When Nick arrives home, I have made up my mind.
‘Fuck it,’ I tell him, showing him the letter. ‘I’m going to accept. A part-time job is better than no job, and it means we don’t have to completely freak out about helping Dylan out financially next year. And you never know, I might learn to tolerate teaching English.’
Nick grabs me round the waist and gives me a hug. ‘I am so proud of you,’ he says. ‘We should celebrate! Do you fancy Chinese?’
I nod, grinning back at him. ‘The kids are all out for the evening. We can actually have a date night.’
‘For real?’ Nick looks at me hopefully.
‘For real,’ I agree. ‘But you need to order the takeaway soon before they get inundated.’
There’s only one Chinese restaurant in our town and on Friday nights it’s the busiest place in a twenty-mile radius.
‘Have you got the number?’ Nick starts scanning the noticeboard. ‘I can’t see it up here.’
‘Phone ordering is totally last year,’ I tell him, nudging him out of the way so that I can open the fridge. ‘It’s all about online ordering now.’ I gesture behind me. ‘You can use my laptop.’
I pull out a chilled bottle of white wine and start unscrewing the lid. I’m feeling weirdly calm now that I’ve made a decision. These last few months may have been fun, playing about with pretending to be a writer and developing my story but I know that I’ve got to leave all of that daftness behind and throw myself one hundred per cent into being a teacher. And actually, it’s a little bit embarrassing that I ever believed I could write something that anyone else would want to read.
Maybe Scarlet was right. Perhaps it was a kind of mid-life crisis.
But now I know where I’m going. I can start afresh in September, ready to inspire a whole new class of pupils. Maybe I could be like Michelle Pfeiffer in Dangerous Minds, delivering edgy and alternative lessons that cut through the crap. And maybe, one day, I’ll discover that one of my pupils has written a book and dedicated it to my wonderful, inspiring teaching.
‘Hannah. Have you read your emails today?’ Nick’s voice has a strange ring to it that jolts me out of my daydream.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ I tell him, pouring the wine. ‘Why? Is there something important?’
I wonder if I could get away with wearing a black leather jacket to school? I might buy a whole new wardrobe entirely in black. Nothing screams edgy like a teacher who refuses to wear floral skirts.
‘You might want to come and look.’ Nick takes a step back and stares at me. ‘And it’s probably a good idea if you bring your wine with you.’
I groan. ‘It’s not another complaint about Scarlet’s school uniform, is it? I swear when she gets out of the car in the morning that her skirt is regulation length. What am I supposed to do if she insists on rolling it over at the top the instant that she’s out of my sight?’
‘It’s not from school,’ Nick tells me. ‘Just read it.’
I walk across the room and bend down to peer at the screen. My emails are open and I can see five blue dots showing the unread messages. I scan down. An email forwarded from Cassie with a very rude subject heading. Another from a shop where I once made the rookie error of signing up for a store card and am now inundated with stupid messages inviting me to members-only shopping events, which sound hideous. I don’t think either of these would be reason for Nick to get so insistent.
And then I see it. The third email down the list with the now-familiar subject heading Submissions/More Than Sex. My heart falls. Not another one. Not when I’m making a real effort to embrace my inner Michelle Pfeiffer.
I’m about to step back and close the lid when something makes me look again. This email is different to the others; I can only see the first two sentences, but they aren’t what I expected to read. My hands are shaking as I click on the screen and the whole message opens up in front of me.
Dear Twinky Malone,
Thanks for letting me see your manuscript, MORE THAN SEX. It is not often that I read a submission this quickly but your opening lines had me hooked and I read the whole book in one sitting. Since then, it has been passed around the office and has been thoroughly enjoyed by the rest of the team. You have a very engaging voice and we feel that MORE THAN SEX could have a strong future as a breakout book in the genre of Erotic Fiction/Humour. We are very keen to represent both you and your debut novel.
I am out of the office for the rest of the day with clients, but will phone you later this evening if that is okay? Then perhaps we can chat about the direction you are hoping to take the book and any ideas you have for a sequel. I can talk to you about our vision and the publishers who, we feel confident, will be interested in BIG IN WYOMING.
Very much looking forward to speaking with you,
Persephone Andrews
Bluebird Film and Literary Agency
London
I stop reading and look up at Nick in disbelief.
‘Is this a joke?’ I ask. ‘It has to be a joke?’
‘It must be.’ Nick looks just as shocked as I feel. Part of my brain registers this as being slightly insulting, seeing as it’s him who keeps going on about how much potential my book supposedly has.
‘If this is Cassie, I’m going to kill her,’ I mutter, throwing back a mouthful of wine. ‘I know I said I didn’t care about writing anymore but still. It’s not funny.’
And then the phone rings.
I freeze.
‘Did you put our phone number in the submissions emails?’ I whisper at Nick, as if the person calling might be able to hear me.
He nods. ‘Cassie read an online article about what submissions are supposed to include,’ he whispers back. ‘And then she told me what I needed to send.’
Fuckety, fucking fuck. My heart is beating so fast that I think there’s a very real possibility of it pounding right out through my mouth.
‘Answer it.’ I hiss at Nick.
‘It isn’t for me,’ he hisses back. ‘You need to answer it.’
‘Well it isn’t for me either,’ I snap. ‘According to this email, they’re expecting to speak to Twinky Malone.’
We stare at each other for a few, long seconds. And the phone keeps ringing.
‘What have you got to lose?’ Nick asks. ‘Just pick it up and say hello.’
‘Fine! But it’s probably Scarlet demanding a lift home.’ I tiptoe the three steps needed to reach the phone and put my hand on the receiver, not taking my eyes off my husband.
We both know that it isn’t Scarlet.
And then I take a deep breath, like I’m about to go underwater for the longest time, and yank the handle off the phone base.
‘Hello.’
I listen to the voice on the other end as she introduces herself. Nick stands very still, as if movement of any kind will break the spell that we appear to be under.
‘Yes.’ I gulp and then I stand up straight, pushing my shoulders back and my chest out. ‘Yes, it is. My name is Twinky Malone.’
Across the room, Nick exhales and raises his glass of wine high in the air, and I can see in his eyes what he is telling me. He is saluting Hannah Thompson, part-time English teacher. He is saluting Hannah Thompson, wife, mother, daughter, and friend.
And he is saluting Twinky Malone, unwitting writer of erotic humour.
Twinky Malone is not dead and gone.
Twinky Malone is only just beginning.