable. She’s appointed herself a personal assistant – a little old lady called Miss Pritchard – and has taken to prowling the corridors during lesson times, peering in through classroom doors and barking notes for Miss Pritchard to scrawl down in the notebook that never seems to leave her hands. It’s like being on the set of an incredibly dull horror film where nothing ever happens but there’s still a constant feeling that terror might be just around the corner.

Peter gives me a tired smile and plods out into the corridor, followed by our other reluctant colleagues and a still-enthusiastic Danny, whose newly qualified perkiness has been in no way dampened by Peter’s not-very-veiled threats. Cassie waits until the room is empty and then turns to look at me, her eyes sparkling.

‘Right then,’ she says, rubbing her hands together. ‘There’s nobody here now so we can stop talking about boring crap and have the conversation that I’ve been dying to have all week. How’s it all going with the book? We haven’t even spoken properly since it came out. Tell me everything, Hannah!’

I glance around to check that we really are alone. More Than Sex has been out for a few weeks now and I’m desperate to talk to someone other than Nick about it.

It’s fair to say that being a published author has both pros and cons. The first con is that, contrary to what people may believe, the publishing industry doesn’t exactly throw money about. Not that I thought writing a book would make me loaded.

Definitely not.

Not for one. Single. Second.

Sure, it’s possible that on the night I received the call from my new agent, telling me that she wanted to represent me, Nick and I may have got slightly ahead of ourselves. And by ‘getting ahead’, I absolutely do not mean sending an email to Miriam Wallace, telling her where she could stick her stupid job offer of teaching English.

She was quite gracious about that, actually. Once my agent had explained to me that the kind of money we were talking about would be just enough to pay for driving lessons and the occasional bottle of Prosecco, I was forced to write a painfully cringe-worthy email to Miriam, begging for my old part-time job back. She said that as she’d already advertised the position, I’d have to interview along with all the other applicants but it turns out, quite unsurprisingly, that people are not queuing up to deal with fourteen-year-olds murdering Shakespeare so I was the only one in the running. My interview consisted of Miriam piling yet more work onto my already exploding timetable and me pathetically agreeing to all of her demands. I did tentatively enquire about whether there may be enough money in the school budget to reinstate me in a full-time teaching position, but once she’d stopped her mirthless laughter she told me that three days was all that was on offer and I could take it or leave it.

The next slightly challenging aspect is that I had to agree to write another book and, while I don’t want to seem ungrateful, this wasn’t really what I was aiming for when I wrote More Than Sex. Sure, I was hoping to earn a bit of extra money but it wasn’t only about that. I wanted to be someone different to the Hannah Thompson that I saw every time I looked in the mirror. I’m just not entirely convinced that the someone different I wanted to become was a writer of erotic fiction and certainly not comedy-erotica. I’m not sure that’s who I really am.

The school staffroom isn’t the ideal location for this discussion but, other than Nick and my mother, I’ve had nobody to share this with and I can’t wait any longer. Because honestly, despite the slight negatives, having a book published is genuinely the best feeling ever.

‘It’s been incredible,’ I tell her, keeping my voice low. ‘Honestly, Cassie – I can’t begin to tell you.’

Cassie squeals. ‘I knew that Nick and I sending your manuscript off was the right thing, even if you were in a mood with us for weeks! This is brilliant!’

I grin at her. ‘Well, I’d definitely never have had the confidence to share it, so yeah – it was the right thing! My agent is lovely and my publisher is some kind of genius and has worked wonders with the edits – and now it’s out there and people are reading it and some of them actually seem to like it!’

‘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.

Chapter Four

The building is absolutely massive. And shiny. It is not what I was expecting in the slightest and my legs start to tremble slightly as I look up at the fifty-gazillion windows that stare out across the River Thames. I’m not ready for this and I don’t know what I was thinking. People like me don’t belong in places like this. This is for the sparkly, beautiful people who have the world at their feet – not the middle-aged mothers who had to get up at an ungodly hour so that they could attempt to put some make-up on and sort out their uncooperative hair and organise the packed lunches and do last night’s washing up and then change their outfit four times, the first three because of a crisis of confidence and the last time because of fear-sweat.

But if I want even the slightest chance of continuing with my writing career then I need to pull myself together and get a grip because my editor wants to see me to discuss my second book and I can’t just run away. Tottering slightly on my fabulous but impractical author shoes, I push open the huge door and walk inside. I am woman and I will not allow my fears about ‘belonging’ to stop me from pursuing my own dreams and desires.

Besides, I’m here now so I might as well go in, fraudster or not.

The reception area is even more intimidating than the exterior. Security guards lurk menacingly, eyeing everyone with suspicion, and I immediately feel guilty and want to avoid eye contact with them. But that makes a person look even more suspicious, so I do what I always do when I feel guilty by suggestion and overcompensate.

‘Good morning!’ I trill, making firm eye contact with one of the guards. ‘Isn’t it a beautiful day? A little chilly, perhaps – but then it is autumn, after all! And winter will be upon us before we know it!’

He narrows his eyes until I can barely see his pupils. ‘Move along to the desk, please, Madam.’

This is the problem with London. Nobody wants to have a conversation. It was the same on the train. The man sitting opposite me actually moved seats after I tried to engage him in some casual chitchat.

It’s me.

I know it is.

I talk when I’m nervous. I’ve always been that way.

An incredibly well-groomed woman is typing efficiently on her keyboard as I approach the desk. She doesn’t look up and so I stand quietly for a full one point three seconds and then launch into my friendliest banter.

‘Gosh! You’re fast at typing, aren’t you? I wish I were that quick. It takes me forever to write one page which isn’t very good when you consider that I’m trying to make a living out of it!’

She mutters something into her headset and I stop talking. Eventually, after what feels like forever but my watch assures me is less than thirty seconds, she looks up and gives me a tight smile.

‘Name?’

‘Hannah Thompson,’ I say, beaming widely. ‘My name is Hannah Thompson.’

‘Here to see?’

‘Binky,’ I tell her. ‘She’s expecting me.’

The receptionist peers over her glasses. ‘And does Binky have a surname?’

I laugh nervously. ‘I’m sure she does but I can’t remember it right now.’

She looks me dead in the eye and I swear, for a brief moment, my heart stops beating.

‘That’s going to be a problem, Madam. We have over three thousand people working in this building and I’m going to need a little more to go on.’

I laugh. ‘But surely you must know whom I mean? You can’t possibly have more than one person called Binky working here?’

She tuts. ‘I know of at least three Binkys on the fourth floor alone.’

This is ridiculous. I have not come all this way and psyched myself up for nothing. I lean casually onto the desk and give my brightest teacher-smile.

‘Well, can you just look for my name then? Maybe that will shed some light on which of the Binkys I’m supposed to be meeting.’

‘Your name isn’t in the system,’ she intones. ‘I’ve got a Twinky Malone meeting Binky Sanderson at eleven-thirty but nothing for a Hannah Thompson.’

‘That’s me!’ I shout. ‘I’m Twinky Malone. And I’ve remembered now – it is Binky Sanderson who I’m meeting!’

‘How convenient,’ mutters the receptionist.

‘Not really,’ I tell her. ‘It would have been much more convenient if I’d remembered her full name when you first asked me, then we could have avoided all this hassle.’

She stretches her hand out across the desk and my tension fades. Maybe I was wrong about London. Maybe people do want to communicate and engage with others. Perhaps they’re all just waiting for someone like me to jolt them out of their hard shells, through the power of friendliness and chitter-chatter. Maybe I should start a business, travelling around the capital city dispensing joi de vivre wherever I go.

I reach out and grasp her hand.

‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ I gush.

‘Identification,’ she barks, yanking her hand out of mine. ‘I was asking for your ID. To prove that you’re Twinky Malone.’

Oh. My bad.

‘I don’t have any,’ I confess, my heart sinking. ‘It’s my pseudonym and so I don’t have any official paperwork with it on. Is that a problem? What do other authors do? Should I find someone to issue me with some fake ID? Do you know anyone who can help?’

The receptionist sighs deeply and taps something onto the screen.

‘I’ve sent an alert to Binky Sanderson and she’s on her way down. I can’t give you a visitor pass until she vouches for you and you can’t get through the security gate without a pass.’ She points behind me to a row of occupied chairs. ‘Take a seat and she’ll be here shortly.’

I nod gratefully and head across the polished floor to a free seat where I sink down gratefully, glad to have a moment to prepare myself. This place is insane, from the over-the-top flower displays to the works of art on the walls. I can’t quite believe that I’m here. I gaze around, soaking it all in, desperate not to miss a single thing.

There’s a sudden surge of activity, with people entering the building and rushing up the stairs on the other side of the security gate. I crane past them to admire the view of the autumn sun sparkling off the river.

‘Did you see her!’ hisses the young woman sitting next to me and I whip my head round to look at her. ‘Oh. My. God.’

‘Who?’ I ask. ‘Who was it?’

‘I can’t believe you didn’t see her!’ she howl-whispers, her eyes staring wildly at the people who are just moving out of sight at the top of the stairs. ‘She was standing right in front of you. You couldn’t miss her!’

‘Who was it?’ I repeat, feeling cross with myself. Scarlet is very interested in anything celebrity-related and I could have won myself some real brownie points if I’d gone home with some kind of a story to tell. Although the reality is that it doesn’t matter who I might see today because I’m not actually here. The kids think I’m out on a course for school and while I don’t enjoy lying to them, it’s far better than the alternative option of telling them the truth.

‘Your one off the telly!’ the young woman huffs, rolling her eyes at me. ‘You know? The blonde one? Does a load of stuff with the brunette one. She’s funny.’

I shake my head sadly. ‘Sorry. I don’t know who you mean.’

‘Well, you should pay more attention in a place like this,’ she says. ‘Who are you, anyway? What are you doing here?’

She tilts her head to one side and appraises me, trying to decide if I’m a person of interest.

‘Oh, I’m not anybody,’ I rush to assure her. ‘My name is Ha—’

And then I stop.

Because I am sitting here in a swanky publishing house and I am here for a reason. And there is a very tiny part of me screaming incredibly loudly that it might be quite nice to own my success instead of constantly being focused on hiding it away like it’s something shameful.

There is also a very large part of me whispering quietly that I shouldn’t do something I might later regret.

I tell that part of me that it can do one and turn to face the celebrity-spotting woman.

‘I’m an author,’ I announce, sitting up straighter. ‘You might have heard of me. My name is Twinky Malone.’

‘What do you write?’ she asks, sounding bored. My proclamation has clearly not excited her. ‘Is it like, cookery books or something?’

‘There you are!’

I turn and see Binky coming towards me. I know her from her online profile picture and she must recognise me from the photo that I sent with the strictest instructions that it was not to be used for any publicity. I stand and fix a professional yet pleasant look to my face. First impressions count and I want my editor to think that I’m utterly in control of everything.

‘It’s so great to finally meet you,’ she says, shaking my hand with a warmth that was definitely lacking in the receptionist. ‘We’re all so excited that you’re coming into the office today! Let’s get your pass sorted and then we can head upstairs and introduce you to everyone.’

She turns towards the desk and I start to follow her before pausing and spinning back to the young woman.

‘It’s not cookery books that I write,’ I call. ‘It’s erotic fiction. The very incredibly sexy kind.’

Her jaw drops open and I give her a grin before heading to the desk where the receptionist reluctantly hands me a visitor pass and grants me access to the halls beyond the security gate.

In the lift, Binky talks enthusiastically about More Than Sex and by the time we arrive at the sixth floor I feel as if I’ve known her forever.

‘Readers are loving the mash-up of erotica and comedy,’ she tells me as we leave the lift and walk into the office space. ‘I really think you can build on that with Book Two.’

‘Absolutely,’ I agree, trying not to gasp at the sight of London spread out beneath me. ‘I can absolutely do that. Funny fornication is my bread and butter.’

I’ve been struggling just the tiniest bit with the fact that everyone seems to think my first book is amusing as well as sexy. That wasn’t my intention in the slightest when I wrote it – as far as I was concerned I had written something that was highly risqué and also packed with informative facts. I’m trying to come to terms with my new role as comedic sex-woman but it isn’t easy. It’s as if now that I know I’m supposed to be funny, I can’t think of a single joke. I have no idea how stand-up comics perform to order, night after night.

Binky laughs. ‘You’re hilarious,’ she tells me. ‘Now, can I get you a drink?’

I accept a cup of tea and follow her into a small meeting room. I wasn’t trying to be humorous (obviously) but as I’m rapidly discovering, sometimes it’s better just to go with the flow.

Once I’m settled on a sofa, another woman enters the room and gives me a welcoming smile.

‘This is Alice!’ enthuses Binky. ‘She’s our publicity manager and she’s another big fan of your book!’

‘Twinky! It’s great to meet you at last,’ says Alice, walking over and shaking my hand. ‘I’ve been telling Binky for ages that we need to get you in and start working on a publicity campaign but I gather that you’ve had some reservations?’

I nod and take a sip of my tea.

‘It’s just that, being a mum as well as a writer, I have to consider the wellbeing of my children, you know?’

They both nod understandingly.

‘I’m sure you’re run off your feet,’ says Alice, sitting down next to me. ‘Three kids and writing, not to mention your day job! But you’re here now and we’ve got some great plans.’

‘Oh, it’s not so much the time issue,’ I tell her. ‘Although obviously, a few extra hours in the day would be wonderful!’

They laugh dutifully. I join in, even though I’m lying. A few extra hours in the day sounds like a terrible idea. You can guarantee that if the government suddenly decided that the day had to last twenty-seven hours (and I wouldn’t put it past this lot) then I would not be spending that extra time relaxing or sleeping or doing anything remotely enjoyable. I, along with a large percentage of the population, would just end up with even more jobs to do. A few extra hours in the day would just extend the misery before I actually get to sink into a wine-fuelled bliss.

‘No – it’s more the genre in which I am writing,’ I continue, trying to sound intelligent. ‘I don’t want to risk being outed as an erotic author. It doesn’t seem like the most appropriate thing for a mother to be doing.’

Alice stares at me for a second, her face perplexed.

‘Are you saying that you think it’s embarrassing that you’ve written erotic fiction?’ she asks slowly. ‘Is that the problem?’

‘No, no!’ I laugh. ‘Not embarrassing, per se…’

‘What then?’ She leans forward and peers at me, her kind face open and honest. She isn’t judging me. She’s genuinely interested.

‘Okay, it is a bit embarrassing,’ I whisper. ‘I’m writing about sex, for goodness’ sake. I don’t want my kids to know about that. Or anyone else who knows me, for that matter.’

‘Okay.’ Alice sits back and shoots a quick look at Binky. ‘So what you’re saying is that it’s the sex aspect that you’re worried about?’

‘Yes!’ I take another sip of tea. ‘I don’t want anyone to look at me and judge me. I don’t want them thinking differently about me because they’ve read my book and seen what my fevered imagination is capable of concocting.’

‘I really don’t think that you need to worry,’ Alice says, her voice shaking slightly. ‘I’ve read a lot of erotic fiction and your first book isn’t exactly what I’d describe as hardcore.’

‘It’s actually very mild,’ agrees Binky. ‘In fact, we had a huge discussion about whether we could class it as erotica in the first place.’

‘Due to the minimal amount of actual copulation,’ adds Alice.

‘You should enjoy the fact that you’ve written a book that readers are raving about,’ says Binky. ‘And now that you’ve hooked them in and made them fall in love with Bella Rose and Daxx, we need to keep them reading – which means that Book Two needs to be more.’

‘More?’ I put down my teacup. ‘More of what?’

‘More sex,’ states Alice firmly. ‘And more humour.’

Binky nods. ‘Definitely more sex.’

‘Oh.’ I gulp slightly. ‘I see. More sex. Excellent.’

Binky leans across and pats my hand kindly. ‘You’ve got a very original voice, Hannah,’ she tells me. ‘We’d really like to see you let yourself have fun with this book. Let loose a little and see where you can take Daxx and Bella Rose on their sexual journey of enlightenment. How far are you prepared to go?’

Buggering hell. I do not like the sound of a sexual journey of enlightenment one bit.

I turn and look out of the window at the majestic skyline. I’m going to have to tell them that while it’s been a wonderfully exciting adventure and I’m very grateful for the experience, this is where I have to get off the bus. I wasn’t even supposed to be on this bus in the first place. I thought that writing erotica would be easy but it isn’t. And it’s even harder when the reason you’re a success is because your definition of raunchiness is other people’s definition of outrageously funny.

More Than Sex was only published because the sex is so bad that everyone thought it was a joke. They’re laughing at me, not with me, even if they don’t realise it – because it wasn’t a joke to me. It was the sexiest, most X-rated, taboo thing that I could possibly think of, regardless of whether everyone who reads it thinks it’s the lamest sex imaginable. There’s no way I can write something that’s more than that.

I can’t do it.

Can I?

I take a deep breath and let myself think about upping the ante and pushing myself to write something even riskier than my first book. I cannot deny that the thought is giving me a slight thrill of excitement. And I don’t know how far I’m prepared to go – but maybe it could be fun figuring it out. Plus I still have my dire financial situation to consider. I can’t just throw away an amazing opportunity because I feel a bit uncomfortable.

‘You really shouldn’t be embarrassed about it,’ Alice assures me. ‘You’re writing under a pseudonym and nobody has to know it’s you if you really don’t want them to. But surely it’d be empowering for your family and friends to know that you’ve followed your dreams and achieved something brilliant?’

I sit back and think about what they’re saying. Maybe I’ve been overreacting about remaining anonymous? Maybe the world won’t judge me too harshly if word gets out that I’m a published author of erotica? Maybe we’ve evolved to a level where women are entitled to be sexual without being slut-shamed?

‘Anyway…’ Alice’s voice is wheedling. ‘Why shouldn’t you write erotica? It’s not like mothers aren’t allowed to do it.’

Oh my god. Absolutely this.

‘I think they had to do it to become mothers in the first place,’ quips Binky.

Alice nods her head. ‘E. L. James has got two kids and I bet she stood in the playground with her head held high once Fifty Shades of Grey came out. And I bet none of the kids cared about it.’

‘Women have sex.’ Binky gives me a firm look. ‘It’s not just for the men, is it? That’s what we love about your book – it’s honest and funny and messy and awkward and it’s for women.’

It is this that sways me.

Why the hell shouldn’t I have sex? And why the hell shouldn’t I write about sex? And, now that I’ve written about it, why the hell shouldn’t I do everything that I can to get better and write about even more sex?

I am a teacher and a wife and a mother and a daughter and I’ve spent my entire life pretending that I know how to do stuff that I know literally nothing about. This is no different to when a newborn Dylan was placed into my arms and I was told that I could take him home from the hospital. I didn’t have the first clue about what I was supposed to be doing and he’s turned out okay, hasn’t he? I’ve brought up three kids and I’ve winged it all the way. I sure as shit can fake my way through writing Book Two (untitled) and it’s going to be the most informative, most factually correct and most goddamned provocative, titillating and libidinous work to ever grace the comedy-erotic fiction shelves.

‘Let’s do it,’ I say, looking at Binky and Alice and beaming widely. ‘Let’s get our freak on.’

I sing this last bit in my best hip-hop voice but, from the looks on their faces, I think it is safe to assume there are no Missy Elliot fans in the house.

I can do this.

My freak is ready to rumble.

Chapter Five

It’s Friday and quite honestly, it isn’t really being the day that I was hoping for. I felt so inspired and up-for-it after meeting with Binky and Alice yesterday and their enthusiasm and confidence was quite contagious.

However, it turns out that writing the sequel is proving to be every bit as hard as I suspected it might be. I sat at my usual table in The Daily Grind this morning (the fact that I have a usual table makes me feel like a totally legitimate author) and tried to imagine how Bella Rose would feel when she saw Daxx walking shirtless into the kitchen but I kept getting completely distracted by the new barista, whose ability to whip up a whipped caramel latte is truly second to none. Plus his muscles kept rippling every time he pulled down the lever on the coffee machine and it made the tiger tattoo on his arm move in a very enthralling manner. So I didn’t actually get very much done at all and ended up coming home, in the hopes that I’d be more productive here.

And while the whole writing thing is all very exciting and I know that I’m very lucky, it does feel slightly different this time. When I was writing before, I wasn’t sure that I’d ever let anyone read it. Now, every word that I choose feels like it has to be perfect. All I can think about when I sit down to write is a faceless, unknown reader, selecting my book over one of the millions of others that are out there – and then finding it lacking. I’ve been calling her Valerie in my head, in an attempt to make her seem less intimidating but I think I’ve just compounded the problem because she’s started to take on a personality all of her own. And Valerie is a very demanding mistress when it comes to her choice of erotic fiction.

It’s all mildly terrifying and I’m pretty sure that I’ve got writer’s block because so far, the only thing that I’ve got is the first six words of the first chapter. And Valerie thinks that they are all quite rubbish.

There is one very excellent thing about being a writer though and, glancing up at the clock, I can see that it’s finally time for me to stop labouring over my manuscript and indulge in some author-reader connectivity or, as others might call it, some Googling of myself. I put the kettle on and then take my laptop across to the sofa by the back door, making myself comfortable beside Dogger. I’ve had to develop some rules for working from home because otherwise it’s all a bit too easy for the day to disappear. So I’m being strict with myself now. Writing happens at the kitchen table with a glass of water – and relaxation time happens on the sofa with a cup of tea. I’m actually getting quite good at being disciplined. As soon as my break is over I’ll return to the table, delete the six words that are on the screen and start again.

I’ve been eagerly anticipating this moment for the last hour. This is fast becoming my favourite thing to do and one of the best bits about being a writer. I hadn’t given it much thought to begin with because everything happened so quickly – but a few days after More Than Sex was released, the reviews started to come in and that was it. I was hooked. If I’m truly honest, another reason for the lack of progress with Book Two (untitled) is possibly due to the amount of time that I have spent searching for reviews online. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just Continued Professional Development – I’m keen to read what people say about the book, good or bad, and then use that to further my writing skills. I appreciate and take on board each and every comment. It’s like I tell the kids at school – a person is never too old to learn and it’s important to keep your mind open to the opinions of others.

I’ve had to limit my looking though, after Nick asked me yesterday how my writing was going and I complained that I didn’t have enough time to get anything done and that he was going to have to cook supper because I’d been so busy working on my book. Well, I told him that I was working. The reality was that I spent several hours searching for reviews online and twenty-eight minutes writing my opening paragraph. And twenty-one of those minutes consisted of me staring vacantly at the screen, wondering what Valerie would make of a first chapter that started with the words:

Bella Rose’s skin started to prickle with unbridled passion and also as a result of the temperature in Tulsa, Oklahoma being ninety-six degrees Fahrenheit (which in real money is thirty-five point five degrees Celsius). The high propensity of buildings meant that the trapped heat made it feel much hotter, which Bella Rose knew was part of the phenomenon known as Urban Heat Island and made living in this new city a very different experience to the ranch back in Wyoming. Not that the meteorological conditions were a problem. Bella Rose liked her climate the way she liked her men. And also her coffee. Hot and steamy and tattooed. Hot and steamy was good. Hot and steamy was what Bella Rose liked best. Long, sultry nights filled with sizzling, torrid passion as she and Daxx made wanton, steamy love into the early hours.

It took a lot of reading and re-reading for me to come to conclusion that Valerie would think it in no way realistic or even particularly sexy despite the fact that it includes the words sizzling and wanton. So I deleted everything except the first six words and I haven’t been able to come up with anything else since, which is why I’m trialing this new way of working. My new plan is to write for one hour and then check for any new reviews instead of refreshing my screen on a two-minute basis, which will hopefully mean that I’ll get some actual writing done and stop getting too distracted.

It hasn’t worked so far today but then again, maybe I’m just the kind of writer who needs feedback from her audience in order to thrive. That sounds reasonable. I cannot write in a vacuum. I need to bounce off the opinions of others and hone my craft, acknowledging that without the reader, there is no writer.

My new career might be fraught with risk and challenge but I can’t lie – it’s also incredibly exciting. Every time I think about the fact that I have written an actual, genuine book that actual, genuine people are reading I feel a thrill of utter euphoria and reading their comments makes me feel like I’m someone a bit special. Opening the first tab, I can see immediately that there are four new reviews since I last looked. My heart starts to beat a little faster and I lean closer to the screen, ready to soak in lots of lovely, critical appraisal.

The words from the first review leap off the screen and punch me in the face.

What the actual fuck? I don’t know who Heather0933 is, but I sure as shit know that she does not have a clue what she is talking about. If she’s such a bloody expert on what entails good erotic fiction then where is her book, hey?

I struggled with this book and the beginning nearly had me giving up.

Well, I wish you had given up, if you were just going to be unkind about it.

I scan down to the next review.

The humour felt forced and unnatural and there’s very little plot.

It wasn’t supposed to be funny when I wrote it. Although she possibly has a point about the lack of plot – but does it really matter? Do readers really pick up erotica for the plot?

However, what she says next about some of my information being wrong is just plain ignorant. I fact-checked everything that went in. There’s no way I would include something that I hadn’t ensured was accurate. I spent hours researching, making sure that I had up-to-date knowledge about the setting in Wyoming and Nick and I re-enacted all the explicit scenes to guarantee that they were physically do-able. Any suggestion otherwise is just libelous. I could probably sue.

I’m quite fortunate that Nick didn’t try to sue me himself, if I’m honest. My surprise purchase of a sex manual entitled Kama Sutra: Three hundred and sixty-five positions resulted in an evening that neither of us is ever likely to forget. I still have the occasional night where I will wake drenched in sweat and clutching the duvet in horror as I re-enact the moment that Dylan and Scarlet walked in on us attempting to recreate the Coiled Cobra position. The fact that we were fully clothed did little to dispel the awkwardness.

I ended up donating the totally useless manual to the school charity sale, hidden under a pile of Enid Blyton books. That’s another thing that wakes me up now and again – the knowledge that I almost definitely inscribed my name inside the front cover, as is my habit on purchasing a new book. Nobody has confronted me about it though, so I’m either safe or it was bought by someone who hasn’t learnt to read yet.

Blinking hard, I scroll down to look at the next review. Kevin from Hull has given me three stars and the comment reads:

Very nice. Just what I’ve been looking for. My mother-in-law is delighted.

I wonder if Kevin from Hull has possibly confused my erotic novel with his new kettle purchase.

I fervently hope so.

Thankfully, I get lucky with the fourth reviewer who says that she’s never read anything so funny in her life and that she hadn’t known that sex could be so entertaining.

Neither did I, until I unwittingly struck comedy-sex gold. Now all I’ve got to do is tap that again.

Heaving a big sigh, I give Dogger’s fur a quick ruffle and then return to the table. This book isn’t going to write itself and Valerie is waiting. I can’t let her down. I need to find a way to write in a sexy manner while injecting a jocular note into every sensual act that Bella Rose and the brooding, yet slightly stupid, Daxx perform.

I stare at the screen and try to remember what I did last time. After I’d read all the Fifty Shades of Grey books and been inspired to do a better job, I read a few other erotic works and tried to find a pattern. But what really worked was writing about what made me feel excited. And that was making sure that Bella Rose was a kick-ass, take-no-nonsense woman who knew what she wanted. It was all about writing a character that secretly, I would quite like to be.

So all I’ve got to do now is figure out what Bella Rose wants next and send her on a new journey. Her journey of sexual awakening or enlightenment or whatever, which presumably means that she’s going to be having quite a lot of it. Sex, that is.

I flex my fingers and position them over my keyboard. There are worse things that a woman could have to do with her time than fantasise about wanton, impassioned coitus.

I type the raunchiest word that I know onto the screen to get me started.

And then the phone rings and when I glance at the screen I see that it’s my mother. Of course it is. She’s always had the ability to interrupt any moments of illicit pleasure that I may be attempting to enjoy.

I could ignore her. I should ignore her.

I am incapable of ignoring her.

‘Hi, Mum,’ I say, lowering the lid of my laptop which I know is ridiculous but I just don’t feel comfortable talking to her with that word leaping off the screen. ‘Is everything okay?’

‘Everything is fine, darling!’ she trills merrily. ‘I’ve just finished this week’s online learning session and it made me think about you. We need to have a quick chat.’

For fuck’s sake. This is literally the last thing that I need right now. Whatever she’s about to say is guaranteed to ruin my mood and dampen my vibe for the rest of the day.

‘I’m actually a bit busy, Mum,’ I start but I’m wasting my breath. Short of hanging up on her, there is nothing I can do to stop her when she wants to have a quick chat. Which is code for a lengthy monologue.

‘It’s about you and Nick,’ she says, plowing straight ahead. ‘I’m worried that you’re spending too much time on your phones and computers and devices and not enough time investing in your relationship as lovers.’

I close my eyes and start trying to count to ten. I don’t make it past two.

‘The Internet is killing sex,’ she states. ‘And you need to do something about it.’

Incredible. I’ll add it to the list of things that demand my attention.

‘The first thing you need to do is remove your mobile phones from the bedroom,’ she continues. ‘Hannah? Are you listening to me?’

‘I’m not having a conversation about this with you, Mother,’ I say firmly. ‘It’s just like last week, when you rang me up and tried to tell me that I need to do something about harmonising the domestic and sensual halves of myself, right when I was in the middle of trying to unblock the dishwasher filter. I am not your sex-counselling guinea pig, okay? Find someone else to trial this stuff on.’

There is silence at the other end of the line and I instantly feel bad.

‘But you’re probably right,’ I concede, grudgingly. ‘I’m sure it would be better for our health if we didn’t charge our phones next to the bed every night.’

‘Definitely better for your sexual health,’ agrees my mother, bouncing back. ‘That’s sorted then. Excellent!’

‘Marvellous,’ I mutter. ‘Thanks for calling.’

‘My pleasure,’ she chirrups. ‘Just shout if you want any more advice, Hannah. I’m always here to help. Now, sorry to cut you short, darling, but I must go. I was just heading out to the shops when you called.’

‘But Mum, you rang—’ I start, but the dialing tone buzzes back at me. I shake my head and hang up before lifting my laptop lid, but even the sexiest word isn’t enough to get me back in the zone so I delete it and try again. Binky said that I should push my characters further and take more chances. Her insinuation was that I need to loosen up which was a bit rude because I’ve always liked to think of myself as a very chilled out, laid-back yet also passionate kind of woman and any suggestion otherwise is a teeny bit insulting.

I’ll show her just how loose I can be. I shake my arms and shrug the tension out of my shoulders and then I start typing, really letting myself go. I dig as deep as I possibly can and type without thinking, which is another thing I read about in How to Write a Bestselling Novel. It’s called ‘Free Writing’ and the whole point is to write without fear of being judged or worrying about normal conventions. And the end result may be a little raw and in need of a polish but it will be real and honest and from the heart and that’s exactly what I’m after.

I write an entire paragraph and then pause, nervously reading what I’ve written back to myself. This is the moment of truth.

Bella Rose’s skin started to prickle. She had always been susceptible to blocked sweat glands, particularly under her breasts and on her upper thighs and most of the time a simple application of an antiperspirant usually did the trick. The best solution of all, of course, was to avoid any activity that would result in her perspiring but right here, with Daxx standing in front of her with such unbridled passion and lust in his eyes that it made her knees tremble, Bella Rose was prepared to throw all caution aside. This was a man she would gladly perspire for. Heck, just the sight of him unbuttoning his shirt made her damp.

The end result is…a little shit.

It’s not even sexy by my (apparently) low standards, despite the mention of both thighs and breasts. No wonder my own mother seems to think that I need marriage guidance. If I can’t even write about this stuff then what chance do I have of spicing up my own love life?

I need help.

Chapter Six

I am sitting in the empty staffroom, attempting to find the energy and inclination to mark Year Ten, Class C’s English homework when Cassie finds me.

‘You’ve got a face like a slapped kipper,’ she says, flopping down into the seat opposite me. ‘Why so glum? Is it because Scarlet has got the entire Sixth Form petitioning to go on strike if the canteen doesn’t start serving bacon and brie panini? Because I have to tell you, Hannah, a lot of the teaching staff are very onboard with the whole thing.’

I drop my pen and rest my chin on my hands.

‘It’s not that,’ I tell her. ‘I knew nothing about that but I’m ecstatic that my daughter is putting her Head Girl powers to good use since her appointment to the position, all of two days ago.’

‘So what is it then?’

‘Nothing is right.’ I exhale loudly. ‘I feel like I spend my entire time working as hard as I can and getting absolutely nowhere.’

Cassie nods sympathetically. ‘I get it. This job is getting more thankless by the day. Do you know, Miriam told me last week that she’s taken away the budget for the Chemistry department but that is in no way an excuse for anyone to make less progress? Seriously! How am I supposed to teach about chemical reactions without any buggering chemicals?’

I gaze out of the window. ‘It’s not just this place. It’s everything.’

‘Like what?’

I sigh. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Life.’

Cassie snorts. ‘You’re going to have to be a bit more specific than that, Hannah. Honestly – what’s pissing you off?’

I turn back to look at her, shrugging my shoulders.

‘I can’t be more specific because I don’t know. Everything just feels wrong.’ I shake my head in despair. ‘I feel like I spend every day trying to run up the down escalator and it’s knackering and pointless and I’ve had enough.’

Cassie raises an exquisitely shaped eyebrow and I feel something snap inside.

‘And that’s another thing. Surely by now, after forty-four years on this planet, I should be able to find some time and money for myself? I should be able to get my eyebrows waxed or have a relaxing massage if I want to, shouldn’t I?’

‘You should,’ she agrees, kindly ignoring my random complaint.

‘It shouldn’t be this hard.’ I bang my fist on the table. ‘And I’m bloody sick and tired of pretending that I know what I’m doing all the time. Would it be so awful just to admit that I don’t actually possess all the answers in the universe?’

Cassie leans forward and gives me a firm look. ‘Yes. Yes it would. We are women, Hannah and our one superpower is knowing everything about everything. If we let them suspect, for even one second, that we aren’t fully in control then we’ll be left with nothing. Do you understand me?’

I nod my head wearily but I don’t actually think I do understand. I just know that it all feels wrong right now.

‘What’s this actually about, Hannah?’ Cassie softens her grimace and gives me a concerned look. ‘Is it Nick? Or the kids?’

‘Yes.’ I slump back into my chair. ‘No. Oh god, I don’t know. I just know that I’m tired all the time and it feels like I’ve been breaking bits off myself to give to everyone else for so long that I didn’t even realise there was nothing left for me. Never mind time to focus on my actual marriage.’

Cassie smiles. ‘What you need is a date night,’ she tells me. ‘Go somewhere nice with Nick. Just the two of you.’

I suppress a howl. I’ve barely seen Nick properly in the last few weeks. He’s constantly busy either at work or fixing his bloody Land Rover and even when we are together, we’re both either utterly exhausted or end up talking about money and how the hell we’re going to pay for everything that needs paying for.

Plus it feels like our family is in some kind of strange limbo, waiting for Dylan to go to university. None of us quite know how we’re supposed to be feeling and there’s nothing that I can do to ‘fix’ it because it’s supposed to be this way. We were never going to stay being the five of us forever, I know that. It’s making me feel like everything is layered with a thin sprinkling of sadness and I just don’t know if Nick feels the same way that I do. I’d ask him but I’m scared that I won’t like the answer.

‘I don’t think that’s going to help,’ I say. ‘A meal out is not going to solve my problems.’

A concerned look passes over Cassie’s face.

‘Are you guys having trouble?’ she asks quietly, glancing around to make sure that nobody can overhear. ‘You can talk to me about it if you are, Hannah. God knows if anyone will understand man trouble then it’s me. And men can get very challenging in their middle years, believe me.’

I shake my head. ‘It’s not really man trouble though. It’s woman trouble. It’s me.’

Cassie frowns and I elaborate.

‘I’m just feeling a bit – well, a bit boring.’

I pause, unsure how much to tell her but then decide that if I can’t talk to Cassie then the only other option is my mother and that is never happening, no matter how happy it would make her.

‘And it’s not just my life and who I am that’s a bit dull,’ I whisper, even though the staffroom is still empty. ‘It’s more than that. I think I’m maybe a bit boring in the bedroom. You know. When it comes to being sexy?’

Cassie starts to laugh but then sees my face and quickly stops.

‘What do you mean? Why would you think that? Has Nick said something to you?’

‘No!’ I shudder. ‘Of course he hasn’t. He’d never be so insensitive. No – I just think that I’m not very imaginative. I’ve been desperately trying to write some erotic scenes for Bella Rose and Daxx but I can’t get it right.’

‘I think you’re super sexy,’ says Cassie loyally, but I can see her mouth twitching. I shouldn’t have expected her to understand. The woman gets a facial twice a month and has a gym membership that she actually uses, plus a very active Tinder account. Her life is way more exciting than mine can ever hope to be. ‘You’re just having a bad day.’

‘It’s not just that though,’ I tell her. ‘Scarlet keeps banging on about me being middle-aged and I’m usually able to ignore her but lately it’s been getting harder and harder.’

Cassie shrugs her shoulders. ‘What’s the definition of middle-age?’ she asks me. ‘Is it a number or a state of mind? And as much as I love her, Scarlet can be a bit much sometimes, Hannah. Don’t let her get to you.’

‘That’s easy for you to say,’ I retort, sniffing loudly. ‘You don’t have to deal with her every day. And anyway, I’m starting to think that she might be right. I’ve looked online and I’m definitely displaying some of the symptoms of aging.’

‘We’re all aging, Hannah.’ Cassie sounds amused. ‘But go on – I’ll bite. Which ones?’

‘Well, I forgot all about Benji needing to take cakes in for the school cake sale the other day,’ I tell her. ‘Which was mortifying because the PTA specifically tasked me with providing sugar-free flapjacks for those children whose parents actually care about their teeth. And so now, if any of the little cherubs require any kind of dental work in the next six months, then I am going to be held solely responsible.’

Cassie tuts. ‘You’re always forgetting stuff for Benji’s school,’ she says, clearly unmoved. ‘That’s down to your organizational skills, Hannah – not getting old and past it.’

‘Fine!’ I lean towards her. ‘I didn’t want to have to share this with you because I don’t want to gross you out, but you obviously aren’t taking me seriously. It’s not just aging that I’m showing signs of. It’s the peri-menopause too.’ I lower my voice further. ‘I’m fairly sure that I have a reduced libido.’

I sit back, smug. There’s no way she can minimise that little nugget of information.

‘And you are basing this on what, exactly?’ Cassie does not look grossed out. She looks highly entertained.

I hold my hand up and start counting off on my fingers.

‘One: If we watch a film then I’m always asleep before it’s even halfway through. Two: Sometimes, if I had to choose, I’d rather have a hot bath and read my book than engage in any other nocturnal activity. Three: If we do actually have you-know-what then it’s not unheard of for my mind to start roaming onto other things and I’m not talking about sexy things – I’m talking about what food there is in the fridge and when the car is due for its next service and whether Dogger needs a top-up of worming pills. And four: As previously mentioned, I am struggling to write about anything that could be classed as even a bit sexually adventurous which is a problem when I’m supposed to be a writer of erotica and I’m currently attempting to write Book Two, which so far doesn’t even have a bloody title.’

I take a deep breath and blink hard. ‘I just don’t think I’m a very sexual person and that makes me want to cry. Quite a lot.’

Cassie jumps out of her seat and comes around the table, enveloping me in a big hug.

‘Hannah. My lovely but ever-so-slightly ridiculous friend. There is nothing wrong with you, okay?’

I pull away. ‘Did you not just hear the list of woe that I am dealing with? I’m only two steps away from needing to book into a retirement home.’

Cassie laughs. ‘I didn’t hear anything that any woman hasn’t felt at some time. I happen to do some of my best problem-solving during sex – it’s the only time that I’m not distracted.’

Relatable.

‘So you don’t think I’m menopausal?’ I ask, as Cassie heads back to her side of the table. ‘Or getting old?’

She shrugs again. ‘Who knows? I’m not a doctor. You might be menopausal but so what? Gone are the days when that meant a woman was all dried up and written off. We’ve got to own that shit now.’

I suppress a groan. I do not want to own the menopause. I only mentioned it in the first place because I wanted her to tell me that I’m being ridiculous and that there’s no way I can possibly be at that stage of life.

‘I mean, you’re getting older but you’re definitely not getting old,’ muses my so-called best friend. ‘What I do know is that you’re tired and over-worked and that’s making you a tiny bit stressed out right now.’

I nod in agreement. ‘I am all of those things.’

‘You need to take a chill pill, Hannah.’ Cassie flops back onto her chair. ‘Stop taking everything so seriously. Chill out. Do something just for you. And lighten up.’

Chapter Seven

My phone beeps just as I’m debating what to cook for supper.

‘I suppose I’m going to have to collect him,’ I say to Nick, eyeing the can of beer in his hand as I tip some fish fingers onto a baking tray. ‘Seeing as you’ve already started the weekend.’

‘You snooze, you lose,’ he tells me, stretching his legs out in front of him and sighing in pleasure. ‘I offered you a glass of wine, remember?’

I narrow my eyes at him. ‘Not today, Satan. Some of us have self-control and willpower.’

I pick up my phone and swipe the screen, suddenly keen to jump in the car and spend some quality time with my oldest child before he flies the nest and does whatever baby birds do when they’re ready to spread their wings and leave their mummies, which hopefully won’t involve too many failed attempts at flying or any lurking cats. But instead of the text that I am expecting from Dylan, requesting a lift home from his girlfriend’s house, the green WhatsApp icon shows a notification and a very tiny part of me dies inside.

I didn’t even want to be on WhatsApp in the first place. If the kids need me and I’m not within screeching distance then they text like every other normal person. But the Parent Teacher Association at Benji’s school decided that every class should have a private messaging group and Allegra, our terrifyingly efficient class representative and Chair of the PTA, made me join. I suppose that in some ways it’s quite useful – if I’d been part of the group chat last year then I’d at least have had a heads-up about bastarding World Book Day.

However, the positives are quite hard to remember when the negatives far outweigh them.

And the missive that has just slid into my DMs is about as negative as they get.

‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’ I read the words and then lower my phone to gape at Nick. ‘This is a new all-time low, even for Allegra.’

‘What’s wrong now?’ he asks half-heartedly. ‘Did she catch you trying to pass off shop-bought cake as your own again?’

‘It’s worse than that,’ I mutter, shaking my head. And then I read her message aloud, keeping my voice low so that I can’t be overheard.

‘Hannah. I would very much appreciate it if you would address Benji’s use of language. Auberon came home from school today and told me that Benji called him a penis. Yes. A penis. He says that Benji shouted it at him in front of the whole of Chestnut Class when they were in the playground at lunchtime, which means that we may very well have a large penis epidemic on our hands. I’m sure that you understand just how serious this is. Unfortunately, Ophelia’s ballet class had been cancelled so she heard everything and you know how impressionable six-year-olds can be. She’s now running around the house and shouting “You’re a penis” at the dog, which is upsetting for all of us. Please help – I’m at my wit’s end here.’

‘Bloody hell,’ murmurs Nick, when I’m finished. ‘That sounds like a right cock-up. What does a penis epidemic look like?’

‘She’s clearly unhinged,’ I say, putting down my phone. ‘But I can’t just ignore the situation, not if he’s going round saying rude things at school. God – what if he’s overheard us talking about the plot of More Than Sex? What if my writing is somehow corrupting him?’ I grimace and turn to face the kitchen door. ‘Benji! Can you come in here please?’

‘Is it really necessary to drag him into this?’ asks Nick. ‘It’s not a big deal, Hannah. All kids say stuff like this – and he doesn’t know anything about your book. Just calm down.’

I narrow my eyes at my husband. ‘You might not think it’s a big deal, Nick – but if we let him get away with inappropriate language now then where’s it going to end up, hey? Penis might only be the start of it.’

‘I hardly think this is a gateway to—’ starts Nick and then our youngest son appears in the doorway and the interrogation can begin.

‘Is supper ready?’ he asks, sniffing the air apprehensively. ‘I can’t smell burning.’

‘Give it time,’ says Nick.

I ignore them both and gesture Benji to sit down.

‘How was your day?’ I start. I don’t want to leap right into the gritty stuff straight away.

‘It was okay,’ Benji tells me. ‘Mrs Cowl got cross with me because Logan was talking and so I wasn’t allowed to use an iPad but I didn’t mind because I got to read a book instead.’

‘Reading a book isn’t a punishment!’ I exclaim.

‘Why did you get told off if Logan was the one talking?’ Nick asks at the same time.

Benji shrugs at both our responses and I move on.

‘Did anything happen in the playground at lunchtime?’ I prompt. ‘Maybe with Auberon? Perhaps some kind of argument that got a bit silly?’

Benji wrinkles up his forehead. ‘No. We played football for a bit until Logan kicked it over the fence.’

‘It’s just that Auberon’s mum seems to think that you said a rude word to Auberon,’ I say, pulling my sad face. ‘A not-very-nice word that has made Auberon’s mum feel quite upset.’

Benji stares at me blankly. ‘I didn’t say anything.’

I pause. I’ve never known Benji to lie to me but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t. He might just be exceptionally good at it.

‘Well, Auberon’s mum is quite sure that you said an offensive word.’ I pull out a chair and sit down opposite Benji. ‘It’s better to admit it now and then we can move on.’

Benji’s upper lip starts to tremble. ‘I didn’t say anything bad!’ he insists. ‘Honestly, Mum.’

I maintain eye contact and try to channel a calm but firm manner. ‘So you didn’t say the word penis at school, then?’

Benji bursts out laughing, which is not the reaction that I was expecting.

‘Oh that! Yeah, I said that! I thought you said that it was a not-very-nice word?’

I glance at Nick for support but he seems to be thoroughly enjoying the entertainment being laid on before him and just waves his hand nonchalantly at me, which is no help whatsoever.

‘Well, it’s not a word that should be shouted at other people,’ I tell him. ‘You know better than that.’

Benji nods. ‘I do know better than that. Which is why, when Auberon was shouting “You’re a willy” to the people who were walking their dog on the other side of the fence, I told him that you shouldn’t be embarrassed about using the proper word for things and that he should really be shouting “You’re a penis”.’ He pauses and stares at me. ‘Was that wrong? Because you’ve always told us that there’s nothing embarrassing about using the right word for body stuff.’

‘You have always told them that,’ agrees Nick, nodding seriously. I resist the urge to knock his can of beer off the table.

‘It’s clearly just a misunderstanding,’ I say. ‘I’ll let Auberon’s mum know what happened and then we can forget all about it.’

‘Why did you say that penis is a rude and offensive word?’ Benji is obviously not prepared to forget all about it. ‘I’ve got one and so does Dad and Dylan. Does that mean that we’re rude and offensive too?’

The grin on Nick’s face is large enough to house one man and his dog which is handy, because if he keeps this up then he’s certainly not sleeping under this roof tonight.

‘Only sometimes,’ I mutter. ‘But it’s not necessarily linked to your genitalia. More of a personality thing, I’d say.’

‘So can I go then?’ Benji pushes his chair back and stands up. ‘Only I’m in the middle of a game with Logan and if I’m gone for too long then he’s going to destroy my house and I’ll have to start building it again.’

I nod. ‘You’ve got twenty more minutes of screen-time and then you’ll have to come off, okay?’

Benji groans. ‘Can’t I stay on a bit longer? Logan’s Mum lets him stay on for hours.’

‘Well, I’m not Logan’s Mum,’ I retort, looking meaningfully at the kitchen clock. ‘Time is ticking, Benji – you’ve only got nineteen minutes left now.’

The kitchen door slams closed behind him as he sprints off to claim his precious allocated time on the computer. I pick up my phone and then pause.

‘What am I going to tell Allegra?’ I ask Nick.

He shrugs. ‘The truth. It’s not that complicated, Hannah.’

The laugh that pushes itself through my tightly pursed lips is as humourless as I feel.

‘Not that complicated? Are you insane?’ I lean back in my chair and stare at my husband. ‘I can hardly send Mrs Perfect Mother a WhatsApp message telling her that her perfect son was shouting abuse at complete strangers.’

‘Why not?’ Nick looks puzzled. ‘That’s what happened. Benji shouldn’t be branded as the problem here – her kid was the one doing something stupid, not him.’

‘But it doesn’t work like that,’ I tell him. ‘If I tell Allegra that Auberon was behaving in a less-than-fabulous manner then she’s going to make my life a living hell. You know the phrase “don’t shoot the messenger”? Well, Allegra won’t do anything as humane as to shoot me. That would be far too easy. She’ll spin this out and exact her own brand of torture for the rest of the school year until I’m begging her to just put me out of misery.’

Nick laughs. ‘You’re being a total drama-queen! Just tell her that Auberon was being a bit daft. What on earth can she possibly do to you?’

I lean across the table and fix him with a firm look.

‘She can do anything she likes,’ I intone. ‘Because she is in charge of the goddamned world, Nick.’

‘Really?’ Nick rolls his eyes at me. ‘The goddamned world?’

I nod. ‘If I get on the wrong side of her then the rest of the school year is going to be a complete misery. She’ll act all nice to my face and bitch about me behind my back and I’ll end up being given all the crappy jobs at every school event.’

Nick stands up and stretches his arms and I find myself hoping that he’s not about to disappear off to start working on his bloody Land Rover again. Annoying as this conversation is, it’s quite nice being here in the kitchen together.

‘I still think you’re overreacting. Tell her what happened in the playground with Auberon and Benji and then let it go. And if she tries to get you to do anything that you don’t want to do then just refuse.’

Sometimes, the extent of Nick’s naivety is hard to fathom.

‘One does not simply “say no” to Allegra,’ I snap, shaking my head. ‘It’s not a word that she understands.’

‘Come off it, Hannah.’ Nick sighs loudly. ‘Just send her a message and let’s try to enjoy the evening. I’ve had a knackering week and I’ve spent the last five days stuck halfway up a tree with a chainsaw in my hand. Right now, all I want to do is chill out for a bit.’

‘Is there any more news on that forestry contract you were going after?’ I ask. ‘It’s been ages.’

‘Are you sending that message or not?’ replies Nick, and then my phone beeps again with another missive from Allegra, this time in the form of the praying hands emoji. She’s clearly getting desperate.

‘Fine.’ I swipe my screen and start to type. ‘As long as you’re aware that it won’t only be me who suffers. She’s currently on the search for a willing dad to dress up as Father Christmas for this year’s Festive Fete and I’ve heard a rumour that you’re in the running. This probably isn’t the time to raise your head above the parapet unless you’re prepared to spend five hours sweating in a cheap Santa suit while small children try to pull your beard off.’

‘Not a chance.’ Nick wrinkles up his nose. ‘You don’t seriously think that she’d ask me to do it?’

‘I do,’ I tell him. ‘I definitely heard her talking to one of the other mothers about how “that sexy tree surgeon” would be the perfect choice and as far as I know you’re the only parent who fits that description. Well, the tree surgeon part anyway.’

Nick scowls at me and I suppress a grin. ‘So I’ll send this message telling her that Auberon was yelling about his willy because as you said, it’s only the truth and it’s not that complicated.’

‘No!’ Nick darts across the kitchen and snatches the phone from my hands. ‘Are you insane? I’m not dressing up as sodding Father Christmas.’

I smile sweetly up at him. ‘So we’re on the same page then? We’re in this together?’

Nick grits his teeth and nods. And then we throw Benji under the metaphorical bus and write a penitent message to Allegra, apologising profusely for our son’s use of the word penis and assuring her that he will never use the correct terminology for that particular appendage ever again. And did we say how sorry we were?

‘I feel like a traitor,’ Nick says when we’ve finally pressed send.

‘That’s because we are,’ I tell him. ‘Treacherous, cowardly, disloyal parents who care more about what other people think about us than the moral high ground.’

‘It’s for the best though, isn’t it?’ He pulls another can of beer from the fridge and pops the top open. ‘It would be more damaging for Benji to see me prancing around as Father Christmas than it is to be considered a bit rude, surely?’

‘Absolutely,’ I agree. ‘Although I might have quite enjoyed the performance.’

Nick grins. ‘Maybe we can have our own Festive Fete. You could dress up as a sexy fairy with glittery wings and a fairy wand.’

My phone beeps again, saving me from telling him exactly where he can stick his fairy wand – this time with a message from someone I’m actually happy to hear from.

‘Dylan wants collecting,’ I say, standing up. ‘Can you finish cooking the fish fingers?’

‘If by finish, you actually mean can I start cooking the fish fingers, then yes, I can.’ He takes a swig of beer and gestures at the still-cold oven.

‘That’s the spirit,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll be back in a minute. And maybe you can get Scarlet to run her Head Girl speech for the new pupils past you while I’m gone? I heard it the other day and it needs a bit of toning down.’

Our daughter has obviously confused our school with a totalitarian dictatorship, if her welcome address is anything to go by. Not that Miriam would necessarily disagree with her. I’m torn between being impressed and alarmed by her tenacity.

Outside, the air smells like autumn. The leaves are still on the trees but it won’t be long until they’re gone and Dylan will be gone with them. There’s two weeks to go before he heads off to university and it’s impossible to figure out how I’m supposed to be feeling. Part of me wants the next fourteen days to last forever but part of me wishes that we could just be at that point already because the anticipation and waiting for him to leave is half-killing me.

I pull up outside his girlfriend’s house and think about how unprepared I am for him not to be living at home. I’m excited for him, of course I am, but I’m scared too. Scared that he’ll be lonely and unhappy. Scared that he won’t make friends or that he’ll hate his course. Scared that he’s committing to more debt than I can bring myself to calculate. And selfishly, scared that we won’t survive him going. We’ve been a family of five (well, six, with Dogger) forever and I can’t imagine it ever feeling okay with only four of us in the house.

The car door opens and my boy throws himself down onto the passenger seat.

‘Thanks for picking me up, Mum,’ he says, leaning across and giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘How was your day?’

He always asks me about my day. How am I supposed to let him go when he’s so bloody lovely?

‘It was fine,’ I say, checking the mirrors and pulling away from the kerb. ‘How about you? Was it alright saying goodbye to Zoe?’

He leans forward and retrieves his phone from his back pocket. ‘Yeah, I guess? I mean, it’s a bit weird and awkward and everything but it was okay.’

His phone pings and he starts to type. I focus on the road and try to think about something else but it’s impossible – nothing feels as big as Dylan’s impending departure.

‘Is Zoe nervous about leaving so early?’ I ask, after a few minutes of silence. ‘And how are her parents doing?

I am obsessed with how other parents are handling this major life event. I’ve spent hours online looking for forums where people (mostly women) talk about how they coped with their children leaving home, looking for tactics and strategies that might help my brain to calm down, just for a bit.

‘She’s a bit anxious about meeting her flatmates,’ Dylan tells me. ‘They haven’t got a group chat like my flat has so she isn’t sure what they’re going to be like. But her parents are chill with it all, you know?’

‘Oh, they’re chill?’ I indicate and pull left onto our street. ‘Of course they are. Because why wouldn’t they be? It’s a chill thing, isn’t it? I am also chill. And cool. Totally cool. Because it’s all going to be absolutely fine and brilliant and amazing.’

Dylan gives me a look as I turn off the engine.

‘Are you doing okay, Mum?’

It’s so important that I don’t project my fears and emotions onto him. This isn’t about me. It’s about my darling, sweet, first-born child and I have got to be strong enough for both of us.

‘Me?’ I laugh in a light-hearted manner. ‘I’m absolutely fine! Why wouldn’t I be? I won’t have to wash your stinky socks or spend hours collecting dirty plates and mugs from your room or chauffer you around the place because you decided that driving lessons weren’t that interesting!’ I plaster on my chirpiest smile. ‘I should have sent you packing years ago!’

Dylan puts his hand on my arm. ‘It’s going to be okay,’ he says quietly. ‘I’m ready for the next adventure, Mum.’

‘Of course you are.’ I turn away to open the door so that he can’t see my face because I’m getting this all the wrong way round and he’s not the one who is supposed to be comforting me. ‘You’re absolutely ready.’

It’s me who isn’t ready. And I don’t think I ever will be.

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