Dirty Minds
Tom, a widower and aspiring author (with a penchant for Hobnobs) is in need of a new start. Inspired by his therapist, the ‘Fifty Shades Phenomenon’, and his lack of literary success, he sets out to write an erotic novel – after all, how hard can it be?
But as writing erotica proves a challenge for a man more unsure than hardcore, Tom finds himself enlisting the help of an eclectic group of co-authors. Brought together by their authorial ambitions and fondness for innuendo, their project becomes a collaboration that will change lives, open minds … and prompt the purchase of an unfortunate PVC catsuit.
Effortlessly witty and insightful, Dirty Minds is the story of seven writers, determined to make their mark on the publishing industry. Just as soon as they’ve finished their tea.
Dirty Minds
T. A. Williams
Copyright
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2013
Copyright © T. A. Williams 2013
T. A. Williams asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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, downloaded, 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.
E-book Edition © June 2013 ISBN: 9781472018182
Version date: 2018-07-23
T. A. WILLIAMS lives in Devon with his Italian wife. He lived and worked in Switzerland, France and Italy, before returning to run one of the best-known language schools in the UK. He has taught people from all over the world, among them Arab princes, Brazilian beauty queens and Italian billionaires. He speaks a number of languages and has travelled extensively. He has eaten snake, live fish, and alligator. A Spanish dog, a Russian bug and a Korean parasite have done their best to eat him in return. He has written historical novels, humorous books and thrillers. His hobby is long-distance cycling, but his passion is writing. You can follow him on Twitter, @TAWilliamsBooks or visit his website: www.tawilliamsbooks.com
I would like to thank Clio Cornish, for her belief in me as a writer and for her insightful suggestions. Thanks also to Alex Baker, who loves good grammar as much as Tom does.
To Mariangela and Christina
For their support
With love.
Contents
Cover
Blurb
Title Page
Copyright
Author Bio
Acknowledgements
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Endpages
About the Publisher
Chapter One
FEMALE WRITER
WANTED
To collaborate in writing
Erotic Novel
Experience and imagination
Essential.
Apply:
Box 1546
‘So what’s new in the world of literature, Tom?’
She said the same thing every week. It was pretty obvious that she saw creative writing as a valuable tool in his rehabilitation. He took a surreptitious glance at his watch and sighed: Ten more minutes to go. Casting around for an answer, he hit upon e-publishing. Before long, he found himself trying to explain the phenomenon to her, while she took notes.
‘You’re sitting on the 8.15 to Waterloo, surrounded by commuters. Imagine if you pulled out a well-thumbed paperback, with a huge naked bum on the cover.’
‘A huge what?’ She looked up from her note-pad.
‘Bottom, Cynthia. Or anything naughty. What I mean is that the cover of the book looks smutty. Maybe boasting a tasteful title like Gladys is Taken Roughly from Behind, or whatever.’
‘Is there a book with that title, Tom?’ She was writing again.
‘What? No … or maybe. I don’t know. The title’s not important. Just imagine the scene. You’re sitting on the train, reading porn. It’s a fairly safe bet you would get some very disapproving looks from your fellow commuters.’
‘Well, I should think so, too.’
‘That’s the point I’m trying to make. E-books give you anonymity. I’m sure that’s why Fifty Shades of Grey has sold so well. She started out with it as an e-book, and it sold like hot cakes. You download it onto your tablet, and you can read it anywhere you like. I daresay you can even read it on your phone, if your eyesight’s up to it. And nobody has a clue as to what you are reading. Now do you see?’
‘I suppose so. So what are you saying? Do you want to write a … rude book?’
‘Erotic novel, Cynthia. That’s what they’re called. And, no, I don’t. We were talking about e-books, and I was just giving you an example.’ He sighed inwardly. What had he done? He watched her scribbling furiously. Now she had a whole new line of attack. She didn’t waste much time in launching into it.
‘Do you read a lot of … this sort of book?’ She was looking at him over the rims of her glasses. She often did that. Maybe she thought he would feel less under analysis that way.
‘No, I don’t. And, Cynthia, before we get onto the subject once more, I’m not sexually repressed or frustrated.’
‘Of course you’re not, Tom. Although it would be quite understandable, quite normal, given the circumstances.’
‘Well I’m not. Really.’
‘Of course you’re not.’ As she repeated her words, he could plainly hear that she wasn’t convinced. ‘But writing is very good therapy, you know.’
‘I know, Cynthia. I spend hours every day doing it.’
‘Yes, but your books are a bit bleak, a bit morbid.’ Ever since he had been persuaded to give her his latest manuscript, she had been like a dog with a bone.
‘I’ve told you, the Middle Ages were a cruel time. Some terrible things were happening back then.’
‘Of course, Tom. That’s why I think you should go for a change of subject. Try something lighter, something frivolous.’
‘To be perfectly honest, Cynthia, I really haven’t felt light or frivolous for a hell of a long time now.’
In spite of her best efforts, the session ended, as so often, on a depressing note.
The following Sunday morning was grey and cold, even for February. He was reading the books section of Saturday’s Western Morning News. As usual, he scanned the new releases with brooding resentment.
‘What have they got that my three haven’t?’ He prodded the dog with his foot. ‘Look, Noah, two of them are historical novels, too.’ All he got in response was a long-suffering sigh.
An article headed EROTIC HISTORIES AND MURDER MYSTERIES FOR THE YEAR AHEAD caught his attention. The writer was interviewing the new fiction previewer of The Bookseller magazine, Cathy Rentzenbrink. When asked if erotic fiction had had its day, she replied. ‘No. Erotica will continue to do well … I think there will be more historical erotica – think Fifty Shades of Lady Jane Grey … ’
He put the newspaper down. Pulling himself to his feet, he filled the kettle and stuck it on the stove. Sensing movement, the dog opened one eye. There was just a chance that the chocolate Hobnobs might be brought out of the fridge. Noticing this sign of interest, Tom addressed him.
‘Cynthia might be right after all, Noah. Maybe that really is what I should go for. Another historical novel, but an erotic one this time. If the publishers don’t want my serious stuff, I’ll give them a bit of smut. And they can pump it out as an e-book. An erotic e-book.’
He spooned coffee into his mug and added hot water. What was it Cynthia had said? ‘Something light, something frivolous’? Maybe something lightweight would do him good. It might even be fun. And, in this house, fun had been in short supply for two long years now.
He was unconcerned that he had no previous experience of either erotic or electronic literature. He remembered a battered copy of Emanuel does Somewhere or Other that lived in the staff lounge of his first place of work. Unfortunately he had only flicked through the photos and could recall none of the text. Over the years, he had occasionally seen bits of dirty movies, but the dialogue rarely got beyond ‘Oh my God, that’s huge’ or ‘Yes, yes, yes’. But surely, with a fertile imagination, in spite of his far from encyclopaedic experience in the subject, he could give it a go.
The secret of success in historical fiction is research. His previous books were all set in the Middle Ages. He had read a huge amount about the period between the First Crusade and the trial of the Knights Templar. As a result, he felt he knew a good deal about that period. So what about an erotic novel set way back then?
The problem that immediately faced him was one of degree. The modern reader is regularly blasted with images of near-naked men and women. It wasn’t like that back then. A loose lock of hair, hanging out of a lady’s wimple would have been enough to give all the Knights of the Round Table a hard-on. A bare ankle and they would have been bursting out of their codpieces.
‘And don’t let’s forget that personal hygiene was very different in those days. Are you listening, dog? That’s never been your strong suit.’
All his reading had told him that water was, quite rightly at the time, deemed dangerous. Washing only took place in the Middle Ages if one was unfortunate enough to fall into a river. So it was a fairly safe bet that, as the Marquise pulled down Sir Shagalot’s undergarments, a toxic cloud, possibly accompanied by blood-sucking parasites, would have assaulted her.
So, regretfully, he decided to set his novel in a different, more hygienic period. The question was which? This would mean research. The research, he realised, would have to encompass more than the historical setting. He would need experience of other erotic novels, particularly those with a historical setting. He turned to the internet.
A search for ‘historical sex’ brought 195,000,000 results in 0.25 seconds. Clearly he was not the first to think of this topic. The websites varied from encyclopaedia entries, through cases of historical sex abuse, to explicit sex sites. He tried again. This time he added the word ‘stories’. This came up with 4,906,000 results, including a wide selection of titles and collections. He started to read.
It didn’t take long before he was disgusted and appalled.
‘I don’t believe it: “He pined me down and riped off my bloomers.” Has the writer no shame? How could anybody call that literature, Noah?’ He found himself snorting again. ‘And what about this? “He managed to undone his breachers.” It isn’t even the right tense – undo, undid, undone, everybody knows that! The writer is semi-literate at best. Maybe a foreign student practising his English. A Labrador could do better. And yet this story has been viewed 46,600 times. It’s unbelievable.’
Apart from eccentric spelling, some of the punctuation left a lot to be desired. His eyes fell on the line ‘Why are you still up Anna?’ He checked the context. Yes, there was definitely a comma missing before the girl’s name; a comma that could make quite a difference to Anna. There was no doubt that the spelling and grammar were, to his eyes, far more obscene than the graphic description. But some people shock more easily than others.
Gradually, as he clicked his way through the websites, he managed to find better quality writing. As far as the period in history was concerned, there seemed to be a distinct preference for the nineteenth century. Regency romps outnumbered the others by far. The characters enjoyed names like Rafe, Marcus, Hermione or Jocasta. Maids seemed to have a particularly bad time of it. Masters were universally sadistic, mistresses of the house overwhelmingly Sapphic. As a critique of the British aristocracy, it was pretty uncompromising. The vast majority of lords, earls and duchesses of that era were kinky as hell. Orangeries, boathouses and pergolas were the venues of choice, if the dungeons were otherwise engaged. Bodices were indeed ripped, silk hose laddered and whalebone snapped. The men were, without exception, amazingly well-endowed. The women, whether willing partners or not, always capable of arousal: ‘I’m sorry, my lord, but I’ve got a headache,’ was not a common line in this genre.
An amazing amount of whipping, beating, slapping and spanking went on. Riding crops were particularly popular, although leather belts could be pressed into service if a crop was unavailable. Scented candles, mood music and gentle foreplay were spectacularly missing at that time, at least as portrayed by writers with names like Lacy Bows, Virginia Silk or Moon Love.
Those names set him thinking. He knew that a woman had written Fifty Shades of Grey. From the reviews he had read, she had aimed it at women. At first sight, it looked as though these internet stories were also the work of female writers. Was he getting out of his depth here?
‘Do we know enough about women, Noah?’
The Labrador’s interest in the opposite sex had been removed by the vet some years previously. He was going to be of little help.
‘If you can’t beat them, join them. No pun intended, old chum. What I need is some female input.’
And so it was that the idea came to him. He needed a female co-author, maybe with a name like Lacy Bows or Virginia Silk. He would place an advert.
As for himself, should he also adopt a nom de plume? If so, should it be masculine or feminine? As he intended collaborating with a woman, it seemed sensible to go with a man’s name. Indeed, the book itself should bear the names of both writers. But adopting an alias would be wise. If the book were to hit the headlines, then it might be better if the postman did not recognise him as the writer of a pile of filth.
‘Not filth, though, Noah. It’s erotica we’re purveying. This will not be a dirty book. The trick is to produce something erotic and arousing, but still tasteful. We have to ensure that we are graphic enough to titillate, but not vile enough to disgust.’
Easier said than done.
Chapter Two
He wasn’t sure what to expect. Maybe nothing, maybe a sack full of replies. As it turned out, he got nine.
Two were instant rejections.
‘“Seperate”? Now really!’ He was snorting out loud. He found himself doing that more and more these days. In the same paragraph he found another spelling mistake and several inappropriate semi-colons. The snorting grew louder. Seeing no point in progressing beyond the first paragraph, he discarded the letter. He tried the next one.
‘Oh dear lord!’ This time the Labrador opened an eye in mild surprise. Pleased at this sign of participation, he addressed his comments to the dog, something else he found himself doing more and more often of late. ‘Since when have plurals required apostrophes? Even you know that, Noah. Lynn Truss wouldn’t approve.’ This followed the same fate as the other letter.
The remaining letters looked more promising. He took them down to the kitchen and made himself a cup of tea. As he took the milk out of the fridge, his eye fell on the chocolate Hobnobs. He put the packet on the table. The dog, roused by the sound of the fridge door, materialised at his feet, Big mournful eyes focused on the biscuits. He picked up the next letter.
‘“Dear Sir/Madam”’ Only then did it occur to him he should have revealed his gender in the advert. To him it had seemed obvious. He was a man and, as such, he could only write from a male perspective. All right, he told himself, there’s such a thing as imagination. But if he were to write a work capable of catapulting him up the cresting wave of Fifty Shades of Grey, he was going to need both points of view. It was so obvious he had omitted to mention it.
The writer of this letter sounded bright, sane and interested in the project. Her literary credits were little better than his, but her CV did at least indicate a good education. She included no personal details about herself. He applauded that. Her address was in North London and she included an e-mail address. At the bottom of the page, above her signature, she had scribbled the words, ‘I think this could be fun’. She signed the letter Janet Parr. Insofar as an e-mail address confirms anything, hers confirmed her name.
He tucked the letter under the biscuits, mentally including it in the ‘Possibles’ pile. Before he could pick up the next letter, he heard a jingling noise. The dog had fetched his lead from the chair and was indicating that it was time for a walk.
‘All right, Noah. A bit of fresh air will do us both good.’
Although the rain had stopped for the moment, the grey clouds looked foreboding and the field was saturated. Mud built up under the soles of his Wellingtons as he splashed along the path. He had to keep stopping to scrape it off. Undeterred, the Labrador headed straight for the river and plunged in. Tom located a suitable stick and threw it for him. The game consisted of his attempting to pick up the stick, retrieved by the dog, without getting soaked as the dog shook himself. As usual, Noah won.
While he walked along the riverbank, gradually getting wetter and wetter, his mind was free to wander. This new project looked like being a breath of fresh air. And Cynthia was right. He knew he needed something to take him out of himself, away from his misery. Whether a smutty book was the answer to his problems remained to be seen.
He came to the fallen tree where they had both sat so often, watching Noah playing puppy games. He closed his eyes and saw her face again, still so clear in his memory. Not the pain-wracked gauntness of her final weeks, but her young, fresh face from the early days. His head dropped. The dark thoughts returned to fill his head once more. The dog, recognising the symptoms, realised the game was over. He came across and nuzzled Tom’s hand.
‘Thanks, Noah. You’re a pal.’
Pleased to be acknowledged, the dog shook himself again, this time at very short range. The freezing shower roused Tom and set him off again along the path.
He breathed deep and forced his mind back onto happier things. The choice of a historical period wasn’t going to be easy. As for a place, well, here in Devon was as good as any. And he knew it so very well. But the subject matter wasn’t going to be straightforward. His experience of smut was very limited.
His musings were interrupted by the arrival of a very bouncy Springer spaniel. It appeared from behind, almost taking his legs out from under him as it squeezed past on the narrow path. Wheeling round, it leapt up to greet him, catching him painfully in the lower abdomen. As he folded forwards, clutching himself, he heard a familiar voice.
‘I’m so sorry, Tom. She’s very excited today, for some reason.’ It was the lady from the house by the river. He knew the dog was called Sophie. He had been told her owner’s name but had forgotten it. She was wearing her usual shapeless waterproof jacket and a woolly hat obscured most of her head.
‘Oh, hello. Sophie took me by surprise, I’m afraid. I was miles away.’ He removed his hands from his groin and managed to stand almost upright again. ‘Here comes the rain.’ In true British tradition, it seemed sensible to turn the conversation from his bruised genitals to the weather.
‘Sophie, bad girl. Stay down. Just push her away, Tom, if she tries that again. Yes, it’s looking really grey up there now. Might be wise to head for home. You all right? You look a bit glum.’
‘All right? Yes, fine thanks. Just lost in my thoughts, I’m afraid.’
‘Cheer up. It may never happen.’ She turned away with a wave.
He kept his voice low, so she wouldn’t hear. ‘It already has.’
The other respondents to the advert all had their merits. One had clearly decided that he was a woman, the others hedged their bets. One already had a published book to her credit. Closer inspection of the title, and a quick check on the laptop, revealed it to be self-published. This was not necessarily a bad thing. At least it showed she had the will and the stamina to write 100,000 words. Over his years of fruitless attempts to find a publisher, he had also come perilously close to going it alone. Only a lingering sense of pride had stopped him. He now knew that pride is a luxury aspiring writers can ill-afford.
The Case of the Velvet Ball Gown did not immediately leap out and grab him. From the bookseller’s blurb it sounded like a fairly ordinary murder mystery. And at £13.99 in hardback he couldn’t imagine she had sold thousands. Her signature, CV and e-mail address matched. The name was Rosalind Waters, and her address was in Hammersmith, London.
Deciding on the other four did not take long. The one who assumed he was a woman sounded a bit vague. She had not bothered to enclose a CV, although she mentioned a degree in French. All she provided was her name, Penelope Grainger, and an address in Nottingham. She listed no writing credits. He decided not to allow this to colour his judgement. He had, after all, nothing but a short story and a couple of textbooks to his credit. On the other hand, she wrote clearly and correctly. No split infinitives, misplaced punctuation, or prepositions floating at the end of a sentence. He liked that. He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.