Love...Among The Stars: Book 4 in the Love...Series (Love Series) (15 page)

We both coo for a few moments over our gorgeous sleeping offspring, and then wend our way back to the party, which, I'm grateful to note given what Laura has just told me, has reached the point where people are checking their watches and flicking their eyes occasionally at the door.

Uncle Fred and Auntie Kathy lead the grand exodus, offering to drop Enid back at the care home, before the staff send out a search party. Enid doesn't seem happy about it, given that she's moved on from telling Terry about Pearl's wedding, and is now regaling him with the time she seduced the local postman in a pair of French nylons that Pearl gave her for her twenty fifth. Terry looks relieved when Fred wheels Enid away. The green complexion really doesn't go well with the straggly grey beard.

Mum is once again highly apologetic at the front door as we leave. Sarah is still humming the tune The Black Barbershop Quartet used to inadvertently humiliate me, while Chris is now on his phone trying to book them for his mate's wedding in a month.

'Don't worry, Mum. I really enjoyed myself. The cake was fantastic,’ I tell her.

'Thank you, son.
I do feel so embarrassed. It's like something from one of your books!' Her eyes go wide. '
Please
don't put this in one of your books!

'Of course I won't!' I lie expansively. I'm already formulating a suitable plotline.

Laura, who kindly offered to be designated driver for the evening, then takes us away and back towards Terry's flat in the city. We drop him off and head home, blissfully on our own for the first time all day.

By the time we're indoors, I've started panting like a dog.

'Calm down boy,' Laura says in a husky voice. 'Just enjoy the anticipation for a moment. I want a nice big glass of wine before we get down to any funny business.'

I pour us both a glass and we settle down to drink it at the dining room table. It doesn't take either of us long to down the wine. It's rare these days that we get time alone in the house without Poppy, and both of us are eager to make the most of it.

'So, what's my one word birthday present then?' I ask, trying not to salivate too much.

'Come upstairs with me,' Laura replies and moves towards the stairs.

My mind is racing. What one word could she possibly say that would be a birthday present? There are plenty of great words in the world.
Kumquat
, for instance.
Or
verisimilitude
.
Azure
is lovely, as is
coruscate
. I always like to use
defenestrate
in conversation wherever possible, and get a thrill every time I hear somebody else say
intransigent
.

All great words, but none that I would consider worthy of giving to somebody else as a gift.

We reach the bedroom.

'So? What's the word, baby?'

Laura backs away from me slowly. She stands to one side of the bed and slowly starts to unzip her dress, her eyes not leaving me for a second. The dress is shrugged off to reveal her stunning lingerie set.

She takes a deep breath, licks her lips slightly and runs her hands over her breasts.

In a soft, husky voice, she says one solitary word to me. And it's all my birthdays and Christmases come at once.

'Anal.'

My penis, no stranger to the metaphorical victory lap, is now circumnavigating the entire globe at five thousand miles an hour, while blowing loudly on a three headed trumpet. As he reaches the African continent, he sets off several million pounds worth of fireworks and high fives at least sixty percent of the population, before performing a victory moonwalk over the North pole while curing cancer.

I can't fucking
wait
to turn fifty!

Laura's Diary

Wednesday, May 19th

Dear Mum,

One thing I wasn't prepared for when Jamie and I embarked on our joint career as authors was how much interaction with the public we'd have.

Now, don't get me wrong, I like to talk to new people as much as the next person, but when that conversation is held in a crowd of well meaning fans - and the conversation topic is usually about what continuity errors you've made between chapters four and five - it can get a bit disconcerting.

I'd always had a romantic vision of what being a writer was about in my head. You know the one. It features an expansive study lined with bookshelves, an antique desk in gorgeous stained cedar wood, a comfy, plush Chesterfield chair, and a polished, vintage typewriter sat next to a pile of crisp, clean paper. There's always a shaft of warm morning sunlight filtering in between the curtains, and the smell of freshly made coffee is in the air.

All utter bollocks, of course. I write at a two hundred quid flat pack desk from Staples, sat on a blue office chair that squeaks every time you so much as move it half a millimetre, and I type on a
bluetooth
keyboard connected to an iMac that is at least two years out of date.

Also utter bollocks is the notion that you get to write in splendid isolation, safe in the knowledge that all you have to do is hand your completed book off to a publisher, and sit back while they sell the bugger to the public.

Aha ha.
Nope
.

That may have been the case back in Hemingway's day, but in the 21st century, being an author is as much about being a master of self promotion as it is sitting at a computer and knocking out eighty thousand words of prose every six months.

I have a Twitter account.

Me
. Laura Newman.

A woman whose attitude to the internet has always been one of annoyed tolerance. I know it's there, I know it can be useful, and I'll use it when absolutely necessary, but other than that, it can just stay over in the corner where I can't see it. Jamie's different of course. He's been writing that bloody blog for a decade now, so he's well versed in the vagaries of social media. I therefore let him handle all the comings and goings that occur via the Twitter handle @NewmanWriters.

I might occasionally dip in and see what people are talking about, but once my well-meaning husband starts going on about hashtags and trending topics I tend to lose interest.

Along with creating an 'online presence', I am also required to be available offline for public appearances - designed to give the fans chance to say hello, and for our publishers to ram our newest project down their throats.

These appearances generally take place in bookstores, involve Jamie and I signing copies of our books, and are about as well received as genital herpes.

That's the impression I've take away from the two signings we've done, anyway. During the first, we had two people show up for a signed copy of Love From Both Sides. I say two - one of them was an elderly lady who quite clearly suffered from Alzheimer's and thought I was Ethel Merman. The other was my best friend Mel, who had only come out to show us a bit of solidarity. It transpires that success in the book charts does not necessarily square with the public's desire to turn out and meet you in person.

The second signing had more people - approximately a dozen - but half of them had only come in to get out of the driving rain outside, and the other half looked decidedly disappointed to meet the real Jamie and Laura Newman, after having read about the far more exciting and better looking versions they'd encountered in our semi-autobiographical comedies.
 

Given these previous experiences, you can imagine my joy when Watermill's bouncing publicist Tori Brightling arranges a third book signing for Love Under Different Skies. The book has been faring quite well online, and in high street retailers, so Tori
has
decided on a third bite of the cherry.

'You're bound to get more people out this time!' she tells me excitedly down the phone.
Tori does
everything with excitement, up to and including urination, so I'm taking her optimism with a pinch of salt. 'I've booked you and Jamie in at Morninghouse Books on Tuesday May 17th. Do you know it?'

I gulp. Oh yes. I know Morninghouse Books very well, thank you Tori. It's the oldest bookstore in a hundred mile radius, and has squatted in the middle of the old Victorian terraces just off the High Street for the past century. Run by a succession of stern faced Morninghouse men, its cramped three stories of bookshelves are famous for both their musty smell, and their collection of rare books you'd struggle to find anywhere else. If it could, Morninghouse Books would give the nearest Waterstones a clip round the ear and tell it to bugger off home to its mother.

I haven't been into the store for over twenty years. Not since I got caught by a stern Morninghouse in the cookery section with Dan Sanderson's hand halfway down my bra.

You remember Dan, don't you Mum? Nice boy, bit of a squint.

I feel that all these decades later, I can admit to the fact I used to let him put his hand down my bra - if he'd been nice to me and we were in a suitably private place, that is. On that particular day, we'd only popped into the store so Dan could pick up a birthday present for his Gran, and one thing had led to another, so to speak.
 

I've never been thrown out of a shop before, and haven't since, so the prospect of returning to the scene of my mild teenage crime is not one that fills me with pleasure.

Still, Tori has gone to all the trouble of arranging this signing, and I'm contractually obligated to do at least one of these things when a book comes out, so it's time to swallow any fears or doubts I might have... and warn Jamie that he won't be getting to repeat any of Dan's antics.

I know my husband well.

'Spoilsport,' he says, when I tell him of both the signing and my previous experience in Morninghouse Books. 'I feel as your husband that I should be allowed to place my hand down your bra at every given opportunity.'

'And I feel as your wife that I should be allowed to ignore everything that comes out of your mouth at every given opportunity,' I reply in a withering voice, and turn to write the date for the signing on the kitchen calendar.

A date that comes around altogether too bloody quickly.
I do find these public events something of a trial.

It’s not an issue Jamie Newman has, however. He's positively vibrating back and forth in his seat as we park in the multi-story car park close to the shop.

'I bet there will be more people at this one!' he crows triumphantly. 'After all, we've got a few books out now. We must have built up a fairly decent fan base. Certainly enough to fill up a tiny independent book shop, anyway.'

I give him a look. 'You've never been in Morninghouse Books, have you?' I point out.

'What makes you say that?'

'Morninghouse Books is
enormous
. Not in that open plan layout, modern way that you get in Waterstones. It's a three story monstrosity, with more shelves than you can shake several sticks at. The place is crammed to the rafters with books, but there's still enough room for a few hundred people, if needs be. There's every chance there's a doorway to Narnia somewhere in there, or possibly the corpse of Lord Lucan.'

Jamie's face falls. 'Damn. I was hoping it'd be
titchy
so it looks like we can fill up the place.'

I roll my eyes. My husband has developed slight delusions of grandeur over the past few months. The successful author thing has gone to his head. Sadly, even with authorial success, there are levels to your popularity. Stephen King might be able to pack out a bookstore for a signing, but Jamie and Laura Newman are nowhere near that famous - or rich, unfortunately.

I'll just be pleased if I don't get mistaken for Vera Lynn, to be honest.

Jamie tries to avoid looking disappointed as we round the corner, and Morninghouse Books homes into view. I bet in his mind's eye he saw a queue of people outside, all eagerly clutching a copy of Love Under Different Skies. In the real world however, no such thing has occurred. There is one chap stood outside the store, but he is wearing a fluorescent green council jacket and has a broom in his hand, so I think we can safely say he's not here to speak to a couple of romantic comedy authors.

A funny feeling washes over me as we walk up to the shop's entrance.
It's
part nostalgia, and part the lingering sensation of broad teenage embarrassment. The large shop window doesn't seem to have changed much in twenty years. 'Morninghouse Books' is still emblazoned across it in serif gold writing, and the wooden display stands are still dark stained oak. Before I even open the door, I know that once I do that musty smell will assail my nostrils again.

'
Cor
, smells a bit in here. They need to get some air fresheners in,' Jamie comments as I lead us into the store.

Before I get a chance to reply, Tori Brightling bounces her way over to us. 'Morning Jamie and Laura!'

'Hello Tori,' I reply and try to shake her hand. This proves difficult because the girl can't seem to stay in one place for a nanosecond.

'Morning Tori,' Jamie adds.

'Would you both like to meet Mr Morninghouse?'
Tori asks
us.

'Sure!' Jamie says.

I am
not
so sure.

Could this be the same Mr Morninghouse who so unceremoniously threw me and Dan Sanderson out all those years ago for a bit of heavy petting? He of the stern
gaze,
frazzled grey hair and tobacco stained cardigan? And if it is him, will he recognise me? There's every chance he may have caught a quick glimpse of my teenage boob, which is something that an old man might well remember well into his dotage.

My fears are not borne out however, as from behind a long bookshelf containing various atlases of the world comes a plain looking man in his mid forties. He is bespectacled, and dressed in a grey suit that has seen better days.

'Good morning Mr and Mrs Newman,' he says in a pleasant voice. 'I'm so pleased you chose our store for your signing today.'

'It's a pleasure,' I tell him, knowing full well that we had nothing to do with the arrangements, but happy to take credit it for it, because these small victories are few and far between at the best of times.

'
Mmmm
,' Jamie adds absently as he looks around the room. I know what he's thinking: if we'd only agreed to do this in Waterstones or Blackwell's, the joint would be heaving with Newman fans.

He's completely wrong of course, but I have to admire his optimism.

Tori and Morninghouse guide us over to where they have set up a table and two chairs, surrounded by bookshelves heaving with copies of our books. Somebody in the Watermill Publishing warehouse must have put their back out bringing this lot over here. 'It's a while before we're due to officially kick off,' Morninghouse says. 'Would you both like a cup of coffee while we wait?'

'Oh, thanks very much mate. That'd be fantastic,' Jamie says, parking himself on one of the chairs, and regarding the pile of our three paperbacks set out in front of him.

'Yes please,' I add and join him. I look at my own watch to see that it's coming up to eleven, and crane my head to look out of the window.
Still no-one in sight.
I look at Jamie's limp expression, and resign myself to the fact that I'll probably be massaging his ego for the rest of the day.