Dirty Minds

‘It’s all right, Milly. Mummy’s coming right out.’

Chapter Seven

‘Post! There’s a big envelope for a Ms Penelope Grainger. It doesn’t look like a bill.’

It was Scott. The clock on her desk said almost four o’clock. He must have ducked out of his three o’clock lecture. She folded the corner of page 342 of Germinal and clicked off the reading lamp. She had been at it for a good four hours. No wonder she was feeling a bit stiff. And hungry. She stepped over the laundry basket and made her way out onto the landing.

‘You making tea, Pen?’ Jamie’s hearing was phenomenal. He had heard the creaky top step even with headphones on.

‘I am now. I’ll bring one up.’

‘You’ll make somebody a wonderful wife one day.’

‘Bugger off, Jamie.’

She picked up her letters at the bottom of the staircase. Scott had got as far as shouting about them but he hadn’t avoided them with his wet feet. Nottingham, like the rest of the UK, was enjoying its longest spell of uninterrupted rain for a century. Everywhere was soaked. The weekly letter from her mother looked decidedly soggy. Under it was a big white envelope. She turned it over in her hands. Her name and address had been handwritten. She took it into the kitchen to open it. Scott was in there, drying out.

‘Hi, Pen. Kettle’s just boiled. Want tea?’

‘Thanks, Scotty, that’ll be great. And make one for the doctor, will you?’

She took the envelope over to the window. The wind had got up. The rain was being blown against the glass. Although it was only mid-afternoon it would be dark before long. She shivered and stamped her feet to restore some circulation. With all the increases in energy costs, they were trying to economise on heating. Even with tights under her jeans and two jumpers, she was still cold.

‘How was it today, Scott? I see you skived off your three o’clock. Who was that? Professor Tate?’

‘The very same. I couldn’t face another dose of Professor Twat murdering contract and tort. Some people can be boring some of the time. Some can be boring most of the time, but only Twatters can be boring all the bloody time.’ He shared one tea bag between the three cups. After squeezing the very life out of it he dropped it in the bin. He passed the darkest-looking infusion across to her. She gave him a smile.

‘Jamie’s is looking a bit weak.’

‘Next time he can come down and make it himself. I’ll take it up to him.’ As he squeezed past, she smelt his deodorant. Not an unpleasant smell and very familiar. After two years sharing the house with the boys, she would know them both with her eyes closed. She found a knife and slit the envelope open. She took out the letter and read it. She was just starting on the second sheet when Scott came back down.

‘Good news?’

‘Yes, I suppose it is. You remember I told you I had applied for a writing job? Well, I’ve been shortlisted.’

‘Well done, Pen. Mind you, with a dissertation to finish, you aren’t going to have too much free time, are you?’

The same thought had occurred to her. Still, the dissertation was pretty much written, apart from the last chapter and all the footnotes. If she got the job she would manage somehow. She read to the bottom of the page and sat back, deep in thought.

‘Something wrong?’ There was concern in his voice.

‘No, Scott, not really. It’s just this book thing.’ She paused, uncertain whether to let him in on the secret. Her supervisor had told her she was confident there would be a lecturing position in the French department after she got her PhD. The last thing she wanted was for the whole student body to know that she wrote dirty books. She made up her mind.

‘In for a penny, in for a pound. Here, read this. But promise me you won’t tell a soul.’ He sketched a cross-my-heart with his finger as he took it from her.

She watched the expression on his face as he read through the contents of the envelope. Every now and then he glanced up, his eyes wide. Finally he handed the sheets back to her and sat down in his turn.

‘Wow. Émile Zola not steamy enough for you, Pen. You’re going to write your own.’ There was awe in his voice.

‘Zola, steamy? I’ve already told you about that. There’s nothing in his books that you couldn’t find in Women’s Own. In fact, Women’s Own would probably have scandalised him. Anyway, what do you think of the project? Am I crazy?’

‘Excuse me one moment. Mind if I put this out to arbitration?’ She gave a resigned shrug. He stood up and went to the kitchen door. He raised his voice. ‘Jamie, Jamie. Get your arse down here now. Something mega is about to happen.’

There was a sound of moving furniture, running feet and a loud thud, as Jamie jumped the last half dozen steps of the stairs. Although the boys were only six or seven years younger than her, they were still little children at heart.

‘What’s up? Woman across the road forgotten to close the curtains again?’

‘I told you before. She doesn’t forget. She deliberately leaves them open. She likes to be watched.’

‘For all you know, she might be hoping it’s Penny doing the watching. So, if it’s not the desperate housewife, what’s the big deal?’

‘First you have to swear, on whatever you hold dear, not to reveal a word of this to a living soul.’ They watched as he clutched his genitals and promised.

Scott handed him the letter without further comment. Both of them waited until he had read it through. His breath whistled through his teeth.

‘So who says writing doesn’t pay? Apart from ransom notes, of course. 65 million quid? That would pay off a few student loans, wouldn’t it?’ He looked across at Penny, a broad smile on his face. ‘Well, you can count us both in. We’ll help you. What period appeals? Don’t forget you have a historian alongside you.’

‘I have?’ She looked across at Scott in surprise.

‘I originally got in to do history. I just did it for a year, then managed to change over to law. Funny I never told you that.’ She shook her head. She hadn’t known Scott in his first year. ‘Mind you, apart from the Romans, the Tudors and Stuarts and the two world wars, I hardly know a thing.’

‘So that’s it, Pen. Scotty’s your history guru and I’ll provide all the practical help you need.’ Jamie puffed up his chest and threw a Mr Universe pose, followed up by a few pelvic thrusts for good measure.

‘Thanks, Jamie. If I get stuck, I’ll know who to ask for help. But in the meantime what I want to know is, should I go ahead with this?’ There was a serious note in her voice now. They both heard it.

‘And why the hell not?’ Jamie had no doubts. ‘You might need to get yourself a nom de plume, just in case you start getting begging letters once you are a millionaire. But go for it, I say.’

She looked across at Scott. He was studying the remains of his tea.

‘I can see why you are a bit hesitant.’ He sounded really solemn. She had rarely heard him like this. ‘Who is this guy anyway? You realise, he could be some sort of perv. In fact he’s almost bound to be. Maybe he gets his rocks off thinking about you writing dirty stuff. Maybe he’s grooming you like a paedophile.’ His voice tailed off.

‘A paedophile?’ Jamie was scoffing. ‘Auntie Penny is too old for that sort of thing, Scotty. No, she’s more of a MILF.’

She was used to only understanding a proportion of their conversation but this acronym was a new one to her. He read the incomprehension in her eyes.

‘Mum-I’d-like-to-fuck. It’s all the rage. Older woman, younger man. Or men –’ He put just enough emphasis on the last word to redden her cheeks. She made an attempt to get a grip. Could she possibly go ahead with this project? Apart from anything else, there was clearly a lot of new vocabulary to be learned. And as for the grooming thing, could Scott be right? She took a deep breath.

‘Well, that solves the question of the “encounter”, as he puts it. I’ll go for an encounter between a MILF and the boy across the road. I’ll call it Gap in the Curtains. How does that sound?’

‘Pull yourself together.’ Jamie was firing on all cylinders. ‘That’s what you say to a pair of curtains, isn’t it? But I like the basic premise. But the when and the where have still to be addressed. He says a period of history with which you are familiar. Have you got one of those, Pen?’

‘Do you know, I think I have.’ She was warming to the task. She would give it a try. If the man were a pervert she would find out soon enough. And it wasn’t as if she was about to meet him in some secluded lane, after all. ‘For the last five years of my life, I have been immersed in Émile Zola’s Rougon-Macquart series. That’s twenty books set in nineteenth-century France, mainly in Paris and Provence. I’ll set it in, say, 1875, somewhere down in the South of France. Excellent.’

‘Sounds good to me.’ Scott was impressed.

‘So, Penelope, when it comes to the old rumpy-pumpy, just what experience do you have to draw upon?’ The future doctor employed his most formal tones while mocking her. She refused to be phased by him. Attack is the best form of defence. She looked him straight in the eye.

‘You’re right, Jamie. I haven’t seen a cock for ages. Would you pull yours out for me to take a look at? It might remind me what it’s all about.’