Always Something There To Remind Me

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Of course, I couldn’t eat anything when I got home, so I had a soak in the bath and almost dozed off. The doorbell snapped me out of it. Wrapping myself in a bath towel I went downstairs.

‘Des, I know I said come early, but this is ridiculous. I’m not dressed.’

‘Really? I hadn’t noticed.’ He had thrown his leather jacket on the sofa and was powering up the laptop. ‘Where’s this email?’

‘It’ll come up in Outlook automatically.’

‘That’s not very secure, you know.’ He was looking down the list of messages in my inbox. ‘You should at least password protect it.’

‘Why? I’m the only one who uses the computer.’

‘Well, I’m using it now. I could be snooping around when you’re not looking.’

I laughed. ‘I have no secrets from you. Come to think of it, I have no secrets at all. What you see is what you get.’

‘That’s not a bad deal,’ he muttered as he scrolled to the email from Stargazing. ‘There it is! Now, sit down and let’s see what it says.’

I perched nervously on the edge of the sofa and looked up at the ceiling as I clicked to open the message. Forcing myself to read the words at last, I was overwhelmed by emotion and couldn’t speak for a minute. I turned to Des who was beaming at me. ‘I made it! I got an audition!’

There was an awkward moment when we didn’t quite know what to do, but eventually he broke the tension. ‘Well done, babe. You’re halfway there.’ He hugged me and I really wanted to respond, but I was acutely aware of the fact that I was still wearing nothing but a bath towel, so I pulled away and turned back to the computer.

‘There’s an attachment with all the details,’ I said, ‘but I can’t take it in right now. Why don’t you read it while I go and get dressed? You can fill me in on the way to the pub.’ I shot upstairs before I could change my mind.

The audition was set for a Saturday in two weeks’ time, so we decided to discuss it later and concentrate on the task in hand – sharing our erotic writing with the rest of the scribes. This would be interesting. I hadn’t seen Des’s final draft and he hadn’t even seen a first draft of my story. The subject had been shelved since what I now thought of as our moment of madness.

We’d all been asked to bring six anonymous copies of our work to distribute to the other members and the first half-hour or so was spent passing the stories around so that we could each read a few samples and the note-takers could make notes. I hadn’t got around to reading all of them when Tess called us to order.

‘Good evening everyone. Welcome to our “erotica showcase”.’

There was polite applause as she shuffled through the papers in front of her. ‘I was going to thank you all for coming …’ The group erupted into a fit of self-conscious giggles. ‘But enough of the double entendre; let’s get down to it.’ More giggles followed. ‘Now, behave yourselves for a change and let’s talk about our stories. I must say, I was a little disappointed that a few of you didn’t submit.’

Beside me, Des was on the point of collapsing from laughter. ‘I don’t know how much of this I can stand!’ he whispered. ‘It’s excruciating.’

Tess explained that there were eight stories and she would read them out for us to share our comments and criticisms. The first two stories were pretty good and met with general approval and some constructive criticism. The authors were given the opportunity to ‘own up’, which they did. The next story was mine and it too was well received. In fact, one of the guys said it was ‘hot’, which I took to be a compliment. I raised my hand shyly to claim ownership and Des squeezed my arm and said, ‘Well done.’

Tess read out the title of the fourth story. ‘In Vino Veritas – ooh, a Latin title; we have an intellectual in our midst,’ she joked, before continuing to read. The story was an exquisitely written account of two friends being swept away on the tides of passion after drinking a couple of bottles of wine. It was all too familiar, and I squirmed in my seat. I tried to catch Des’s eye to gauge his reaction, but he was looking at Tess as she read. I guessed he also recognised the situation and was trying not to meet my eyes. As the story finished, everyone applauded. It was clearly the favourite of the night and rightly so. It seemed to have more depth and realism somehow. Everyone loved it.

‘Well, that was a real turn-on and beautifully handled, if I may say so.’ Tess was looking a little flushed. ‘I bet the author enjoyed researching that one.’ Laughter filled the room. ‘So, come on, ‘fess up. To whom do we owe the pleasure?’

There was a long pause before Des raised his hand and acknowledged the story as his. As he accepted the congratulations of the other members, I picked up my coat and bag and slipped out of the room. I’d have to walk home, but I needed to cool off.

Research! So that’s what it was – bloody research! Well, at least now it had a name.

I switched off my phone and walked to Trudi’s instead of going home. There was no way I was going to talk to Des tonight, or ever again, if I could help it.

* * * * *

‘I can’t really understand why you’re so upset, Lyd. You said the episode with Des was a mistake and didn’t mean anything. So why shouldn’t he use it as inspiration for a story?’ Trudi handed me a cup of coffee. ‘Do you need chocolate as well? I have emergency supplies for friends in distress.’

‘He used me for bloody research! I reckon he planned the whole thing. I feel so cheap.’

‘You don’t know that. The way I see it, the two of you got all hot and bothered writing steamy stories and got carried away. You both regretted it and swept it under the carpet, then Des decided to turn the lesson he’d learned into something positive and enhanced his writing. You should be flattered. You offered to help him and you have.’

‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ I snapped. ‘I don’t want to be his research project.’

‘So what do you want to be? His girlfriend? The love of his life? His dark and dirty secret? Grow up, Lyd. This is the twenty-first century; people have sex without emotional involvement all the time.’

‘They don’t all tell the world about it!’

‘Your writing group hardly constitutes the world and as far as they’re concerned it’s fiction. He didn’t mention your name I take it?’

‘No … but …’

‘But nothing! Does he know you’ve told me about it?’

‘That’s different …’

‘You’re right there. I know you and I feel as if I know Des. Those other people have no idea the story wasn’t entirely fiction.’

‘I only told you because I needed someone to talk to.’

‘Maybe he felt the same, but had no one he could confide in, so he made it into a story; who knows?’

This was something I hadn’t expected. She was supposed to be on my side, not making excuses for that … that ratbag! I needed sympathy, not common sense, so I went home.

Chapter 9: Explanations (#ulink_f452fa4f-bcac-55ef-92d6-1372445b31f5)

Sleep evaded me for a long time and when it eventually arrived it brought the weirdest of dreams. The screech of the alarm clock dragged me kicking and screaming into Friday, accompanied by a raging headache. From the bathroom mirror an old woman glared at me – pale and drawn, with red-rimmed eyes.

I can’t face work today! Superbitch will have a field day if I screw up.

I called in sick, knowing that Liz wouldn’t be in the office yet. I left a message on her voicemail, trying to sound as feeble as possible, and crawled back to bed. I didn’t wake up again until noon. The headache had gone and I felt a little stronger. The message light on the answering machine was blinking, but I decided I couldn’t check my messages without a gallon of coffee. There were seven unread text messages on my mobile, four missed calls and two voicemails – all from Des. My first instinct was to delete them all but something stopped me.

Is Trudi right? Am I overreacting here? Should I at least give him a hearing?

Eventually, I picked up the phone and listened to the voice messages; both had been left last night.

‘Lyd, where are you? I looked around and you were gone. Call me.’ This was ten minutes after I’d left the pub. The second message was timed an hour later.

‘OK, so I’m outside your house and you’re not at home. Call me, please?’ He sounded concerned. The text messages were all the same, sent every few hours.

‘Lyd, call me!’ He was nothing if not persistent.

Should I call him? Can we sort this out and go back to the way we were?

I was surprised to realise just how much I wanted that, especially when I checked the landline and found he’d left two more messages there. I was almost ready to swallow my pride and pick up the phone when the doorbell rang.

Des was holding an enormous potted plant and I couldn’t quite see his face when I opened the door.

‘It’s a Peace Lily,’ he said, thrusting it into my arms. ‘I have a feeling we need to make peace.’

Without a word I led him into the kitchen and placed the plant on the window sill, before turning to face him.

‘You shouldn’t have done it, Des,’ I said.

‘You’re not talking about the plant, are you? This is all about the story and what happened last week.’

‘Yes. You should have told me you wanted practical research for your writing. We could have found you a prostitute. You didn’t have to use me that way.’

‘Ouch! That’s not how it was, Lyd. I didn’t set out to do it deliberately. What we did wasn’t “research”, as you put it, but it did become inspiration. Writers use experience to inform their fiction. I had no idea it was going to upset you or I wouldn’t have done it.’ He was looking into my eyes and I knew he meant it. I felt my anger and hurt slipping away.