Home > Love Your Life(13)

Love Your Life(13)
Author: Sophie Kinsella

As Farida invites us to share our morning’s work, I feel suddenly intrepid. If I can leap off rocks, I can read my scene out loud.

“I’ll go,” I say, raising my hand. “This morning I wrote a…” I clear my throat. “Well, actually, it’s my first ever sex scene.”

Scribe immediately whoops and a few people applaud, laughing.

“Good for you!” says Author-to-Be. “Read away!”

I hold up my printout and clear my throat. I’m quite pleased with the scene actually, because as well as the love aspect, I’ve got a bit of social commentary in there.

“So, this is from the novel I’m working on that I’ve told you about,” I begin. “Just to remind you, it’s set in Victorian England.” I hesitate, then start reading aloud:

“ ‘You are my wife,’ growled Chester. ‘And I claim my conjugal rights.’

“ ‘This is an outdated practice,’ snapped Clara, the fire of feminism in her eyes. ‘I foresee that in future generations, women will be equal.’

“The sweat of shame passed over Chester’s brow.

“ ‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I will join the fight, Clara. In future years I will be a male suffragette.’

“But then Chester could hold back his throbbing desire no longer.

“As he ripped off Clara’s bodice, he moaned like a…” I hesitate “…a Heleioporus eyrie frog.”

“A what?” says Metaphor at once, raising her hand.

“It’s a frog,” I say defensively. “It moans.”

“Carry on, Aria,” says Farida softly. “Let’s keep all queries and comments till the end.”

“As his breeches descended, she knew his manhood.”

I wince inwardly, because I wasn’t wild about “manhood,” but what else could I say? I turn the page and feel myself getting into my stride.

“He was inventive. He was thoughtful. They carried on all night. As the moon shone down, they sat on the big stone windowsill, drinking wine and nibbling grissini, knowing that their hunger for each other was building again; knowing that it would be sated. They were practically strangers. They knew so little about each other. But their connection was so real. Later, as he slept, she gazed at his true, honest face. His thick dark hair. His powerful, muscular stature. She was mesmerized. Tantalized both by what she knew of him and what she didn’t know. He seemed to her like a wonderful new land, waiting to be discovered.”

I come to a halt, and there’s a round of applause.

“Well done,” says Farida, smiling at me encouragingly. “Writing about such intimate moments isn’t easy….Yes, Metaphor? Did you have another question?”

“Just a few.” Metaphor shoots me a snide look. “Grissini? In Victorian England?”

Oh. Oops. I was picturing Dutch and me last night. I should have said “sweetmeats.”

“Just a little slip,” I say easily. “If that’s all—”

“No, it’s not all,” says Metaphor. “I thought Clara and Chester grew up together in the village. Why are they suddenly strangers?”

“I wondered about that,” agrees Scribe.

“I have a question too,” puts in Austen in her mild way. “I thought Chester had blond hair and was slim built? But now he’s suddenly dark and muscular.”

Metaphor glances meaningfully at Dutch, then raises her eyebrows at Austen. Has she guessed? I push back my hair, feeling rattled. How did I forget Chester was blond?

“It’s…a work in progress,” I say, avoiding everyone’s eye. “Anyway, let’s hear from someone else.” I fold up my printout before anyone else can catch me out.

“It was very good, Aria,” adds Austen quickly. “Very…you know. Realistic.”

“Thanks.” I smile at her, as Farida says, “Who would like to read their work to us next?”

At once Dutch puts up his hand, and everyone goggles at him.

“Dutch!” Farida sounds fairly astonished herself.

“I know, right?” He gives a self-deprecating laugh. “Last person you expected. But I was inspired today.” He holds up a page covered in handwritten words, and Scribe, who is sitting next to him, exclaims, “Wow!”

“I’ve never been inspired to write before. But…” He shrugs, his face creasing into his infectious smile. “Somehow today the words flowed.”

“This is a special moment, then,” says Farida, her eyes gleaming softly.

“Well done, old bean!” exclaims Author-to-Be, clapping Dutch on the back.

“You see? Everyone can become a writer with the right inspiration.” Farida smiles around at us all. “This is very exciting, Dutch. We can’t wait to hear what you’ve written.”

Dutch glances down at his page, then adds, “I don’t have a plot or anything like that yet. I guess I was finding my voice. Like you told us yesterday?” He looks up at Farida. “You told us to be bold and honest. That’s what I went for. Bold and honest.”

“Bravo!” says Farida. “Indeed I did. Let’s hear this bold, honest voice, Dutch.”

There’s a moment of silence, then Dutch draws breath and begins: “They fucked.”

As his voice rings through the space, there’s a jolt of slight surprise.

“That is bold,” murmurs Booklover, next to me, as Dutch continues.

“It was incredible. She was hot. And she was loud. Louder than he’d expected. It was intense. Afterward, they drank wine and ate grissini. Then…”

He pauses, frowning at his own handwriting. There are prickles of interest around the room, and I feel a few glances coming my way.

“Grissini,” murmurs Metaphor. “Who’d’ve thought?”

I’m feeling a bit unreal here. I somehow want to signal to Dutch, but he’s drawing breath to read again.

“Her skin was beautiful, like—”

Dutch breaks off and says, “Sorry, I can’t read my own…Is that silk? Or…” He turns his head and scrutinizes my leg as though for a prompt, and his brow suddenly clears. “Oh, right, I remember—milk.”

“Sorry to interrupt, Dutch,” says Metaphor, raising her hand politely, “but since we’re on a pause: Is this fiction?”

Dutch looks caught out. “Of course,” he says after a moment. “Fiction. For sure.”

“What are your characters’ names?” inquires Metaphor with a sweet smile.

“Names?” Dutch looks flummoxed. He glances at me and away again. “I haven’t got to that.”

Oh God. Doesn’t he realize how obvious this is? I’m squirming on my chair, but Dutch turns the page and resumes confidently. “She had the longest orgasm, like a cry of abandon in the evening air.”

No. He did not just say that. My cheeks flame red. Does anyone think it’s me? As I glance around the room, I can tell: They all think it’s me. Frantically, I try to meet Dutch’s eye and convey the word “stop,” but he’s already reading again.

“And she was adventurous. More than he could have predicted. For example—”

“This is powerful stuff, Dutch,” Farida interrupts him hurriedly. “Is it all in…this vein?”

“Pretty much.” Dutch looks up, his face glowing. “Like I said, I was inspired. I see why you guys love writing now. It gives you such a buzz, doesn’t it? Writing this gave me—”

He breaks off again, as though he can’t even describe what it gave him.

Although I have an idea.

“Well, I suggest we leave it there for now,” says Farida pleasantly. “Thank you so much for sharing your…work.”

“Wait, I’m coming to a good bit,” says Dutch, and turns back to his text: “They did it on a chair with a high back. It was mind-blowing. She wrapped her legs around his—”

“Enough!” Farida cuts him off almost desperately and places a hand on his page for good measure. “Enough. Let’s move on now. Many congratulations to Dutch for…finding his bold new voice. Who would like to read next?”

She spreads her hands invitingly, but no one answers. Everyone’s looking at either me or Dutch or the high-backed chair I’m sitting on.

“I don’t know about anyone else,” says Kirk at last in a throaty voice. “But I’m happy to hear more from Dutch.”

Six

As the group finally disbands for lunch, I can’t look anyone in the eye. Not anyone. I wait until everyone else has wandered off, then grab Dutch and pull him into an alcove.

“What was that?” I demand. “Everyone knew it was us!”

“What?” Dutch looks blank.

“Your writing! The sex! It was obvious you were writing about…you know. Us. Last night. Grissini?” I add meaningfully.

“It was fiction,” says Dutch, looking a bit offended. “Everyone knew it was fiction.”

“No they didn’t! You can’t just change the names and it’s fiction. Anyway, you didn’t even bother to change the names,” I add, suddenly remembering. “You didn’t disguise it at all! Everyone was looking at us and basically picturing us doing it on the chair.”

“What? No they weren’t!” Dutch pauses, and I can see him belatedly processing the idea. “Oh. OK. Maybe a couple of people thought it was us.”

“Everyone thought it was us,” I contradict him firmly. “Everyone.”

“Well, then…they were jealous.” His eyes glint wickedly, and in spite of myself I smile. Then he pulls me closer and adds, “I wish we were doing it on the chair. I missed you this morning.”

“I missed you too,” I murmur. My indignation seems to have melted away. It’s the spell he puts on me. “ ‘Mind-blowing,’ huh?” I add teasingly. “Is that your five-star review?”

   
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