Dirty Minds (3 page)

‘Ariadne, oh Ariadne darling.’

Jimmy was affecting a high-pitched, nasal whine. His voice echoed up the stairs.

Clinton stirred. Out of habit, he looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table. It was almost lunchtime.

‘Thank God it’s Saturday.’

‘Who’s Ariadne?’ The girl’s voice was sleepy.

‘That would be me.’

He climbed out of bed and opened the curtains. A gusty wind whipped the rain diagonally across the glass. He could barely make out the shape of the houses across the road: A good day for going back to bed again. He turned away and surveyed the chaos in the room. Her clothes were strewn across the floor, as were his. Her red bra was draped across the reading light. The Chablis they had spilt on the desktop was congealing, the shape of her buttocks still discernible in the sticky mess. He licked his lips. Among all the other tastes, there was definitely Chablis.

He opened the door, and wandered out onto the landing.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, put some clothes on, Clint.’ Jimmy had brought the post upstairs.

‘That’s Ariadne, to you, James.’ He did his best to imitate Jimmy’s high-class accent. Jimmy did it better, but then he always had had a way with words. ‘Leave the letter there, my man. One is going for a piss.’

When he emerged from the bathroom, he picked up the large A4 envelope, addressed to Ms Ariadne Anstruther. He took it back into the room. Dolores had gone back to sleep, so he didn’t disturb her. He dug out a clean sweatshirt and jeans and sat on the edge of the bed, as he pulled on socks and shoes.

Inside the envelope was a letter addressed to Ms Anstruther. He checked the signature. He had been right in his assumption that it was a man. Feeling hungry, he wandered downstairs to the kitchen. Jimmy was sprawled in the lounge, watching football.

‘Coffee?’

Jimmy raised a thumb.

Clinton went into the kitchen. As the coffee machine wheezed into life, he read through the letter. When the green light came on, he made two big cappuccino coffees. He went back into the lounge.

‘Here.’ He pushed the cup into Jimmy’s hand. ‘And take a look at this. We have a result!’

‘One thanks one, Ariadne dearest. Pray tell me, is this coffee the finest arabica, or is one slumming it with Brazilian?’

‘Just read the fucking letter, Jimbo.’

Jimmy read it through. From time to time, he looked across at his friend. Finally he laid it down.

‘Historical, that’s awesome. What the hell do you know about historical sex?’

‘I know sex, Jimmy. The historical is just a matter of digging around a bit on the internet. All we’ve got to do is choose a century. You know anything about history?’

‘I know it’s light years since I got lucky.’

‘I’m serious. I need a time and a place.’

‘I’m serious too. What I need is a woman. And you also need what he calls an “encounter”.’

‘That’s the easy part. I won’t just write it, I’ll perform it.’ His thoughts flitted briefly back the girl upstairs. ‘If I haven’t already done it.’

Jimmy had a stroke of genius. ‘How about cavemen? If we go with cavemen, there’s no dates to get wrong, or other stuff. Imagine if we made it, say, only a couple of hundred years ago. Have you any idea what was going on then, who the king was, or stuff like clothes? Hell, the ladies’ underwear was probably whalebone corsets.’

‘And chastity belts.’ Clinton really didn’t know much about history. ‘Cavemen is good. I like cavemen. I always thought Barney Rubble’s wife was hot.’

‘Wilma?’

‘No, the other one, I’ve forgotten her name. Wilma was Fred Flintstone’s wife. But cavemen is good. Now what about where?’

‘Does it matter? If we are going back a few million years, anywhere will do.’

‘How many million years are we going back?’

‘Ten, maybe?’ Jimmy was a good accountant, but he didn’t know much about history either.

‘Fine, we’ll make it ten million years ago. As for the place, we’ll need caves. You any idea where there are caves?’

‘Underground.’

‘Yeah, right,’

‘I think this is where we turn to our faithful laptop. We’ll find some caves somewhere easy enough. Cheddar Gorge, maybe? That sounds like the kind of place we want.’

‘Now then, all I’ve got to do is to decide what sort of sex to give him.’ Clinton was going to enjoy this part of it.

‘Caveman sex. Hit them over the head with a club and drag them into the cave. But he’s probably looking for a bit more than that. All this talk about
Fifty Shades of Grey
, he probably wants it a bit weird.’

‘You don’t get much weirder than hitting a chick over the head and dragging her into a cave.’

‘Yes, nowadays. But way back then, they were all doing it. Ten million years ago, stockings and suspenders would have been really kinky.’

‘Jimmy, my boy, stockings and suspenders are dead kinky nowadays, too.’

‘Fancy a walk?’

The dog’s response to the question was animated. He rushed over to the chair in the corner and fetched his lead. Tom pulled on his heavy jacket and a woolly hat. Outside it was blowing hard, although the rain had stopped. If anything, it was colder than before. It looked like February was going to be bad all the way through to the end. He clipped on the lead and let himself be tugged down the road. By the time they reached the footpath, the rain had started again. He pulled up his collar with grim resignation.

‘Well, we’re here now.’

He released Noah to run in the field, while he reviewed his plans for the new book. Clearly, if they were to convince a publisher to take them on they would need to come up with more than just sex. He needed a compelling storyline, and one that would appeal to women. But what did women want to read? He had hardly so much as spoken to one for two years now. And Cynthia didn’t count. What would Diane have said? He was feeling more and more out of his depth.

Apart from wading through that damn book, as he found himself calling it he had continued his investigation of erotic literature. There turned out to be hundreds of websites specialising in stories of a sexual nature. Many of the collections were so big that readers were offered the chance to select whatever specific genre they preferred. Underneath the title and brief synopsis of each story, there would be symbols or words, specifying the contents.

He soon worked out that MM, FFM, FFF referred to the gender of the participants. Some of the descriptors were self-evident, such as Lesbian, Gay or Group. Some were not so clear. For example, BDSM pretty obviously referred to Bondage and Sadomasochism, but Spanking was a category to itself. Hard-core existed as a distinct category, but for the life of him he couldn’t see any difference between it and BDSM. Most unexpected of all, there often appeared to be no classification for traditional sex involving one man and one woman.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the lady from the house by the river and her spaniel. This time, Tom saw them coming and was able to shield himself from the dog’s effusive greeting.

‘Oh, hi.’ If only he could remember her name. ‘Surprise, surprise, it’s raining again.’

‘Hi, Tom. Sophie, leave Tom alone. She’s really taken a shine to you, hasn’t she? Down, Sophie.’

Noah returned, now dripping wet. His arrival had the advantage of interrupting the spaniel’s attempts to emasculate Tom. The two dogs embarked upon a steeplechase, while the rain began to fall in earnest. By now they were at the other end of the field, approaching the river. Seeing home at hand, the spaniel abandoned Noah.

‘Look, Tom, it’s absolutely pouring. Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea while it passes over?’ She already had the garden gate open. The rain was quite torrential. He did not hesitate.

‘That’s really very kind. I think shelter would be wise.’

The house was more of a cottage, with thatched roof, small windows and a low doorway. She ushered him into a scullery that smelt of wet dog. The spaniel allowed itself to be towelled dry. He hung his coat on the back of the door and stepped out of his boots, while Noah, true to his name, settled himself in a puddle on the floor.

‘Come in, come in. The dogs will be fine there.’ She led him through into the kitchen. The noise of the rain beating against the window and onto a tin roof somewhere outside was deafening. She filled the kettle, indicating to him to sit down at the table. It was a cosy room, the low ceiling punctuated by huge beams. A Welsh dresser filled most of one wall, while modern kitchen units ran the length of the other.

‘What a day. You’d be soaked through if you were still out there.’

He turned back towards her. She had removed the jacket and the hat. She was bending away from him, pulling off her woolly socks. Whether it was the result of his recent reading or just a conditioned male reaction, his attention was immediately taken by the perfect proportions of her bottom. She straightened up and turned towards him, a friendly smile on her face. Seeing her for the first time without her heavy outer clothing, he realised that she was truly gorgeous.

‘Good lord.’ He was unable to stop himself.

An expression of concern crossed her face. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No, no, no. Nothing at all. I just got a surprise when I saw your face, that’s all.’

‘Not an unpleasant surprise, I hope.’ The smile was back.

‘Not at all. I just hadn’t realised you were–’ he tried to think of an adjective less emotive than gorgeous ‘– so attractive.’ He saw her register the compliment, and rushed to temper it. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t say things like that. It’s just that in all these months of passing you in the fields, I wasn’t expecting you to be so –’ He was in trouble again.

She took pity on him. ‘You scrub up pretty well yourself. Anyway, thank you for the compliment. A girl likes to hear that she’s still got it.’ The kettle boiled and clicked off. She busied herself with making the tea. A bowl of sugar appeared on the table, but he declined with a shake of the head. A packet of chocolate Hobnobs appeared from the fridge. He gave her a smile.

‘That must be fate. We share the same taste in biscuits. Thank you.’ He took the mug of tea and warmed his hands gratefully around it. She sat down opposite him and proffered the packet of biscuits.

‘Want one?’

‘Very definitely.’ He took one, relieved to see that his hands were not shaking. He had not been in close proximity to a beautiful woman for quite a while now. He cleared his throat. ‘Can I make a confession?’

‘Forgive me father, for I have sinned.’ She was still smiling. ‘Go on, get it off your chest.’

‘I’m really sorry, but I’ve forgotten your name.’

‘It’s Ros. And don’t let it bother you. I remember yours, because I’ve got a brother called Tom. Of course, I’ve known Noah’s name for ages. So what do you do, Tom, if I may ask?’

He allowed his eyes to rest on her as he formulated an answer. She could have come straight out of the pages of
Vogue
. She was tall and slim. Her hair was a sort of browny-reddish colour, her face speckled with occasional freckles. He made a mental note to check the proper names for women’s hair colouring. Was that auburn, maybe?

‘Is your hair auburn?’

She blinked, reflected, then answered. ‘Sounds good to me. It’s been all colours over the years, and it’s been called a few different names. This is natural me again. I like auburn. We’ll go with that. Now, weren’t you going to tell me what you do for a living?’

‘I write.’ He saw her glance up, and he hastened to clarify. ‘At least, that’s what I spend a lot of my time doing. My normal job is at Exeter University. I teach English, but I’ve taken a year off.’

‘Is that so? Well, we would seem to have more in common than chocolate Hobnobs. I do a bit of writing myself. What are you writing at present?’

He suddenly felt very embarrassed. He took refuge in a version of the truth.

‘Historical novels, mainly. I’ve just finished a trilogy set in the Middle Ages.’

‘Wow. Have you done lots of research? Are you doing research at the moment?’

The embarrassment returned.

‘I had to do lots for the medieval stuff. I came to history relatively late on. I’ve spent most of my spare time over the past ten years reading anything I could get hold of about the twelfth to fourteenth centuries.’

‘Twelfth to fourteenth. That would be before the Tudors and the Stuarts, wouldn’t it? That’s about all the history I did at school.’ She sounded interested.

‘A fair bit before. Henry VII was the first of the Tudor line. If I remember right, he came to power in the 1480s, after the Battle of Bosworth Field. No, my period covers the Crusades, the Cathars, Knights Templar. I suppose we’re talking about a couple of hundred years earlier. To be honest, most of my research has been on French history. I’m not that well up on England.’

‘Who were the Cathars, again?’ She screwed up her face and tilted her head to one side, as she struggled to remember. Even with her face screwed up, she still looked amazing.

‘Southern France in the 1200s. They were wiped out by the Catholic Church. Their beliefs were branded as heretical.’

‘“Branded as heretical?” Why do you say that? Weren’t they heretics?’

‘They called themselves “Good Christians”. Their views were unorthodox, but not deserving of genocide. They believed in the duality of God –’ He stopped himself in time. ‘I’m sorry, unless you are very careful you’ll still be here tomorrow morning, with me droning on. So what about you? What sort of writing do you do? Wait a minute, let me guess. You’re a fashion journalist. Am I right?’

To his surprise, she nodded. ‘That’s what pays the bills, and lets Sophie and me live down here in the country six days a week.’

He noted that she only mentioned herself and the dog.

‘For fun, I write whodunits. At least I’ve finished one, and I’m thinking about the next. But tell me, how do I get hold of these books of yours?’

‘Not on the shelves, I’m afraid. I’ve been beating my head against a wall for years, trying to get somebody in the trade to read one of them. Every time I send off a synopsis I get the same reply: “I’m afraid” – ’

‘“Your work is not suitable for our list.”‘ Clearly this was something else they had in common. ‘“But this does not mean to say that another publisher or agent or whatever won’t find your work appealing etc. etc.” Signed by a girl called Fenella or Lysistrata. Tell me about it. I’ve been there too.’

He changed the subject in case she asked him what research he was currently undertaking. ‘So you spend six days here each week. What about the seventh?’ He really wanted to know with whom she spent the seventh.

‘I’ve got a little place in London. Sophie and I take the train up most Sundays. If all goes well, we are back on the train again on Monday evening. Although I work from home most of the time, I like to keep up personal contact with my editor. I wouldn’t want her to forget me.’

‘I can’t imagine anybody forgetting you in a hurry.’

If she heard what he said, she gave no sign. ‘Of course, during spring and autumn collection time, I’m away a bit more. But I love Devon, and can’t wait to get back down here. And dear old Soph loves it to death.’

‘So when are you off to the bright lights again?’

‘Well, my editor is on holiday in the Caribbean, so I haven’t been up to London this week. I imagine I’ll be off on Sunday.’

‘So you will be here on Saturday?’

‘I certainly will.’

‘If you’ve nothing better to do, perhaps you might let me buy you dinner to say thank you for the tea and the shelter?’ Asking a woman out was something else he hadn’t done for quite some time. He suddenly found himself feeling quite unusually nervous.

‘Dinner in return for a cup of tea seems a rather unfair trade. But, if you are sure, I’d love to.’

He felt his spirits soar. But, no sooner had he registered his delight, than a sense of guilt had him questioning whether he was doing the right thing. It was too late now, he supposed. He cleared his throat.

‘Wonderful. Now I think the rain has passed for the moment, so I’d better make a break for freedom. Pick you up at seven thirty on Saturday?’

She nodded. Upon opening the door, they found Sophie the spaniel and a soggy Labrador squeezed together on the old armchair that served as a dog bed.

Somehow, neither of them chose to comment.

‘Come on Noah, let’s head for home before it gets too dark to see.’